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pilgrimage of poem & music
(an intimidating book to open)

Monday, September 22nd, 2008


Opening the book on our adventures in the Dolpa (rural Nepal) is as intimidating as the 17,000 foot passes we crossed to get there. Just look at a single page of my notes!

So instead of hesitating any longer, I’m just going to open and type.

Scared, exhausted, breathless, hungry, sore, cold and wet, on the first week of our pilgrimage in the Dolpa, I woke up early and as Sangeetha took to her morning ritual of flicking at the beads of water that accumulated into breaking dams on the low roof of our tiny tent, I scribbled into my journal the following:

THESE are the adventures of Kavita and Sangeetha in the Dolpa of rural Nepal.

Names, dates, times, heights, distances and places cannot be confirmed as such numerals and characters have little value when that to which they are respective does not exist. Let it suffice that such measures, here, change with the wind, waning moon and a timeless culture’s mood.

My name is Kavita. Kavita means, “poem” in Hindi. The name was given to me by a man born a shepherd of the Ladakhi North Indian plateau, at the summit of a pass in the Himalayas as a gift to crown the acceptance of the path of adventures that would ultimately lead to this one. On that same cliff of life crossroads, I, curiously, kicked not one, but two, copper horseshoes.

Upon finding my first phone, weeks later, I called my best friend and told her of my decision to follow my open-ended whim in South Asia. She replied, “then I’m coming too” and so I sent to her, by way of messenger, the second copper horseshoe.

Fall, winter and spring pass before we find ourselves reunited in the smooth clay underground room of an attending Tibetan family in a tiny and ancient village in rural Nepal. My friend is sitting cross-legged and wide-eyed at the underground world of which she has so suddenly entered. She keeps trying to bow lower than the dark, wrinkled man holding a prayer mala (rosary) and chanting mantras (Buddhist prayers) beneath his smile, for whom she has an unnamed source of reverent respect.

I enter the smoke-filled room and Sonam Tashi, our Tibetan ponyman, looks up with his perennial smile, just as he snaps a set of new batteries into an aged radio (and only medium of this otherwise communication-less world).

“SANGEET!” he shouts, as his arms, inflated by enthusiasm, rise into the air.

As I cross the room to my seat on the richly carpeted clay bench, I do a little line dance in my best impersonation of traditional Tibetan dance as I have seen it. Our small audience laughs in surprise, claps to the beat, and, finally, applauds my short act. Finding my seat next to my friend, she asks of me, “What did Sonam Tashi shout?”

“Sangeet. It’s Hindi and Nepali for, “music.” That’s it! That’s your name! Sangeetha!”

For it was only a day ago that my friend charmed an entire bus of local passengers waiting on a cliff ledge (for a secret amount of time) with the guitar she had struggled to bring half way around the globe to this moment. As she sang and strummed on the muddy step of the bus, a beautiful Punjabi boy in a pink turban snapped his fingers, gyrated his hips and thrust his arms about in animated poses of what he claimed to be his culture’s traditional dance.


The name is perfect, and thus are born the adventures of Kavita and Sangeetha.


Posted in daily life on the road, dolpa pilgrimage, magic & alchemy, story time | 3 Comments »

chai with Agam-ji

Sunday, October 21st, 2007


*picture from our 2004 chai sessions*

This is not my first cup of chai with Agam-ji.

While the kinship I feel for him might well transcend centuries, Agam has already become a revered character in one of my many lifetimes within this one; I studied the art of silversmith under his mentorship, three years ago, on my first trip to India. But in our many hours sitting cross-legged in the tiny carpeted studio attached to the shop showcasing his craft, I spent far less time melting, hammering and buffing than I did sipping, listening and laughing. And while my silver may have laid battered and unbuffed, my understanding of India was shaped and polished by Agam’s stories; of his beautiful arranged marriage, of his father’s life work and its distribution among his sons, and of his business, art, love and skill – silver – all in one.

Agam was the first star I found in my evening sky of India; my first friend born of the country. And on my last day in Banaras, I ran into his shop and asked him to mark our memory of times together, to which he agreed, as always, with a humor-her chuckle. He took out one of his tiny silver earrings and sharpened its blunt end to a piercing point. I stood with my back flat against the wall and when he told me to take a deep breath, as he’d instructed the hundreds of Indian women before me, I filled my lungs and exhaled my complete trust in him. What remains is the little star-like stud, on the left side of my nose, which I wear to this day.

Today, three years later, I find myself again in Agam-ji’s shop, wafting on the memories that the scent of silver dust in the air has yanked from past to present – as the smells of all the best stories do. And now, with a night sky full of Indian friends, I recognize just how lucky I was to have found such a North star: his character is un-faded by time; his charm as luminous, and wisdom striking, as the day I met him…

I look up over my chai cup and shout my surprise, “Agam! Look at all the little birds sitting above your shop door! That must be auspicious!”

He tips his wire-rimmed glasses up from the tiny earring that he is shaving with a hair-thin wire and with a chuckle says, “Well, yes, it is. And I am also feeding them!”

I laugh, stand up, and walk over to the doorway. I move slowly, but the dozen little finches and sparrows, in one great wing of wind, scatter to the tree across the street.

Agam laughs out loud and says, “They don’t know you!”

“Do they fly away when you go through the door, Agam?”

He laughs again, as he does with every response, and says, “well of course not!”

He instructs me to reach up and feel the top ledge of the metal door and as my fingers scope out inch-deep divide, I feel, with the tips of my fingers, a thick layer of seed lining the length of ledge.

“One day,” he begins as he holds up the earring for inspection of his work…

“One day, a bird came to my store. It was May. A very, very hot day. In the hottest month of the year. Everyone was hot and thirsty and this little bird came to my store. And it opened its mouth like this, breathing without closing its mouth, doing this, what is that called? Panting? Yes. Panting. It was panting and I thought to myself, “this bird is thirsty.” And I had a glass of water by my side and thought, “it does me no harm and it will make this bird happy if I give it water.” And so I put some of my water in a little dish and this little bird flew right to the dish and drank the water. And then I thought to myself; I wonder if this bird is also hungry? It will do me no harm to feed this bird and then the bird will be happy, isn’t it? So I went out and bought a bag of birdseed – which, in the market – it costs nothing. Only one rupee a day and this bird will be happy. And so I put the seed on the top of my door and the bird came back every day to eat and drink and it made me happy to see his bird happy. Then one day another bird came. And the two birds were happy and came back every day. Soon a third bird came. And the two birds did not like this one, and chased him away. They are very fun to watch; how they get along with each other, just like we do. But the third bird came back, and then a fourth came, and now they are many. Sometimes there are thirty or forty. They come for lunch at 11:30 and they come for dinner at 5:30. Everyday, they come at the same times. And they are very happy. Do you hear them singing? They are happy knowing that if they can not find any food that day, they can always come to my shop and have food. Do you know what it’s like to be very, very thirsty? Or very, very hungry? I am very happy to know that when they are feeling this, they come here. And that when they receive food, they give me their blessing. And this blessing is the blessing of a thousand. Because when you are very, very thirsty, or very, very hungry, your gratitude is of a thousand. And it is good karma to have thousands of such blessings sent into the world each day.”

He continues…

“Some people, they come into my shop, and they complain that the birds leave seed on my doorstep or their shirt– they say the birds make things dirty and ask me why I feed them. But I ignore them. It is nothing to me. I only need to clean just a little bit every day. Every morning I only need to use a rag to wipe the ledge and a broom to sweep the step, and it is so very little work for me to make the birds happy, isn’t it. Just a little bit of work every morning. Human beings are so selfish. We do not want to give, even when it costs us nothing. Only 1 rupee a day and look how many birds we can make happy. Look how many blessings we can have. And they chatter and sing and are beautiful to watch and they are happy and they are free.”

The smile fades from Agam’s face as he puts the piece he is working on down and raises his voice with an edge (not of anger, but of strength) that I have never heard before…

“Now, I go sometimes to a person’s house and I see a bird in cage. And I ask that person, ‘What are you doing! What are you doing to this bird? This bird is not happy!’ And that person says, ‘Well, I’m feeding it, aren’t I?’ And I say, but that bird is not free. Look at it. That bird is not singing or playing or fighting or flying. That bird is very unhappy! Why do you have to cage it to feed it? Your bird is unhappy and you have only one lonely and unhappy bird. Why only have one unhappy bird when you can make many, many birds happy and they will come to you the same, but they will sing, and fly and be happy and free?”

He puts the finger down that he was using to make his points in the air and picks up a soft cloth and starts to softly buff the silver while at the same time softly explaining…

“So this is my rule. Every morning. The first person who walks into the door of my shop. If it’s me, or one of the workers, or my trainee; no matter who it is, if you walk through the door first, it is your job, first, to clean the ledge and to sweep the step and to feed the birds. And if he, who comes through my door first, does not do this….”

Agam looks up at me above the wire rim of his glasses and says with a winking smile,

“Then I do not give him money for his breakfast either.”

———————————————
*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 culture, india, story time | No Comments »

unasked answered

Monday, December 18th, 2006

This week, on the streets of Pondicherry, I was blessed by an elephant.

And she raised her trunk to deliver, upon my forehead, a sacred thump, a story that I always felt compelled to compose, but never found the time to type, came back to mind. So please pardon the travel, and we go back in time, to…

Rishikesh, North India Spring of 2004

After turning the last page of my book, Living With The Himalayan Masters, I take a walk with one of my students along the Ganga to visit the part of the ashram where we make our morning mediations. As we stroll along the banks of the most sacred river in India, I share with my student some of my comments and thoughts left open on the book that I have just closed, “…he tells a story of when the elephants ate the roof right off the hut they were meditating in. Can you imagine? In this same exact place, only fifty years ago, wild elephants strolling the streets and taking meals of roofs where they please?!” Neither of us can imagine these dusty and motor-rickshaw-ridden streets being graced with anything more wild and savage than the Kashmiri merchants, and so we sigh and fancy the vision only.

We arrive at the ashram, spend an hour in guided mediation, and share breakfast with the community of teachers and students. After cleaning our dishes, my student says she’ll go to the bathroom and be right back. I wander out towards the gardens to wait for her.

As I’m taking a picture of the lotus pond, I notice an Indian man, and by his appearance (clean and modern) evidently a guest, look out the door of the kitchen and scan the area in search of someone. Settling on me, he approaches and finishes a conversation we’ve never started, “You wanted to see the wild elephants, yes? You sit on the Ganga, directly outside of this ashram, and at sunset they sometimes come to bathe.”

I put my hands out to steady the world as it spins around me for a second, and by the time I’ve found my balance, the man has said goodbye and is gone, and my student is back.

Sensing something off, she inquires, “Hey, are you okay?”

I look around and wonder the same, and then, thinking for one second that I still might be in reach of my reason ask, “I think so, but, hey… did you just tell someone about how we were talking about elephants this morning?” Her head cocks and her brow furrows, and on the slope of these doubting angles the rest of my sanity slips through my fingers like sand.

“What are you talking about?” she says with a squinted and suspicious eye.

My eyes dodge around as I scramble to string the pieces, and at the same time, a coherent sentence, together. But I’ve never been good at doing two things at once, and what comes out is a jumble of pauses and over-punctuation. “This man. He just came up. And said the elephants. The elephants! He said. Yes, wild elephants. Here? At sunset. Wait. You really didn’t? How’d he know? Do you think? Wild elephants?”

As the instructor, I really shouldn’t let my students see me in such a state. She gives me a look I remember giving my mother; one of those, “I’m gonna let this one slide” looks, and I, still unbelieving myself of what has just transpired, am all too happy to take her up on the subliminal offer.

When we meet up with my co-leader and the rest of the group, disregarding how I came upon the knowledge, I put out the proposal for a riverfront rendezvous at sunset. One of the less faithful students blurts out, “Wild elephants? Yeah right. Who told you this? I don’t believe it for a second.” Even my super trusting co-leader gives me a little side nudge and lowers his voice to say, “I’ve never seen any wild elephants here. Are you sure someone wasn’t playing a little joke on you?” Actually, I do feel like someone is playing a big joke on me, but I don’t think it was the man who told me about the wild elephant, and neither am I ready to laugh quite yet. So I tell the students I can make no promises, but the invite remains open.

I’ve never seen the Indian sun weak, but today in particular you can actually see the heat shimmering and sweating off the skin of the river. At a prime napping hour, and with a heavy yawn, I glance at my watch and easily understand why neither my students nor my co-leader have walked up the Ganga’s riverbank to join me. But that’s okay. Anyone who has ever witnessed a sunset over the Ganga knows that it’s always worth the watch and like no other sunset; it’s thicker, deeper, longer and lingering. It’s like the sun is loitering on the Ganga, and why not? If you were being worshiped by the earth’s largest congregation of followers who were all throwing arms and alms up into the air with offerings of carnations and candles and prayers, while chanting, singing and requesting of your sacred blessing, wouldn’t you also lollygag around just a little longer than usual before retiring?

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At this spot in the river, there are not many revelers. But lit candles in banana leaf boats and orange, yellow and white wreathes of flowers float gracefully downstream in belated evidence of the presence of worshipers upriver. I pull out my journal and scribble some setting thoughts, but as the sun goes down and the light softens, I begin to scan the other side of the now backlit shore.

Suddenly, and to my jaw-dropping astonishment, I see a huge dark mass push its way through the trees on the far bank. Since everything is backlit, it’s only the outline of a shape that I see, but the mass shifts its weight, from one foot to another, in the telltale shuffle of the largest land-walking beast that still roams our planet. I can’t believe it. I rub my eyes. But I still can’t believe it. And as if it senses my doubt, the elephant slowly turns exactly ninety degrees, and with certain, clear and curving lines, presents one of the most identifiable shapes in kindergarten classes worldwide. Its trunk swings. Its ears flap. It shifts back and forth. And then it turns ninety degrees more, and disappears into the same shadows from which it emerged.

I want to cry. I want to cry because of the man who answered a question I didn’t ask him. And I want to cry because of the existence of an unnamed mover that used him to deliver the message. I want to cry because the elephant existed. And I want to cry because it was wild and free. I want to cry, because I’m all alone. And only by witnessing alone, could my faith have solely been owned. I want to cry because if it’s possible for such a sequence of events to pass, then any other sequence of pure magic can too. I want to cry because I don’t understand, but don’t need, or even want, to. I want to cry, because Life just paused, and bothered to take a single second of its time, to turn around and wink back at me.

My eyes well up as I raise my own silent song and alms in praise and appreciation for the sacred blessing not asked for, but so gracefully received.

——————————————— *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 transitions & "home", story time | 2 Comments »

sculptor of dreams

Thursday, April 13th, 2006

(I’m still tied up in the sheets of the “love post” and have yet to make that bed of thoughts. At the same time, I’ve been dealing with a family emergency and for this reason have neglected the site. Please accept my apologies and another chapter from my adventures along the Camino de Santiago. In my succulent anticipation of my return to the Camino de Santiago (this time in France), my mind won’t stop knocking on the dusty doors of memories from my pilgrimage along that magical path. And since this blog holds hands with my heart, we’re just going to have skip down this memory lane together.)

***** Santiago Staff

Many pilgrims walk the Camino with the assistance of a walking stick.

They come in all forms and sorts; metal, wood, extendable, expensive, carved, curved, thick, thin, painted, pointed, burned, blackened, short, tall, adorned with scallop shells or still sticky with sap. An assistant not only to walking, a “bordon” or “palo” is also an aid to fending off small beasts, a form of swashbuckling and martial art entertainment, a sweeper of cobweb-cluttered paths, a wet jacket rack, and a carving block for artistic expression of self.

Along my Camino, a small collection of tiny stones, pieces of colored glass, shards of broken tiles, bits of broken mirror and slivers of lost sea shells have found their place engraved into the wood of my own “Santiago Staff” (which found me in an enchanted forest on the second day of my Camino).

It is with this stick, that on the downbeat to the step of my feet, my palo and I announce our arrival by playing out our walking pulse (pad-pad-plunk, pad-pad-plunk) on the tiled floor entrance of a particularly new and plush pilgrim refuge. In a mirage-like vision, and to the toe-squirming delight of my tired soles, I find at the entrance of this hostel a “foot fountain” specifically designed for the purpose of refreshing feet belonging to those of pilgrim-ing inclinations.

“What a incredible fountain!” I declare, upon arrival, in delight and agreement with my feet.

Pupils dilated in joy of what my eyes spy, and attention focused on the fountain (and object of my affection), I do not at first notice the character that guards this treasure. Just as I feel him turn and take notice of me, he suddenly steps vividly into vision and his enormous presence unmistakably claims rein of the scene. Although by all accounts a very big man, there’s no need to cower, as his eyes are as wide as his smile and outstretched arms. And bowing to my clapping anticipation and astonished delight, the big man lifts his tree-trunk legs and transplants them directly INTO the fountain.

“Yes! Welcome pilgrim! Come now child. Come now here! This is what you do!”

He bends into the fountain and, with huge cupped hands, brings a handmade bowl of water to his face. He splashes the water up onto his arms and then cups his hands again to anoint his neck, head and face with the freshness that only water inspires. He excitedly shakes the water from his hair and smiles at me once more with all the innocence and energy of an enormous wet puppy.

“Hurry child! Follow my suit. Take off you shoes now. Come, come!” He jumps out of the pool and beckons me to take his place.

Without hesitation, I accept his invitation and strip my feet of shoes and socks. I jump in, douse my arms and neck, baptize my head, and then kick up the water in a small dance of delight. The big man’s joy in witnessing mine makes for an exponential energy curve which culminates in a final burst of shared laughs aloud.

A peace fills the pause after our thunder of laughter and then he places a delicate hand on my shoulder and his eyes rest upon me with the softness of the water now reclaiming its composure in the fountain. With a heavy sigh he says, “Ah my child. There are pilgrims, and then there are pilgrims.” He shakes his head and then takes my hand with a gentle grace normally bereft big men and leads me to the entrance of the building, “Welcome to our house. Please come inside.”

As he makes to pick up my bag, he suddenly halts, noticing my walking stick leaning nonchalantly against the wall. I notice how he approaches the stick as he would a friend, greeting it with the same delicate touch that he demonstrated in our own handshake. He picks up the stick, squints his eyes in scrutiny, and scopes its carvings and engravings carefully as he runs his sixth sense across the piece.

“Well look at this,” he whispers, more to the piece than to me, “You’ve crafted this with love. The heart of this wood beats.” He relieves the stick of duty, turns his attention back to where I’m standing at ease and eyes me cautiously with a similar round of re-consideration. Then he turns his attention back to the wood and the animation that defines this character re-consumes his body as he suddenly booms, “but you need to fill in these cracks! And olive oil! You need olive oil!”

In one sweeping second he fills my hands with a bucket of clay, scalpel-like tool, bottle of oil and a thick painting brush. With expert hands he swiftly demonstrates how I must fill in the cracks in the wood with the clay. Pat, pat, pat; he tucks the clay into cracks and the splits in my stick, like magic, disappear. He explains softly as he shows, “After the clay, generously paint the wood entirely with olive oil. At least three coats before you sleep. See? Like this child; extra coats on the ends. Do you see? Just like this…” Slap, slap, slap; the wood stains dark as it absorbs the oil in a thirst so strong I imagine that I hear the stick sighing in relief.

I am still watching this magical transformation of my palo to bordon and “stick” to “staff” when something in the peripheral of the scene catches my eye that suddenly demands my attention and simultaneously drags my body in tow to the corner of the patio. Still carrying my walking stick and clutter of tools, I slowly approach the great fallen tree on its altar of multiple supporting stands. I drop the tools and my humbled walking stick in order to free my fingers to dance along the grooves, curves, cuts and ridges of the mother spirit of all walking sticks. The pages of childhood history books begin to dance back into my memory, thumping to the percussion beat that always themes the tragic tale of those native to the North American continent. This sacrificial piece, in falling, did not lose life, but at the hands of this man, is being eternalized in the new form of carved sacred symbols. I put my hands on the wood. The pulse of the piece is strong; no doubt it is synchronized to beat in resonance with the heart of its own creator – who stands modestly beside me allowing just the right amount of space and silence for me to absorb the oil of its own essence.

Finally he puts the period on my open-mouthed awe, “…a totem pole. We will erect it here in the plaza of this hostel this month on the day of Saint Santiago.”

There are no words, but I try to stutter a few out anyway, “…it’s, it’s, so…. so beautiful!”

He brushes the compliment aside with the same stroke he used with the olive oil.

“Come child. Do not misplace credit, for is the spirit of the Camino that breathes life into this piece. And since you, pilgrim, ARE the Camino — you must help. Stay here tomorrow and I shall teach you a bit on the art of woodcarving and you will make your mark on this wood and add your own spirit to its story. Yes? Yes.”

He picks up my bag and enters the hostel and I follow him.

***** Scu
lptor of Dreams

I sleep late and after all the pilgrims have left, I assist the hostel staff with cleaning sinks, mopping floors and tucking in beds. When the chores are finished, I go outside and find the wood sculptor at work. The fresh bark dust wafts lazily about the floor and scents the new day’s air with the freshness of forest.

“Ah child! Good morning! Quite a day we’ve been blessed with today, yes? You’ve had tea yet? You must start the day with tea. Wait. I’ll get you some,” he excitedly declares as he, in one giant stride, disappears into the hostel kitchen.

I am still admiring the finest details of the scallop shells, birds, and other animals and symbols that adorn the totem pole when he returns with tea. He hands the cup to me and I observe with admiration that this man makes no favors for anyone. His every offering of kindness is made only for the delight that the act of giving itself inspires. If I asked this man for the moon, not only would he deliver it on a silver platter, but he’d praise me for coming up with such an ingenious idea.

He picks up the chisel and hammer.

I’m suddenly nervous. He doesn’t really expect me to taint his work with my inexperienced hand, I wonder?

He addresses my silent question as he begins to work on the wood and demonstrate by slow and exaggerated example…

The wood melts into smooth curves under his experienced hand as he explains, “You are already an artist of life child. Wood carving is only another channel of expressing and giving form to that same life force.” He continues, “The well of creation is already within you. All you must do is draw upon it. Art is the universal language that bridges the dreaming and waking worlds and although today you will use a chisel, you may always utilize the same tools to sculpt life as you would wood.”

He then turns to look at me and instructs, “Stand yourself in front of this piece of un-carved and clean wood. Good. Now, close your eyes child. Because every single task in life should warm up with an exercise in imagination. The elixir of eternal youth is only a limber imagination; and we must toast and take a shot before starting. Yes? Ready?”

“Now imagine your clean and un-carved wood in front of you. Have you an idea of what image you would like to carve into that space? There are no boundaries – this is important to realize. Do not box yourself into something you’ve done before. Feel out and find the edges of your experiences, and then — and this is important — take one step over that border. Are you on the other side with me? Good. Because this is where we always start. This is where the horizons of creativity spread. Do you see? Now you are standing in the place where dreams and the universe conspire to realize. Now just wait and watch. Something always rises out of the stillness of this spot…”

I straighten my back, breathe deeply, envision and watch the space. He gives me a few minutes and then whispers as if not to disturb the emergence of something wild on the horizon, “Do you see it? Can you see what you want to carve?”

Straddling the border of reality and dreams, where I have been instructed to stand, I listen and wait; and sure enough, I catch a glimpse of something in the distance. It shimmers like a mirage and I quickly learn by trial and error that the more I squint, the harder it is for me to make it out. But if I settle and wait patiently, like a vision from a forgotten dream, the image emerges of its own accord.

“Now look at the image on the wood in your mind. Your chisel has not yet touched it. But look at what you see sketched on the slate of your mind. Isn’t the image of you what you want to see, in fact, already there? You see, mere conception of a vision or dream, in some formless and untouchable way, brings it into existence. The inspiration within you is REAL and an outline of it already exists in some realm between your mind and the material.”

I tilt my head in observant study of the image I see in my mind.

“Now don’t lose me child. For I know this understanding can be difficult to grasp. Do you see that your creativity sprouts from something beyond you? That your dreams are seeded and nurtured by the hand of a grander and guiding force? Do you get that it is not just an opportunity, but your responsibility to foster the growth of these divine seeds of creativity which start as dreams? And do you see that that only difference between your vision and reality is the chisel in your hand? You just need to pick up the tools and start working to bring it into reality. Just pick up the chisel and start carving it into life, one chip at a time. Now don’t be overwhelmed by the whole picture or your task of making it all happen exactly as you had hoped. Don’t constrict yourself to working within your outline. Allow your contours and design to move and change as they are brought to life according to your new inspirations. The trick is to not expect, or even want, the final work to follow the exact line of the original idea. Because your dream, as it comes to reality, will grasp a new life of its own. And as it builds upon itself, it will in turn birth contours and dimensions that you had never imagined yourself capable of the creativity to conceive. Your final masterpiece will bear resemblance to your original inspiration but, over the process of actualization, will evolve to become more than you ever initially dreamed.”

With some hesitation, I explain honestly, “I do see it. But I doubt my skill to realize my vision because I’m not a wood carver…”

His contagious confidence spreads with his supple suggestion, “Move your body and you are a dancer. Put pen to paper and you are a writer. Walk and you are a pilgrim. Step into any place unknown and you are a traveller. There is no trick to this equation. Whatever you want to be, you just start being it; right now.”

With my eyes still closed, I feel my hands lifted. A sharp chisel is placed into my left hand and a soft hammer in my right.

“And now child, you are a wood carver.”


******

———————————————
*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 El Camino de Santiago, story time, travel philosophy | No Comments »

a minute apocalypse and creation myth – by sol

Sunday, December 25th, 2005

One day the Divine Spirit grew tired. It only happens once in every few million years and today was that day.

So by means of a small earth tremor, the Diving Spirit snapped its fingers and the inhabitants of the world woke up.

Birds stopped singing. Mothers stopped nursing. Poets stopped composing. Brothers stopped competing. Fishermen stopped fishing. Children stopped playing. Dancers stopped dancing. Doctors stopped saving. Bakers stopped baking. Dogs stopped barking. Politicians stopped lying. Babies stopped crying. Countries stopped fighting.

Everything stopped. And everyone turned their attention to the Divine Spirit.

“Ah, hem” the Divine Spirit coughed, (as it had been millions of years since it had last used this voice). “Yes. Thank you for your attention, for it has come to mine that you are all asking and complaining of the same matters. So today I would like to give you the opportunity to ask me any questions of your heart to which I will give you the most clear and concise answers.”

All the beings on Earth looked around at each other and then one brave young man stepped forward and asked, “Okay. Well. What is Love?”

The Divine Spirit, in one clear and concise sentence, defined Love.

And all the beings nodded their heads in affirmative and final understanding of Love.

Then an elderly woman raised her hand and questioned, “And so then what is the purpose of Life?”

The Divine Spirit explained in the most simple and eloquent terms, the purpose of Life.

An excited chatter rippled over the audience, as all beings finally comprehended this very intuitive understanding of the purpose of Life.

Just as quickly as the excitement had passed through the crowd, a silence now fell over it.

Knowing she spoke for all, a young girl stepped forward and asked, “Divine Spirit…,” she hesitated and then continued, “Divine Spirit. What now?”

The Divine Spirit shrugged its shoulders by shaking the mountains, smiled by flaring the sun, and said, “Why you are the Creator, so that is up to you.”

The young girl turned around to face the crowd, but she quickly realized no conversation was needed. With unsaid universal agreement, all the beings on Earth urged her to continue to communicate their unified will.

The young girl spoke, “Divine Spirit. You have told us what Love is and have explained to us the purpose of Life, and they were wise answers indeed. But we would like to learn those answers for ourselves, through our own direct experience of personalized mysteries. Is that possible?”

The Divine Spirit, in a soft uplifting breeze, nodded yes and said, “That IS possible. It will involve pain. It will involve challenge. It will involve death. And it will certainly involve struggle. But if you agree to these terms, I will give – to each of you — an opportunity to learn the meanings of Love and Life through entirely unique and creative experiences.”

The young girl turned to the crowd and they nodded in eager agreement. She turned back to the Divine Spirit and said excitedly, “Yes. We accept those terms.”

The Divine Spirit continued, “And of course, in order for the Great Mystery of Life to be so, you must also forget this conversation and agreement. Is this also okay with you?”

“Yes, yes! We obviously agree to that!” the people excitedly jeered.

And the Divine Spirit sighed with renewed inspiration and again shook the Earth with a simple snap of its fingers.

And the birds started singing. And mothers started nursing. Poets started composing. Brothers started competing. Fishermen started fishing. Children started playing. Dancers started dancing. Doctors started saving. Bakers started baking. Dogs started barking. Politicians started lying. Babies started crying. Countries started fighting. And everything continued…at least for another few million years.

Posted in on pilgrimage, on spirituality & religion, story time | No Comments »

a day in the life

Sunday, November 6th, 2005

Sometime in the last few months I picked up a new personal meal-prompted ritual. And it only slightly (and admittedly irrationally) bothers me that onlookers might presume I’m Christian (which I, although a fan of Jesus “the pilgrim,” am not) when I bow my head, close my eyes, and whisper down the inner halls of awareness my gratitude for and debt (in some currency divine) to all the people, events and natural elements that conspired in order to provide the offering at my table.

However this exercise is often a stretch of the imagination for me (as well as others raised in “developed” countries) where the distance that my food has travelled is so far that it often leaves me an equal number of emotional miles distant from knowing anything of the source of my sustenance. This fact evidenced by the fruit in the photo above, which, contrary to many 1st-world-first-guesses is not a cranberry, but the colorful coat of the very same coffee bean (coming in equally flamboyant shades of yellow as well) that fuels the entire of the developed worlds’ digestive fire; moving along board meetings, news readings, exam studying and, in general, the full flush of the other bowel movements of (at least) the American social, political, work and educational systems.

So in an effort to follow the umbilical cord of our addiction to “happy-ccinos” (as my co-leader likes to call cappuccinos) back to the pachamama (“mother earth”) source, we (me and my students) wrapped palm-thatched baskets around our waists and took to the fields of a local Guatemalan coffee finca (“farm”) for an exercise that those of us working in “experiential education” like to call, “A Day In The Life”; which is essentially our own little “life-swapping” reality TV series — minus the cameras, crew, cast and lack of credibility.

In order to combat reverse discrimination by the bugs (which consider the blood under our lighter skin of a tastier blend) we slather ourselves in mosquito and sun repellents. As I smear the cream across my neck and face I feel quite like I’m preparing for the frontline of a war. And why not? With statistics like the fact that the Guatemalans that I will be working alongside will spend a full day filling a single 100-pound sack, for which they will receive a daily wage of 25 Quetzales (or $3.33 USD) which will, in turn, need to be spread thin enough to feed an (average) family with five or more children — well warring countries might not be involved, but a daily and frontline fight for survival certainly is.

But as is usually the case with all my assumptions about the lives of those living in “undeveloped countries,” instead of the bugs and sun, I should have come better prepared for my personal battle against the stuck-up and self-centered nature of statistics and stereotypes. Thinking back, I’m not sure what exactly I expected, but as soon as the camion (“carrier truck”) drops us off on the most beautiful sloping hillside with panoramic views of looming volcanoes and lush valleys, I immediately begin to question if we could really call the boring synthetic box of an office cubicle a more “civilized” or “healthy” working environment. Breathing in the tropical forest is like drinking water and the breathtaking views inspire such heavy inhalations of an air so sweet, rich and refreshing that even the thought of an air-conditioned office closes my throat on a choke.

One of the Guatemalans with us suddenly yodels into a valley of the rainforest. And to my dismay and delight, a dozen yodels, from all sides of the hills and in all tones of the human vocal rainbow, sing echoing yodels of geographic location and greeting right back. Based on the information relayed in the secret yodel code (of which we are hardly privy to comprehending), our group tromps to our destination with the ungraceful and shuffling step of those foreign to the jungle and ignorant of the language it, too, speaks.

When I finally I arrive at my first coffee bush, a sweet woman, with wrinkles appropriately placed in proof that she spends more time smiling than not, quickly explains to me the dynamics and detail of a full and efficient pick. Her hands move with expert quickness as she demonstrates the art of defining that which is ripe and that which is not; “See? More red than green. This one, yes. This one, yes. The black ones, yes. This green one, no.” Her hands move like a wand over each branch, turning a heavy red mass to a thin and trim green one. With each swipe of her magic hands limbs bounce up and lift with new lightness and life. My imagination is (ever) active and I fancy myself hearing the branches, when they spring, sighing with appreciative unburdened relief.

The woman’s magic-wand hands stop and it takes me awhile for my fascination to wear and my imagination to wander back to reality before I realize that she’s looking at me expectedly and offering me my turn at a try. I move my hand to the bush but I’m slow and I stumble; “This one, yes. This one, um, no. This one is equal in green and red, yes or no?” The woman is immensely patient; a virtue, I fathom, in which she’s a practiced expert given the amount of time she studies in the shade of her guru, Mother Nature.

I’m not a quick learner. In fact, I pride myself on being a slow one. And so at the expense of swiftness and with deliberate concentration to detail, I diligently begin to clean my first bush of berries. And as I do so I realize that, contrary to all my petty presumptions, this is surprisingly pleasant work! My SPF 35 war paint was hardly necessary for, had I asked instead of assuming, I would have learned that this is shade-grown coffee — and thus the sun pleasantly trickles down its warmth between the tall macadamia nut trees planted and placed specifically for the purpose. Work songs, location yodels and laughter bounce and banter with the songbirds of the valley. Children too work alongside us but against all my “big bad” notions of “child labor laws,” these kids are talking, laughing and playing with their parents and neighbors, and I question if the children in neighboring continents could really be better off putting an equal amount of finger power into navigating a gameboy or television remote control. This being one of the very few organic farms in the country, no masks or gloves or worries over future birth weights and cancers are necessary. (Although at this thought, I do look up and envision for a minute, an American plane flying overhead and, without warning, darkening my sky with billowing clouds of poisonous powder. This “plan” as part of some covert and corrupt “aid” package devised — in misguided aim to eliminate the naturally thriving coca plants that grow innocently in lands Latin American — by the upturned and addicted noses of Northern neighbors wrongfully projecting blame.) But back to the berries — they are beautiful! And compared to their red fruit cousins of the forest and field they are (thankfully) thorn-free and come off the bush with incredible ease. And yes, it might be true that I have a touch of OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) that’s being tickled with a curious feather of fancy by each green and lean branch picked (so obviously!) clean. But recognizing the satisfaction as not so different from that which I feel after sorting a full email inbox, I muse that productivity and organization perhaps are universally innate human inclinations met by many, and/or any, repetitive motion.

But I am only a silly American girl worthy a place to observe, but none to judge. And so I turn to the woman working beside me and ask her instead, “Do you like working here?”

Her mouth slips back into the smile that fits her face so well and she responds, “Of course! I love it here. But it wasn’t always this way. The owner of this finca did not pay us for two years and during those years it was very, very hard. But we organized ourselves and brought him to trial, and the banks, they didn’t get him to give us our money, but they did decide to hand over the land to us, the workers. And we still owe so much money to the bank. But this land is ours. And all the work we put into it comes back to us. And I am so happy to work my own land — with my own people — that it doesn’t matter if I only make 25 Q per day. Because I know that it is fair and that I am investing in the future of this land for my children and for our community.”

I mentally pinch myself a reminder that this story is unique, special and single; that the majority of coffee pickers in Guatemala are discriminated against for being indigenous and work in dire conditions under corrupt and manipulative ladino management for far under the (un-enforced) national minimum wage.

And then I revisit a memory of myself in high school; skipping sixth period for a jaunt to the Starbucks down the street, where I place an order for a non-fat, extra-froth, tall vanilla latte…and slap down an amount of cash that easily surpasses this woman’s entire daily wage. And it suddenly occurs to me to wonder under what corrupt and manipulative management the ladino finca owners succumb. I wander up the chain of responsibility, above the ladino owners, above the slick-talking multilingual middlemen, above the multi-national and mega-corporations, and there, on top of my pyramid, I find myself — the ignorant consumer. I hang my head in shame with the realization that slavery in America wasn’t outlawed; it was simply exported. And with this new consciousness, I can no longer hide my culpability in either ignorance or distance.

“Do you like picking coffee?” the woman wakes me from my shame with this question rooted in piercingly pure curiosity.

“Yes I do,” I eagerly and honestly respond, “especially because I’ll never drink another cup of coffee again without, first, a pause and prayer of respect, responsibility, awareness and appreciation.”

In response to my pledge, the warm smile of the woman spreads, and with this wave of expressed emotion, her magic wand goes again into action to relieve me too of my shame and guilt burden. Wordlessly forgiven, I gratefully sigh and then spring up light with renewed right intention.

*****

< More information on the “Nueva Alianza” fair trade coffee finca in Guatemala.

*****

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this is india – part II

Saturday, May 21st, 2005

(This story is a continuation of the post from last week, which can be read by scrolling down to the next entry entitled, “this is india – part I”.)

*****

The Rail Official instructs me to wait until he has finished confirming the seats of the rest of the passengers in the car.

As he leaves my cabin, another man shuffles in backwards from behind him. His shirt is ripped and slung low across his back to reveal a place in the taut dark skin covering his back where a shoulder bone should be – but is not. He waves something to get the attention of all the people in the cabin in front of me, and from my seat I can see them all turn their heads; They clean their fingernails, tend to children, look for lost pens in their baggage, or just look out the window — turning their attention to anything but that which flags for it.

The man shuffles backwards into my cabin and turns around. As an obvious foreigner, I already know that I will be targeted as his ripest prospect. Indeed as I have predicted, he, ignoring the rest in the cabin, staggers straight to the white beacon of wealth.

“Didi……Didi…….Didi…….Didi….”

In Bengali, he tells me the long sad story of his life. The only word I know, “Didi,” I learned a the Mother Teresa House of the Destitute where the inmates there also tugged on my clothing to ask for help, addressing me either as a sibling or mistaking me for the nun that I am not.

“Sister……Sister……Sister…….Sister….”

As he continues his story, he throws his remaining arm to my observation and mercy. I desperately want to clean my fingernails, tend to a child, look for a lost pen, or stare out the window — but I refuse my eyes this relief.

It is my chief complaint of “my” country that the people refuse to look at the ugly truths that stare at and ask recognition of them in the staggering headlines of today’s news. Instead, distance and ignorance are too conveniently allowed to pad the cushions of the couches of comfort and conformity.

And although I’ve known this couch well, I’ve sold it right back to the devil.

“No thank you. I’ll stand. And I’ll stick to my soul.”

And it hurts. It hurts to look.

But I make myself do it.

I look at the flesh on this man’s remaining arm, which like silly putty, seems to have been twisted, pulled and remolded to the bone. I follow its elongated length and observe how it abnormally narrows around the wrist and then protrudes as a lump in the pad of his fist. And when I am finished looking at the truth of his reality, I look directly into his eyes and bow my most humble respect to the divine within him.

He pauses for a second. Perhaps caught off guard by the unusual recognition.

And then he continues again…

“Didi, please.”

In Spanish or English I can easily explain that I prefer to give time and not money, but my Bengali leaves my actions to speak. And I’ve forgotten the pile of fruit I usually bring to meet such occasions.

“Sister, please.”

This time I give up. Although this situation has happened a hundred times, and I never become any more sure or unsure if it’s the right thing to do, I reach into my pocket and pull from it the change that he asks of me. He motions with his limb to his shirt pocket, into which I drop the coins.

“Thank you Sister.”

And he leaves.

And in three minutes, another brother with a different deformed limb will come. One shuffling. Another dragging. And then the next, crawling. There’s always another. For this is India.

*****

The Rail Officer waves to me and I follow his people-parting path. The isles are slim and busy and after a modest game of Train Twister (right hand holding onto blue seat, left foot over yellow suitcase) we finally arrive at the third class A/C sleeper car. He pushes through the sealed glass door, and in wave of cool breathable air, we enter another world of India.

Newspapers written in English are shuffled as eyes peek from behind smart spectacles for only momentary and disinterested glimpses of the new visitor. Women with rings of gold around their wrists, ankles, toes and ears encourage prized sons in pressed slacks to eat another of the samosas that they’ve so diligently made and delicately packaged for the trip away from home. Uncles discuss politics together, fluently switching between Bengali and English to better express their opinions or utilize Western business lingo. A group of young boys dressed in designer jeans, each with his signature version of long and colored hair, pass around an MP3 player and start to sing, in unison, a song by an American boy band.

I take the seat indicated to me by the Rail Official and he tells me he’ll be back later to collect my “increase in fare.”

A man sitting at the window across from me leans over, “Did you move up to A/C too? You know they save these seats just for us, people like you and me. They save entire cars for us. This is how they really make their money. Hey. Where are you from? America? You’re so lucky you speak English. You know you can travel anywhere in India speaking English. I don’t speak Bengali. Or Hindi. Or Tamil. I only speak English and the local language of my state, of which I’m sure you’ve never heard. Did you know that India’s constitution recognizes 18 major languages and then, on top of that, we have over another 1000 minor languages and dialects?”

The jovial youths in the cabin adjacent have put down the MP3 player and are now laughing loudly, exaggerating the depth and volume of their voices and then emphasize their joking and jestering by cussing in English…

“SHIT Man! Fucking cool!”

I sit stunned in shock of the worlds of class and caste separated by a single, sealed A/C door.

Where, I wonder, is India?

*****

A cleanly pressed and richly dressed couple move into my cabin and sit modestly next to each other. May is the month of marriages and even louder than the dark henna tattooed up and down the new bride’s arms are the fresh, careful and delicate mannerisms that the couple use to address each other.

“Arranged Marriage,” has for me lost all its (discovered ignorantly founded) stigma and what remains left is only pure fascination and intrigue. For the first time, I am stoked to be in a culture where it is not inappropriate to stare; Because I cannot keep me eyes off the pair.

The bride rests her eyes on the ground as she gracefully asks question after question of her new husband. His responses are reserved, well thought out, and gentle. They do not look each other in the eye when they speak to each other, but they laugh or smile sweetly in unison at the end of each of his conclusions. In between each of her questions and his answers, she looks up at him with wide, interested eyes and bats her lashes like I’ve only seen in Disney movies.

For hours I silently watch them, wondering if perhaps this might actually be the first time, after all the years, months, weeks and days of family chaperoned wedding preliminaries and festivities, that they’ve had the chance to be alone together?

And who trained this woman, I wonder? An army of aunts, mothers and grandmas of a former era? For she is such a model of courtesy, respect, modesty, and controlled femininity!

She looks up, bats her eyelashes, looks down, and asks another question.

He makes the motion of scrubbing his hands (to remove the henna tattooed on the tips of his fingers) and I can tell simply by the tone of her voice that she gives him some kind of advice on the art (and removal of) of which she (and all In
dian women) is very experienced.

But he dismisses her advice.

She cocks her head for a brief moment and then tries to re-word and deliver her wisdom again with even greater grace.

But again, he, without looking at her and with a motion of his hand, waves the suggestion away.

And then I see it!

She does not look down. She does not laugh.

She turns her face the other direction, looks up to the right corner of the room…

And rolls her eyes.

And of this single glimpse I smile with the certainty, that this marriage of man and woman, will ultimately be, the same as any.

*****

(and 30 hours later…)

I have new friendships with every person in my cabin.

They have asked me every question of my family, work, schooling, income and country, and now have quite taken it upon themselves to be my personal guardians.

Our train is due to arrive five hours late and so I have already missed my connecting train ride and having no reservation at any of the booked-up hotels would be at a loss, were it not for my new friends who assure me that they’ve got a plan.

When the train finally arrives, those in my cabin politely instruct me when to sit and where to stand, and when they finally give me permission to get off the train, like elephants, they form a protective circle around me as they shuffle me off the train, across the platform, and into a special room guarded by security.

The room, full of fans set to their highest speed, has two bathrooms with showers and about 40 waiting chairs of which about a dozen are occupied with women and children. It’s 1:00am and I have six hours to wait before my next train departs. A Bollywood (India’s version of Hollywood) movie is on, which from a single glance, I make out to be a version of Beauty and the Beast (except, lacking a proper Beast costume, a man dressed like King Kong has proved adequate enough). This place is perfect for my lounge between destinations.

My new entourage smiles their approval of my approval and because it’s how they’ve been taught to salute westerners, they each proudly stick out an awkward hand to receive the novel Western custom of handshaking. Although I infinitely prefer the polite bow of Eastern salutations, I oblige and humbly stretch out, along with my hand, my most sincere gratitude.

As I settle into a seat to watch the movie, the children turn around and settle into seats to watch me. Most Bollywood movies last about six hours (slight exaggeration) and have an average of 11 different plotlines and themes (no exaggeration). This one turns out to be a mixture of Beauty and the Beast, The Nutcracker, Babes in Toyland, The Tortoise and the Hare, Ghost and Anaconda. After the finale, where all the characters (except for the Tortoise, of course) bust out in synchronized dancing, the security guard turns off the television.

Following the example of the rest of the women in the room, I lay out my shawl on the floor and roll up a sweater into a pillow.

As I lay there on the tile floor, thanking whatever deities may be for my ability to sleep on hard floors both comfortably and soundly, I feel something inside of me lift again right out of my body, and rise up to the ceiling.

Looking down at the patchwork of vibrant saris and shades of deep and beautiful skin tones spread out across the floor, there again, is that silly pale patch with the tan-clad girl on it. But as I relax my perspective and take one more step back, I see that, from a distance, her spot isn’t really so odd at all. How she managed to, I’m not sure, but she has indeed found even for herself, a place in this Quilt called India.

I squint to see more closely and note that the satisfaction of her success is marked by the slight but sure smirk of a smile across her lips.

And I smile down upon her.

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a spoon full of graciousness

Thursday, April 28th, 2005

I take a deep breath, hold it, and step into the dank room.

(When the students ran into our shared room an hour earlier and exclaimed, “It’s the most foul thing we’ve ever seen in our lives!” I laughed. I’d heard the rumors of hell realms to be found in Tibetan toilets, but really, could it actually be so bad?)

The answer I immediately realize is….

Yes.

I take a cue from the woman in front of me. We veer away from the three piles in the ground that once, in their younger inverted lives, constituted squat toilets, and instead do our business in an undesignated, but somewhat “less” crap-cluttered corner of the room. On my way out, I silently put a big gold star on the map and congratulate, “Tidrum, Tibet” on its new toilet foul-weight title.

Luckily the air outside is cool and delicious. I fill my lungs on it till they are sufficiently full and free of the desperation that 4, 325 meters of height above sea level can pressure on the chest of a foreigner to altitude.

Breath and being lassoed back in, I gather myself and start to stroll back down the wooden row fronting a dozen small guesthouse rooms. On the way I pass an elderly Tibetan woman whose arms are occupied with a large metal pot. As I pass her, she stops, sticks her lips out at me and then gestures her mouth (with a small grunt) towards the door. Thinking she wants me to open the door for her, I move for the handle, but before mine makes it, another hand suddenly swings it opens from the inside and the woman and her pot, like a sliding subway door, quickly close me in.

The door shuts.

“Tashi Dele!” I stumble in and say with an extra warm smile in dire hopes that the Braille of my facial gestures will be able to communicate that which my limited Tibetan could never.

Surprisingly unsurprised smiles spread across the cracked and tanned Tibetan faces of the three women in the room. They return my greeting and then one, in excited chatter (that we in the West are only familiar with because it is the language of the Ewoks in Star Wars), says to the woman with the pot what I imagine to be, “Oh look what you’ve dragged in! A little treat for us! Isn’t she sweet?! Well, let’s get to work ladies!”

Two of the women jump up from the beds that they are lounging in and begin preparations to do what Tibetan women do best…

Feed the guest.

(Now would be perhaps a good time to explain that because the Tibetan Plateau dips below nothing less than 12,000 feet, and due to the lip-cracking dry and coldness of this region, vegetables have never been able to be coaxed from their cozy little seeds. So, with virtually nothing growing from the land for centuries, society, and particularly diet, instead centered itself around that which could sprout, stand and sustain — the Yak. These burly, altitude-loving beasts provided not only powerful labor but also warm clothes, rainproof tents, blankets, meat, milk, cheese, butter and whatever else Manslow used to fill in the basement of his hierarchy of human needs. Essentially, for Tibetans, the Yak was a gift from heaven and a dream of sustainability realized. And thus, a piece of this holy pleasure is the first thing any gracious Tibetan is to offer a respected guest. Leading us back to the warm room where our guest from the West… is living a Vegan’s worst nightmare…”)

Yak hoof. Yak head. Yak cheese. Yak Feet. Yak jerky. Yak milk. Yak rump. Yak beef.

Paraded on pretty plates, and unveiled with pride and the gentle pushiness that all Tibetans have mastered, each and every Yak delicacy is placed on my lap and offered in genuine kindness to me.

I bow and shake my head while repeatedly begging, as kindly as I can, to politely decline. But the trays of body parts keep emerging from cupboards, and under beds, and out of tins, and unveiled by cloths and brought in from neighboring rooms… until finally, in my despair, I give into a pathetic round of caveman charades where the message, “Me no eat meat” is perhaps successfully been made clear, but in its perceived inherent absurdity, certainly not understood.

With the hosts and the guest both emotionally exhausted from the lack of exchange, one of the women makes a last jump up and moves to the stove where the big pot has left her embrace and found an even warmer home on the fire.

Trepidation, dread and surrender all at once engulf my gut. This is it. I know it. I’ve used my full deck of “no thank you” cards. With not a single decline left in my hand, and confronted with only the most serious of a, “only Yes cards accepted here” sign hung in her eyes, the woman returns to me with the most monster-sized tumbler of Tibetan Yak butter tea I’ve ever seen.

I smile and accept.

And in unison, a sigh settles across the room.

(Hot yak butter tea. Listed as number two on Lonely Planet’s “Top Ten Worst Experiences in Tibet,” and the only drink brave enough to put its literal gut reaction right into its own name, is the ultimate staple of the Tibetan diet.)

I sit, with a thermos full of, and three sets of eyes steady on me and my, Yak butter tea.

I do not sip. I gulp. Large, hot, salty, buttery chugs. Determined not to allow any little drops to loiter on the more sensitive taste receptors located on the sides of my tongue, I shoo it all right onto the red express way, with a one way ticket, headed straight, and as fast as possible, down.

There’s no time for hesitation here. For as the guidebook has warned me, there is only one thing worse than hot Yak butter tea; Taking first place on the Tibetan terror top ten list, beating out both squat toilets and rabid ranch dogs, sits the fermented and solidified, COLD Yak butter tea.

And I can see it! The top layer of the tea visibly cooling and forming into a chunky yellow film right before my eyes! Like the frozen lake Nam-tso that we just visited, jutting glaciers of Yak butter are reforming and solidifying into something that I’ll soon, if I’m not fast enough, have to chew!

I grab a homemade, sweet cracker from one of the dozen tins that’s been placed in front of me and take a bite in order to aid in the washing down of another large gulp of tea.

The women, content that their guest is finally both drinking and eating, finally recline back into their beds and flash each other smiles of success and satisfaction.

“Ummmm. Gooooood.” I chug, smile, swallow and repeat.

The women are very happy now. One jumps up, throws a shawl over her shoulder like a sari and starts a little happy dance in the middle of the room. We all giggle. The shawl falls off in the dance, and when it does, instead of picking it up she looks down at her chest, lifts up her breasts that have been lowered with the love of a good fifty years of age, and looks at me with a disappointed frown.

“No good,” she shakes her head and says in her limited English.

And suddenly her hands are on my chest. As she squeezes and smiles her approval of my body’s youth, I do one of those amazing flips of consciousness that leave me swirling in a whirlwind of dizzy stars and wondering…

“Is this all really happening? Or do I really live in one marathon showing of back-to-back reality TV comedy shows where the candid camera-man has yet to wave, catch my attention, and let me in on the joke that is called, “My Life?”

I look for the camera in the corner of the room.

Nope. No camera.

I look at the smiling face of the woman standing a modest grabbing distance from me.

Yep. Still a Tibetan woman holding my breasts.

All the women, including me, burst out lau
ghing, as she lets go and resumes her happy, little jiggy across the wooden floor.

The antics, the charades, the dancing, the laughing and the language-less exchanges continue.

I’m so busy giggling, laughing, miming and smiling that it’s not until a quick hour has passed before I look down and realize that my entire tumbler of Yak butter tea has mysteriously and unconsciously disappeared.

I smile to myself and note that while “hot” and “cold” Yak butter tea may rightfully assume their places on the top-ten Tibetan travel “terror” charts, Yak butter tea, warmed to just the right temperature by the graciousness and kindness of dancing and bust-grabbing company, has forever earned and secured its place in my personal hall of memory fame.

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tato chai

Sunday, February 20th, 2005

I roll out of my 0 degree sleeping bag and, quite like Taco Bell’s 7-layer burrito, wrap myself in multiple levels of warm and soft synthetic stuff.

“Embrace the cold,” I whisper to myself through chattering teeth.

Having tossed my stone always in the tropical weather squares of the travel-history-hopscotch I have mapped in a chalk path over the world, I suddenly find myself, for the first time in 10 years, COLD.

So all of you who, with frostbitten fingers, sent me green emails with attached white pictures and warm wishes to my already tropical tropics can now slap each other woolen high fives and snicker over my chances of survival in a place where you don’t need higher consciousness to be aware of your breathe.

Ah! But do you know what else exhales its steamy existence bringing awareness to the precious and piping hot moment of Now?

Chai!

Originally discovered in my first travels through Northern India as “chai garam” (Hindi) and recently re-discovered in the Nepali speaking Darjeeling as, “tato chai,” this hot, milky, leaf nectar of the Gods is, unlike my blood, the only substance that circulates and gives warmth and life to my system.

A bow to chai for bringing to existence this very blog for whom (Chai being deserving of personification) without, my frozen fingers may have, like my I-book’s cold-fatigued battery, completely crapped out.

Chai means, “tea.” Garam and tato mean, “hot.” But even I put my un-English nose up at even the idea of using these watered-down words to capture perhaps one of the most powerful and core “essences” of India. If you made me choose three words to describe India, “chai” would be one of them. (The other two, by the way, would be of the sol-sort that include lots of hyphens and in a train-track-kind-of-attempt-and-crash-against-all-MLA-guidelines would play pattycake with the English language.)

So chai.
Warmer of my soul.
Bearer of this blog.
Essence of India.
In all your versions and family-kept secret recipes,
And as Royalty in the vast Kingdom of Tea,
I roll out my red carpet to thee.

(And if you were wondering, despite all their mass-marking, block-conquering and bucket-size-serving attempts, Starbuck’s version doesn’t even come close. The East and West certainly sit on opposite sides of the quality vs. quantity teeter-totter, with, as I imagine it, the US sitting squatly and fatly on the ground, 3rd worlds quizzically and hungrily looking down. And until we start to totter an equilibrium, you’ll find me hanging out on the monkey-bars.)

Chai, served in shot-sized, delicate and decorated tea cups, is presented on every and all occasions. For sunrise, before breakfast, after breakfast, with biscuits, at break, before lunch, in the afternoon, with neighbors, upon visits, before dinner, for dessert, and at bedtime.

Step into the hardware shop to buy a tin of paint, and have a cup of chai. Drop by the tailor to pick up your shirt and sip on a cup of chai. Pay visit to the cousin of your uncle’s nephew and sit down to share a pot of chai. Inquire as the price of a piece of jewelry, but not without first a cup of chai!

Here, human beings are not faceless, nameless creatures making empty and emotionless exchanges of goods, services and courtesies; We are warm, unique and recognized individuals who, if nothing else, share one thing in common; A pot of chai! And before any transaction is allowed to proceed, an understanding of this brother, sister and human-hood must first be assured.

On the streets of India, as an obvious guest in this country, any visitor will numerous times be beckoned to the dark door of a cushioned room where the steam of chai wafts his/her way. And to those that answer to that invite and dare to venture forth to seek within these depths of shared humanity, I encourage you (as I do all), to always, ALWAYS…

Stop and sip the chai.

*****

> The updated India 2005 PhotoAlbum

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peace of pun

Sunday, November 7th, 2004


>New Pictures in the Ecuador Album

A bus ride across Ecuador will leave anyone aspiring to be a National Geographic photographer, as you don’t need a talented eye to see or appreciate the vibrant visions that cast themselves through this country’s rollercoaster of mountains, volcanoes and valleys. I’m not a big fan of superlatives, but I hereby give Ecuador my highest mark and star as the country owning, “the best bus ride” of all my worldly travels.

And I would know, seeing as I just finished a 30-hour sit on a cross-country trip.

Of course, it doesn’t actually TAKE 30 hours to traverse the entire of Ecuador. Not unless you sleep through your stop and wake up in the Eastern Oriente, 16 hours out of your way, anyway.

So was it the way my hair had suddenly sprung into ringlets (climate change) that gave me my clue that I wasn’t on my way to the city anymore? Or the mud and gravel road and bushy hands of thick rain forest trying to reach through my window to shake me to attention? Or the way the patrol officer raised one confused and curious eyebrow when he shook me awake for a brief moment to answer his inquiry and I told him I was on my way “TO” Quito?

No. I’m pretty sure it was when the bus driver discovered me under a blanket in the back seat of the bus and said, “Ah Gringita! I didn’t know you were still here! I thought you wanted to go to Quito! You know we stopped there eight hours ago?”

Yes. That’s about when it dawned on me.

So I stumbled out of the bus and sat on the curb and watched my 4th consecutive sunrise in four days (I get an inch of credit in consideration of the fact that prior to my “nap” of consciousness to the obvious, I hadn’t slept for 40 hours) rise over the North Eastern Oriente of Ecuador. And suddenly, something else started to rise inside of me. It started as a low tickle in my stomach, and then gurgled into a rising giggle, jumped out of my mouth as leaping laugh and finally hurdled me into a mass of hiccupping hysterics.

And sure the situation was funny, but this was a bottle that I had been — in taking myself (and life) all too seriously — shaking for weeks. And in this breaking moment, the comedy of life finally uncorked, I had no choice but to absolutely explode in relief. Oh to laugh at myself! To smile upon my mistakes. To chuckle over my insecurities. To see the unsuspected curves in my path as nothing but terribly needed comic relief! And as I sighed and wiped the last tears of joy from my cheeks, peace overcame me.

I think sometimes we forget how important it is to forgive, have compassion, practice undefended love, and LAUGH at ourselves. Life will be a drama if we allow it, but incognito, underneath, lays always a divine comedy. And I’m so happy that I can be confident that if I ever get too caught up to get the pun and punch lines of living, then Life WILL go the extra 500 miles to redeliver them — until I do.

(If you missed hearing about the time I got on the wrong PLANE, feel free to laugh again with me in my story of “Adventure Incognito.”)

*****

Sitting one day on a cliff to the sea

Opened from the sky and fell from above a small key

Unlocking the divine in one single beam

A path to the source of all light, love and being

Opened old, closed and dusty love doors

Swung suddenly wide open, where now the wind blows

Let finally out to breathe in a breeze,

On which all things and persons can now come as they please

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