Category Archives: on tears & loss

On The Mental Move

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Yesterday my mom called me a “modern monk.” And something about this comic vision (of myself in the robes of the Flying Nun) flinted around in my head sparking odd and incomplete inspirations. For I am beginning to suspect that much of Humanity is right now on the verge of coming out of the spiritual closet…but we just have absolute CRAP options for what to wear.

I’ve seen it in my semester abroad students. When I meet them at the airport, they are loaded with prescriptions drugs, histories of depression and self-abuse, and the terminology from a lifetime of psychiatric counseling. But after three months of physical travel (which in all and every case reflects and inspires a similar path of inner exploration) they are so light they actually appear to hover just about an inch off the ground. No, they have not suddenly “discovered” who they are (but neither will any of us ever, for we can never be confined to the physical reflection of ego in the mirror) BUT they have stopped repressing their deep spiritual inclinations, intuitions and inspirations and learned to question their existence with Wonder. For that is ALL that Spirituality is; Questioning the meaning of life and living with Wonder. When or why unanswerable questions became shameful, I’m not sure. But there is a Truth revolution on the stir that is sending the most susceptible of our age (the Youth) spinning in circles trying to decide head from tale. Cause there is great incongruency between what they are being told is true, and what they FEEL is true. They feel something greater rumbling inside of them, but they have no terminology to describe it because their psychiatrists, priests and parents have ignorantly pointed in all directions but one; the questioner’s heart.

What I’ve seen is that inner voices are knocking on inner doors with decreasing patience and increasing volume. The fires of inner creativity are tired of being subdued by the boring hand of Society. The social system put out a hand and offered us food, sex, money and power – but as we see by the news headlines careening across all our screens, is that our over-consumption of these elements has only resulted in the wildfire spread of obesity, STDs, reclusive greed and an arrogant and abusive hierarchy.

We are eating ourselves alive.

And we are still hungry.

It has recently come to my attention that many important people in my life are *right now* contemplating suicide.

And to them I say, “Well then YOU excite me. For your inner voice will not be buried alive. It’s refusing the slow death that so many have succumbed to. But yours will fight. It will bang on your inner doors and beg to breathe. It will scream and shout and stomp (do you feel this inner tantrum going on?). But it refuses to be contained by a coffin any longer. And it is willing to risk everything to escape. Your will to live is not less…but LOUDER. And if you have come to the point that you are willing to risk everything to die, then you are also at the point that you are willing to risk everything to Live. So welcome to the climax of your being. You have always had a choice. But at least now, you are conscious of your choosing.”

And then I remind them that regardless of what they choose, they will not escape either their problems or my love — in this life or the next.

*****

And aside from my usually life-salivating dribble…

Although I have been offered a position managing the café I work at, I have decided instead to follow the visions of my sleeping dreams and make my way to the coast where I have found a volunteer work placement.

On the physical and mental move first thing in the morning.

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

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Past and Present Tense

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“Okay. Let’s move on to conversation. Tell me what you did this morning before coming here. Try to use complete sentences that are in the past tense.”

He puts down the book of the “4 Noble Truths” that he’s been reading aloud from and nods his head in agreement. He looks out over the balcony to find his words.

“Um. Okay. Yes. This morning, I made prayers…”

“What is the past tense of “to pray” Sonam?”

“Hum. Um. Prayed. Yes. This morning I prayed. And then I went to houses in the villages and prayed with families. And then I learned English.”

“You studied English?”

“Um. Yes. I STUDIED English. And I did my homework so that my nice and pretty teacher will be happy and so that I learn good English.”

I giggle and he immediately throws his robe over his head, which sends me crashing on yet another wave of verbalized delight.

He peeks out from under the robe to see if the coast is clear. But I’m still giggling and so an arm protrudes from the mass of maroon robes and he pokes me in the arm, “Why do you laugh at me? Please teacher, don’t laugh! You stop, will you! Please stop!”

(On the first day that I arrived in McLeod Ganj *home of the exiled Tibetan Government* I met Sonam on the street, a 33-year-old refugee Tibetan monk. We started talking and I offered to teach him English every day in exchange for tea.)

He throws the robe over his head again and a muffled voice from underneath escapes and begs for me to stop. Everything about this image brings me pure joy. It’s so hard to repress the delight his every gesture brings me. But with determination, I tuck my smile away, clear my throat of chuckles, and encourage him to come out of his robes…

“I’m sorry Sonam. Please come out. Come on. Now tell me in the past tense some things about your life in Tibet.”

One squinted eye appears and then he slowly emerges from the cloak.

“Um. Okay. In Tibet I lived in monastery. I became monk when I had 15 years. In Tibet, I never go to school. The Chinese do not let Tibetans go to school. Many Chinese in Tibet. They don’t let us do many things. Not allowed to put a picture of the Dalai Lama on my wall. Even if I not have picture of Dalai Lama, if they think you make prayers for Dalai Lama, you get beating. Many people beatings. Many, MANY people die. The Chinese break my monastery. So I escaped.”

“You escaped?”

“Yes. Three years ago. I leave my family. We walked for many weeks. Over the mountains. In beginning we had food. But not carry much. Could not carry much. And then we had no food. Sometimes we get one hand of rice. I eat rice…not cooked, just rice…I eat out of my hand and then I walk until I fall down. No energy. Many times could not walk. We sleep during day and walk at night so Chinese don’t see us. Many weeks walking. Very, very hard. All our shoes rip. We use rope to tie together. Yes. Very, very, hard. But Chinese not to find me. I escaped.”

He looks up from his shoes and says, “Teacher. You want to see homework? I wrote questions for you!”

He opens up his notebook and proudly pushes it over to me.

I read his questions aloud;

“What do people do in your country?”

“What will you do in your life?”

“Why people not have compassion?”

I look up at him and he smiles with a warmness that melts my very being.

“These are good questions, Sonam. These are very good questions.”

*****

“In May 1949, the newly established communist government of China decided to “liberate” the downtrodden Tibetan masses by taking over the country. The Chinese People’s Army marched into Lhasa beginning a brutal regime which has left over 1.2 million Tibetans dead and countless others imprisoned in forced-labor camps. Since 1949, some 90% of the nation’s religious institutions have been destroyed in the name of the Revolution and any pro-independence spark has been snuffed out.

Fearing for his life and those of his people, the spiritual leader of Tibet, His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso, walked over the Himalayas to take refuge in Dharmasala (below McLeod Ganj) India where the Tibetan Government was granted political asylum.

China, to this day, has resisted all attempts at dialogue over the Tibet issue. With Western nations relaxing their attitudes towards China, many now fear for the future of the Free Tibet Movement.” – Lonely Planet India

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

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Sleepless

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Journal Entry

March 31st, 2004

Rishikesh, India

Volunteering at Ramana’s Garden Orphanage

I can’t sleep.

There’s a light inside my head that won’t stop flickering. It keeps me tossing and turning in search for the darkness that used to let me rest in peace.

The ideas that flash across my mind are the trailing sentences from conversations today…

The light flickers and I turn.

“…she can’t tell you how old she is because she doesn’t know. She’s new to our orphanage. She is a refugee from Nepal. Her father killed her mother and then prostituted the children. She was found stranded in their house in the woods. No one knows what happened to her brothers and sisters. We think that she might be nine years old…”

The light flickers and I toss.

“…we have to grow all our own vegetables here. We have no other choice. The vegetables grown by the Indian farmers are not safe to consume. When DDT pesticides were recognized as seriously poisonous and became illegal in the United States, no restrictions were put on the US manufactures on how to dispose of them. So they sold them to third world countries where there were no safety standards. The farmers here are completely uneducated as to the dangers of the pesticides. They only see that they work. They weren’t even properly informed on its need to be diluted. I’ve seen farmers take the amount that would normally be used on acres of land and sprinkle the deadly chemicals undiluted, directly onto their crops. The vegetables are poisonous. And these are the crops that are sold in the market.”

The light flickers and I open my eyes and stare blindly at the wall.

“…we used to move the children up to the mountains in May. But we had only one month of winter this year. The temperature has been steadily rising for years, but this is incredible. It’s only March and the kids are already sick from heat stroke and exhaustion. In combination with the pollution in the air, their skin literally boils. We have to move them up to the mountains as soon as possible. But without the winter, even the mountains are dry. Forest fires are already consuming it. And the great glaciers of the Himalayas are melting. They won’t be around much longer. Why? Because of global warming of course….”

The light flickers and I throw my sleeping bag over my head.

“….water is scarce and Coca Cola, Pepsi, Fanta and all the big soda manufactures are tapping majority shares of what’s left of ground water sources while the wells dry up and the people go thirsty…”

The light flickers and I sit up in bed.

“…one day twenty children, refugees from Nepal brought from across the border, just showed up on our doorstep. We don’t know their history. But what could we do? That’s when we became an orphanage…”

The light flickers and I put my hands over my face.

“…many of these children have one parent living, but they can’t live with them. Sometimes the father has killed the mother. But they don’t really have laws against that kind of thing here. And the Nepalese refugees are exploited. They are forced to take the harshest jobs — often of construction. The men cut concrete and bricks. The woman haul it on their heads. They work all daylight hours. They haven’t the time, resources or choice to care for these children….”

The light flickers on and off.

I toss and turn.

And finally, without the comfort of a lullaby, the lyrics of the song the children all sang together before going to bed begin to cycle through my head in more open-ended sentences…

How many times must a man look up — before he can see the sky?

And how many ears must one man have — before he can hear, he can cry?

How many deaths will it take till he knows — that too many people have died?

How many years can a mountain exist — before it is washed to the sea?

How many years can some people exist — before they’re allowed to be free?

How many times can a man turn his head — and pretend that he just doesn’t see?

The light flickers on and off.

I can’t close my eyes.

I can’t sleep.

*****

If YOU would like to sponsor a child or otherwise help Ramana’s Garden Orphanage, you can find information on how to do so by going to: www.sayyesnow.org.

seeking sleep,

sol

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

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Leaping

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So I’ve been documenting, sketching and analyzing my dreams every night for about six months now…(and you wondered where I was getting my odd ideas?)…and last night’s message was all too clear…

In the dream, I was standing next to the Ganga River in Varanasi. A human corpse floated to the top and I could see through the water that there were many more at the bottom. There were many people swimming in the river, but they did not seem see the bodies that lay below. I suddenly felt it my personal mission to clean the Ganga of the corpses because I was not afraid or disgusted by the work, but I knew that the swimmers were averse to Death and I wanted to save them from having to see what lay beneath.

Then I turned around and saw that there were two ladders; One with a queue and the other empty. I went to the ladder with no line, climbed it, and found myself on a platform. There was another platform about six feet from me and I knew I was supposed to jump to it. I looked across and I saw a sign on the far platform that read, “Everyone can get here.” But I was sure I wouldn’t be able to clear the space, so I went back down the ladder and went to the second ladder. I waited in line as an elderly woman struggled to climb it. The ladder was shaky and as I looked up I saw that this one too led to a platform, and although there was also another (smaller) jump to be cleared, it was full of clutter and obstacles. I was still waiting in line when I woke up.

So having worked closely with my dreams over the last months, like a good friend, I’ve come to know their character, habits, hidden meanings and symbolic tendencies. When I work with my dreams, I usually sketch them out first (as Dreams are for the most part limited to visuals) and then write out corresponding “captions” underneath the images. And I find that it’s usually somewhere in this translation, from the visual to the vocal worlds, that their secret messages (from my higher to physical self) reside.

My captions to the dream sketch above revealed the following message: I cheated myself on my last journal entry about death and reincarnation. Although all that I said was true, I spared my most honest findings and beliefs because I’m afraid that that leap of faith won’t be followed. But the truth is, I’m making the poor assumption that because I used to be so afraid of the word, “reincarnation” — that everyone else is too. But it’s not my job to save anyone from seeing as they will. And as the sign reminded me, I need not be so delicate or conservative about my judgment of what ground can be covered, for anyone, if they so wish, can make that same leap with me. And perhaps I’m using the audience as my excuse? Perhaps the audience I am most afraid to admit my beliefs to — is myself?

So without further shaky ladders, clutter, queues, or obstacles, I take a deep breathe and take my leap of faith to present my most honest understandings of what I really believe, from my personal pursuit of definition, Life to be.

I believe that this life that I am living right now is but a single move on a chessboard of existences that has been playing out over millennia to checkmate a highest level of consciousness. I believe that I have a higher self that is aware of every move I’ve ever made, of every conquest, every defeat, every advance and every retreat. And I believe this higher self (still so far from enlightenment) to scratch its chin at the conclusion of every form of existence (but a snap in the timelessness of this realm) and reflect on the history and future of the game to decide on the most strategic move (form of next existence) that will best position itself for evolution, and ultimate understanding. I believe that in this game of existences, I play all the pieces; I move as the Queen, the King, the Knight, the Bishop, the Rook and the Pawn. Likewise, I choose existences as both females and males in positions of royalty, service, religion, thievery and poverty. Only by existing as each can I understand all, and ultimately understand that we are all the same, all one. Just as I play all persons, I also play both sides, both black and white; Understanding that good and evil, conquest and defeat, complement each other, and without one, the other would not exist. That they are both used strategically as tools to further my development, to give me the blessed opportunity to struggle — and (perhaps, perhaps not) succeed.

And when this higher self has chosen the life that will present me with the challenges that will push me to grow and move into the next best step of evolution, it consciously also chooses to succumb to a temporary amnesia, in order that it may play out its moves without attachment to previous existences and experiences. So that I may feel out and live my chosen life with full and unhindered heart. And I also believe that when I need guidance, I am dropped hints, omens, cues and clues (from this higher self) as to direct me to my prescribed path. And I think these clues to be found in my dreams — of both the day and night. And I believe that the poets, authors, musicians, painters and all the artists of life tap into this same channel of the creative where dreams are inspired. And to their delight (and matching despair), they find that the language of this realm is untranslatable to the boxy confines of human language and can only be illustrated in expressions of the Unconscious – which I think to be the playground of the higher self.

Whoa. I’m babbling. But suddenly I have a lot to admit to myself. And unfortunately for those reading, THIS happens to not only be a travel journal, but also my form of self-expression and realization. And by denying my truth here, I was denying it to myself. And please understand that I have neither evidence nor desire to prove anything I’ve presented. This is only reality as I — one miniscule, microscopic and meager player in the universe — have experiences it to be.

And now, although I so many more platforms to jump, I also have a train platform to run to…and a 26-hour ride to Rishikesh in Northern India at the foot of the Himalayas.

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

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At Her Feet

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> More India Pictures

Journal Entry

Feb. 13th, 2004

Varanassi, India

The Mother Teresa House for the Destitute

I walk into the house thinking I have offered to volunteer my time and hands, but what I quickly learn is that it is my humility and touch that outstretched arms reach out to receive.

I manage my way through the maze of cots in the dimly lit room. Dark and slim bodies dangle, rock, cry, bang, mumble, laugh, smile, scream, sing and sway — their definitions merging into the shadows themselves.

This is a house for the destitute. And the haziness of my 8th grade vocabulary class gains suddenly sharp clarity as I find myself confronted with a room full of example forms.

Destitute: lacking all money, resources and possessions necessary for subsistence.

The cots and bodies are all only a few feet off the ground and as I make my way through the room, I feel too tall, too strong, too tanned, too fed, too foreign, too full, too different, too BIG.

Who am I. and what place do I really think I have here?

A bony arm reaches out and tugs on my apron. The small bundle of bare life turns desperate eyes up to me and pleads in Hindi for a favor that I do not have the language to understand. There is an impression in the bed that indicates that this body has spent a lifetime depressing the form of its meager shape into it.

She reaches out a frail hand to me. I shy away and struggle with hand signals to explain to her that I don’t understand. That I don’t speak her language. That I don’t know what she needs. That I can’t give her what she wants. And then I scan the room desperately for one of the Sisters to assist me.

But with another low groan of demand, both my hand and attention are grabbed. She pulls me down.

Without any other option, I squat down onto the cold floor and, for the first time, really look at her. Her kind eyes soften my stiff hand. And as my disinclination dissolves and I allow myself to settle into her smiling eyes, I begin to wonder what it was that I was so afraid that I would see in her eyes. Having finally hurtled the last of my hesitations, I sigh my relief. And she, satisfied with finally assuming all my attention, smiles.

My anxiousness melts and my hand warms as I sink into this comfortable place at her feet. And as I do so, I notice with sudden relief how much more comfortable it is down here, looking UP into her eyes, offering myself not from above, but from below.

My eyes take rest in hers. Having stopped searching, stopped seeking, stopped speaking, my shoulders and the worries of the world they support, drop into the shadows around us. And in the silence and space of this moment, she speaks to me. Not in Hindi, and not in English, but in the universal language of shared humanity.

And suddenly, I get it.

I put my other hand on top of the one she has put on mine, and hands embraced, reflect all the warmth in my heart back at her.

How simple. How easy. How obvious. How could I be so silly as to think that I was not familiar with the alphabet of this universal language? Did I not speak this language through the wordless years of my infancy? Is this not the language that still peacefully fills the silence when the clutter and clumsiness of idle and formal conversations inevitably fail and finally fall mute?

The shyness of my hands step aside from the arrogance they hid behind and I cup both her hands in mine and gently massage into them my new understanding of our shared being.

To be touched. To be recognized. To be loved. Are these not my own needs? Are they not the needs of every human being? And did I really think her above receiving them? Or I below giving them?

Recognition is all she asks of me. Recognition of our similarity. Recognition of our shared humanity. Recognition of not only her humility, which is physically obvious, but of MINE, which ALSO rests hidden in a dark corner, but under the heavy cover of good health, youth and opportunity.

To look into my eyes and see herself reflected. To look into her eyes and see myself reflected. And to know that aside from a shade of skin color and a seed of sickness, absolutely nothing differentiates these two images. Stripped of our identities, and both humbled to the floor, in each others eyes, we find our shared existence.

And if I had one wish in this world it would be that every single person in this planet have the opportunity to sit on this floor, at the foot of this woman, to look into these eyes, and to find shared humanity held in these hands.

The dark hand gently releases and pats my hands a silent thank you.

I smile, stand up, and feel smaller.

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

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The School of Life

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“Ah! Such fascinating work you have! Whatever did you study in school?”

With a laugh and shrug I deliver one of the punch lines of my life; “Business.”

Today my hundred thousand dollar investment in my private school education delivers little more to me than a terrible little white envelope in the mail each month reminding me that I will owe them a check for the rest of my life.

And when exactly did my education lose my respect, I wonder?

Because I do remember a girl that took pure delight in finding the point of equilibrium on the supply-demand charts of economics courses. I remember a girl that spend three summers doing internships creating company surveys and reveled in the cleanliness of statistical analysis. I remember a girl that could work the numbers on an accounting balance sheet with the swiftness and enchantment of aligning one of those little sliding number puzzles. What happened to that girl?

My favorite course was Economics. My teacher was brilliant.

I remember one day when he declared to the class, “today I am going to show you the actual dollar value of a human life.” He then proceeded to use statistics of how “high-risk” jobs (street construction work) pay higher salaries in direct relation to the value of risk of death. From there he found a dollar unit value of life. And two hours later, with a whirlwind of white chalk power wafting in the air, thirty 20-year olds dropped their jaws in awe and declared in unison, “why yes, it makes perfect sense, a human life is worth exactly that little point on that graph!”

Another day he declared to the class, “today I’m going to show you that the best thing we could do to save the whales, is to give them to the poachers themselves.” And once again, in a flurry of swift statistics and sloping curves, he produced the ingenious answer, “privatization of the whaling industry!”

His rationale made pure and perfect sense.

Little did he know that his teachings would one day suffer from one of the very laws he taught me; The Law of Diminishing Returns, which I fondly remember as, “the more burritos you eat, the less you want to eat a burrito.”

Whales and Life are one thing on a chart, but they are another on a silver platter. And I declined my business school education on one life-changing day when they were delivered to me together in a formula that my Economics professor had never taught me…

I was frolicking in the last low and golden lights of another beautiful day on the beach of Tamarindo, Costa Rica when two men on horses galloped down the beach with unusually hurried speed. They abruptly stopped at my camp, where I was working with a sea turtle conservation effort.

The alarm in their faces was crudely accentuated by the red streaks of blood on their arms and shirts.

“…we tried to push it back in…but it won’t go! It’s smashing up against the rocks and it’s bleeding everywhere….I’m not sure what it is…it looks like a baby whale or something…”

The local managers of our camp, without a single moments hesitation, grabbed their gear and ran with race-worthy speed down the beach. My own steps fell behind their feet, but I found their natural pace quickly outdistanced mine.

The tide was coming in and, with parts of the beach inaccessible, I summited a small cliff to get to the final strip of rocky beach where the animal reportedly lay. At the top of the cliff, I delayed my dash for one minute to turn around and witness a single glimpse of the most beautiful sunset light I have ever seen grace a land. The red dirt of the clay cliff flared the bush, sky and water into an array of technicolor that blinded me to the reality of life.

The world swam around me and finally stalled long enough for me to briefly wonder, “Is this real?” Distant shouting turned me back to the path and sent me scrambling down the cliff to where my co-workers stood huddled waist high in the crashing waves of the incoming tide around a black thrashing mass.

I slowed my step considerably as I approached the shiny, coal-colored creature that it took three men to restrain.

“What is it?!”

“Is it alive?!”

“A porpoise.”

“Barely.”

I stepped deeper into the water and reached out to the creature. I placed one hand near its pale and desperate eye.

Tears welled up behind my own and threatened to break with the tide.

And suddenly I remembered something that I had read online in the news that very morning…

A large pod whales had beached themselves “for no apparent reason (although there was a recent experiment with seismic airguns in the local area of water)” on the coast of Tasmania, Australia that day. Despite all local efforts, the whales could not be moved back into the sea and the whales all lay awaiting imminent death.

My heart turned back to the porpoise. My hand rested gently upon her resigned life. Life was slipping from her like the water gliding down her oiled skin. And as I reached out to her and touched that moment inbetween life and death, my heart lept across the world and felt also the pulse of her great sisters of the sea, as their despair grew to match their enormous size and their pulse diminished to match their will to live.

Life stalled again. My heart with it. And I felt the pulse of all life weaken.

My despair clenched my throat around my own breath of life and something inside of me screamed and fell down on its knees. The tide of my inner cry crashed violently against the rocks of my being.

“THIS is life! THIS is life!”

Life is not a number, or tool, or factor of an equation, or possession to be owned, or statistic to be manipulated, or point of equilibrium on a chart! It’s not clean, or mechanical or predictable! It’s here! THIS pulse is life! And it beats in pace with all living creatures, just as it resonates with my own. And when it fades, mine does also!

And suddenly the bowels of the porpoise broke. And the water we stood in turned black with waste and blood. The man restraining the tail of the creature let go of the fight that had faded with the heart.

And it was somewhere there in the soiled water of death, and in the silence of life lost, that I let go of my education, and stood in understanding.

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In This Life

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I once had a Life.

And in it there were cream colored carpets, umbrellas, sweet coffees, vacations, white gowns, red roses and a box at the end of my driveway that received in it, each day, neatly typed letters with my name spelled almost correctly.

And one night – I can´t remember which – a letter arrived.

“From My Soul, To My Heart”….with my name spelled right.

In the morning, the letter was gone, but the messages imprint on my mind and heart all too strong. It was an issue of emergency, requiring my most immediate attention. I packed up bag and Life — and set out on a mission.

Around the world we went, my Life and I.

Dancing on cream colored carpets of sand. Embracing the rain as we would the sun — arms spread wide, face upturned to the tide. Coffee from the bush – bitter, black and strong. Brief vacations “home”…hasty returns to the wild flower fields where Reality streaked red.

White gowns lost their allure — my attention caught by the whirlwind of white butterflies. Love – I found – was not of rings, but wings. And not confined to one, but ALL beings.

Dizzy in my flight, I did not see Time slip out the back door…

And one day, at the thud of an avocado on my tin roof, I woke up from reality.

Frantically, I dug through the depths of my bag, but my Life was not there. My heart raced down hallways disturbing dusty ideas that opened their doors, wiped the sleep from their eyes and replied, “no, we haven’t seen it (or you) for ages.”

Life. Was gone.

Something inside sunk deep in defeat. My hands, exhausted in their desperate grasp for the ungraspable, covered my face. My vision cupped in darkness, a single tear was shed. As I wiped the loss from closed eyes, the pain distorted view was cleared.

And before me I saw again — for the first time — my hands.

Curved in question marks of their own, I unrolled my fists and opened an observation…

What did these hands really want? Have they, for one second, ached to swirl elegant mixed cocktails? Craved to shake stiff handshakes with cold strangers? Wish to wither under the brashness of cuticle clipping manicures? Return to race on keboards at the pace of 80 words per minute? Do these hands feel inspired to autograph the thousands of neatly typed letters that come in the box at the end of the driveway with my name spelled almost correctly?

And did these hands — calloused by labors of love, naked of paint but colored in a shade of the sun, scarred by escapees of the full moon campfire…Did these hands, that know the beat of the drum as it resonates with the pulse of passion, did they really LOSE Life? Or had they in fact, in their release of the shadow of another’s dream…..FOUND it?

“Seen through at last!” my hands sighed in guilt-ridden relief.

New life tingled in the tips of eager fingers as I picked up a pen, and approached the white slate to begin…

“In THIS Life…”

In my old Life I did everything right.

Everything forward, in order, upside, and even.

Obeying logic, law and sense,

In accordance with rules and reason.

But that Life is gone, and now I start again.

And I watch my hand shake…

On the adrenaline of Intuition?

At the potential of embarking upon a clean slate?

Something stirs deep inside.

And it screams to scribble.

And so I do this;

I take down my white slate from its right-side up stand,

And I put it wrong-side down on the off-white colored sand,

And I note with curiosity,

where its square corners and straight borders….dissolve.

Into their proper place; Into obscurity.

Ah! I observe.

THIS is a very good sign.

And then I put down my pen,

And I pick up my paints.

For THIS life, I decide,

Will NOT be confined to black and white.

I pick up Green and begin,

In THIS Life I shall do everything wrong.

Everything backward, out of order, downside and odd.

Obeying heart, soul and intuition,

In accordance to the voices of spirit and inner vision.

In pursuit of the magical, mystical, and mysterious

A step behind my spirit to light all that is curious,

A new alliance of heart, body, mind and soul,

Set about on a mission to bring the cycle full,

Open eyes, perked ears, eager fingers stretched to embrace,

That which guides the orchestra for the first time I face,

And to pick up my own instrument of that which resonates musically,

With Truth, Self-Consciousness, Inner Spirit and Integrity.

But I have much work yet to look back upon,

So that the shadow of custom on the future won’t cast on,

Cobwebs must be swept and windows opened to expose,

The dusty corners of ideas that I always supposed.

Time to turn the light on, to that which I’ve been told not to do,

I pick up Gray, and think back to continue…

No more answers or definitions, but lots of animated banter about Why?

I’ll believe in my dreams, and recount the silliness of Life.

No more Yes, No more No. Letting silence just be.

Complimenting the quiet with smiles and cocked brows of curiosity.

Time not confined to a cell of 60 small seconds.

Letting the rooster caw attention to where it begins and it ends.

No half truths. No hidden truths. No flat out lies.

Only holding to that which rings true to the voice deep inside.

No more guilt. No more shame. No more hidden internal pain…

Due to rigid arms with fingers pointed at reasons they can’t name.

No being told not to talk, not to touch, not to hold.

Learning first hand from the bite, the sting and the cold.

No shame for what I don’t know, but pride for who I can be,

Honesty with and health of self, only My responsibility.

No talking proper, being silenced, no sitting straight and mundane.

No secret whispers hushed, no dancing told to tame.

No blushing over sex and the pleasures my body brings,

Expressions of Love allowed to sing, allowed to scream.

No rules on the order of who, what, when, where and why.

Reveling in the beauty of that which can’t be defined.

No clinging to far away futures, or doubts about my path,

Cupping gently each moment with respect before it’s past.

No more believing in history books because their voice is in print.

Becoming my own Truth detective, delighting in the chase of each hint.

No more accounting of Life in simple years passed by,

Validating my existence in sweats, screams, smiles and sighs.

No more pink, no more blue, no more sexual definitions of Who,

Each to her own path of discovering exactly who is You.

No more tall, no more short, no more fat, no more thin.

My spirit can hardly be confined to the body I’m in.

No more black and no white. No more wrong and no right.

Knowing all shades of gray only depend on the light.

No more scoffing at magic. No disclaiming daydreams.

Both exist in realms where what Is doesn’t Seem.

No more participating in traditions that I don’t understand.

But treasuring those with meaning I can grasp in my hand.

No more planting in zones of comfort and security,

Drifting on a wind of change as would the flower’s seed.

No more borders or barriers or titles to land,

Claims to ownership melting as a wave on the sand,

No more taking tickets and waiting in line for a Life,

Getting lost in the isles and in its pursuit finding delight.

No more sightlessly following the letter of law or of rule,

Asking my inner spirit for guidance on how I should choose.

No more bicker and banter about what’s real and what’s not,

To each to her own on what’s found and what’s sought.

Blue not confined to one single color dye,

But falling on a spectrum of shades of water, bird and sky.

Not just applauding the single moment the sun sets,

But encoring the night show for which the deepest sighs are kept.

No more bombs on the personal or war line fronts,

Fighting brutally for peace with unconditional Love.

No more TV, or movies or envying celebrities,

Finding the adventure in my own life, and meeting the Hero in me.

No more gossip or assumptions of those I don’t know,

Turning that energy to learning on instead how I might grow.

No more self-centered worlds based on “I” and on “me.”

Turning to “us” and to “we” and the web of our interdependency.

No more filling in voids with material toys,

Filling my chest with Truths that to only my heard I can hold.

And with new light cast from the past to the present,

Perhaps it’s time to extend from what isn’t.

Addressing what can be of the future starting now,

I pick up Yellow, and allow my thoughts to follow…

I will slow down my step and reach out to the wall,

No moment worth rushing, but to each attention being called.

I will congratulate death, recognizing it as pregnant with Life.

And hold every product of my being as gently as a child.

I will say sorry first, and get in line last,

Knowing Time is not limited to Present, Future and Past.

I will talk with my eyes and hear with my heart,

Understanding Truth as a 6th sense of creativity and Art.

I will feel my body, even when there is no pain,

I will dance without music, and laugh without aim.

I’ll celebrate birthdays as I would any other day,

But I’ll celebrate EACH day, as if it were the 1st day.

I’ll never reject a gift, even those I don’t need,

Knowing it’s a gift to the Giver that I happily receive.

I shall stare at the stars blankly for hours on end,

Enjoying the mental play they inspire and the questions wherein.

I shall value the life of an ant as my own,

Our similarity respected, our interdependency known.

(To Be Continued)

And with blue, I conclude;

With this promise,

I thee wed.

To Love thee Life,

Till my deathbed.

A material bundle you no longer are.

Not lost from my bag,

But a promise of the heart.

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broken

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Has the USA gone COMPLETELY MAD?!?¡!?

Yahoo News: US Drops 1-Ton Bombs on Iraq

“A pair of 2,000-pound satellite-guided bombs were dropped late Tuesday near Baqouba, 30 miles northeast of Baghdad, on “camps suspected to have been used for bomb-making,” said Maj. Gordon Tate, a spokesman for the 4th Infantry Division.

Near the northern city of Kirkuk, fighter-bombers dropped 1,000-pound bombs on “terrorist targets,” he said without elaborating.

It was unclear whether the airstrikes caused any casualties, Tate said.

The military said the bombings were part of Operation Iron Hammer, the new aggressive tactic of initiating attacks against insurgents before they strike.”

Has the government gone Mad to order it?

Has the Media gone Mad to report it as such?

Have the American people gone Mad to let it continue?

The thread of faith I had in my country has broken.

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NO A LA GUERRA

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Well “crash for a few” turned into a 19 hour siesta. My head hit the pillow at 3:00 in the afternoon and my feet didn´t hit the floor again till 10:00 the next morning. I don´t think I´ve ever slept so much in my life. I walked in a daze for half the day, but am finally finding myself in a state of high alert tonight. And how could I not…amidst the pure power and passion of the tens of thousands of protesters who´ve closed down the streets of Madrid (including the one outside my hostel) waving banners, singing songs, painting windows, tagging monuments, and banging drums all to the pulse of “NO A LA GUERRA! NO A LA GUERRA!”.

I chant with them, sending my silent prayers of thanks that I am not recognized for the American I am. For I am certainly not oblivious to the thousands of signs that read, ¨Without the States, there is no war.”, “BAN BU$H”, “NO BLOOD FOR OIL AMERICA!”, “BUSH = HITLER”, “TERROR U$A.” And the countless banners depicting “peace doves” being shot down with missiles by “American eagles” and American flags with crossbones and blood dripping from them. And it certainly does not go without notice that the McDonalds and the KFC´s windows are spraypainted in large red and black letters with “BOYCOTT CAPITALIST AMERICA!” I´m so embarrassed, I have to fight off the tears.

And then I go back to my room, and I turn on the television, and I see the live cameras from Baghdad. And somewhere deep inside….I hear — I FEEL — the cries of innocent people dying. And I can´t fight the tears anymore. For to me, there is NO difference between the child that was killed in the daycare center at the bottom of one of the twin towers and the child that is dying — at this very moment — on the streets of Baghdad. Except for that the child in Bahgdad bears too much of a resemblance to the beautiful, but brusied and malnurished face of every child I met in the Dumpster of Guatemala City. And I can fight no longer.

I cry.

*****

“Beware the leader who bangs the drums of war in order to whip the citizenry

into a patriotic fervor, for patriotism is indeed a double-edged sword. It

both emboldens the blood, just as it narrows the mind. And when the drums of

war have reached a fever pitch and the blood boils with hate and the mind

has closed, the leader will have no need in seizing the rights of the

citizenry. Rather, the citizenry, infused with fear and blinded by

patriotism, will offer up all of their rights unto the leader and gladly so.

How do I know? For this is what I have done. And I am Caesar.”

- Julius Caesar

*****

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Letter to Leah

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I roll over and pull the wool blanket closer around my head. I’d adjust the blankets to tuck around my feet…if I had the strength. But I don’t. I don’t have the strength to reach my water bottle. I don’t have the strength to put on an extra pair of pants, like I’d like to. I don’t even have the strength to call for assistance. I don’t have the strength to pull myself out of bed and walk twenty feet to the bathroom. But I do. And every muscle in my body screams from fever pain as I do. My brain swells against my scull as I rise, and I have to keep one hand on the wall for balance. The stomach cramps start kicking my insides out and propel me forward. I make it to the bathroom, but on my return I actually stop and fall to my knees in exhaustion. I listen and notice that no one is home. No one here to help me if I pass out, which I suddenly realize is a serious possibility. I stare at my hands. Despite the gallons of water I have drunk, they are cracked from dehydration and purple under the nails from cold. I stare at them for a long time, procrastinating the rest of trip back to bed. The chills race up my back and through my hair and help me muster the energy necessary to make it back to the temporary warmth of my bed.

This was my condition for roughly thirty-six – fever-and-cramp-ridden and thus, mostly sleepless – hours. Thirty-six hours spent wondering if I’ve ever, in all my amoeba days, felt to absolutely and completely terrible. Thirty-six hours spent in astonishment that my body had failed me and so violently violated my trust in it. Thirty-six hours not having the will or desire to appreciate a single thing in life. Thirty-six hours spent only asking for mercy for all those people in the world that suffer like this every single day of their lives.

IT hits me. But I don’t have the energy to cry about IT. Not yet.

I rustle through my backpack and find in my medical kit an old set of antibiotics I picked up last year in Guatemala. I read the instructions in Spanish and it says the pills say will kill a list of six different intestinal parasites. I’m not diagnosed, but I’m desperate. I take half the dosage…and wait.

I tell my mother every few hours that I feel a little better. She knows I don’t. What she doesn’t know is what a comfort JUST her presence provides.

The next day I take the second half of the antibiotics. “Fast and Effective” the box claims. I pray so.

Twenty-four hours and liters of water later, I’m finally re-hydrated again. The fever is gone. The abdominal cramps are gone. I don’t feel “good”, but I can smell the pine, I can hear the birds and I can feel the warmth of the sunshine. Energy has come back to me.

Enough energy to cry.

I have a friend. A best friend. Once upon a time we lived together in San Diego — where the boys would line the boardwalk every day at sunset just to catch a glimpse of the 5’10 figure with bronzed skin and golden hair *that trailed her body by four feet* as she coasted by with the ocean breeze on her skateboard. Even more beautiful than her appearance though, was her stride in, and appreciation of, life. The first person I have ever met who could grasp a moment – a really nice moment – right at its peak and give it love. Recognize it for the minute of bliss that it brought. Most people don’t seem to recognize the best moments of their lives until they’ve passed. But she didn’t. She felt them, and she loved them, AS they happened. Maybe it was her unique ability to be so susceptible to the highs of life that made her so susceptible to the lows. For she had pain. She had terrible migraines. I knew they were in town when her door would close for all daylight hours and she’d emerge from her eye-cover only for a pizza-pocket, a Dr. Pepper and an episode of Friends. Those days started off only once a week. By the end of our year living together, they were four days of week. But she still had life, beautiful life that could not be denied, and her special way of grasping it by the minute.

This was the condition I left her in when I kissed her goodbye on my way out to Guatemala.

We passed email updates throughout the year. Her letters were mostly comprised of under- exaggerations of the pain she was in and crazy tales of the multiple doctors and treatments she was experimenting with. Her “migraine days” increased to seven a week, thirty days a month. She couldn’t go to work. She couldn’t skate the sunsets. She couldn’t get out of bed. She moved to her parent’s home to meet more doctors, go to more pain treatment centers, and take new meds and have new surgeries. But none eased any pain and no one provided any answers.

How many times could I tell her I was sorry? How many times could I urge her to keep hope? How many times could I tell her I loved her and would do anything for her? And would be “there” for her…when I was thousands of miles away? It hurt. All I could be was honest and supportive.

Today, right this minute, she is in pain. Pain that is constant and unrelenting. Pain that weakens you and wrestles constantly with your simplest will. Pain that numbs the senses from feeling the beauty in life. Pain that deeply violates the agreement your mind made with your body upon birth. Pain that makes you fall on your knees in exhaustion and beg for mercy. Pain that consumes your soul.

Pain that I didn’t have an inkling of an understanding about until three days ago. Pain that I experienced for less than two days. Pain that you, Leah, have lived with every single day of your life for years. Pain that you live with this very moment….when I don’t.

So I cry. I cry because I’m so sorry I didn’t understand your pain…. and that I never really will. I cry not only for you, but for all those in the hospital beds next to yours. I cry because I’m out here realizing all my dreams, and despite all that pain (that you don’t talk about), you just keep cheering me on from a hospital bed. I cry because I wish there was something more I could do for you than cry. Well there IS one tiny little thing I do.

I take you with me. I take you with me up every Guatemalan volcano peak. I take you with me to every Thai sunrise. I take you with me on every dive in the Caribbean sea. (And you’re coming to Fiji with me this week.) For you taught me how to “grasp” the moment. To seize it, and appreciate it, AS it happens. To hold it for just for a minute, sigh, smile, and love it. It’s the best gift I’ve ever received. And I think that if someone told me that I’d given them the best gift they’ve ever received, well…that’d make me really happy. And if someone told me they thought of me every time they did something wonderful or saw something pretty… well, that’d make me happy too. And more than anything in this world, and more than any person in this world, YOU deserve a little happiness.

I miss and love you Leah.

(Please, no emails regarding this post.)

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