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midnight monsoon

Monday, December 11th, 2006

pouring. drenching. pounding. drowning. rain.

When I was in Pune, they asked me, “Did it rain in the North, in Mumbai, when you were there?” When I was in Goa, they asked me, “Did it rain in the North, in Pune, when you were there?” When I was in Kerala, they asked me, “Did it rain in the North, in Goa, while you were there?”

And every time I cocked my head, eyed the clearly barren sky behind me, and thinking I was stating the obvious, replied, “no.”

In fact I have not seen a single drop of rain for six weeks. Still chewing on the grit of Senegal’s sand and coughing on the fumes of Mumbai’s million motor rickshaws, a powerful thirst I have felt myself building for exactly such of cocktail of Earthly element. And so it is with hesitant optimism that I follow the eyes of the locals as they search the horizon while asking me these questions of the temperament and mood of the house and home (the North), from which emerges their revered monsoon. Shadows of history and habit must darken (only) their sky, for as I follow their narrowed eyes, I find that not a single cloud lends like credibility to the claim of daily rain. They tell me that Monsoon has yet to leave this Season’s house; that it stormed, in fact, just the day before. But as I look around for this phantom whose presence still clearly haunts, it seems I’ve arrived only in time to hear the echo of the Monsoon’s last knock on a now-closed door. Yet I do not doubt that I am, indeed, on the heel of the annual and auspicious guest, clearly evidenced by its footsteps freshly left: the dust is still matted and sticking softly to the ground, the palms and plants are hues of green made so only by months of overindulgent drinking, the driver – incredulous to clear skies – puts the roof on over our jeep, and we don’t see any animals in the wildlife park because there’s no need to visit the watering holes when faucets run freely from the trees.

But this week, for the first time in three months, I put my backpack down with the intention of staying more than three days in just one place. Noting the pause in my pilgrimage, the Tempest of intense, rugged and relentless experience that chased me over the Pyrenees, across Senegal, and down the Southern coast of India has taken this opportunity to make up lost ground in haste. As the sun goes down, my hair curls up, a clue as clear as any that the humidity of a storm’s wet breath is now breathing down my neck. Exhausted and thus unsuspecting and unguarded, I go to bed. But I am startled awake when Monsoon’s midnight footsteps approach my window and, at the same time, the reading lamp under whose light I fell asleep, with all the electricity, goes out. Blindly feeling my way out of bed, I approach the full-wall-window frame that holds not glass, but only a screen, between myself and a jungle of second-story limbs of trees. And here I search in the darkness for that which boldly stares back at me, while unseen clouds grumble angrily and the softly padded footsteps pick up deliberate speed. My heart races, not with fear, but only to match the anticipation of the whetted air. The Monsoon gasps, as it claims its long awaited prey, and at the same, I sigh, in willing surrender to this welcomed fate.

pouring, drenching, pounding, and drowning,

indiscriminate and immobilizing,

stripping, purging, purifying, and anointing,

on the altar of the blessed and resounding,

rain.

Replenished and revitalized, I feel my way back to the bed. But the same rhythmic song that normally sings me to sleep, tonight, keeps me awake. Perhaps it’s the dark hidden eyes, still staring in my window and surrounding me, and the case of being “watched” that brings with it insomnia. Of unknown origin this energy that ties the sheets in knots around my tireless feet. So like I did the storm, I simply surrender to knowing that, this night, I will not sleep.

And that’s okay. The monsoons of rain and experience have, in perfect time, caught up to me. And there is no better place, than in this darkness, to begin the work of digging through and digesting what I’ve seen, done and been to reflect, relive and revise, the ever-evolving script of my life.

———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in india, on fear, on transitions & "home" | No Comments »

wonderfully raw reality dip

Sunday, November 5th, 2006

Where the line narrows at the neck of the plane, instead of offering extended arms of right-of-way (as I have been accustomed), men briskly step in front of me with unknown, but unquestioned, authority on the order. Downcast eyes discard my presence so naturally that I am conflicted between feeling relief and insult. And although we are still in Europe, I recognize a thick foreign air, along with the cabin pressure, to have already filled the negative space between the seats. The confident finesse I have earned from six weeks of successful navigation around France, without any fight, cowardly flees. Not the adrenaline of ready action, but the equally excitable serum of surrender, floods my system, and like a faucet left long running, brings my soul to the surface of my skin, where it there beads the pore-purging sweat of suspension.

I close my eyes and ride this rush; a rush that France’s elegant capital and all its pretty castles combined, could in her fairest day not inspire. A flash of blond may catch the initial fancy, but too-easily-earned beauty paves the path to the brunette forest beyond the town of Known’s borders. With glass slippers, decorated dress, ornamented accessories, painted face, and bejeweled skin, I may have danced days away at France’s ball. Senegal, however, is hardly the ugly stepsister. No. No. Senegal is slipping out the side door at midnight, stripping eagerly of a costume that suddenly only constricts. Senegal is skinny dipping in the ocean, in the dark, where something slimy slides along your side and sends chills up your spine, and although you know not what it is, you love it, for it makes you feel raw, naked, exposed and alive.

If France’s French whispers softy, West Africa’s French sings. And to this tune I am eagerly greeted; “Se Va? Se va! Se va. Se va!” Three kisses, as opposed to two, emphasize the added touch and match my welcome in warmth to the air that greets my pores likewise by opening them with heavy sighs of my ever-enamored passion for the tropics. A handshake speaks a sign language I don’t yet know, but I play this game of knocking knuckles, bumping fists and thumb wars amidst the same round of giggles such games inspired from me as a kid. In a sea of dark faces, I am the only white. And I cling on to this fleeting awareness for I know that this rare isolation, and adjoining sensation, is at once precious and fading, by the minute, towards extinction.

During the car ride home, my receiving host and I share in animated conversation. It’s early morning and the night allows me the peace of keeping quiet the view that would otherwise command all my attention. Under my mosquito net, in my bed, I toss and turn through the night, tied up in the sheets of my anticipation. At some point I finally fall asleep, but when I, a few hours later awake, I find in my journal scribbled (as sketches of my dreams often do), the following leftover of excitement-inspired insomnia noted:

“Like a live wire; so deeply charged, my skin feels stretched and challenged by the task of containing me. Everything I touch, I find to already be reaching toward me, and I at once feel both the touch of It, and It’s touch of me back; the flower of my every experience greeting me by blooming. Now I understand the metaphor of Buddha’s step.”

In Senegal I have officially arrived. And although the chapter on my fairy tale has officially closed, on the rugged path into the dark and enchanted forest I now find, the messages sung from my six senses only multiplied. Stripped and faced not with fantasy, but raw reality, I dive into this dark sea, feel the mysterious thing that touches my side, sends chills up my spine, and makes me love it for making me feel raw, naked, exposed and alive.

****

Although I have seen hundreds of visions photo-worthy, taking out a camera is entirely, and almost always, inappropriate. Just a few new pictures, I have since uploaded…

And THIS GUY, was found in the shower of the house where I’m being hosted:

———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in on transitions & "home", prose & ramble, senegal | 3 Comments »

pinched but not popped

Monday, October 23rd, 2006

Journal Entry
Condom, France
(How unfortunate to have a contraceptive device named after your city!)
Mid-October

Four days ago, my brother (by blood) and my sister (by marriage) jumped off a two-car train and onto the tracks of my walking dream; hands shading the sun in scout for a sister they have heard much about but never actually seen beyond the borders of Oregon’s four corners.

I wish desperately now, that I had filmed that moment; that instant when, while their thoughts roamed only on the plains of my whereabouts, the bubble that I thought to contain my existence, despite the waking pinch, did NOT pop, and was gloriously realized, instead, to actually exist.

Suspiciously similar to the conversation had between self and subconscious the moment one becomes lucid in a sleeping dream, my mind chased its tail with the full-circle understanding; “You’re here. And I’m here. And we’re both here together. And everything else is still here….so this must be real!!!”

The only thing better than lucidly living a dream, is being able to witness with beloved company.

And for three full days, my brother and sister witnessed with me…

They met the magical cast of French cartoon-like characters, who swooped into scenes in full color with hearts equally overflowing in offers of unexplained generosity. They watched castle tops emerge without warning from behind hilltops covered in leaves caught between seasons of gold and green. They marveled at roses of every shades and all colors, that crept wildly over cobblestone on every street corner. They played twister with the language, laughed through game upon game of charades, and just shrugged or smiled at the beds of riddles left unmade. They too, were confused, by the red and white bars giving directions, that clearly take delight in dancing pilgrims off the route of their intention. They shared five-course meals with tables of fellow pilgrims, as listened to histories of enchanted towns, while locals’ cheeks turned rosy with wine. They dunked chocolate croissants into steamy mugs and spooned saucy crepes, while commenting on the absence of such luxuries in the States. They bedded down in lofty hill-top towns, in bedrooms with balconies that cast warm purple shadows over the lands just traversed. They picked plums and apples off passing orchard trees that reached out their branches and offered us Earth’s best-baked delicacies.

And when they left, a sensation that I rarely feel, completely overcame me.

Only a vague acquaintance of Loneliness, I took off my bag, sat down on it, and felt out the dimensions of this foreign emotion; its emptiness, its fullness, its presence, its absence.

Finally, I settled on the definition: “absence of presence.”

At this exact instant, two white butterflies in a tumultuous tango, mimicking (if not mocking), my own game of mental tag, swung a net and caught my attention.

As I followed their flight with my eyes, my horizons suddenly spread as I moved “out of my head” (a narrow space to live in really) and inhabited the 360° space around me instead. The sun of understanding rose as a second dawn set upon me, and at once everything awoke and started buzzing all around me. A million leaves began blowing, as the wind brushed my hair from my face, and into my ear, disclosed, at once its agreement and dissent:

“About Loneliness…” it said, “you are more right than you know.”

“For exactly as you’ve defined it — the absence of presence — it is only.”

———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in Le Chemin de Saint Jacques, on lonliness, on transitions & "home" | 4 Comments »

transfixed

Thursday, August 17th, 2006



*a few of my travel journals*

As fingers stall in the shadows of my thoughts, I pluck slow minutes, in time with a bowl of grapes, wondering to where and when my words have wandered.

For the purpose of paying taxes, I was recently asked to create a calendar of my 2005 whereabouts. At first annoyed with this incomprehensible task, I quickly realized the ulterior motive of this disguised divine mission, when I found myself — three hours later — still curled up with my travel journals reading, with fascination, of a girl suspiciously unknown; “Who is she? Who speaks so easily? Who never needs to try, but finds adjectives rolling down mental slides with careless speed? Who is this girl, that cleans inspiration from under her fingernails with a flick of curiously calm confidence in causality?”

I hear it in my parents’ voices when they call. I hear them seeking too, in my own tone, for some lost song. No questions pertaining to the strings that might conveniently hold a daughter down to a continent much closer. No. Instead I hear the sigh of expected relief in the end of their exclamation marks when they ask, “and when will you be leaving!”

A bardo (Tibetan word meaning: liminal passage, intermediate state, the state of consciousness in the course of migration between death and rebirth), I again wander. Gone is my desire to spend five days a week dancing — as my heart strays to allow the distance that, at once, breaks the love affair of my immediate community and looks to the horizon of a new one brimming. At the supermarket, I hesitate. Coffee, olive oil, peanut butter; commitments to long-term condiments I haven’t the time to make. 28 days left. Tickets purchased, I have only to hold my breath. But so sad for my boss! My passion for work officially tapped, projects of which I am now guilty of emotional abandonment and neglect.

“I’m DONE!” I want to shout. “Done. Done. Done. Now let me leave.” But the details, like vines, they creep from the jungle of established expectation, cling on, and hold me down.

I am the girl that always disappears from the party without hugs, goodbyes or parting pleasantries. Where, when, how, with whom and why I went always on the list of the next morning’s mysteries. Strangers with whom I may have wandered home they often hypothesize; but little do they know that he who has caught my eye is but the dark handsome hand of a breeze, that beckons and whispers with a rustle through the trees; “Come. Come. There’s nothing left for you there. Your part in that party is done. But your calling over here has just begun…”

This dark, handsome, hand. It beckons me now. Distracts me. Dissuades me. Calls me. Encumbers me. Tells me that this party – of stationary friends, steady salsa circles, social commitments and solid workloads – is done. Waves me to the edge of the cliff. Where I stand now. Transfixed.

And I feel her. Reaching out to me. Tingling at the touch — where her fingertips meet mine. And I hear the words in the distance. Rolling in like waves. Yelling out fair warning of their impending crash against my cliff. I’ve turned my back on all behind. But my eyes have not yet adjusted to the darkness and I find myself — despite my determination — dizzy, deliriously, blind. Not here. Not there. Not present either. Standing. Questioning. Seeing. Seeking again my song through which those who know me hear my smile. I remind myself that the first step on instability is inevitably imbalanced. At once a subtle skill, a disciplined dance, and a clumsy climb, this is the one and only nature of bardo migration: intermediate, transitory, liminal, divine.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in on transitions & "home" | No Comments »

the still in movement

Wednesday, August 2nd, 2006

All my belongings are back in boxes.

My long winter coats. Silk Indian scarves. Short summer skirts. Leather boots, salsa shoes and my favorite old cotton t-shirts. The odd jewelry collected from countries around the planet that wrapped a time, place or memory around my wrist, finger or neck. My bank statements. My checking books. Renewed credit cards with verification stickers still unpeeled and signature boxes unsigned (some tasks for which I’m happy to have never found the time). Spices, seeds, teas and other treats whose form of bulk are repacked for the next sedentary life period. Hair combs, colors, brushes and clips. Soaps, mascara, and lip gloss sticks. Back into clear plastic bags a fashion-influenced face is zipped.

I am not yet catching a flight out of this country (still not for awhile). But today I move out of my den of seven months retreat (and only the distance of a couple miles) to sit a friend’s house down the street. And as I strip. The closet. The desk. The bathroom. The kitchen. I come again to the conclusion that pilgrimage has less to do with physical measures of time and distance than it does with change, movement and rotation. And that the path has always had so much more to do with departure, than it ever did destination. The revelations, realizations and enlightenments I forsee I will find, hint at having much less to do with what I bring with me, than that which will be left in these boxes behind.

Is pilgrimage essential for spiritual awakening?

I don’t know. I feel myself still sleeping. And every time I think I have just shaken off the sleep, I pinch myself, wake and find myself sitting up in the bed of another dream. But if I had to answer, I would say that “going somewhere” is not essential but that “leaving something” is. Knowing it’s not so much one task, as a lifelong discipline of recognizing, choosing and clearing away. And to each her own on the “boxes” with which we part ways. To name only a few that I’ve now labeled with a black sharpie marker; “guilt”, “ entitlement” ,“prestige”, “costume” and “class”. “ Ignorance” ,“discrimination” “ego” and “arrogance.” Titles, ideals and faulty definitions of self always teeter, totter and stack high on my storage shelves. And like Santa’s famed sack, it doesn’t matter what I put in, as I am forever finding more to surrender and discard to bottomless boxes accommodating endless additions. Perhaps the biggest boxes though, that I am ever struggling to find a way to wrap my arms around, are those labeled, “past” and “future”, which for pilgrimage I’ve found particularly heavy, awkward and cumbersome.

And when it’s all packed and put away, what do we find in the lull? Well that would be the mystery reserved and awarded, after a good dig through direct experience, to each unique individual. But it is at the very bottom of THAT box where I think spiritual awakening awaits rediscovery – which I do not think to be foreign, apart, untouched or unknown. A most basic sense of awareness in which we reveled in the years closest to before and after birth; grown from the seeds of intuition, instinct and unexplained inclination with which we were born. A presence that was buried by the louder voices in our lives, but I have recognized to still stand, just a little behind and to the side. Reaching its arm across my back, tapping the shoulder farthest away, and snickering wickedly when I look the wrong way.

In any case, kudos to those who can leave without leaving, not answer to names their egos find pleasing, and pack up their mental boxes while physically sitting. I have found such people in rural caves, monasteries and like places off the map and I admire them with depth undefined and awe equally uncharted. Although I do fancy such a period in my life that will be as long and still as this one has been dynamic, the same that taps my shoulder whispers into my ear that I am not ready for that phase yet. It’s an interesting and perhaps illogical equation, to move everything in order to discover what’s left. But for me it’s never been about any outcome, goal, static state of being or heaven. To be “awakened” has never been the objective, nor any other country or destination. It’s the “ing” that interests me; packing, unpacking, leaving, challenging, redefining, changing, walking, being. Let Irony laugh, but I find stillness in moving. Stillness that I do not envision at the end of my peregrination. But stillness as small smooth stones that, along the path, I find, touch – hold only for a moment – and let go.

———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in on pilgrimage, on transitions & "home", prose & ramble | No Comments »

a Jekyll agenda

Tuesday, May 16th, 2006

My boss says, “You’ve got to anticipate.”

He, of course, is referring to the formidable mountain of projects sitting on my desk that’s currently making my inner sherpa shudder in fear under the overload.

However when I speak of anticipation, it is usually in direct yet indefinable association with the tingling that dances up the back of my neck, for instance, when my Pilgrim Guide to the Caminos de Santiago in France arrived in the mail from overseas this week.

*!!!*

It’s really not so much a book as it is a pamphlet. And although it’s suggested, I’m not going to bring any additional guidebooks that provide specifics of the path.

My friend Sara said of my last pilgrimage:

“Remember when you were in Portugal, and you didn’t have a map but were just following those blue arrows backwards? Yeah. We didn’t tell you at the time, but now that you’ve come back, I think it’s safe to let you know; We thought you’d totally lost it. We decided you were crazy.”

That makes me the Hyde in my giggle. The Jekyll, however, smirks. Because “crazy” as I may have been, that is exactly where I long to return; onto the edge; walking that fine line between the rational and the magical; where the slightest sigh of silence pushes me right over. Having no idea where I was on a map, nor where I’d been or was going, and surrendering my myth to those silly blue arrows led something inside of me to a timeless and placeless experience of existence that made my heart burn with the excitement of a first crush. I’ve found only one name that comes close to pinning itself on the shirt of that sentiment:

Presence.

A pure, permeating, and soul-saturating sense of Presence.

I think that because I am not enlightened (nor foresee such in my future) and am yet unable to be entirely present from the inside out, I still seek the environments that force me to surrender to presence from the outside in; salsa dancing, dreaming, scubadiving, first kisses, reading, writing, speaking in another language, meditating, and learning anything new. But what is exciting about being in a place — ANY place — unknown, is that then everything transforms itself into an exercise in presence: eating, walking, sleeping, thinking, speaking, listening, being. And it is my hypothesis that a diligent diet of surrender to environmental unknowns will eventually lead me to the slimness of ill-conceived self-stability necessary for inner stillness.

But back to anticipation, which I have only for the first time recognized as being a balance of both inaction (excited patience) AND action (disciplined preparation). The countdown to my departure turned on about a week ago. Although countdowns, by nature, are disciples of Time, perhaps contrary to their intention, they too, bring me Presence. Those funny little tabs sheets in time mark the beginning of anticipation, the duration of renewed appreciation, and the exciting start date of actualization.

Let me explain; I have exactly 108 (which happens to be the sacred number of beads on a “mala” *mantra counting beads* as well as the final tally of braids on a Tibetan head) days before I leave the States again. And although my heart wants to leap out of my chest in (excited and patient) anticipation of that day, I have also already broken down that 108 days into the following (boss-approving) schedule of disciplined preparation anticipating my upcoming adventure:

72 French lessons. (I’m on lesson 18 right now of Pimsleur’s French Series – which is an incredible language learning method. I can’t give a higher stamp of approval without sounding like a cheesy infomercial.) 12 Fridays of advanced salsa classes (although I’m currently dancing an average of 4 nights a week; which would be the reason why I’ve been slacking on posting recently.) A summer school drawing course (for new visual perspective and recording of my upcoming journey). 12 sunny weekends of prep walking and hiking (a few pics from this Saturday’s adventure). 3 months to finish reading my new photography books & practice shooting (I read the rest of my camera’s manual last weekend, and to my *squealing* delight discovered a secret “super-macro mode” — as demonstrated by the photo above). 108 days of appreciating a super soft bed, a consistently hot shower, access to delicious vegan food options, proper time to foster both old and new friendships, 24-hr access to internet, time and silence to meditate daily, a book shelf to hold all that I like to peruse on a regular basis, organic veggies, mountains within walking distance, water from the tap, a kitchen, and all the blessings of a life that gives ample space for healthy habits and repeated (sacred) rituals.

So much to appreciate. So much to anticipate. So much Presence before, at and after 108 that my heart stutters in indecision over whether to sigh or hold my breath for…

109.

*!!!*

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and MercuryFrog for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in Le Chemin de Saint Jacques, on pilgrimage, on transitions & "home" | No Comments »

emotional cartwheels

Thursday, March 23rd, 2006

I’ve got the question, “But what ARE you doing right now?” doing cartwheels in my inbox so I’m going to step out of my meditations on moments passed and give a quick personal update.

Colorado is a state I had never been to before I stepped off the plane three months ago and found a house, work, friends and routine to intertwine these elements. In this way, this particular little plot of land and people hold adventures no different than those I’ve found along my pilgrimages through South American or Asian continents.

I spend a lot of time at work; my “job” is super challenging, but my daily task is getting hundreds of young Americans ready and hyped for truly authentic experiences in developing countries (from Bolivia to Senegal to Mongolia). I get people equipped for the experience that they will eventually sigh over and stammer, “it changed my life.” I assist the world’s richest 1% with becoming emotionally and physically prepared to bathe out of a bucket and live in a nomad tent with yak headers in rural Tibet. And do I think this plays a role in changing America? Yes I do. I would have a lot more respect for our petty little president if he at least had been a guest in the house of an Afghani family before mindlessly putting his machine to the task of destroying them. I do believe the key to realizing any peace in this lifetime will be the world’s realization that every “enemy,” stripped of distance, skin color and ignorance, is a sibling. It’s quite a task, but I put myself to it – one teenager at a time.

I walk to work everyday and usually I walk home too. I went to a writing conference all of last weekend. I take salsa-dancing classes every week. I registered for French classes last night and I’m in conversations with the local art school on when I can begin my drawing classes this spring. I detest the TV, but have spent a lot of hours this week at the feet one of my favorite teachers watching a 6-hour series on, “The Power of Myth,” by my favorite “JC” guru/prophet/missionary, Mr. Joseph Campbell. Also on my desk I have more texts on myth, symbolism, archetypes and image; all words that I consider keys to my, yet to be discovered, inner mystery. During my lunch hour I’m reading more Herman Hesse. Before bed I’m reading more Rumi. And Amazon has just sent me the pile of photography books I’ve ordered with the purpose of adding new corners to the creativity of the visions I capture and share via camera on this website. I have been adventuring at sunrise and set to shoot, but my new digital camera outputs quality and resolutions to which my computer blinks, “no memory,” with a blank text box. As is often the case, I need to delete in order to make room for the new. And as soon as I put the tired to rest, I will post some new pictures as well as some rough drafts of the podcast that I am brainstorming to begin posting on my next adventure across borders.

And, of course, yes, I will be adventuring cross-continents again soon. I have three quotes right now in my inbox for ATW (Around The World) tickets; another walking pilgrimage (across Southern France this time, and yes, that’s what the French classes are for) and a more stationary stint in South India are priorities 2 and 1 (in that order) on the itinerary. I won’t be leaving till the end of summer, but that is but a bat of Time’s eyelashes. In the meantime, I’m feeling fully charged and challenged, which is all I ask of life on a daily basis. Despite the illnesses around me, I have not been sick since I’ve been here and I’m back to needing only 6 hours of sleep, which are both signs that my body and mind are subconsciously feeling very healthy and happy.

It snows in Boulder all the time. And I’ve never seen anything so beautiful as the white blanket being knitted in the sky, at the hands of the snow gods, right before my eyes. The next day the sky is clear and blue and it’s 70 degrees. The next day it snows again. This is Boulder. And the rapid evolution of weather emotions and experiences matches my character perfectly.

It snowed like this yesterday. On my walk home from work I pulled on every branch of every tree I passed to watch the white confetti spring into the air and fall like magic (always tends to do) on my path. At a street signal, one particularly large nest of snow on a tree didn’t spring so much as it did dump…on my head. And me, and the man in his car stopped at the red light, silently laughed out loud together.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and MercuryFrog for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in experiential education, north america, on transitions & "home" | No Comments »

city funhouse

Saturday, January 28th, 2006

Oh. He’s looking at me funny. Yep. He’s cocking his head and scrunching up his nose. It’s definitely coming. Uh huh…here he goes!

“Did that hurt?”

I play dumb. I know exactly what he’s referencing because it’s the same question I’ve encountered five times in two days. I’m baffled by my new citizenship of a freak-dom that I’ve never known to exist on the coasts. And I’m not exactly sure why this is my response, but I play dumb.

“Did what hurt?”

“That nose ring,” he says and points at my face.

There’s something about having a finger pointed at my face that makes me feel subconscious and so I full-stop the conversation with, “Nope. Hey, this portabella mushroom is excellent.”

“Is it?” he asks.

A bit of a strange response, I note, to get from the waiter that has just served me the dish I’m complimenting. This time I cock my head at him, to which he responds…

“Do you have vegatitis?”

Okay; that’s not a direct quote. He actually asks me if I’m a vegetarian. But there’s something in the curve of his question mark that insinuates that vegetarianism is something one picks up from an infested mattress. And by the amount of time it took for me to find the single meat-less option on a 6-page menu, I hypothesize that not many of “my type” are found in these parts. But I recognize his innocent curiosity because I’ve gotten the same line of questions from my niece and so I decide to drop my, “I’m-entitled-to-oddness” act and answer affirmatively and with sincerity.

Having rarely wandered so far from the West Coast (where nose rings and rabbit-food habits are but hardly noticed), I’m still surprised when he shakes his head in incredibility and asks, “But why?”

“Well, because I try to live a life free of both direct and indirect violence,” I answer honestly. Recognizing that this statement is a deep well to simply dip into without commitment and consent, I give the comment a minute to settle. He peers over the edge, squints his eyes, does a quick estimation of depth, and instead shrugs and turns to tend to his other tables.

I return to my book and copy from it a quote into my journal, “There are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn’t count.” – Rabbit

I glance at my watch and wonder briefly again when I became I watch-watching person. “When I started needing to catch flights on time,” I answer myself. I pull out my company credit card and put it on the table.

The waiter returns. He picks up the card and reads the inscription under my name. “What’s a WTB Dragon?” he asks.

I think this is very funny. But I smuggle my laugh because I don’t want him to think I’m laughing at him. “It’s who I work for,” I answer.

“Ah. Business woman,” he says and walks away. But the impression of his assessment is left standing in my face…

“What? Business woman? Me?” I stand back, aghast and…insulted? Hum. I am wearing a long petticoat. And black slacks. And I have a laptop with me. And a rental car. And I DO have a company credit card. And I am traveling for work. Wait. Could it really be? Am I a business woman?!?

These questions are all swiftly spinning in my head as I sign the receipt, gather my belongings and head to the women’s bathroom. But when I push through the swinging door, the bickering in my head is suddenly deafened; outspoken by the volume of music that, for some reason, is blaring in stereo sound only in the restroom. I don’t consciously choose to step into the handicapped stall, but when a terribly joyful 90’s song, to which I’ve danced around many a campfire and know every word, comes on, I do consciously use every inch of the stall space to my stepping, sliding, spinning and singing advantage.

Quiet relieved with my unanticipated and unsuppressed dancing outburst, I wash my hands and mind of doubt and exit the bathroom.

“Businesswoman; That was funny!”

———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and MercuryFrog for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in culture, experiential education, on health, on transitions & "home" | 8 Comments »

sword of words

Sunday, January 15th, 2006


*ouch. change can hurt*

A notice on the door tugs on a corner of my subconscious, but my ambition (as ambitions do) to complete the mission with which I set forth speaks over the whispering omen. No worry, for this omen (as omens do) will present itself again…

Having not found the book on digital photography that I was looking for (and probably never was) I pass the woman who left the notice on the door. The snippet of intuition I feel suddenly snaps perfectly together with the puzzle piece I so briefly noticed when I hesitated at the door to read the notice. Recognizing an opportunity for a glimpse of the divine picture — this time — I pay attention.

I turn around and approach the woman. She’s sitting down and, as a matter of personal policy when speaking to anyone with whom I recognize as either a teacher or student, I lower myself below her eye level. (This, by the way, is a fun game when speaking to someone who abides the same personal policy; I once descended an entire case of stairs, in turns, with such a person.)

“You read cards?” I ask.

There is an eagerness in her sigh and smile by which I read the fact that today has been slow in business, “Yes! Please sit down!”

The truth is that I play with tarot cards as well, just as I delight in experimenting with any other tools utilized for understanding the subconscious (dream interpretation, symbolism, archetypes, astrology, aura reading, etc.) and I am only interested in seeing the artistic nature of the symbols on her deck and wondering what one charges for such a service. She tells me her price and I politely explain to her that I am in a period of savings and apologize for misrepresenting my interest, if I have done so.

But she motions me to the seat anyway, “You must sit down. I insist. The reading is free. I do that you know; when I feel inclined. Stop, stop, declining. You should feel no obligation. You can return the favor to anyone you meet in this town later, agreed? Now sit.”

Left with no options not to, I sit.

“Choose three cards.”

I close my eyes for just long enough to ask that what I draw may be truly representative and offer me an appropriate learning.

As she turns the three over, I read their interpretations in my head as I have learned them from my own experience:

X Swords…. “Major change on the way, resistance is futile.”
IX Swords…. “Darkest hour before the dawn.”
VI Swords… “Relief will come after a struggle. Sea voyage possible.”

“All swords and matters of intellect!” I exclaim and recognize that, given that (I feel) my intellect is my greatest weakness, it is no wonder that I am indeed struggling these days.

It takes me a minute to become conscious of the fact that while I am analyzing the cards, she is analyzing me. I suddenly realize that the cards mean nothing to her; only a single petty medium, one of many, through which she can read. She’s not looking at the cards; she’s looking at me, and seeing.

Now, and only because I have mentioned them, she looks at the cards. But they are bothersome details. Offhandedly she comments, “Yes. Strong on swords. It’s definitely a time of great change and reflection for you.”

And then she continues with the story she read behind my eyes, “A traveller. With extreme drive. Compassion is the lesson of this lifetime. But you will not learn it from motherhood, will you? No. Through service. Through something that you will dedicate the rest of your life to — when you find it. You won’t be here long. You’re a seeker, and continue you will. And this work you do right now, it is good. But it is not enough. Maybe 10 years you will share your inspiration through this channel. But then, then you give your entire life to spiritual practice. And I see a book. Writing is important to you isn’t it? You must keep practicing; keep writing. It will have a strategic place in your life.”

You’d think that this kind of information, given to you by a complete stranger, would be shocking. But when it happens it isn’t; the conversation has the familiarity of a conversation with self. I’ve had readings from teachers/gurus/mentors from Guatemala to India, and what they tell me never surprises me because the fact that it’s true meant that I already knew it. Or the fact that I knew it, meant that it was already true.

“What are you afraid of?” she asks.

I answer out of alignment with truth and against that which I know will never be; “That I will grow comfortable here. Everything is so pleasant and easy. I’m afraid that when the time comes, I will no longer want to leave.”

To this she actually throws her head back and laughs out loud. It is the first time we have broken an eye-to-eye contact that burrowed into realms beyond vision, and this release makes for the most perfect red curtain in closure on this session. I AM laughable, I realize. And I join in with celebrating the humor of the incredibility of self-perception.

The lull of relief at the end of our shared life laugh motions for a movement towards our separate ways.

“Not a chance,” she puts the period on her laugh and says with a smile. “Now go on.”

I put my hands together, bow and offer her the South Asian sacred salute of, “namaste” (“recognizing the divine in you”), to which she with instant recognition, and naturally, returns.

*****

(I should take this moment to make mention of “Osho,” a great Indian guru who the Dalai Lama recognized as enlightened, under whom the woman I just wrote of was a disciple, and who has 576 book listings on Amazon, five of which I’ve read and loved. If you’re interested in sampling, the Apple Online Music Store has a free “Osho Podcast” so you can download a 1-hour discourse and hear him speak of how to live a creative and holi-life.)

———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and MercuryFrog for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in magic & alchemy, on spirituality & religion, on transitions & "home" | 2 Comments »

the indiscriminate rainbow

Saturday, January 7th, 2006

A cell phone, utility bill, student loan statement, tax identification number, savings account, physical address, work desk, mailbox and business card; it’s amazing how many things can suddenly come under ones name in a single week living in the States. Acquired alongside nouns that the US ethic prides itself on — efficiency, ownership and responsibility — I, by association, pay respect to these new major life themes (for the time being).

I could call this phase of my life “temporary” but that would be a silly and redundant estimation of time, for if there is any one thing that I have come to finally and fully understand in this life, it’s that that’s exactly what every experience is: passing, momentary, phasing, transient, temporal. Trite yes. But as close to Truth as I’ve ever come.

Life is picking up a pace on me; I can feel it. Having been out of step with the rhythm of the clock-working world for so long, I now find myself extra sensitive to its faintly familiar touch. Now I know where age comes from; not from birthdays, but born of routine, habit, pattern and a calendar watched.

But oh blessed “routine,” you look so sad all dressed down with complacency! Let me commit to thee with consciousness, make your process sacramental, and dress you up royally as a, “sacred rite” instead. For isn’t that the test? To make each day — within its habit — unique and sacred? Regardless of person, place or phase?

A challenge I accept. “Yes, Divine Spirit, I agree to those terms.” Take my memory of choosing to be in this place, and let me learn it, realize it, reveal it, recognize it and unfold the Mystery for myself. Life, not even in the States, not even in a cubicle, is bordered or boxed. And I intend to seek and see those horizons; horizons that start and end where the sun rises and sets; a sun by which the grace of something certainly divine creates twice-daily opportunities to witness; opportunities to witness and participate in the original, final and ageless rite of the sacred passage of a simple day. My task is not to find the sacred where it is obviously so, but to discover the divine within that which it is hidden.

A challenge lofty in mission, but surprisingly easy in vision – whenever I bother to clear my eyes of sleep and see…

The window over my bed looks upon a demolition zone where piles of mangled metal, earth upturned, ragged wires, scrapped steel, and crumbling concrete teeter on top of one other. And this spot — of all in the world — is where the indiscriminate rainbow chose to fall; reminding me that treasure is not for chasing, but for digging, underneath that which I have right in front of me. I recognize (in awe) my omen and pledge to practice The Way of the Rainbow – living, being, phasing and passing each moment indiscriminate of direction, destination and desire; seeking the sacred in every second. Eyes closed, I sigh; in relief and with full confidence, that it is in this spot — of all in the world — that I am supposed to be.

*****
< A few more shots capturing Colorado’s most recent (daily, routine and habitual) sacred rites of ageless passage.

*****

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Posted in north america, on transitions & "home" | 1 Comment »

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