Archive for the ‘prose & ramble’ Category

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fine with my simple life

Monday, October 6th, 2008

Often a cup a coffee, less likely one of wine, but even better than Joe, a little Kerouac, Eggers or Robins churns my mind with caffeinated flow. It is the first time I have opened a piece of fiction in weeks; too busy writing my own story I could say, but it’s a lazy excuse, and, like taking off my running shoes after miles of neglect, I can’t believe I went so long without breathing. How did I not suffocate? We humans are silly things to make such great leaps of fast enlightenment without having ever known we were sitting in the dark. And even then, we look down and ponder how it could have ever been, without looking simultaneously up, to wonder of which, certainly equally unenlightened room, we have leapt in.

Kerouac. He’s on a train. Sipping cheap wine and warming beans in the can. He calls himself a Dharma bum and I know, too well, the references and run on sentences of a man, whose expertise of a foreign era, normally confuses me. Really? I’m a dharma bum? Thinking myself some sort of spiritual elite for braving a Western mind on Eastern turf, or worse, and Eastern whim in the Western world? No. No. I’ve grown old. Walked to the end of that path and turned around. Tired of my ideas. Exhausted of others. I’d rather just sit and watch the fire or listen to the water. And if this makes me an idiot, I will be fine. Fine with my simple life. Fine with a big sky, content to watch, and not to chase the shadows of that which I’ve never caught up to, but am still certain, sits between us and the sun, and continues to cast its shape, upon the cement, in our best rendition of what we love to call, reality.

I don’t know. For all my searching, for all my questions, for all my mentors, for all my meditations, for all my travels, I still don’t know. And I do give up. But giving up means not so much to me any more. Giving up has the soft and modest glow of a white flag, that in the silence shouts: “You win! You are so much bigger than me! And you win!!! And thank god that if I know nothing else, I know that! So I surrender! Just let me keep the grass, and the sky, and the leaves that navigate from one to the other. That is all I want. The rest you keep. And I will happily bow down and kiss the earth and thank this day for being nothing more than, ‘another of loving.’ That is it. You take the rest. You take me. And I am happy for the relief.”

It seems I am even lighter than the bottle of beer I drink. For here I ramble. And to whom I wonder. But perhaps a more honest question, though, is of the true direction of my obvious projection. The question is not to whom I ramble, but from whom. Who is it that walks in circles, scratching his chin, pulling a word from one pocket and trying to fit it to a thought from his other? Who is that that looks up with every ounce of alcohol I take down? That reaches towards that ray of light like it is an angel of the sun? Who is that crazy old man fool? And what’s he doing kicking dusty circles inside of me?

Oh sigh. I suppose circles are needed to propel life, and so long as I am given the earth and sky, then I suppose I will always right myself up even when spun so dizzy, I fall down. As I’m undoubtedly being urged, I’ll put both my beer and thoughts to rest. And pick Kerovac up, where he left off; hitching both trains and thoughts, not in circles, but West.


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greasy thumb print

Wednesday, July 30th, 2008

IMG_8236, originally uploaded by seekingsol.

A four a.m. ramble chasing a case of insomnia…

Art is the greasy thumb print left on the sliding glass door through which we see our life. The artist is innate in every human being as lines to every hand. Arts expression, its imprint, needs only the “called upon” material through which it can reveal its contour, its consistency, its shape and form in our life. The specific material (of which there are as many sorts as there are people) will call, and attract, the artist to itself. Like beads of mercury, the two are hungry for reunion. Every artist starts as an amateur, and it is the duty of the amateur to actively listen for the call. To “actively listen,” means to wander around and follow your curiosity. “The call” is not a voice, but the ringing, of something that feels familiar; a ringing that makes your insides vibrate excitedly, like the inside of a rung bell. Art is not so much a paintbrush as it is a poem, a play, a fort, a flower, a healing, a home, a picture, a meal, a sentence, a scribble, a swirl made in the mud, a song, a dance, a child, or any other interpretation of a dream of ones reality. Art wakes up for breakfast, when we lay down to sleep. It paints the pictures of our dreams, but it’s up to us to interpret even our own inner Art’s meaning. Which we can do. For our inner Art works primarily with that with which we expose it. And so likewise it should be the work of our day to expose more and gather the new supplies of Art’s needed raw material: the leaves and sunsets and laughs and seasons and time spent with living creatures, which are all only a few of the finest of ingredients. But also the mistakes, the mud puddles, the bites, the spiders, the swearing and the struggles — for the light of our work will only be as bright as our shadows dark, balance will be essential to the overall composition, and the seeds of new inspiration are born like tadpoles only in the shady, dark pools where mystery is inclined to breed. Without our indentions, how would we ever leave any impression? On the sliding glass door?

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errant thoughts and kites

Wednesday, February 27th, 2008

IMG_4374, originally uploaded by seekingsol.

Errant thoughts consume me.

Not of the adventurous sort, but the meddling.

The petty. The flinching. The bothersome and be bothered by, sort.

The kind of thoughts that make you feel weak, and mean, and small.

The wind of the fan. The person that turned it on. The dogs barking in the street.

They ruffle. And annoy. And make my eyes squint and my breath shallow.

This is not the world I want to live in.

But that ruffling fan, and that annoying person who turned it on,

They push me out, onto the deck, and out of my little, petty world of trivial thoughts.

To a perch, where the real Wind playfully tosses my hair as a grandmother her stormy grandchild.

And despite even my annoyed resistance, my errant thoughts dissipate in the vastness of a world unwalled.

A deep exhale.

And a look over the edge.

Where boys play cricket and fight over who will jump the fence to reclaim the lost ball.

Where a wandering Sadhu walks barefoot in evening pilgrimage to the river.

Where a “subje wallah” pushes a cart of red peppers and calls out to the mothers who forgot the item on the list at the market this morning.

And where teenage boys sit side by side on motorcycles, holding hands, waiting to make an impression.

Where a vendor chooses a stalk of sugar cane, pushes it through his press, and fills a tumbler of sweetness to lure those that pass by into his shady corner.

Where a rickshaw wallah, through the mumble of his pan-filled mouth, proposes a cheap and faster ride to a walker.

Where a dog, unknowingly trespassing turfs, is attacked by barking calls of war, for his ignorance.

And where a black bull wanders lazily through the streets, while locals sweep long safe distances away from his horns and lethal legend.

Where a grandfather proudly strolls the neighborhood with his tiny toddler grandson in tow.

Where the school-bike rickshaw driver meanders his way home to retire the wagon, now empty of the children he’s safely returned home.

Where teenage girls twiddle thumbs and swing feet off the roofs where they are allowed to safely wander their imaginations.

And where white bed sheets and colored saris, warmed from the late sun, are pulled down from the rooftop lines and make last attempts at flight as their capturers fold them up for storage.

Where a grandmother shells peas on her porch, as she has done for 80 years.

Where a courtyard tree has snarled a dozen errant kites, now translucent with the sun setting behind them.

Where a “dhobi” carries neat stacks of pressed and clean clothes to houses where they’ll be received with great relief.

And where the multicolored scarf of a young student chases in quick step behind her.

Where signs and advertisements scream on alley walls, yet are muted to those illiterate of the Hindi script.

Where small children are stacked strategically, scrunched between their bookend older siblings, on the back of motorbikes.

And where hair plaits are oiled and braided on decks, in the lazy afternoon hour before dinner.

A deep exhale.

Like a headache, or stomach cramps, or a fever, I can barely remember my prior state now that it has passed.

And the Wind ruffles my hair again, this time, with consolation and compassion.

And muffles my mutters of wordy gratitude.

But humbly accepts,

A silent bow of respect.

Posted in india, prose & ramble | 1 Comment »

india is an arranged marriage

Monday, January 28th, 2008

Village Faces, U.P. India, originally uploaded by seekingsol.


(This is an excerpt from a personal journal entry from the first week when I arrived in India. I sometimes cringe and curse at the weird way my sentences wrap around each other in odd-measured rhyme when I get writing. So know that it’s unintentional, but just the way my thoughts get scribbled. You see. A curse.)

india is an arranged marriage

There is no courtship with India. The face peering back at yours from behind the curtain does not bat her lashes or bite her lip. It is the lack of fear behind her stone stare that makes your heart race with unnamed emotion. The sterile passport-sized picture of her given to you does not invoke the vision of her as the mother of your dozen children. Yet your story with her seems dimensionless and pregnant with a million incarnations that could be conceived of the union. India is not coy. Nor is she shy. And you sense a thousand secrets, hidden millennia deep, when she finally chooses to give your gaze relief. India does not rank high by conventional standards and comparisons of beauty. But her features are sharp and distinguished and clues of a character that will not fade when fairness and years are incrementally dismissed. India does not flaunt, but neither does she hide. She does not rely on the skin she shows, but that which she doesn’t, to tantalize. India lowers her eyes. Not in feigned defeat, but in respect to that which she knows hides under the shadow of Earth’s own sari. India does not pretend — to know you, or that you know her. She knows that those worlds will take exponential lifetimes to explore. India hasn’t the time to, without prompt, monologue an explanation of herself to you. But she will reward each individual and invested question with her most straightforward and simple truth. For although India is a young bride, she feels no rush to attach herself to only one of her multiple lives. India dreams. And she trusts. She still calls it fate and questions those who say it’s not. India raises a candle to the sun. She feels no need to draw the theories when she can see the likeness clearly. India knows not what, but, that she doesn’t know. She doesn’t guess, but answers the biggest questions, honestly, with her silence. India knows she will grow old and, with time, wrinkle, but that is not how she remembers the line of women that came before her. She’s comfortable with her youth being shed and only hopes to inherit the pride of those whose footsteps left the path before her distinguished and well-tread. India trusts her ancestors. She counts on their mistakes to give merit to the wisdoms they pass along, even if the logical connection is ages lost or forgotten. India has great heart and hope. She sees no advantage in allowing herself to wander the fantasies of failure. India did not choose you. Neither did you choose her. Someone, something — above, older, wiser — of this proposal, was the organizer. And yet, the plank over this apparent divide, was the subconscious consent stated in the silence from both sides. One can insist on free will and draw a line. But, as India points out, fate can always draw another one, just an inch behind. Yes. India is wise. She’s an old wife, who has outlived her partner but lives on to share the recipes — for food, in love, of life — to any of those who bother to lean in and listen to the creaking treasure chest of her whisper. Perhaps you are circling India now, taking your wedding vows as she follows your steps around the sacred fire. You may not have ever seen her face, but you know she is there, a step behind you. Waiting for you to gather your courage, take her hand, lift her veil, and finally face her.

Posted in culture, on love, prose & ramble | 5 Comments »

i choose

Tuesday, November 13th, 2007

(Buddhism was the first Eastern religion I encountered on my travels and when reincarnation was explained to me, it changed my world in the way it did mapmakers when they were told the earth was round. But it did not so much, “explain” as it, “told me the story I felt to have always known” through mental experience. In any case, I’ve explained my ideas on life-after-life in prior posts. Where my own beliefs in the continuum of life differ from Buddhism is that I “imagine” that we choose our lives, or rather we choose our “lessons”; the lessons that will further our (individual and cumulative) evolution and the circumstances that will ripen that fruit. But there is no proof and neither am I out to find or make it. The following is just a spiral of thoughts, rationalizations and appreciations…)

I chose my father so that I could inherit his overly sensitive heart. I chose my mother to model the potential of a self-reliant, spiritual and determined life. I chose to be born in Alaska, so that the discomfort of the cold would always nip at my heels and chase me to places warmer. I chose to be raised in Oregon so that heavy gray skies would turn me inward and push me beyond its, and my, borders. I chose brown hair, eyes and skin, so that I could travel the world without special recognition. I chose to be the third child, so that my parents would be happy enough with the successes of the others in order to be okay with one slipping away. I chose parents who were raised with financial hardships, so that a respect for resources earned and saved would always be given with unsaid, but clearly communicated, appreciation. I chose a natural disposition of aversion to attachment, so that I could say goodbyes with calm and ease. I chose to be a slow learner, so that I would be driven to seek the direct experiences that would take my hand and walk me through each of my lessons. I chose to be an introvert, so that my independence would not divert, but fuel the progression of my path. I accepted being painfully self-conscious, because it came with a critical eye for all persons, communities, and social institutions that surround me. I chose the United States so that I would have a passport and the political permissions to be able to freely transit to and from the country where I was born. I chose parents committed to providing a stable home free of both clingy attachments and vice addictions, so that I would be granted the confidence and curiosity necessary to venture out into a world of unstable conditions. I chose a house with a forest in the backyard, so that my inclination toward exploration could easily be fostered. And I chose parents who were too busy to be bothered, so that my wonder, for unchecked hours, could wander everyday there. I chose a family that adventured on countless road trips so that, as a childhood habit, I learned to treasure every minute spent in transit. And I chose modest parents happy with humble camping tents, so that I too would learn the logistics of, and love for, travelling “close to the ground.” Through my schooling youth, I chose a quick understanding of math and numbers so that being baffled by their nature was not the same as being academically challenged by their function. And throughout the later grades, A’s came easy, so that I would know there was much more to each subject than this or that teacher’s projection and/or interpretation. I chose to be born to a time and place where I would never know hunger, thirst, fear or abandon – so that I would not have to live my adult life recoiling or running from the memory of these pains. I chose the early 21st century, because I knew it would be the battleground for the future of humanity and, of all my lives, I knew it would be a particularly exciting one. I chose a female form because I knew it was one of the first centuries where, with careful choice of birth country, the spiritual and logistical advantages of being a woman would finally outweigh those of being a man. I chose a healthy and disease free body, so that I would not be hindered from helping others. I chose to spend many years blindly socially abiding so that I would know and understand the appeals of that confusion intimately. I chose not to be naturally talented in any one subject or skill, so that I would not be tempted by only one obsession. I chose not to be conceptually bright to prove that the things I would come to understand are inherently simple.

I chose my life. I choose my life. I take responsibility for all that has passed, is and will come to be. Under meditative investigation, all the qualities that fuel my self-pity and -hate, I find to have grown from — rarely obvious but — always altruistic reason. And I am so grateful; for my family, parents, friends, health, wealth and even my century and country; for all the work it took to tend the fields and ripen the circumstances into which I have chosen to have this life born. And I thank also this Life. For while I did choose it, it had the choice, and did not reject, but accepted my proposal. And I know, I know, I have a lot of my life contract yet to fulfill, and that all the care and love put into me, was done so in the faith that I would one day reflect back, and multiply that within, the mirror. And my signature, at the bottom of Life’s contract, also attests to my understanding that I will one day drop from its tree and die. And nourish the earth with this life’s sacrifice. So that I too, may take a turn at the fields, ripening the circumstances, for another’s birth.

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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.

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collapsed cairns

Wednesday, November 7th, 2007

I’m mentally disturbed by how quickly I forget the things I know.

Only by the patient curiosity of the finger twirling creation ringlets in its hair (and thus into my life), do I get the opportunity to wake up (again and again) in the same bed, to the same set of realizations, wondering, “…didn’t I already come to these conclusions?” and if so, where did they go?

They fell into my life like Siddhartha’s stone; plunk! Sinking to my soul and, in the process, making waves against my physical shores. I thought those stones sat stacked, at my core, like little sacred cairns pointing clearly toward this or that permanent direction.

But now I look in, and am shocked (or am I just covering my blush with feigned surprise?) — to find that these cairns have crumbled! But why should I be surprised? I too have contemplated the nature of Siddhartha’s river: I’ve seen storms, above and below, come and go, push and pull, and know that no cairn stands forever, not even – well, especially not – on the bed of a pond or river.

Oh. Unorganized, sticky webs of words. I do that too, when I’m confused. But I’ve been left alone, to my own, and now this is what you get…

For I’m on the fifth day of a silent meditation retreat at a Buddhist teaching center.

The gong rings: time for me to return to the teachings.

We’ll see what settles when my mind has fully spun out…

(this, by the way, is the “spinning out” part; if my sentence spirals dizzy you, know that it’s only my “I” sitting storm-center)

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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.

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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:

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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", prose & ramble, senegal | 3 Comments »

a blessing recipe

Wednesday, November 1st, 2006

Popes, priests and prophets have their methods. Merchants, and those who buy from them, name it in terms of this or that currency. But the value and blessing upon any object, for me, cannot be determined by karat, weight, age, dollar or any element measure- or calculable. Additionally, I have a sneaking suspicion that we are only meant to keep the things we are gifted, and that we are meant to give away anything we personally purchase.

On my last day walking the Chemin de Compestella in Southern France, a mysterious man whispered into my ear tales, mirrored in the magic I’ve found along my own, of pilgrimage along the caminos and around the world. Before we separated, he left me a very powerful message; one too personally sacred for me yet to share. But to officially mark the occasion of transmission, he took the red Tao off the chain he wore around his neck, opened my hands, dropped it in mine, and cupped his hands around my own.

“No, no, no. I can’t. You received this in Santiago a year ago upon completion of one of your pilgrimages. I can’t take this from you.”

“Yes, yes, yes. I know what it means to you, and look…” He pulls up the sleeve of his shirt and showed me the goosebumps on his arm, “It’s right, you see.”

It is right.

And it is wrong to deny any honest offering, as it’s a gift to the giver that one graciously receives. So I accept.

*****

tal-is-man:?
noun, plural -mans.
1.a stone, ring, or other object, engraved with figures or characters supposed to possess occult powers and worn as an amulet or charm.
2.any amulet or charm.
3.anything whose presence exercises a remarkable or powerful influence on human feelings or actions.

*****

Now I’m in the business of secret notes. I can’t get enough of them. I’ve left them tucked under tree trunks in Spain for friends, taped behind picture frames for myself in India, and hidden for a number of other lovers and friends in corners and pockets around the world. Additionally, I’ve collected a number of such from my best friends which remain unopened inside the zip-pockets of my Kangaroo shoes; I like to fancy that these secret love notes give me magic feet. And some day, perhaps on a sad day, or perhaps on a triumphant day, I will open them. (Many such days have passed, but the right day has yet to come.) But anticipation is sweet, especially when, daily, worn on one’s feet. :)

So…

Quite natural was my evolution from secret notes to sacred talismans.

And that would all be the background behind the following, not-so-secret, note to my Parisian hostess and dear friend. In my departing-France haste, I was unable to edit and leave it under her pillow as I had originally intended. Not trusting of the Senegalese post system, instead I post it where I know she’ll eventually find it; here.

****

Dear friend,

As all mountains do, the Pyrenees hold wisdom, secrets, mysteries and magic that match only their looming size. Perhaps their proximity allows them to catch runoff from the rainfall of understanding from the heavens. Perhaps from their studious observation of all below them, they have the concluding peace of seeing the cycle of life full circle. Perhaps in their silence, they have simply heard all. I will respectfully leave this mystery so. But albeit tight-lipped, the Pyrenees do not selfishly guard this knowledge, but whisper, sing and sometimes even shout to those who, with open eyes, ears and hearts, traverse its reign.

Before I set upon my pilgrimage across the Pyrenees, I found a small silver scalloped seashell. Virginous to experience, and the energy with thus consecrated, I set upon the small task of transforming, through alchemy, this simply metal symbol into a talisman. At the bottom of the mountains, I put my ego on the ground, raised my offering to the Pyrenees and asked for their assistance in this quest, to which they graciously agreed. And thus, backpack on, talisman initiates in hand, I ascended. And as I did so, with chain wrapped around my wrist, and initiates dangling and dancing between my finger tips, I reached out and at the same time, touched and asked for the blessing of the following…

I touched the wild Rose petals, and asked for their velvet undulations of Grace. I touched the Thorny bushes and asked for their discernment on when to take defense and when to pardon those whom there is no place to tread against. I asked the Air for its Lightness and ability to at once traverse and fill all space. I asked the Sun for its ability to Warm all inhabitants, indiscriminately, around the world and I asked the Earth, underneath all, for its unconditional support. I asked the morning Sky for the awe it, daily, inspires and I asked the first Star of the setting night for the constant reminder of the unknown which behind it lies. I asked the wooded Forest for its shadowed Mystery and I asked the Dandelion for its simply Beauty. I asked the spider Web for its ingenious complexity and corner reminders of life’s Interconnectivity. I asked the Clouds for the wisdom of peaceful Presence and silent being. I moved a fallen sparrow from the road and asked that Death might always be held so respectfully, consciously and closely. I asked the falling Leaves for their ability to let go of life in a similar show of colorful Brilliancy. I climbed up sharp Rocks and asked for their Strength and Solidarity. I raised my arms up in the air, spread my fingers through the Wind, and asked for its inherent talent for touching all, but attaching to none.

And at the top of the rock, on a summit of the mountain, I sat down, closed my eyes, cupped this scallop shell in my hands and made a meditation: “Let this shell be
(only) a symbol; a portal and channel, through which its bearer may tap the fountain of the Divine and all these healing, protecting, witnessing, loving and inspiring elements.” At this, my hands began to pulsate as they were intuitively inclined, to find and beat in rhythm with the heart of All, once again — with mine — aligned. And in answer to my humble request, I took the congruent beating of this gavel in my hand, within my chest, and upon Divine’s desk, as a motion signaling a silent, but resounding, “yes.”

Dear Friend. Thank you for being a special messenger along my path. I hold the mirror of inspiration and hope for many, as magical, to cross your own. Representing my wish for all the blessings that Divine’s instruments can kiss upon your head, you will find the silver scallop shell pinned, to the pillow on your bed. May it add to the magic, guidance, grace and protection of all Earth’s elements, on this pilgrimage through the last, from this life to the next…

with undefended love,

sol

*****

So yes, Mom, and all other curious; I did successfully cross the mountains. The last four kilometers, (where I took a “wrong” path), were especially blissful as I walked through the forest’s full fall rainbow. There are new photos in the France album, but they are insulting impersonations of the reality I witnessed…

And while at the top of the Pyrenees, the Wind was a might force to reckon with, on my way down, she only chased me playfully. Watch…

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NS7TjMES2oU]

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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 Le Chemin de Saint Jacques, gratitude, letters (my craft), magic & alchemy, on spirituality & religion, prose & ramble | No Comments »

enter tinkerbell

Friday, October 13th, 2006

Once upon a time,
in the Caribbean waters on the coast of Honduras,
where the water and sky constantly compete in an indiscernible photo finish for the definition of turquoise,
I was working as a divemaster with a Swiss and an Australian boy.

One day,
about 100 feet under the sea,
in the corner of my peripheral vision,
I caught the two of them in an underwater fight.

Fins were being chased,
wetsuits grabbed,
masks snapped,
tanks yanked;
all in tango over some hand-sized treasure seized from the sand.

As we ascended,
large air bubbles bottled my laughs and sent them to the ocean top,
as I watched my two friends somersault over each other in the acrobats of pursuit and play, that only underwater weightlessness permits.
Forgetting my roughhousing comrades as I un-buoyed the boat,
their tangled tantrum of enthusiasm tumbled its way back toward me with shared shouts of delight:

“Look! Look!”

“It’s amazing! Look!”

I immediately saw that the umbilical cord between the two had been cut,
by some definite, if unsatisfactory, result,
when each pulled from a sleeve of his wetsuit,
a fragment of that which they’d spent the entire underwater session in tryst over.

As they produced the two halves of the treasure,
and recognized the broken beauty of that which could not have been shared complete,
one reached over to the other,
smacked him across the back of the head and said,

“Look what you did! I can’t believe you broke it!”

While the smack was being returned with a matching slap and accusation,
I grabbed the two pieces before the boys began another battle, where blows weighted with gravity, would inevitably wield deeper bruises.

Taking the two pieces,
and matching the hems together as easily as corner puzzle pieces,
brought the attention and awe of the two boys back into alignment…

“Look!” one shouts, “at the fine inscriptions, the delicate handiwork!!!”

“Yes!” the other echos, “Do you think is an ancient Mayan artifact? It must be!”

Indeed.

Indeed,
the most perfectly symmetrical flower is stitched seamlessly across this ornate piece.
And by an equally divine hand, the fine design was obviously devised.

But I cannot hold back any longer,
and one small air bubble of a giggle breaks….

The boys’ eyes narrow at me in suspicion,
and I know well enough to be gentle not to pop this spell of wonder.

I shake off the smile,
and quite seriously tell them the story of a creature I know well,
but which has quite evidently evaded the closer shores of their own homelands.

They pass the flowered piece of pottery between the two….

“Really? And it’s called a what?”

“A sand dollar?”

Time passes,
and as as is the effect of all explanations,
the Wonder sadly wears off.

The two boys stash their respective pieces back under the sleeves of their wetsuits and one thumps the other over the back of the head and says, “Yeah. Just a sand dollar.”

I distance myself from the re-initiated game of brotherly tumble,
and myself marvel at the magic which something
- anything -
simply unknown,
can inspire.

Today.
I am reminded of this story;
As I spent a full fancy hour dancing around a bush,
Chasing the curious little creature captured in the picture above.
Wings faster than a humming bird,
Body with more dimension than any bug I’ve ever encountered…
For the measure of my enchantment,
It was Tinkerbell herself.

Later,
I passed this photo around the dinner table,
to which her recognition was met with indifferent shrugs.
Apparently a common apparition in Southern France she is.

But still unnamed,
by any with whom I shared her description and vision,
“Tinkerbell”,
in my Walking Fairy Tale,
She’ll continue to be.

———————————————
*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 magic & alchemy, on nature, prose & ramble | No Comments »

web

Friday, September 29th, 2006

words.
borrowed and recycled only
they are a poor and crooked outline
of my dot-to-dot understanding
and web through which I see the world

A dozen pilgrims pass me,
strange glances they leave me,
except for one who stops to ask,
“Why? What do you look at?”

Some prefer strings of pearls and diamonds,
adorning a long neck or slender wrist.
But I will ever swoon first,
for the morning’s dew-laced web,
on the snow-white skin of dawn’s fog.

Not a fault of my French, but for forgiveness of all languages,
I sigh a wish to the world where words are stunned mute, and silences speak.
But my wish is a coin,
tossed into a well of unfathomable depth,
and with the padded softness and simplicity,
of that same coin’s awkward splash,
I reply; “Je l’aime.”
And put my pen to paper,
let its point sit and bleed,
adding one more crude period,
to my dot-to-dot understanding,
of this immaculate vision.

———————————————
*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 magic & alchemy, on nature, photographic journeys, prose & ramble | 5 Comments »

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