Category Archives: prose & ramble

wonderfully raw reality dip

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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.

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a blessing recipe

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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.

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enter tinkerbell

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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.

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web

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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.

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the still in movement

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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.

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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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violet umbrella

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Time. Just when I think it no longer exists, it stops; Against a wall I crash; Into the realization that more than a meager measure of minutes, it is a cunning calculator of change. Elevated for a single breathtaking glimpse of the horizons of the divine plan, and then falling back in faith that the story is, indeed, written all by the same hand.

And I knew Time wasn’t linear, but who knew that in circles we could travel so far? So I follow the loop, and go forward, back; To a minute captured in ink, at the entrance to the Jokhang, in Lhasa, Tibet.

April 4th, 2005
Journal Entry

Mind, Speech, and Body. Thought, Word, and Heart. Pilgrims in their most intimate surrender, on all sides, surround. Full body prostrations humble egos insistent on standing, solemnly to the ground. Men and women. Rich and poor. Ignorant of race, sex and class is the number of miles we each must walk, simply to fall on Humility’s floor. Instructed then, to yes please enter, but leave the life we’ve walked in, with the pile of shoes at the door.

I thought I came to observe, but I’ve quickly become the observed. A man squats, telephoto lens, no bush to beat and without blush, snapping shots of the pale girl sitting in the street. Obviously odd for her square and muted clothes, she scripts in matching block letters, acting innocent of being noticed.

And to whom and what of, does she write? I look through his lens and wonder too. It seems a very Western obsession to wander back and forth between past observation and future expression; Over- and under- analyzing segments of time that no longer or yet exist, instead of simply experiencing the moment of “now” naked and as it is.

An ancient Tibetan man, with a smile a lifetime younger, spins a prayer wheel in his right hand as he extends to me in his left, a customary gesture of welcome. I smile back, and his eyes they glow. A mirror flashes as recognition catches, before a gust of wind starts time again and blows; In a blink, back down the veil falls over his eyes, with a final teasing wink testifying to the truth of our oneness that he knows.

Square shadows of square shoulders cast square shade upon my ground, as a group surrounds me in the suits and caps traditional to the men of Tibet’s region, Kham. In low dusty voices they chatter, scratch chins, point fingers and finally decide my activity no longer worth their banter. The cloud of their presence passes, and I find myself for the first in many minutes, in observer absence.

I poke my head out from the cover I’ve taken in paper and pen…

Mind, speech and body. Thought, word and heart. The prostrating pilgrims keep in rhythm with the small hand of a clock. Suddenly aware, for the first time, of my own looming shadow over them, I slap myself for ignorantly assuming I had a right to sit here and witness these intimate acts of devotion and submission.

I turn just in time to see, in front of a barred window, a small monk in signature maroon robes. In one hand he holds a violet sun umbrella that he reaches up into the air as he grabs onto the bars to help lift himself up onto his toes. (I know the window, for I’ve peeked through it too, and know that thousands of prayer-lit butter lamps present a very peek-worthy view.) And again the mirror flashes and blinds me with a body swapping vision of myself; Small girl, eager toes, an understanding shaded by the big umbrella of all she thinks she knows. Stretching up, peeking in, through the barred window of her severely limited perception.

I scribble incomplete and run-on sentences in an attempt to comprehend it all, but am stopped by my own smile, when the violet star-shaped shadow wanders from the window and upon my journal falls.

*****

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looking up

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(New pictures in the Colombia Album)

The heat has exhausted me and I slide under the shade of a palm-thatched hut on the beachfront. Small, tanned, naked children roll around on the sand floor absorbed in their individual imaginations. I smile, again admire the world that those under seven live in, and wonder if I’ll ever be able to find that door again. Two older boys play chess with soda bottle caps on a hand painted log stump in the corner of the hut and a man and his wife recline in the table next to mine. The woman is nursing a new child. Every few minutes someone from the community stops by the hut and tries to steal the baby for a toss, coo or cuddle. A group of men return from the sea and take seats at the table and a round of cold beers are immediately placed before them. Fingers and feet naturally tap along to the salsa streaming out from the radio as if the beat can never quite escape their bodies. I am always awed by this natural relationship with rhythm that those of lighter skin seem always to struggle so much with.

Someone whistles from the back and one of the young men disappears and returns with the pitcher of fresh lemonade that I have requested. He puts it on the table and stares at me without reserve or embarrassment. Then he asks me where I’m from.

“The United States,” I slowly reply. I always say the name of my country as gently and softly as possible, perhaps in silent hopes that this grace will also soften the sharp and cutting edge of the controversial conversations that usually follow.

He plops down soundly into the chair next to mine and crosses his arms across his chest.

Noting his body posture, I appropriately brace myself for the Question. What will it be today? The election? The war in Iraq? Bush’s recent visit to Colombia? The Free Trade Agreement the US is trying to push on some of the poorest countries in S. America in order to guarantee its freedom to exploit their precious resources? “Plan Colombia” and infamous drug war? What will be the Question today?

“Como hago?” he says.

I’m confused by his coastal slang and look at him blankly.

He puts both his hands on the table and clarifies, “How do I get there? Why can’t I go there? You can come here, right? Why can’t I go to your country?”

Ah. The immigration question. An exhausting discussion that I’ve had on islands around the world. And one of my least favorite. Because not only do I not have any answers for why people are constantly denied visas or even visiting rights to the US, but I also have to battle bitterly with the “dream” that Hollywood has not only painted on the “life ideal” billboards of America, but also broadcast across continents to make citizens of otherwise perfectly content communities question if they actually are happy without a car, two story house, vacuum cleaner and wall mounting television.

I shake my head and sigh.

“Why do you want to go to the United States? Do you know that what you see on television is not true? Do you know that Americans work 50 weeks a year in hopes of finding the time and money to spend only a few days in a pardise like this?”

I throw my arm out and spread it over the tropical beach, the sea, the children playing in the sand and the family laughing behind me…

“Look what you have here! You live on an island in the Caribbean with everyone you love! You have warmth, and beauty, and music and community and family, and comfort and long, lazy and sunny days to enjoy it all.”

He looks around for a second and acknowledges, but swipes aside, what I see.

He squints his eyes and says, “I hear you can make $20 dollars a day just washing windows of the cars in the street. Tell me. Is that true?”

I press my fingers to my temples and sigh. I, as of late, have been feeling particularly overwhelmed by qualities of life and humanity. Earlier this same day, I found out that Playa Blanca (see pictures below) was recently bought by a huge international 5-star chain resort that is making the island private and is now in the process of kicking off its inhabitants. No longer will people be able to rent a hammock on the beach for a night (4000 pesos, US $1.80) and enjoy a fresh fish and coconut rice meal (7000 pesos, US $3.18) prepared by Mama Ruth. Via exuberant prices, only the elite will have access to the island. And Mama Ruth and family, may themselves have to relocate in order to oblige.

“Is that what life is about? Money?”

He rubs his fingers together and says, “Not just money; but the Dollar.” He contines, “If I can get to the States, I can get myself some dollars. And then I can find myself a nice American wife and…”

I don’t have to listen. I know how the sentence and story ends. I’ve seen it in music videos, magazines, movies, soap operas, and TV enough times to have the script memorized on all kinds of conscious and subconscious levels.

I look at the sea and watch a small naked child taking chase after a retreating wave and then turn, shrieking with joy, as the chase suddenly turns on him.

The children see so easily. If there’s anything we should watch, it should be them. When did we forget those innate secrets of living and loving? When did the simple recipe for joy become so cluttered, complicated and confused? And what must we unlearn to reveal and realize them again?

*****

Playa Blanca (“White Beach”)

Morning…

Noon…

and Night…

Journal Entry

December 1st, 2004

Playa Blanca, Islas de Rosaria

Off of coast of Cartegena, Colombia

Yesterday, today, tomorrow. 365 days a year, For millennia upon millennia. Over desert, jungle, city and sea. In the slums, on the streets and over the suites. Morning, noon and night. Life diligently and gracefully raises a hand and sweeps the sky. In a brush of brilliancy to allure and lift weary and downtrodden eyes. To bring to attention the questions that the striking evidence would only imply; In inspired wonder of who, what and why.

My favorite color is that of the sky minutes after the sun has set, but before the first star has shown itself yet. A fleeting and paradoxically incalculable minute. That by these instructions can be recognized and captured only by intuition. (As I think all life’s most inspiring moments to be.) This color. If captured in a stone. Would woo and wow the Royal to send troops to destroy, devastate and enslave, just to put a piece of it on their plump fingers. And here it is. That same color. Spread across the sky wide. Unprejudiced of all whom it adorns. Making even the sea look small and pale. In bold declaration. That all royalty and richness will befall. To those who look up. Any and all.

(sol’s travel photos) (about sol) (some sol stories) (LeapNow.org) (travel disclaimer) (packing list) (photogallery guestbook) (blogger profile) (World Nomads Travel Insurance)

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(Guayasamin´s “Hands of Protest”)

Who am I?

Like a trailer for my after-life movie, last night in a dream, I saw a summary of everything I’ve ever seen in this life. And as I watched those images swirl up and down and swim in and out of vision, a single question rose from the eye of my stormy life mission;

If “I” am watching me, then who am “I”?

“Who am I?”

The question echoed from my dream into my waking reality and rolled off the bed with my sleep and into my journal.

It’s not a new question.

I remember a spiritual guru at the Pyramids Retreat Center in Guatemala asking us (a group of students in a session) this question, “Who are you?”

I don’t have access to my journal-ed reply to that question. But the very fact that I can no longer recall my own words or even forge a new response to the question shows me just how much I’ve changed in the last three years.

Because if you asked me today, “Who are you?” I would answer;

“I am not young, but neither am I old. I am not female, but neither am I without femininity. I am not male, but neither I am without masculinity. I am not a daughter or sister, but I am not without kin. I am not a wife or girlfriend, but neither am I without life partnership. I am not an American, but neither am I of any other citizenship. I am not educated, but neither am I unlearned. I am not an expert in any one thing, but neither do I know nothing of all things. I am not a student or teacher, but neither is my interaction of learning without end. I am not wise, but neither am I naïve. I am not certain, but neither do I want to be. I am not logical, but I am not without rationale. I am not rich, but neither am I without all life luxuries. I am not strong, but I am not without courage. I am not sane, but I have not lost my senses. I am not real, but neither am I meaningless…”

I could go on forever.

But my point is this; I set out upon the world to find and define the answer to the question of “who am I.” I put my name on a blank piece of paper with a colon aside it and started scribbling in the answers, till a full definition resided. And then, at some point, am I’m still not sure when, where or why, I flipped my pencil over and started erasing all my definitions, having come to the conclusion that all were lies. Till I was left again with my name and a dot, dot, dot, and the acute realization not of who I am, but who I’m not. And today, on that written and erased, tattered, torn and loved page, not even my name remains.

Funny, now that I think about it, just how caught up we are in defining everything. Is this just the curse of humanity, to be plagued with the constant need to declare, categorize, name, organize, defend and define everything that is capable of our conception? Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we have to break fire down into a process of catalysts and chemical compounds? Or break a sunset down into the coincidental orbit of planets and stars. Why can’t we instead break OURSELVES down, in simple awe and wonder of our existence without explanation? While at the same time giving that undeclared, unnamed, uncategorized, undefended and undefined “explanation” of the Divine the respect, awe and wonder that it deserves?

I throw my hands up in the air in protest.

And them I drop them in exhaust.

(sol’s travel photos) (about sol) (some sol stories) (LeapNow.org) (travel disclaimer) (packing list) (photogallery guestbook)

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Pocket Change

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Journal Entry

San Francisco Airport

21/5/04

Pocket Change

Sitting in the airport — American legs, Indian arranged.

I empty my pockets of India — to show for nothing but some change.

A Rupee or two, of our affair the only proof.

Having travelled across the world — now lost among the suits.

In the middle of stiff trees, as we all wait in line,

I drop into a squat, like I’m still on Delhi time.

And I scratch my head and nose,in a manner that appears absurd.

Sideways eyes are noting that — which those in India never would.

A deep Indian tan runs all the way from my ankle to my toe.

In a land where naked legs — judge such a line a beauty “no.”

Double strapped around my wrist, a ratty red rope still exists.

Only an Indian would see its meaning — as a tie to a puja still stringing.

And the mantra in my head, if chanted even once in voice aloud,

would warrant a call to the police — by the white man in the crowd.

And so I hide low in my corner — American legs, Indian arranged.

Having found something left of India — beside a little pocket change.

(sol’s travel photos)&nbsp(about sol)&nbsp(some sol stories)&nbsp(LeapNow.org)

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tea is served

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Journal Entry

March 6th, 2004

Varanassi, India

Legs are crossed and tea is served, but this is like no party I’ve ever attended.

The heat depletes and liters of bottled water flow through me mimicing the mother Ganga in her quenching of the thirst of this chapped country.

Flavors of India waft lazily down the alleyways and without warning hijack the senses of the unsuspecting white girl who is foreign to their friendship.

Egos of backpackers and Brahmins ride high and low — on the back of arrogance and under the belly of modesty.

And although my eyes are overwhelmed in the visions and vibrancy of this life — I am blind. In attempt to steady my understanding, I grope around for any semblance of the structure of society that I was raised on…

But what looks like a wall is not. And what appears to be a window is walled.

And so I smack into glass shields barring all that seemed obvious. And I stumble through invisible doorways to that which mocks reality.

One step at a time, I move forward. Understanding that it is just as important for me to grasp onto and understand what is not, as it is for me to hold on to and realize what is.

One step at a time, I shuffle ungracefully through India. Experiencing her with ancient senses that are out of shape but pleading for air and desperate for exercise.

I shake out the stiffness from the limbs of these senses and take first steps forward.

Slowly seeking the beat. Patiently pursuing the pulse.

The music is distant.

But with each step I come closer to the room where the Essence of India is played.

> The India PhotoAlbum

(sol’s travel photos)&nbsp(about sol)&nbsp (some sol stories) &nbsp(LeapNow.org)

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