I am in bodhgaya. Many people! But we found a room ok. I am using another travelers cell now. She says internet cafes are hell in india. Good news is I am happy and having a good time! I got to spend the day in varanasi onthe way here. Gorgeous, laid back place where buddha made his first teaching and a sacred shiva fire has been burning on the ganges for 3,500 years for the cremations.
Now I am waiting in line (an oxymoron in india) to register for kalachakra. Its a bit hot but I am keeping my cool. Not overwhelmed as I was fearing. Holy shit I am in india! That's pretty much the extent of my thoughts right now. Don't expect too many blog entries because internet is hard to come by. But pleasse trust I am ok! All is well.
Love and namaste !!!! Xoxoxoxo
Melissa
Friday, December 30, 2011
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Nakote School, Helambu
11/8/2011
Helambu is a land of rocky mountains and sloping hills covered with terraced fields. "He" means potato, and "Lambu" means radish in the language of the Hyolmo people, whose ancestors migrated to the region from Tibet long ago. Most people here are indeed farmers, and grow maize (corn), millet, beans, potatoes, radish, onions, garlic, and several kinds of vegetable including leafy greens, cabbage, snap peas, and some squash varieties. They bring their rice in from other areas as the elevation is too high for it to grow here. Many families have one or two water buffalo, who are large, black, cow-ish beasts with long curved horns. Villagers spend a lot of time cutting grass and leaves for the buffalo to eat. The buffalo produce a heavenly delicious milk, sweet and creamy. (I actually used it to make mashed potatoes for my host family on Thanksgiving). Buffalo meat is also tasty, if at times a bit chewy, and reminds me of a gamey beef.
To be continued...
Here are some photos of the school where I taught dance and English for 6 weeks:
Helambu is a land of rocky mountains and sloping hills covered with terraced fields. "He" means potato, and "Lambu" means radish in the language of the Hyolmo people, whose ancestors migrated to the region from Tibet long ago. Most people here are indeed farmers, and grow maize (corn), millet, beans, potatoes, radish, onions, garlic, and several kinds of vegetable including leafy greens, cabbage, snap peas, and some squash varieties. They bring their rice in from other areas as the elevation is too high for it to grow here. Many families have one or two water buffalo, who are large, black, cow-ish beasts with long curved horns. Villagers spend a lot of time cutting grass and leaves for the buffalo to eat. The buffalo produce a heavenly delicious milk, sweet and creamy. (I actually used it to make mashed potatoes for my host family on Thanksgiving). Buffalo meat is also tasty, if at times a bit chewy, and reminds me of a gamey beef.
To be continued...
Here are some photos of the school where I taught dance and English for 6 weeks:
Pashupatinath
This entry is from before I left Kathmandu for Nakote, about 1.5 months ago:
11/4/2011
Today and tonight was possibly the coolest part of my trip so far. This morning I walked to Pashupatinath, an area of Kathmandu with many Hindu temples by the holy Bagmati River. This is where families come to cremate their dead relatives, and Shiva is worshipped as Lord of all the animals. From the moment I arrived I sensed the strong presence of Death. Rather than being repulsed, I was intrigued and mystified by this place of many temples, where the river runs dirty with pollution, ashes, flowers, and colored cloths from the funeral ghats (pyres).
As I gingerly picked my way through the various statues of Hindu gods, a holy man offered to unlock the door to a meditation cave for me. I accepted the offer, removed my shoes, and quietly stepped inside. In front of me there were many sacred items, including a stone lingam and yoni encircled by a snake. The lingam is a phallic-looking object, representing Shiva and the male creative power, while the yoni is circular, and surrounds the base of the lingam to represent the Divine Feminine.
A small candle was burning. The faces of Hindu saints, gods, and goddesses had been plastered around the ceremonial table in front of me. Other small stone objects vibrated energetic power, such as a stone hand growing up out of the corner of the room. I gazed up at the images of Ganesh, Sai Baba, Laklshmi, etc, and offered a few grains of rice. Then I closed my eyes and allowed the vibrations of the room to penetrate me.
It felt like I was inside a time capsule, or a little droplet from another Universe. The vibrations indie the cave spoke to me and held me close, as though I was remembering what it felt like to be inside the womb of the world. It was effortless--countless sages and spiritual men had carved out this niche in space-time for hundreds of years. It was like all the repeated meditations and pujas (ceremonies) of this place had poked a hole into another reality, and the intense spiritual power of that reality was now seeping into this one.
After 1/2 hour or so, I left the cave and meandered downriver to where crowds were gathered by the funeral ghats and temples. After crossing a stone bridge, I had intended to continue climbing up the hill to explore the other temples, but a sadhu (wandering ascetic) dressed up as Hanuman (the hindu monkey god) danced around to my right, and my intuition told me to follow him. I ducked under an archway and into a new courtyard where other sadhus had taken up residence. I heard the tabla drum beating from inside one of the small buildings by the river. Someone was also singing and playing the harmonium (a classical Indian instrument, like a cross between a keyboard and accordion). I walked past the doorway several times, scoutin out the situation and thinking, "Do I go in? Do I not go in? I want to go in, but I don't want to interrupt anything."
As I peeked through the doorway I caught the extraordinarily happy face of the tabla player. He smiled at me several times. When I approached the door step and asked with body language if I could enter, he gave me the signature Nepali side-to-side head wobble of agreement. I slipped of my shoes and went inside.
The musicians were sitting cross-legged on the floor, along with a smiling holy man dressed in orange robes. A woman sang bhajans (devotional songs praising God), while the insanely impressive tabla beats went tippety-tap tap tap and thumpety-thump thump thump. I grinned and closed my eyes, allowing my head to move from side to side while I listened to the irresistible rhythm. The music switched on a glow inside me that I had not tasted in a long time: the glow of playful, inspired joy. There is an intensity about Kathmandu, and about Pashupatinath, that I feel I must protect myself from. This lovely burst of live music allowed me to lower my defenses to a point where I felt safe, comfortable, and at home/
When the music stopped, the listeners clapped and smiled contentedly. I introduced myself, and learned that the tabla player was a resident musician here at Pashuptinath, and had been playing since he was five. He had a callous at the base of his thumb that was the size of a marble. His name, I learned, was "Sukhadev," meaning "Happiness," and it suited him from all the joyful grins I saw on his face. The holy man, Babu, was his father. This was Babu's home and headquarters for classical Indian music. He also had a library of books stacked on the floor of Hindu philosophy.
Sukhadev walked down the hallway, reemerging a few minutes later with a tray of biscuits and tea in metal cups. The tea was very sweet (as it usually is in Nepal), and slightly pungent with a spiced chai flavor. Babu unwrapped the biscuits and handed me one: a vanilla sandwich cookie with a creamy center. The music began again. I stayed and listened for several hours, letting the melodies twinkle into my heart and soften every rigid bone in my body. Ooh it felt good to be alive again.
My hunger finally got the better of me, so I said a few words, "Rice," and "Dahl," pointing to my stomach and motioning towards the door. Sukhadev joined me, escorting me out of the Pashupatinath complex, past the sellers hawking tourist items, and into one of the local grungy-looking restaurants. I had long since let go of my fear of eating what the locals eat, so I stepped inside and sat down.
I don't remember what we talked about, just that his black eyes flashed and his white teeth gleamed against his chocolate-colored skin. He smoked a cigarette, which surprised me somehow, and drank tea while I ate rice, vegetable curry, beans, and chapati. Sometimes there are benefits to being a young Western woman in Nepal, and this was not the first time I found myself being shown around by a friendly young Nepali guy.
After lunch Sukhadev took me on a tour of Pashupatinath, explaining the significance of all the different temples and statues. I nearly died of shock when a monkey jumped on me as I was offering a few grains of rice to a goddess statue (they are everywhere in Pashupatinath). "The monkeys here are very bad," Sukhadev told me. "They jump on you if you have anything in your hands, especially food, and sometimes they jump even when your hands are in your pockets." I abandoned the rice offering procedure, walked around with open hands, and steered as clear of the monkeys as I could.
After my tour of Pashupatinath I felt pulled to watch the cremations at the edge of the river. Each stone tablet reminded me of launching pad for the soul to spring upward into the sky once the body had been received into the flames. One woman below me was wrapped in simple white fabric, her brown face peeking out from behind the cloth as her body was lowered onto the stack of logs. A man began lighting a fire underneath her. To the right, a man wearing a turban and wrapped in golden and white cloths was being circled by his family members. As they walked, each person tucked a few rupees into his collar. Someone removed the flowers that had been lying on his chest and threw them into the trash-infested river. Another person sprinkled red and yellow powdered paint onto his body. Several family members took pictures and video of the ceremony with their cellphones. I saw many tourists taking pictures, but even though Sukhadev said it was okay, I felt strange about using my camera in such a somber situation. To the right of the turbaned man, a group of men were honoring the life of a Lama (Buddhist priest). They walked around the burning body, one person ringing a bell. Sukhadev said that these ceremonies go on continuously, all day and into the evening.
It was time for Sukhadev's regular evening performance. As resident tabla player of Pashupatinath, he played his instrument every evening at 5:30 pm for the daily Aarti, or ceremony, that honored Lord Shiva. He was accompanied by his friends on harmonium and vocals. He brought me up to the stage to sit with him and his friends. and we were bathed in stage lights as we sat on mats overlooking the river and audience below.
Three Hindu priests walked onto the stage, their places already prepared for the ceremony. Each one had a small table in front of him with various ritual items and offerings, including butter candles, conch shells, incense, and rice grains. The ceremony itself was a beautiful dance of light, sound, and devotion. As the musicians played and sang, the priests blew their conches, danced with incredibly large snake shaped butter lamps, sprayed rice grains everywhere, and lit incense. The priests looked a bit bored--I could tell they'd been doing this exact same thing every day for a log time, but this did nothing to dampen my sense of enchantment.
At several moments during the ceremony I recognized a tune or phrase that the musicians were singing. My memory lit up when I heard the same tune from the puja I'd heard so many times while growing up in the Transcendental Meditation movement in Fairfield, Iowa, USA. I also couldn't help smiling when the aarti finished with a familiar Sanskrit phrase which I'd learned at the Maharishi School in Fairfield, "Purnam adah, purnam idam. Purnat purnam udacchyate. Purnasya, purnam adayah. Purnam eva vashishyate." (That is full, this is full. From fullness, fullness comes out. Taking fullness from fullness, what remains if fullness.")
After the aarti, Sukhadev and his friends gave me small sugar candies which had been blessed by the ceremony, called "Prasad," or "The grace of God." By this time it was dark out, and I still had to return to my room in Boudhanath, a 20-minute walk away. I asked Sukhadev about the safety of walking around this area at night, and he replied, "Don't worry. We will walk with you to the bus." We walked out the main entrance down to a busy street. They flagged down the next minibus bound for Boudhanath, and I was on my way.
11/4/2011
Today and tonight was possibly the coolest part of my trip so far. This morning I walked to Pashupatinath, an area of Kathmandu with many Hindu temples by the holy Bagmati River. This is where families come to cremate their dead relatives, and Shiva is worshipped as Lord of all the animals. From the moment I arrived I sensed the strong presence of Death. Rather than being repulsed, I was intrigued and mystified by this place of many temples, where the river runs dirty with pollution, ashes, flowers, and colored cloths from the funeral ghats (pyres).
As I gingerly picked my way through the various statues of Hindu gods, a holy man offered to unlock the door to a meditation cave for me. I accepted the offer, removed my shoes, and quietly stepped inside. In front of me there were many sacred items, including a stone lingam and yoni encircled by a snake. The lingam is a phallic-looking object, representing Shiva and the male creative power, while the yoni is circular, and surrounds the base of the lingam to represent the Divine Feminine.
A small candle was burning. The faces of Hindu saints, gods, and goddesses had been plastered around the ceremonial table in front of me. Other small stone objects vibrated energetic power, such as a stone hand growing up out of the corner of the room. I gazed up at the images of Ganesh, Sai Baba, Laklshmi, etc, and offered a few grains of rice. Then I closed my eyes and allowed the vibrations of the room to penetrate me.
It felt like I was inside a time capsule, or a little droplet from another Universe. The vibrations indie the cave spoke to me and held me close, as though I was remembering what it felt like to be inside the womb of the world. It was effortless--countless sages and spiritual men had carved out this niche in space-time for hundreds of years. It was like all the repeated meditations and pujas (ceremonies) of this place had poked a hole into another reality, and the intense spiritual power of that reality was now seeping into this one.
After 1/2 hour or so, I left the cave and meandered downriver to where crowds were gathered by the funeral ghats and temples. After crossing a stone bridge, I had intended to continue climbing up the hill to explore the other temples, but a sadhu (wandering ascetic) dressed up as Hanuman (the hindu monkey god) danced around to my right, and my intuition told me to follow him. I ducked under an archway and into a new courtyard where other sadhus had taken up residence. I heard the tabla drum beating from inside one of the small buildings by the river. Someone was also singing and playing the harmonium (a classical Indian instrument, like a cross between a keyboard and accordion). I walked past the doorway several times, scoutin out the situation and thinking, "Do I go in? Do I not go in? I want to go in, but I don't want to interrupt anything."
As I peeked through the doorway I caught the extraordinarily happy face of the tabla player. He smiled at me several times. When I approached the door step and asked with body language if I could enter, he gave me the signature Nepali side-to-side head wobble of agreement. I slipped of my shoes and went inside.
The musicians were sitting cross-legged on the floor, along with a smiling holy man dressed in orange robes. A woman sang bhajans (devotional songs praising God), while the insanely impressive tabla beats went tippety-tap tap tap and thumpety-thump thump thump. I grinned and closed my eyes, allowing my head to move from side to side while I listened to the irresistible rhythm. The music switched on a glow inside me that I had not tasted in a long time: the glow of playful, inspired joy. There is an intensity about Kathmandu, and about Pashupatinath, that I feel I must protect myself from. This lovely burst of live music allowed me to lower my defenses to a point where I felt safe, comfortable, and at home/
When the music stopped, the listeners clapped and smiled contentedly. I introduced myself, and learned that the tabla player was a resident musician here at Pashuptinath, and had been playing since he was five. He had a callous at the base of his thumb that was the size of a marble. His name, I learned, was "Sukhadev," meaning "Happiness," and it suited him from all the joyful grins I saw on his face. The holy man, Babu, was his father. This was Babu's home and headquarters for classical Indian music. He also had a library of books stacked on the floor of Hindu philosophy.
Sukhadev walked down the hallway, reemerging a few minutes later with a tray of biscuits and tea in metal cups. The tea was very sweet (as it usually is in Nepal), and slightly pungent with a spiced chai flavor. Babu unwrapped the biscuits and handed me one: a vanilla sandwich cookie with a creamy center. The music began again. I stayed and listened for several hours, letting the melodies twinkle into my heart and soften every rigid bone in my body. Ooh it felt good to be alive again.
My hunger finally got the better of me, so I said a few words, "Rice," and "Dahl," pointing to my stomach and motioning towards the door. Sukhadev joined me, escorting me out of the Pashupatinath complex, past the sellers hawking tourist items, and into one of the local grungy-looking restaurants. I had long since let go of my fear of eating what the locals eat, so I stepped inside and sat down.
I don't remember what we talked about, just that his black eyes flashed and his white teeth gleamed against his chocolate-colored skin. He smoked a cigarette, which surprised me somehow, and drank tea while I ate rice, vegetable curry, beans, and chapati. Sometimes there are benefits to being a young Western woman in Nepal, and this was not the first time I found myself being shown around by a friendly young Nepali guy.
After lunch Sukhadev took me on a tour of Pashupatinath, explaining the significance of all the different temples and statues. I nearly died of shock when a monkey jumped on me as I was offering a few grains of rice to a goddess statue (they are everywhere in Pashupatinath). "The monkeys here are very bad," Sukhadev told me. "They jump on you if you have anything in your hands, especially food, and sometimes they jump even when your hands are in your pockets." I abandoned the rice offering procedure, walked around with open hands, and steered as clear of the monkeys as I could.
After my tour of Pashupatinath I felt pulled to watch the cremations at the edge of the river. Each stone tablet reminded me of launching pad for the soul to spring upward into the sky once the body had been received into the flames. One woman below me was wrapped in simple white fabric, her brown face peeking out from behind the cloth as her body was lowered onto the stack of logs. A man began lighting a fire underneath her. To the right, a man wearing a turban and wrapped in golden and white cloths was being circled by his family members. As they walked, each person tucked a few rupees into his collar. Someone removed the flowers that had been lying on his chest and threw them into the trash-infested river. Another person sprinkled red and yellow powdered paint onto his body. Several family members took pictures and video of the ceremony with their cellphones. I saw many tourists taking pictures, but even though Sukhadev said it was okay, I felt strange about using my camera in such a somber situation. To the right of the turbaned man, a group of men were honoring the life of a Lama (Buddhist priest). They walked around the burning body, one person ringing a bell. Sukhadev said that these ceremonies go on continuously, all day and into the evening.
It was time for Sukhadev's regular evening performance. As resident tabla player of Pashupatinath, he played his instrument every evening at 5:30 pm for the daily Aarti, or ceremony, that honored Lord Shiva. He was accompanied by his friends on harmonium and vocals. He brought me up to the stage to sit with him and his friends. and we were bathed in stage lights as we sat on mats overlooking the river and audience below.
Three Hindu priests walked onto the stage, their places already prepared for the ceremony. Each one had a small table in front of him with various ritual items and offerings, including butter candles, conch shells, incense, and rice grains. The ceremony itself was a beautiful dance of light, sound, and devotion. As the musicians played and sang, the priests blew their conches, danced with incredibly large snake shaped butter lamps, sprayed rice grains everywhere, and lit incense. The priests looked a bit bored--I could tell they'd been doing this exact same thing every day for a log time, but this did nothing to dampen my sense of enchantment.
At several moments during the ceremony I recognized a tune or phrase that the musicians were singing. My memory lit up when I heard the same tune from the puja I'd heard so many times while growing up in the Transcendental Meditation movement in Fairfield, Iowa, USA. I also couldn't help smiling when the aarti finished with a familiar Sanskrit phrase which I'd learned at the Maharishi School in Fairfield, "Purnam adah, purnam idam. Purnat purnam udacchyate. Purnasya, purnam adayah. Purnam eva vashishyate." (That is full, this is full. From fullness, fullness comes out. Taking fullness from fullness, what remains if fullness.")
After the aarti, Sukhadev and his friends gave me small sugar candies which had been blessed by the ceremony, called "Prasad," or "The grace of God." By this time it was dark out, and I still had to return to my room in Boudhanath, a 20-minute walk away. I asked Sukhadev about the safety of walking around this area at night, and he replied, "Don't worry. We will walk with you to the bus." We walked out the main entrance down to a busy street. They flagged down the next minibus bound for Boudhanath, and I was on my way.
Backlog of Blog Posts
It has been an amazing 6 weeks in the small Himalayan village of Nakote. I have filled a journal with many thoughts, poems, and tidbits that I will share eventually, as internet time allows. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the stories! ;0)
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Christmas in Kathmandu
Merry Christmas everyone! It has been a fabulous six weeks in Nakote village, Helambu, Nepal. I was teaching dance and English at a school there and arrived back in the city yesterday after a bumpy, nine hour bus ride. The bus left directly from Nakote at 7:30 am, and as the morning sun was hitting the mountains around us and I looked out the window at the many miles of rolling peaks, I had to remind myself that I was on a BUS, not an airplane. I had to smile as the bus driver cranked up the Bollywood tunes in Nepali and Hindi.
I am happy to report a slight change in plans which has flowed in a wonderfully serendipitous way. Instead of returning to Nakote to continue teaching, I will accompany th e guest house owner of where I stayed in the village on a trip to Lumbini, Nepal and Bodhgaya, India. This woman is truly wonderful. She goes by the name, "Jimmy's Mom," as her son Jimmy operates a nonprofit NGO from her guest house and is well respected. In the community for helping to improve the quality of education in the village. Jimmy's mom cooked me threemeals a day. For much of my time I Nakote, I was the only guest at her house. Everymorning I awoke to the sound of her starting a fire in the next room, blowing on the small sparks through a steel pipe. the smell of shukpa incense and her Buuddhist prayers at about 6:00 am let me know that the day was about to begin. I would roll out of bed around 7:00 and step into the kitchen for a cup of butter and salt tea by the fire.
Anyway, when I heard that Jimmy's mom was going to meet the dalai lama, I immediately wanted to go with her, and was happy that she invited me to come along. The kalachakra is a special series of teachings/initiations with his holiness the dalai lama. There will be many people there, foreigners, Tibetans, Indians, Nepalis. I feel confident that my time there will be enjoyable, especially since I am traveling with a "local." check out kalachakra2012.org for more info. As my 6 month India visa will start upon entry into the country, I will stay there and continue traveling after she goes home.
Christmas in Kathmandu has been great so far. I am staying with Eva, another helambu project volunteer, at her apartment. Today we made no bake cookies and pasta with tomato sauce paneer. As we listened to Christmas songs on her iPad, and I grooved around the modern kitchen, I could almost imagine that I was back in the U.S. we lit some candles and drank some cheap white wine with dinner. Now we are headed to Thamel, the tourist district, to check out the nightlife and see if there are any other Merry foreigners to hang out with. It should be a good time.
Merry chiristmas and namaste!
Melissa
I am happy to report a slight change in plans which has flowed in a wonderfully serendipitous way. Instead of returning to Nakote to continue teaching, I will accompany th e guest house owner of where I stayed in the village on a trip to Lumbini, Nepal and Bodhgaya, India. This woman is truly wonderful. She goes by the name, "Jimmy's Mom," as her son Jimmy operates a nonprofit NGO from her guest house and is well respected. In the community for helping to improve the quality of education in the village. Jimmy's mom cooked me threemeals a day. For much of my time I Nakote, I was the only guest at her house. Everymorning I awoke to the sound of her starting a fire in the next room, blowing on the small sparks through a steel pipe. the smell of shukpa incense and her Buuddhist prayers at about 6:00 am let me know that the day was about to begin. I would roll out of bed around 7:00 and step into the kitchen for a cup of butter and salt tea by the fire.
Anyway, when I heard that Jimmy's mom was going to meet the dalai lama, I immediately wanted to go with her, and was happy that she invited me to come along. The kalachakra is a special series of teachings/initiations with his holiness the dalai lama. There will be many people there, foreigners, Tibetans, Indians, Nepalis. I feel confident that my time there will be enjoyable, especially since I am traveling with a "local." check out kalachakra2012.org for more info. As my 6 month India visa will start upon entry into the country, I will stay there and continue traveling after she goes home.
Christmas in Kathmandu has been great so far. I am staying with Eva, another helambu project volunteer, at her apartment. Today we made no bake cookies and pasta with tomato sauce paneer. As we listened to Christmas songs on her iPad, and I grooved around the modern kitchen, I could almost imagine that I was back in the U.S. we lit some candles and drank some cheap white wine with dinner. Now we are headed to Thamel, the tourist district, to check out the nightlife and see if there are any other Merry foreigners to hang out with. It should be a good time.
Merry chiristmas and namaste!
Melissa
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Kathmandu Again
11/2/2011
Arriving in Kathmandu again, eight hours from Pokhara by bus and a Universe away, I am dropped once again into the heart of chaos. Dust everywhere, nothing green to look at, drowning in the sounds of bleeping bus horns & revving motorbikes, choking on traffic fumes. I find myself staring at the pretty girls on the bill boards, who lusciously drink Coca-Cola or model the latest shampoo fragrance, because they are the nicest things around me to look at. The dogs sleep in the dust on the side of the road, next to the roaring traffic, and pick through piles of garbage to find food. I saw several today who were limping.
I decided to take the local bus from the tourist bus stop to where I am staying in Boudhnath, the Buddhist area. Whooo! That was an experience. Here is a metaphor:
While riding the tourist bus, it feels like I am trying to resist the chaos. I am physically higher up than the people in the city, and I mentally try to distance myself from all that I see. This is like resisting an emotion that comes up inside. On the other hand, when I am squeezed into a local minibus with normal Nepali people, I delight in watching the city go by, I savor the taste of adventure, and I actually enjoy the sense of chaos as I ride through it. This is like allowing an emotion to flow through the body, watching it run its course and then letting it go.
When I finally reached my room, I practically collapsed on the bed in tears, just from the sheer intensity of re-experiencing this city. It is a completely in-your-face experience. It's not on a TV screen, not in a picture, it's all around me and it's noisy, dirty, and overwhelming. By allowing some emotions to flow, I released some of the tension my body had been holding, and I felt better. I am glad to be staying in Boudhnath, an enclosed area, where it is a little quieter, and you can hear the Buddhist monks chanting and ringing bells and clashing their gongs.
Don't get me wrong - there are aspects of this city that I enjoy - it's just a love/hate relationship! I am looking forward to going to Nakote village, in the Helambu area in the mountains, where I will teach English for a month or two. I won't have Internet or electricity at that time, but I hope to reconnect with my blog at least after one month to share some stories.
All the Best and Namaste!
Melissa
Arriving in Kathmandu again, eight hours from Pokhara by bus and a Universe away, I am dropped once again into the heart of chaos. Dust everywhere, nothing green to look at, drowning in the sounds of bleeping bus horns & revving motorbikes, choking on traffic fumes. I find myself staring at the pretty girls on the bill boards, who lusciously drink Coca-Cola or model the latest shampoo fragrance, because they are the nicest things around me to look at. The dogs sleep in the dust on the side of the road, next to the roaring traffic, and pick through piles of garbage to find food. I saw several today who were limping.
I decided to take the local bus from the tourist bus stop to where I am staying in Boudhnath, the Buddhist area. Whooo! That was an experience. Here is a metaphor:
While riding the tourist bus, it feels like I am trying to resist the chaos. I am physically higher up than the people in the city, and I mentally try to distance myself from all that I see. This is like resisting an emotion that comes up inside. On the other hand, when I am squeezed into a local minibus with normal Nepali people, I delight in watching the city go by, I savor the taste of adventure, and I actually enjoy the sense of chaos as I ride through it. This is like allowing an emotion to flow through the body, watching it run its course and then letting it go.
When I finally reached my room, I practically collapsed on the bed in tears, just from the sheer intensity of re-experiencing this city. It is a completely in-your-face experience. It's not on a TV screen, not in a picture, it's all around me and it's noisy, dirty, and overwhelming. By allowing some emotions to flow, I released some of the tension my body had been holding, and I felt better. I am glad to be staying in Boudhnath, an enclosed area, where it is a little quieter, and you can hear the Buddhist monks chanting and ringing bells and clashing their gongs.
Don't get me wrong - there are aspects of this city that I enjoy - it's just a love/hate relationship! I am looking forward to going to Nakote village, in the Helambu area in the mountains, where I will teach English for a month or two. I won't have Internet or electricity at that time, but I hope to reconnect with my blog at least after one month to share some stories.
All the Best and Namaste!
Melissa
The Anna Purna Sanctuary Trek
The following is a back log of writings from my 10-day trek in Nepal. I have entered it into the blog so you can read it from start to finish. I hope you enjoy!
Trekking Day 1: The Secret Rainbow
10/22/2011
1030m ascent, 370m descent
Tolka
Today I snuck into my room at evening time
The rain tapping the tin roof of the lodge
My feet snuggled into a bright red sleeping bag.
The minute I opened the wooden shutters and peeked out my tiny window,
I spied a secret rainbow, quietly colorful, like a Nepali woman.
The rainbow arched over an emerald valley,
With raindrops sparkling over her body.
Cicadas whirr and the river rushes below.
When I look outside, all I see is jungle, perhaps a few tea houses.
Violet flowers shaped like trumpets cover bushes with heart-shaped leaves.
A pleasant breeze visits me,
And fills my nose with moist rain and golden sunlight.
My legs have worked hard today.
The trek of many stairs to Tolka was long.
My heart is happy, my belly ready for food.
1030m ascent, 370m descent
Tolka
Today I snuck into my room at evening time
The rain tapping the tin roof of the lodge
My feet snuggled into a bright red sleeping bag.
The minute I opened the wooden shutters and peeked out my tiny window,
I spied a secret rainbow, quietly colorful, like a Nepali woman.
The rainbow arched over an emerald valley,
With raindrops sparkling over her body.
Cicadas whirr and the river rushes below.
When I look outside, all I see is jungle, perhaps a few tea houses.
Violet flowers shaped like trumpets cover bushes with heart-shaped leaves.
A pleasant breeze visits me,
And fills my nose with moist rain and golden sunlight.
My legs have worked hard today.
The trek of many stairs to Tolka was long.
My heart is happy, my belly ready for food.
Trekking Day 2
10/23/2011
Chomrong
450m descent, 870m ascent
Who knew you could get good chocolate cake in the Himalayas? Well, Chomrong Cottage Guest House is famous for it, and for good reason. Yummmmmm. So good after 8 hours of trekking! My body has begun to get used to trekking all day - this afternoon I got into quite a groove, going at a slow & steady pace, using my hiking poles to help me along.
Here are several strategies for climbing up REALLY steep hills:
a) Plant your feet, gaze up at the seemingly endless flight of stairs, and say, "I'm gonna KILL you, Motherfucker!"
b) A more peaceful strategy, chant "God, Love, God; Love God Love," with every three steps.
I used both of these strategies today depending on my mood.
Not to brag or anything, but there is something TOTALLY BADASS about being a single woman CARRYING HER OWN PACK up this gnarly trail in the Himalayas! I feel so good about myself right now (grin!). Most of the other tourists I see hire a Nepali man to carry their stuff. Those guys are amazing! (the porters) Some of them carry 2-3 tourists' bags (which are not light to begin with), and they may only be wearing flip flops. (Many porters do have boots, though) I even saw one porter carrying a double mattress! That's how they get everything up here in the first place. Everything has to be carried on someone's back, from the food, to the beer, to the lumber the lodges are made of. Makes me really appreciate everything up here.
I really enjoy the sounds and scents of trekking, especially in the early morning. Today when we set off at 7:30, there was a lovely mixture of hay, woodsmoke, and buffalo dung in the air (really, when it all mixes together in your nose, it smells good! Like a horse barn in the country.) I also love seeing the rice terraces, and the way the light gets caught in them, like shelves stacked up on the hillside. My favorite moment today was as I was hiking alone up a never-ending flight of stairs, deep into my steady trekking rhythm. I spotted a small, white-painted shrine off to the right. Pausing to pick two orange marigolds, I continued up to the shrine to pray and offer the flowers. My prayer was of thanks, joy, gratitude, and glee. I read what the shrine said on the outside - it was all in Sanskrit, so I could pronounce the words but did not know what they meant.
Tomorrow I will go to Himalaya Hotel. I am a little nervous about the distance and the elevation gain, but as I've learned so far, the first hill is always the toughest. Once I get beyond the fear response, I am carried by trust and love into the circumstances I need for care and support. So the "fear response," as I call it, is always followed by the "trust response." Before I arrive at a future destination I can imagine the thousand myriad things that can go wrong, so much that I almost psych myself out of going. But somehow, I always go for it, and most often I am taken care of in wonderfully serendipitous ways.
For example, I began this trek alone, and I hiked up the first hill from the road alone. During that whole time, running through my mind were thoughts like, "You should never trek alone. What was I thinking?!! This is so risky. Especially as a woman. What if I fall and break my ankle? Or what if some crazy man jumps out of the bushes and rapes me? What am I going to do then, huh?!!" And so on and so forth, until I reached the top of the hill, and met a wonderful couple from Germany who agreed to trek with me for the rest of the day. Just goes to show the power of the mind and what it can do to you!
Even though I am tired, I feel good, I am happy, satisfied, and content - the most I've been since arriving here.
As they say in Nepal,
Namaste!
- Melissa
Chomrong
450m descent, 870m ascent
Who knew you could get good chocolate cake in the Himalayas? Well, Chomrong Cottage Guest House is famous for it, and for good reason. Yummmmmm. So good after 8 hours of trekking! My body has begun to get used to trekking all day - this afternoon I got into quite a groove, going at a slow & steady pace, using my hiking poles to help me along.
Here are several strategies for climbing up REALLY steep hills:
a) Plant your feet, gaze up at the seemingly endless flight of stairs, and say, "I'm gonna KILL you, Motherfucker!"
b) A more peaceful strategy, chant "God, Love, God; Love God Love," with every three steps.
I used both of these strategies today depending on my mood.
Not to brag or anything, but there is something TOTALLY BADASS about being a single woman CARRYING HER OWN PACK up this gnarly trail in the Himalayas! I feel so good about myself right now (grin!). Most of the other tourists I see hire a Nepali man to carry their stuff. Those guys are amazing! (the porters) Some of them carry 2-3 tourists' bags (which are not light to begin with), and they may only be wearing flip flops. (Many porters do have boots, though) I even saw one porter carrying a double mattress! That's how they get everything up here in the first place. Everything has to be carried on someone's back, from the food, to the beer, to the lumber the lodges are made of. Makes me really appreciate everything up here.
I really enjoy the sounds and scents of trekking, especially in the early morning. Today when we set off at 7:30, there was a lovely mixture of hay, woodsmoke, and buffalo dung in the air (really, when it all mixes together in your nose, it smells good! Like a horse barn in the country.) I also love seeing the rice terraces, and the way the light gets caught in them, like shelves stacked up on the hillside. My favorite moment today was as I was hiking alone up a never-ending flight of stairs, deep into my steady trekking rhythm. I spotted a small, white-painted shrine off to the right. Pausing to pick two orange marigolds, I continued up to the shrine to pray and offer the flowers. My prayer was of thanks, joy, gratitude, and glee. I read what the shrine said on the outside - it was all in Sanskrit, so I could pronounce the words but did not know what they meant.
Tomorrow I will go to Himalaya Hotel. I am a little nervous about the distance and the elevation gain, but as I've learned so far, the first hill is always the toughest. Once I get beyond the fear response, I am carried by trust and love into the circumstances I need for care and support. So the "fear response," as I call it, is always followed by the "trust response." Before I arrive at a future destination I can imagine the thousand myriad things that can go wrong, so much that I almost psych myself out of going. But somehow, I always go for it, and most often I am taken care of in wonderfully serendipitous ways.
For example, I began this trek alone, and I hiked up the first hill from the road alone. During that whole time, running through my mind were thoughts like, "You should never trek alone. What was I thinking?!! This is so risky. Especially as a woman. What if I fall and break my ankle? Or what if some crazy man jumps out of the bushes and rapes me? What am I going to do then, huh?!!" And so on and so forth, until I reached the top of the hill, and met a wonderful couple from Germany who agreed to trek with me for the rest of the day. Just goes to show the power of the mind and what it can do to you!
Even though I am tired, I feel good, I am happy, satisfied, and content - the most I've been since arriving here.
As they say in Nepal,
Namaste!
- Melissa
Trekking Day 3
10/24/2011
Himalaya Hotel
1140m ascent, 510m descent
Today I played cards in a full lodge dining room. It was fun to look around the table and see faces from all over the world: Spain, Germany, Austria, Israel, Japan, Nepal. I learned a new card game called "Shit Head" - it is quite fun, especially with more than two people. I'm sure if you Google it you will find some of the rules. I have also made friends with a Nepali guide, Mahendra, who is working for a Japanese man on the trek. Mahendra has been making reservations for me and his Japanese client at the lodges, because it is easier to book rooms for more than one person as you get to higher altitudes. I am very grateful for this serendipitous help!
Himalaya Hotel
1140m ascent, 510m descent
Today I played cards in a full lodge dining room. It was fun to look around the table and see faces from all over the world: Spain, Germany, Austria, Israel, Japan, Nepal. I learned a new card game called "Shit Head" - it is quite fun, especially with more than two people. I'm sure if you Google it you will find some of the rules. I have also made friends with a Nepali guide, Mahendra, who is working for a Japanese man on the trek. Mahendra has been making reservations for me and his Japanese client at the lodges, because it is easier to book rooms for more than one person as you get to higher altitudes. I am very grateful for this serendipitous help!
Trekking Day 4
10/25/2011
Macchapucchare Base Camp (MBC)
This morning I made it to MBC in only 4 hours, arriving at noon. This is the last stop before I ascent 430 meters to Annapurna Base Camp, which lies at 4130 meters. It was a lovely climb today, through a valley between cathedral-like rock faces, alongside a river running strong with snow melt. I paused today at a small rock shrine to give thanks to these beautiful mountains, and as I approached MBC I was greeted by a soaring Himalayan Eagle. It hardly flapped its wings, soaring freely until it reached a spot above me, where it made a smooth turnaround to go back behind the rocky cliff. It felt as though it was saying hello to me :0)
After taking a two-hour nap, I am now sitting in the lodge dining room, trying to stay warm, drinking lemon ginger tea. I am watching a group of Nepali guides and porters playing a fierce game of hearts (they don't just lay each card down as they play, they SLAP them down with gusto!). While I was napping I heard loud shouts from outside - at first I thought it was an emergency, but now I realize it was the guides & porters playing a game of high-altitude volleyball!
I just got invited to play Scrabble with some other travelers. I will write more tomorrow!
Namaste,
Melissa
Macchapucchare Base Camp (MBC)
This morning I made it to MBC in only 4 hours, arriving at noon. This is the last stop before I ascent 430 meters to Annapurna Base Camp, which lies at 4130 meters. It was a lovely climb today, through a valley between cathedral-like rock faces, alongside a river running strong with snow melt. I paused today at a small rock shrine to give thanks to these beautiful mountains, and as I approached MBC I was greeted by a soaring Himalayan Eagle. It hardly flapped its wings, soaring freely until it reached a spot above me, where it made a smooth turnaround to go back behind the rocky cliff. It felt as though it was saying hello to me :0)
After taking a two-hour nap, I am now sitting in the lodge dining room, trying to stay warm, drinking lemon ginger tea. I am watching a group of Nepali guides and porters playing a fierce game of hearts (they don't just lay each card down as they play, they SLAP them down with gusto!). While I was napping I heard loud shouts from outside - at first I thought it was an emergency, but now I realize it was the guides & porters playing a game of high-altitude volleyball!
I just got invited to play Scrabble with some other travelers. I will write more tomorrow!
Namaste,
Melissa
Trekking Day 5
10/26/2011
Annapurna Base Camp
Wow, I made it! This morning I left from Macchapucchare Base Camp (MBC) at 6 am to catch the sunrise as I walked 2 more hours to Annapurna Base Camp (ABC). Those were probably the hardest 2 hours of the entire trek - it was SO cold! My fingers were so numb I could hardly move them, even though I was wearing gloves. It had snowed a little the night before, and I think I spotted snow leopard tracks! (The tracks were too small to be a dog, anyway). Upon reaching ABC I collapsed in the nearest lodge dining room to thaw my hands and have some ginger tea & oatmeal.
During my icy morning trek, I had been doubting whether it was worth it to come all the way up here. After breakfast, when I walked up to the hill with all the prayer flags, all my doubts vanished. It was totally worth it. The beauty here blows my mind and heart. I couldn't keep back tears as I turned around and around, gazing at the 360-degree views of up-close, gigantic snow-covered mountains. The words awe, wonder, and amazement are the closest approximation to what I was feeling. No wonder so many people come here every year. On the hill where all the multicolored prayer flags are strung out, there is a quote from a climber in plated metal: "Mountains are not the arenas where I exercise my desire to achieve, they are the cathedrals where I practice my religion."
Here is a poem about Anna Purna Base Camp:
Face-to-face with snow-covered gods
Heaven touches Earth with blue sky and clouds
Black crows ride the ribbons of air
Brown grass gets tangled in last night's snow.
I don't know how I got here:
Dropped from an airplane turned upside down?
Perhaps what grabs my heart the most
Is knowing this is only the beginning.
This is only the beginning of my journey.
I still have no idea, really, what lies around the next corner.
The air is rich with feeling here.
Many people have died here,
Trying to ascend further up into heaven.
(Just one week ago, Korean climbers died in a snow avalanche.
Helicopters go by searching for their bodies.)
Many people have truly lived here, reaching as far up into heaven as they can with their feet planted on solid ground.
I know I am alive right now,
Closer to the edge of disbelief,
Stretching the truth,
Overstepping my boundaries with strides of trust and intuition.
It is a feeling beyond happiness, beyond elation,
As though I would like to cry for many days,
Just for the sake of being alive.
And all from being encircled by mountains,
Snow-covered giants,
And being warm and safe inside.
Annapurna Base Camp
Wow, I made it! This morning I left from Macchapucchare Base Camp (MBC) at 6 am to catch the sunrise as I walked 2 more hours to Annapurna Base Camp (ABC). Those were probably the hardest 2 hours of the entire trek - it was SO cold! My fingers were so numb I could hardly move them, even though I was wearing gloves. It had snowed a little the night before, and I think I spotted snow leopard tracks! (The tracks were too small to be a dog, anyway). Upon reaching ABC I collapsed in the nearest lodge dining room to thaw my hands and have some ginger tea & oatmeal.
During my icy morning trek, I had been doubting whether it was worth it to come all the way up here. After breakfast, when I walked up to the hill with all the prayer flags, all my doubts vanished. It was totally worth it. The beauty here blows my mind and heart. I couldn't keep back tears as I turned around and around, gazing at the 360-degree views of up-close, gigantic snow-covered mountains. The words awe, wonder, and amazement are the closest approximation to what I was feeling. No wonder so many people come here every year. On the hill where all the multicolored prayer flags are strung out, there is a quote from a climber in plated metal: "Mountains are not the arenas where I exercise my desire to achieve, they are the cathedrals where I practice my religion."
Here is a poem about Anna Purna Base Camp:
Face-to-face with snow-covered gods
Heaven touches Earth with blue sky and clouds
Black crows ride the ribbons of air
Brown grass gets tangled in last night's snow.
I don't know how I got here:
Dropped from an airplane turned upside down?
Perhaps what grabs my heart the most
Is knowing this is only the beginning.
This is only the beginning of my journey.
I still have no idea, really, what lies around the next corner.
The air is rich with feeling here.
Many people have died here,
Trying to ascend further up into heaven.
(Just one week ago, Korean climbers died in a snow avalanche.
Helicopters go by searching for their bodies.)
Many people have truly lived here, reaching as far up into heaven as they can with their feet planted on solid ground.
I know I am alive right now,
Closer to the edge of disbelief,
Stretching the truth,
Overstepping my boundaries with strides of trust and intuition.
It is a feeling beyond happiness, beyond elation,
As though I would like to cry for many days,
Just for the sake of being alive.
And all from being encircled by mountains,
Snow-covered giants,
And being warm and safe inside.
Trekking Day 6
10/27/2011
Bamboo
Today it is the festival called Tihar, when the Hindu people of Nepal celebrate Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity and light. Last night and tonight, the lodge owners lit candles on the porches, which created a very magical feeling. I remember celebrating Laksmi Day in Fairfield, Iowa - instead of candles, people used white Christmas lights and strung them around their doors. Lakshmi, may my days and my doings please you, and may I earn your blessings of light, prosperity, and illumination!
Namaste
Melissa
Bamboo
Today it is the festival called Tihar, when the Hindu people of Nepal celebrate Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity and light. Last night and tonight, the lodge owners lit candles on the porches, which created a very magical feeling. I remember celebrating Laksmi Day in Fairfield, Iowa - instead of candles, people used white Christmas lights and strung them around their doors. Lakshmi, may my days and my doings please you, and may I earn your blessings of light, prosperity, and illumination!
Namaste
Melissa
Trekking Day 7
10/28/2011
Chomrong
Oh thank heaven for comfortable guest houses! After trekking only 4 hours today, I decided to stay in Chomrong with my new friend from France, Cecile. We have a GORGEOUS view overlooking the hills and river valley between here and Sinuwa, and can see the snow-covered Anna Purna mountains in the distance. All for only $2/night each! I got a bit of a sniffly cold while in the frigid, high-altitude areas, so I just took it easy this afternoon. Dal Bhat for lunch, then started reading Seven Years in Tibet - it's actually quite a good book. Tomorrow I plan to relax in the hot springs in the next town, about 1.5 hours away. Much Love and Namaste!
Chomrong
Oh thank heaven for comfortable guest houses! After trekking only 4 hours today, I decided to stay in Chomrong with my new friend from France, Cecile. We have a GORGEOUS view overlooking the hills and river valley between here and Sinuwa, and can see the snow-covered Anna Purna mountains in the distance. All for only $2/night each! I got a bit of a sniffly cold while in the frigid, high-altitude areas, so I just took it easy this afternoon. Dal Bhat for lunch, then started reading Seven Years in Tibet - it's actually quite a good book. Tomorrow I plan to relax in the hot springs in the next town, about 1.5 hours away. Much Love and Namaste!
Trekking Day 8
10/29/2011
Jinhu
Today I took it really easy, walking only 1.5-2 hours downhill to Jinhu, which is near some natural hot springs. oooh, it was so nice to sit and soak in the warm water! I had to wear my T-shirt and pants while swimming, as it is not culturally appropriate for women to show much skin. I found it funny that all the men went swimming in their underwear, though!
I have my own room this time, and as I write I am looking out through white and pink floral curtains onto a misty jungle hillside, lush with greenery. Today I had fried potatoes with yak cheese for lunch. Along with ketchup and green chili sauce...YUM! They sure do know how to serve up the carbs in these trekking towns. I'll try some eggs for dinner to have some protein.
Anyway, enough about my diet--things are going great, I'm happy, content, and pleased with how my trip is going so far. Last night was "Super Diwali" - the last night of the four-day festival called Tihar in Nepal, Diwali in India. Day 1 honors the dogs, day 2 honors the crows, day 3 honors the buffalo (water buffalo I think - black and big with curved horns), and day 4 honors the relationship between brother and sister. There was quite a party outside my guesthouse - mostly the young porters & guides clapping their hands and shakin' it up to some Bollywood music. I even danced a bit myself. I found it quite funny to speak with one particular drunken Nepali guide - he already had the whole Nepali/Hindi accent and side-to-side head wobble going on, and now his speech was slurred and he stumbled to and fro! It was all good fun.
Much Love!
Melissa
Jinhu
Today I took it really easy, walking only 1.5-2 hours downhill to Jinhu, which is near some natural hot springs. oooh, it was so nice to sit and soak in the warm water! I had to wear my T-shirt and pants while swimming, as it is not culturally appropriate for women to show much skin. I found it funny that all the men went swimming in their underwear, though!
I have my own room this time, and as I write I am looking out through white and pink floral curtains onto a misty jungle hillside, lush with greenery. Today I had fried potatoes with yak cheese for lunch. Along with ketchup and green chili sauce...YUM! They sure do know how to serve up the carbs in these trekking towns. I'll try some eggs for dinner to have some protein.
Anyway, enough about my diet--things are going great, I'm happy, content, and pleased with how my trip is going so far. Last night was "Super Diwali" - the last night of the four-day festival called Tihar in Nepal, Diwali in India. Day 1 honors the dogs, day 2 honors the crows, day 3 honors the buffalo (water buffalo I think - black and big with curved horns), and day 4 honors the relationship between brother and sister. There was quite a party outside my guesthouse - mostly the young porters & guides clapping their hands and shakin' it up to some Bollywood music. I even danced a bit myself. I found it quite funny to speak with one particular drunken Nepali guide - he already had the whole Nepali/Hindi accent and side-to-side head wobble going on, and now his speech was slurred and he stumbled to and fro! It was all good fun.
Much Love!
Melissa
Trekking Day 9
10/30/2011
Pokhara
Today hiked all the way from Jinhu, through some less-travelled trails to Gandruk, and then all the way down to Nayapul and caught a Jeep ride with some other trekkers back to Pokhara. Long day. While hiking the less-travelled trail from Jinhu to Gandruk, I had my very own personal canine guide. This dog was quite happy to plod along with me through rice fields and up and down hills, and seemed content with his role as my protector and guide for the morning. When I arrived in Gandruk he deserted me for his girlfriend at a local farm, though. :0)
The best part of my day was arriving in Gandruk, following the sounds of Bollywood music, to find a group of Nepali teenage girls dancing! They called me to dance with them, and of course I did. They were quite impressed with my style, I have to say, because I have studied North Indian dance...and pressed me to show them some American moves! They switched on a Western pop music song, and there I was trying to show them my best hip-hop and jazz moves. I think I became instantly cool in their eyes at that moment. I got some good pictures, but unfortunately can't upload them yet because my card reader is still with the stuff I left with a friend while trekking.
Namaste!
Melissa
Pokhara
Today hiked all the way from Jinhu, through some less-travelled trails to Gandruk, and then all the way down to Nayapul and caught a Jeep ride with some other trekkers back to Pokhara. Long day. While hiking the less-travelled trail from Jinhu to Gandruk, I had my very own personal canine guide. This dog was quite happy to plod along with me through rice fields and up and down hills, and seemed content with his role as my protector and guide for the morning. When I arrived in Gandruk he deserted me for his girlfriend at a local farm, though. :0)
The best part of my day was arriving in Gandruk, following the sounds of Bollywood music, to find a group of Nepali teenage girls dancing! They called me to dance with them, and of course I did. They were quite impressed with my style, I have to say, because I have studied North Indian dance...and pressed me to show them some American moves! They switched on a Western pop music song, and there I was trying to show them my best hip-hop and jazz moves. I think I became instantly cool in their eyes at that moment. I got some good pictures, but unfortunately can't upload them yet because my card reader is still with the stuff I left with a friend while trekking.
Namaste!
Melissa
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Out of the Mountains
Hey there! I'm done with the trek, and am heading back to Kathmandu tomorrow. I will post more stories from my trek in the next few days. I am having a wonderful time. That sense of traveling, where everything works out, everything is taken care of, you meet the right people at the right time...it's all happening like magic. Yesterday I met two French girls, one of whom studies Shamanism...we had a great conversation, and my heart opened again after having been closed due to needing to be "strong" in a crazy environment. We shared our experiences with spirituality and God and all that good stuff, and now I really feel like myself again. ;0) This morning I spent about an hour in meditation and prayer, inside, and felt that I could carry my open-heartedness even though the city was crazy around me. Mmm. yummy. better. :0)
Friday, October 21, 2011
Pokhara
I am in Pokhara, preparing for a trek into the Anna Purna Base Camp! Very excited. It was a long, dusty bus ride from Kathmandu yesterday. I am staying at the Pema Ts'al Sakya Monastic Institute, near Pokhara. It has been wonderful. I serendipitously met the American man who funded its construction at a Deva Premal concert in Seattle, and he said I could stay there.
It is hard to put into words how I feel about everything in Nepal. There are many tourists, and we bring a lot of money into the economy. Other than that, there are not a lot of jobs that Nepali people can get which make a lot of money. But, I was chatting with a Korean girl who said she asked a Nepali store keeper in Kathmandu if he thinks the people are happy in Nepal... he said that yes, he thinks they are, until they learn of the outside world, the developed countries, and then they can become unhappy. I feel a strange mixture of adventure, guilt, excitement, fear, and satisfaction. Well, I knew this would affect me in a big way, and it is. I still don't know the extent of how it will.
Tomorrow I plan to start the Anna Purna Sanctuary Trek. The trails at this time of year are full of tourists, so I am not worried about being alone - I am sure to meet others along the way. I won't be posting for at least ten days, maybe up to 14. But I have to be back in Kathmandu by November 4-5, so I'll post again when I get there.
Much Love!
Melissa
It is hard to put into words how I feel about everything in Nepal. There are many tourists, and we bring a lot of money into the economy. Other than that, there are not a lot of jobs that Nepali people can get which make a lot of money. But, I was chatting with a Korean girl who said she asked a Nepali store keeper in Kathmandu if he thinks the people are happy in Nepal... he said that yes, he thinks they are, until they learn of the outside world, the developed countries, and then they can become unhappy. I feel a strange mixture of adventure, guilt, excitement, fear, and satisfaction. Well, I knew this would affect me in a big way, and it is. I still don't know the extent of how it will.
Tomorrow I plan to start the Anna Purna Sanctuary Trek. The trails at this time of year are full of tourists, so I am not worried about being alone - I am sure to meet others along the way. I won't be posting for at least ten days, maybe up to 14. But I have to be back in Kathmandu by November 4-5, so I'll post again when I get there.
Much Love!
Melissa
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Morning Temples
What passion, color, sound, vibrancy! This morning I woke up early and walked South of the tourist area into the local markets and temples of Kathmandu. The highlights were seeing all the women in their colorful saris, being the only white person for as far as I could see, and seeing the Hindu religion come alive through normal everyday people. I stumbled upon a temple that said, "open to all religions," so I stepped inside. When I say temple, I do not mean a clean, sterilized place where life stops and God speaks words of wisdom. No, a temple is a rising up of the city itself and the people to meet God in a normal, everyday, chaotic manner. Amid ten or so stone statues covered in marigolds, rice, incense, and surrounded by ghee candles, there is dog shit on the street, children playing barefoot in the dust, skinny old men and women begging with open hands.
I bought a small bowl made of leaves, filled with offerings (banana, flowers, a candle), and did my best to feed the gods of this place. I laughed at myself because I was so worried about doing something wrong, or offending somebody, but no one seemed to care what I did - they were all too busy praying themselves and crowding around the particular deity at hand. I got several smiles from some of the women - like they were tickled that I was trying to participate - and one woman even helped me out and showed me what to do. There really isn't a wrong way to honor the Hindu gods - as long as you throw some rice or flowers at them or light a candle, it seems that they are happy. It was so different to sense the energetic presence of benevolent spirits in that way, spirits who are fed regularly by humans so that their energy can grow and manifest. As I walked down the street I would look over and see another small Ganesha shrine, and actually sense and feel his personality.
There were way too many shrines and temples to count, but if I had to pick a favorite, I think it would be the one that was completely grown through with tree roots, so that ancient stone melded together with living wood. That tree was the tallest, largest one I've seen so far in Kathmandu, and there aren't many other trees around. I love the way it holds the shrine in its roots and branches upwards to the sky.
I bought a small bowl made of leaves, filled with offerings (banana, flowers, a candle), and did my best to feed the gods of this place. I laughed at myself because I was so worried about doing something wrong, or offending somebody, but no one seemed to care what I did - they were all too busy praying themselves and crowding around the particular deity at hand. I got several smiles from some of the women - like they were tickled that I was trying to participate - and one woman even helped me out and showed me what to do. There really isn't a wrong way to honor the Hindu gods - as long as you throw some rice or flowers at them or light a candle, it seems that they are happy. It was so different to sense the energetic presence of benevolent spirits in that way, spirits who are fed regularly by humans so that their energy can grow and manifest. As I walked down the street I would look over and see another small Ganesha shrine, and actually sense and feel his personality.
There were way too many shrines and temples to count, but if I had to pick a favorite, I think it would be the one that was completely grown through with tree roots, so that ancient stone melded together with living wood. That tree was the tallest, largest one I've seen so far in Kathmandu, and there aren't many other trees around. I love the way it holds the shrine in its roots and branches upwards to the sky.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Kathman-frickin-du!
I made it, tired but happy, to Kathmandu. It is a city full of beeping horns, colors, narrow streets, shops and restaurants stacked high and squished tightly together. Tonight I made it to dinner at a relatively calm place, and was pleasantly surprised by some live traditional Nepalese music performers on the small stage. I am so tired I can hardly write, but sitting alone this afternoon in my clean and simple motel room, I felt the warm glow of happiness spiral inside me. This is what I have been waiting for.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Charmed
Lying underneath a blanket of stars,
Gazing up at a million tiny eyes of light,
Soul expanded,
I never knew
Such perpendicular pleasure
Until now.
The grass is tangled in my fingers.
Alpine firs murmur in their sleep.
The Milky Way slides up the soles of my feet,
A tenacious shiver in the marrow,
A warming of the tendons,
A pulse of blood inside the veins.
What is feeling
Other than physical sensation?
We think we know things-
We do not.
We only pick up on a quiet murmur
Of some voice,
Whether distant or close,
And presume it to be our own.
Who is to claim that our knees are not mountains,
Our belly is not a lake,
Our fingers are not tree branches?
I certainly would not rob that
Shy pleasure
Away from anyone I cared about.
Perhaps our bodies are not so different than the earth.
Perhaps the glue of feeling is actually starlight,
Perhaps the ambition of the heart
Is really the sun
Pressing in on a forgetful world,
Trying its best to warm us with divine foreplay
So we are charmed
Back into our bodies,
And back into life.
Gazing up at a million tiny eyes of light,
Soul expanded,
I never knew
Such perpendicular pleasure
Until now.
The grass is tangled in my fingers.
Alpine firs murmur in their sleep.
The Milky Way slides up the soles of my feet,
A tenacious shiver in the marrow,
A warming of the tendons,
A pulse of blood inside the veins.
What is feeling
Other than physical sensation?
We think we know things-
We do not.
We only pick up on a quiet murmur
Of some voice,
Whether distant or close,
And presume it to be our own.
Who is to claim that our knees are not mountains,
Our belly is not a lake,
Our fingers are not tree branches?
I certainly would not rob that
Shy pleasure
Away from anyone I cared about.
Perhaps our bodies are not so different than the earth.
Perhaps the glue of feeling is actually starlight,
Perhaps the ambition of the heart
Is really the sun
Pressing in on a forgetful world,
Trying its best to warm us with divine foreplay
So we are charmed
Back into our bodies,
And back into life.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Instead of Hovering
Instead of hovering on top of life
I have descended down the staircase of longing
And been nourished there.
Instead of holding back from
Everything that feeds me,
I have feasted
And my flesh shows it.
My bones have changed.
My mind is no longer a fugitive
Inside a cluttered skull,
But a small observer
Of the three-dimensional shape
My soul has grown into.
I think from my belly now.
Understandings come without explanation
Or mental processes.
No words
Only perception, starlight
The net of time.
A fierce knowing,
Unquestionable strength.
No need to push further -
What I need is already arising.
Surrendering to a fight is not losing,
But allowing a greater force to animate and
Carry you where you belong.
You don't realize you belong there
Until a few moments after you arrive,
Unblinking,
And recalibrate your heartbeat.
...
August 29, 2011
Journal Entry
Today I cleaned all day, scrubbed the bathroom, cleaned the refrigerator from years of roommates moving in and out. It all feels so real now. Moving out, applying for my India Visa, chatting with Emily about her travels abroad. She shared many insights learned from doing non-profit work in Jamaica and Sri Lanka for six years. She said it's best to educate someone, to teach a local person some skills and work as a team, rather than just being handed something and doing all the work yourself. That way the organization can have something valuable to continue with when you go away. Emily shared her story of how she started a non-profit that served Lesbian, Bi, and Trans women in Jamaica, how it grew organically from a need expressed by those women. What a beautiful friend, and beautiful memories. All over a delicious dinner of butter chicken and veggie curry at Kuan Yin Teahouse.
This morning was cloudy and chilly.
Tonight was windless, clear, and warm.
I collected old sparklers
Left over
From last year's Fourth of July,
And danced with them
Amongst the plum, pear, and pine trees
In the back yard.
I have come to know these trees well.
I have prayed, sung, danced, and cried
Outside
In their presence
For a whole year.
They have become my friends.
I have descended down the staircase of longing
And been nourished there.
Instead of holding back from
Everything that feeds me,
I have feasted
And my flesh shows it.
My bones have changed.
My mind is no longer a fugitive
Inside a cluttered skull,
But a small observer
Of the three-dimensional shape
My soul has grown into.
I think from my belly now.
Understandings come without explanation
Or mental processes.
No words
Only perception, starlight
The net of time.
A fierce knowing,
Unquestionable strength.
No need to push further -
What I need is already arising.
Surrendering to a fight is not losing,
But allowing a greater force to animate and
Carry you where you belong.
You don't realize you belong there
Until a few moments after you arrive,
Unblinking,
And recalibrate your heartbeat.
...
August 29, 2011
Journal Entry
Today I cleaned all day, scrubbed the bathroom, cleaned the refrigerator from years of roommates moving in and out. It all feels so real now. Moving out, applying for my India Visa, chatting with Emily about her travels abroad. She shared many insights learned from doing non-profit work in Jamaica and Sri Lanka for six years. She said it's best to educate someone, to teach a local person some skills and work as a team, rather than just being handed something and doing all the work yourself. That way the organization can have something valuable to continue with when you go away. Emily shared her story of how she started a non-profit that served Lesbian, Bi, and Trans women in Jamaica, how it grew organically from a need expressed by those women. What a beautiful friend, and beautiful memories. All over a delicious dinner of butter chicken and veggie curry at Kuan Yin Teahouse.
This morning was cloudy and chilly.
Tonight was windless, clear, and warm.
I collected old sparklers
Left over
From last year's Fourth of July,
And danced with them
Amongst the plum, pear, and pine trees
In the back yard.
I have come to know these trees well.
I have prayed, sung, danced, and cried
Outside
In their presence
For a whole year.
They have become my friends.
Rampart Lakes, Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area, Washington
September 3, 2011
Journal Entry
Backpacking with Janel and Ida up at Rachel and Rampart Lakes, near Snoqualmie Pass area. Hiked in yesterday, spent last night camped at Rampart Lakes. Today we hiked all the way to Alta Peak, just over 6,000 feet high. Gorgeous 360 degree views surrounding us. It seems there are only three elements here: rock, fir, and water. The lakes are a blue-green color, fed by glacial melt. The peaks around us are intensely barren and rugged, like cathedral spires in the distance. Lots of mosquitoes at camp and whenever we slow down or stop walking. There are other little trails here and there between the many lakes. It is so beautiful here, like honey squeezed from a jar and poured into a lake, then mixed with emeralds and sapphires and dusted with gold. Dry bones of mountains are exposed from underneath their typical winter snows. Delicate wildflowers scatter themselves all over: daisies, lupin, heather, Indian paintbrush. We saw a herd of deer yesterday - there must have been five or six of them. Sweet innocent things. They waggled their ears at us and stared with liquid ebony eyes. Tonight we played Pictionary after supper, since there are no fires allowed at this elevation. It was quite fun, and got us all giggling uproariously, especially with the one about Tibetan Poodles (or was is Afghan Hounds? lol). Tomorrow we hike down past Rachel Lake and out to our car, about five or six miles. I hope to wake in the middle of the night tonight to see some clear stars above, and to wake early tomorrow morning to see the sunrise.
Journal Entry
Backpacking with Janel and Ida up at Rachel and Rampart Lakes, near Snoqualmie Pass area. Hiked in yesterday, spent last night camped at Rampart Lakes. Today we hiked all the way to Alta Peak, just over 6,000 feet high. Gorgeous 360 degree views surrounding us. It seems there are only three elements here: rock, fir, and water. The lakes are a blue-green color, fed by glacial melt. The peaks around us are intensely barren and rugged, like cathedral spires in the distance. Lots of mosquitoes at camp and whenever we slow down or stop walking. There are other little trails here and there between the many lakes. It is so beautiful here, like honey squeezed from a jar and poured into a lake, then mixed with emeralds and sapphires and dusted with gold. Dry bones of mountains are exposed from underneath their typical winter snows. Delicate wildflowers scatter themselves all over: daisies, lupin, heather, Indian paintbrush. We saw a herd of deer yesterday - there must have been five or six of them. Sweet innocent things. They waggled their ears at us and stared with liquid ebony eyes. Tonight we played Pictionary after supper, since there are no fires allowed at this elevation. It was quite fun, and got us all giggling uproariously, especially with the one about Tibetan Poodles (or was is Afghan Hounds? lol). Tomorrow we hike down past Rachel Lake and out to our car, about five or six miles. I hope to wake in the middle of the night tonight to see some clear stars above, and to wake early tomorrow morning to see the sunrise.
Up on the Mountain, Descending, Home
July 31, 2011
Diamond Lake
Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area, Washington
Up on the Mountain
Yesterday we hiked to a grassy hillock surrounded by the cathedral spires of snow-encrusted mountains. It seemed as though we were only just born there, in the center of the Universe, blessed by the sun and the Grandmothers of the ancients. The mountains sang like bells, clear notes ringing out over river valley veins and lush pools of snow melt. This is where the deer bed down at night, those gentle, plant eating four-leggeds. This is where the seeds of buttercups, lupin, and indian paintbrush sleep under a blanket of white to be sung into flowering spring by songbirds at melting time. This is where, if you land in this place, everything else falls away and all that is left are mirrors, air, and light.
Descending
Climbing down from a mountain is a treacherous thing. At the end of the day we are tired, our bones creak and our muscles shiver. With each step we come closer to the earth, our home, our camp, our human destiny. We recross two meadows we hiked through before. We trust our previous footsteps in snow to lead us back to where we came from. The return brings flavors distinct from the departure: Sun ripening towards six-o-clock, bodies thinking of dinner, fire, and bed. We lose the trail momentarily in the snow and fear creeps in like an icy wind. Retracing our steps, restarting, regathering trust with prayer and intention, the forces of nature smile upon us again and we glimpse our path back to camp and safety.
Home
Once home by our tent we remember the gifts of being human and innocent: our particular naked bodies ringing with laughter under the splash of a mountain lake, lighting a fire with dry sticks and cozying up, telling stories, singing, eating and drinking. The hearth of friendship is warm, small, and specific - this is where you get to be you in all of your crackling bones, particular flavors, and singular scents. This is where your body gets to just be a body, where your soul can rest and your personality takes over to make jokes and sing songs for the benefit of all. Here by the fire is the unveiling of the human mystery - while up in the mountains the gods are revealed, here by the hearth the human is remembered back into glory.
Diamond Lake
Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area, Washington
Up on the Mountain
Yesterday we hiked to a grassy hillock surrounded by the cathedral spires of snow-encrusted mountains. It seemed as though we were only just born there, in the center of the Universe, blessed by the sun and the Grandmothers of the ancients. The mountains sang like bells, clear notes ringing out over river valley veins and lush pools of snow melt. This is where the deer bed down at night, those gentle, plant eating four-leggeds. This is where the seeds of buttercups, lupin, and indian paintbrush sleep under a blanket of white to be sung into flowering spring by songbirds at melting time. This is where, if you land in this place, everything else falls away and all that is left are mirrors, air, and light.
Descending
Climbing down from a mountain is a treacherous thing. At the end of the day we are tired, our bones creak and our muscles shiver. With each step we come closer to the earth, our home, our camp, our human destiny. We recross two meadows we hiked through before. We trust our previous footsteps in snow to lead us back to where we came from. The return brings flavors distinct from the departure: Sun ripening towards six-o-clock, bodies thinking of dinner, fire, and bed. We lose the trail momentarily in the snow and fear creeps in like an icy wind. Retracing our steps, restarting, regathering trust with prayer and intention, the forces of nature smile upon us again and we glimpse our path back to camp and safety.
Home
Once home by our tent we remember the gifts of being human and innocent: our particular naked bodies ringing with laughter under the splash of a mountain lake, lighting a fire with dry sticks and cozying up, telling stories, singing, eating and drinking. The hearth of friendship is warm, small, and specific - this is where you get to be you in all of your crackling bones, particular flavors, and singular scents. This is where your body gets to just be a body, where your soul can rest and your personality takes over to make jokes and sing songs for the benefit of all. Here by the fire is the unveiling of the human mystery - while up in the mountains the gods are revealed, here by the hearth the human is remembered back into glory.
Diamond Lake Dream
July 30, 2011
Diamond Lake
Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area, Washington
Last night as I slept under a blanket of stars I dreamt I was tending to a hive of honeybees. An elder man was there with me, showing me with great exuberance and a bit of clumsiness how the bees work together to create combs and honey. They were all swarming and buzzing with delicious content, their little bodies glowing golden across the delicate paper hive. As I watched I realized where we were: on the beach, atop sand, by the shoreline where waves were crashing and eating the physical reality back into the deep. I wept and cried as I watched the golden bees get swallowed up by each wave, slowly sinking into cold sand. I put my hands atop the swirls of sand and could still feel, taste, and see the honeymaking lovers of life sinking gently into the dream world from whence they came. I awoke with grief pouring out my ears and heart - a great loss that was beyond my ability to control - and I was sad. I was angry at the elder man for not being more careful about his honey and his bees. The bees themselves were not disturbed by it - their delight at honeymaking gently bled into a larger form, the collective of sandland eating them and savoring each bite. Maybe the bees secretly knew they were an offering to the Mother Earth, sent home to re-sweeten the river of nectar at the heart of her veins.
Diamond Lake
Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area, Washington
Last night as I slept under a blanket of stars I dreamt I was tending to a hive of honeybees. An elder man was there with me, showing me with great exuberance and a bit of clumsiness how the bees work together to create combs and honey. They were all swarming and buzzing with delicious content, their little bodies glowing golden across the delicate paper hive. As I watched I realized where we were: on the beach, atop sand, by the shoreline where waves were crashing and eating the physical reality back into the deep. I wept and cried as I watched the golden bees get swallowed up by each wave, slowly sinking into cold sand. I put my hands atop the swirls of sand and could still feel, taste, and see the honeymaking lovers of life sinking gently into the dream world from whence they came. I awoke with grief pouring out my ears and heart - a great loss that was beyond my ability to control - and I was sad. I was angry at the elder man for not being more careful about his honey and his bees. The bees themselves were not disturbed by it - their delight at honeymaking gently bled into a larger form, the collective of sandland eating them and savoring each bite. Maybe the bees secretly knew they were an offering to the Mother Earth, sent home to re-sweeten the river of nectar at the heart of her veins.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
New Poems
Remembering is not so easy.
It comes like pounding water
To cleanse the forced and the barren.
Grief arrives with new light.
It waters the seeds of our troubles
So the earth can sprout again.
Now what was terrible
Speaks with a velvet tongue
Inside a cloak of flame.
Listen, you might feel the
Crisp ice of new dreams
Forming inside,
Or the patient blood of warmth
Spreading into your limbs.
But whatever it does
Grief changes us.
In the alchemy of loss,
A new flavor is gained--
A mystery made more beautiful
By tears watering roots
Upon the caked flesh of your body.
Crack open,
Smile at what you see,
The day is not done
Until it is rebirthed by night.
...
Fire, flame, evanescence.
Dry earth undoing.
Ever present dignity of sky
Weave words of light
A web of trust between fingertips
Remember the lives of ancestors
Re-nourish their pain so you can
Feel yours.
Touch everything.
Feel the places where
Trees dance
At the twist of first light.
Paint a picture
Resembling your indescribable vision.
What you paint
Does not have to be beautiful,
Just honest.
Include everything.
Don't leave out your butt flab.
Inscribe a circle with you in the center.
Your internal organs, flesh, blood, bones,
Then watch the circle change.
It keeps its original weeping song
While exploring other tunes.
We stand in the middle of our pain,
Unafraid to touch and hold it,
We become people again.
We see each other's skin go pale,
Then flush with color
As the blankets draw near.
This winter night is magic:
How fortunate that stars fall through smoke
As snow onto our porches.
How plain the meal upon this table:
Present, fair, undying.
Is it a stone at the center of your heart,
Or a burning coal
Exhaling?
Keep your silence and your space,
The world is not broken
Only misunderstood.
It comes like pounding water
To cleanse the forced and the barren.
Grief arrives with new light.
It waters the seeds of our troubles
So the earth can sprout again.
Now what was terrible
Speaks with a velvet tongue
Inside a cloak of flame.
Listen, you might feel the
Crisp ice of new dreams
Forming inside,
Or the patient blood of warmth
Spreading into your limbs.
But whatever it does
Grief changes us.
In the alchemy of loss,
A new flavor is gained--
A mystery made more beautiful
By tears watering roots
Upon the caked flesh of your body.
Crack open,
Smile at what you see,
The day is not done
Until it is rebirthed by night.
...
Fire, flame, evanescence.
Dry earth undoing.
Ever present dignity of sky
Weave words of light
A web of trust between fingertips
Remember the lives of ancestors
Re-nourish their pain so you can
Feel yours.
Touch everything.
Feel the places where
Trees dance
At the twist of first light.
Paint a picture
Resembling your indescribable vision.
What you paint
Does not have to be beautiful,
Just honest.
Include everything.
Don't leave out your butt flab.
Inscribe a circle with you in the center.
Your internal organs, flesh, blood, bones,
Then watch the circle change.
It keeps its original weeping song
While exploring other tunes.
We stand in the middle of our pain,
Unafraid to touch and hold it,
We become people again.
We see each other's skin go pale,
Then flush with color
As the blankets draw near.
This winter night is magic:
How fortunate that stars fall through smoke
As snow onto our porches.
How plain the meal upon this table:
Present, fair, undying.
Is it a stone at the center of your heart,
Or a burning coal
Exhaling?
Keep your silence and your space,
The world is not broken
Only misunderstood.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
All I want is to be a woman
All I want
Is to be a woman.
All I need
Is to dance over a wood floor
witnessed by a few who love me,
to tell them who I am.
All my life is a page torn from this book,
Torn out in supposition of completeness or rage.
There is no perfect moment,
Only specificity.
The way I design things
Falls apart when I light the candles
and start to play.
The insides rewrite themselves into a future finale
And I forget why I came here.
I notice I am on stage again.
I have tears in my eyes
You look through me,
Not into me.
You see something of yourself in my face
I don't know who you are.
This tenderness of mine
I keep shut,
closed out of reach.
But on stage it is safe to show:
I give you unnamed souls,
Death crying,
A baby being born in light.
I give you everything I have forgotten to remember about myself.
I give you the way my belly flowers when I open to emotions purging in the night.
I give you a balloon, filled up with innocence and tied with a ribbon.
I give you my ambition. I don't want it anymore. You can build your skyscrapers with it
while I collect tadpoles and swim with the fish in my pond.
I will give you the maple tree I sat in as a child, climbed up and read stories all afternoon in the light.
Because all I want
Is to be a woman.
To relinquish this claim I have
On anything other than clay.
All I want is to dig my hands into earth
and live there like a tree for decades to come.
All I want is to remember what it feels like
to be a song on the wind,
An osprey taking flight
over a sun-baked river gorge.
All I want is to be the main character in my own movie,
Cello music playing in the background,
While I drive home in a dusty old pickup.
Is to be a woman.
All I need
Is to dance over a wood floor
witnessed by a few who love me,
to tell them who I am.
All my life is a page torn from this book,
Torn out in supposition of completeness or rage.
There is no perfect moment,
Only specificity.
The way I design things
Falls apart when I light the candles
and start to play.
The insides rewrite themselves into a future finale
And I forget why I came here.
I notice I am on stage again.
I have tears in my eyes
You look through me,
Not into me.
You see something of yourself in my face
I don't know who you are.
This tenderness of mine
I keep shut,
closed out of reach.
But on stage it is safe to show:
I give you unnamed souls,
Death crying,
A baby being born in light.
I give you everything I have forgotten to remember about myself.
I give you the way my belly flowers when I open to emotions purging in the night.
I give you a balloon, filled up with innocence and tied with a ribbon.
I give you my ambition. I don't want it anymore. You can build your skyscrapers with it
while I collect tadpoles and swim with the fish in my pond.
I will give you the maple tree I sat in as a child, climbed up and read stories all afternoon in the light.
Because all I want
Is to be a woman.
To relinquish this claim I have
On anything other than clay.
All I want is to dig my hands into earth
and live there like a tree for decades to come.
All I want is to remember what it feels like
to be a song on the wind,
An osprey taking flight
over a sun-baked river gorge.
All I want is to be the main character in my own movie,
Cello music playing in the background,
While I drive home in a dusty old pickup.
What if?
I once asked myself,
In a moment of pure and untamed hatred,
What would be left if everything in my life
Crumbled.
What would happen
If there was no outside or in
No looking back
No striving forward.
What if the whole world collapsed in on me
And all that was left
Was my own breathing and heartbeat
Inside a tiny white room?
"Even then," God said,
"I would still be here."
In a moment of pure and untamed hatred,
What would be left if everything in my life
Crumbled.
What would happen
If there was no outside or in
No looking back
No striving forward.
What if the whole world collapsed in on me
And all that was left
Was my own breathing and heartbeat
Inside a tiny white room?
"Even then," God said,
"I would still be here."
People become trees and stones
There are moments in time
When people stop being people
And instead become trees or stones.
A man fishing across the lake
stirs the water with one thin stroke.
A mountain's clarity sings like a bell
when on one else is listening.
The boulders at the edge of my canoe
Are hungry for a story,
one that is true this time.
This story--my story--
does not have a name, but a shape.
It has a body and breath
moving closer and farther at the same time.
There is no cavity in my body
that does not want to be filled with landscape, water, air, earth.
Elemental fantasies cling to my toes.
I remember being swathed in wilderness
Below stars
Above sky reflected in water.
I remember how I am here.
I remember the visceral touch,
The bone-edging memory
instilled in me through flesh.
O heartbeating drum,
Innocent one,
Little bird birthed from stone,
It is hardly a new beginning
without some taste of emptiness.
I forgot how to cry,
I stood shunned by nothing
escaping judgement
to lie under the sand with stem and leaf protruding.
Supposedly I know something,
A thousand untamed galaxies in my eyes.
Away from here into tomorrow,
Into yesterday,
Remembering a dream not long forgotten.
Standing on a float suspended over sea and air
Growing roots to a floor I remember
from long ago in a lullaby.
A morning song invited in
Opening up to twilight
Or dawn.
When people stop being people
And instead become trees or stones.
A man fishing across the lake
stirs the water with one thin stroke.
A mountain's clarity sings like a bell
when on one else is listening.
The boulders at the edge of my canoe
Are hungry for a story,
one that is true this time.
This story--my story--
does not have a name, but a shape.
It has a body and breath
moving closer and farther at the same time.
There is no cavity in my body
that does not want to be filled with landscape, water, air, earth.
Elemental fantasies cling to my toes.
I remember being swathed in wilderness
Below stars
Above sky reflected in water.
I remember how I am here.
I remember the visceral touch,
The bone-edging memory
instilled in me through flesh.
O heartbeating drum,
Innocent one,
Little bird birthed from stone,
It is hardly a new beginning
without some taste of emptiness.
I forgot how to cry,
I stood shunned by nothing
escaping judgement
to lie under the sand with stem and leaf protruding.
Supposedly I know something,
A thousand untamed galaxies in my eyes.
Away from here into tomorrow,
Into yesterday,
Remembering a dream not long forgotten.
Standing on a float suspended over sea and air
Growing roots to a floor I remember
from long ago in a lullaby.
A morning song invited in
Opening up to twilight
Or dawn.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
New Poems
Looking beyond a column of winters
Inside a marble hallway
I glimpse the opening
It is round, glowing
Putting my eye up close
I see fire and rain
My song
Is fleeing from this moment
My texture is one true word
Spoken from the lips of God
...
Placid waters hold no pretense at peace
Confusion can strike at any moment
From underneath the sand
The mind has unconscious ways of telling the truth:
One with words, breath, and the moment eyes meet.
The other with body,
Or a tone of song waiting to take flight
I am still figuring out how it goes
One plus one is one plus one is one...
Forgetting the fruits of my labor,
I pick memories to hold
Like apples in an orchard
The ripe ones call sweetly,
The rotten ones smell underneath.
Still, the taste of air is made whole
By the ripe and the rotten
And a tree grows tall at the center.
...
Speaking out from unchurned waters of my mind
The violin sways,
Abruptly ceasing desire to maintain a reflection that was utterly not me.
A pinprick on the tender belly
Leaves no mark.
Like an idea,
Devoid of form,
Pregnant with possibility.
I collect these words from the rough scrawback of my mind
My song unfinished
I am still singing and composing to a deer I meet in the woods
Alone, but free.
Inside a marble hallway
I glimpse the opening
It is round, glowing
Putting my eye up close
I see fire and rain
My song
Is fleeing from this moment
My texture is one true word
Spoken from the lips of God
...
Placid waters hold no pretense at peace
Confusion can strike at any moment
From underneath the sand
The mind has unconscious ways of telling the truth:
One with words, breath, and the moment eyes meet.
The other with body,
Or a tone of song waiting to take flight
I am still figuring out how it goes
One plus one is one plus one is one...
Forgetting the fruits of my labor,
I pick memories to hold
Like apples in an orchard
The ripe ones call sweetly,
The rotten ones smell underneath.
Still, the taste of air is made whole
By the ripe and the rotten
And a tree grows tall at the center.
...
Speaking out from unchurned waters of my mind
The violin sways,
Abruptly ceasing desire to maintain a reflection that was utterly not me.
A pinprick on the tender belly
Leaves no mark.
Like an idea,
Devoid of form,
Pregnant with possibility.
I collect these words from the rough scrawback of my mind
My song unfinished
I am still singing and composing to a deer I meet in the woods
Alone, but free.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Nine Muses Retreat Center, Idaho
I would like to remember this moment, poised between space, eternity, and light. I sit on a cream wool carpet inside the circular yurt. Six Shamanism students lie on sleeping bags, journaling or art-making. A view of sun-streaked grass, dandelions, and a red brick path out the front door. Laughter in the background, a dog barking. Douglas firs stretch upward behind the bones of an undressed sweatlodge.
By the pond, a swallow dips down from a pendulum flight, sapphire back gleaming, to crunch on a tiny water-borne insect. Three orange fish emerge into view from muddy depths of the pond. Hazy reflections of trees, sky, and air ponder thoughtfully upon the water's surface.
I sit here alone, longing for sky and earth to hold me again. I remember when I was little and talked with apple and maple trees in my Iowa backyard. I remember rolling myself in long swaths of dry grass underneath a country sky. I long for an open dream of space upon which to alight, like an insect finding itself in a world so utterly huge it has no choice but to be here in this instant and breathe.
I desire to be small again, to hold myself in a miniature cocoon unseen by light or flavor. I delect in the painted cloud canvas, atop turrets of trees subsuming waves of grass.
I remember who I was one year ago. I am afraid to admit that I may not be any better now than I was then. I cast off the illusion of growth and betterment for the truth of immediacy and homecoming. Why continue bartering with myself over issues of self-worth when time and sky are intermingled like cupcakes and icing? This place is not a judgement room, but a seminary of the soul.
Illustrious sky beings come to press their faces against the curve of earth's atmosphere. Their breath coalesces in pungent airdrops, forming clouds and rain. There was a time when no humans lived here. It was all trees, grasses, mud. Other beings have left their footprints and still live on in light and shadow.
I have forgotten how to walk up and over a mountain. Today, I feel the journey is not so as to stretch my limbs but to taste the circumference of my own destiny. As I walk, I circle closer and closer. This way, life is not a conquest but a meandering through beauty.
Nature brings me to tears when my body re-enters it. Something fills me like a glass vase that can never be broken. Soft, nonlinear, round, flexible. Going this way and that, meandering like a stream.
Realizing I am not alone is a marvelous thing. In the country, my walls crumble and I come to touch the skins of other beings who know the vastness of time and space. I am more attuned to the gentle nature of hugs. My thoughts don't scream quite so loudly--the din calms and I can sense the flow of waves again. Softness is an all-encompassing feeling of place: the trees affect it, the birds sculpt it, the soil holds it, the waters cleanse it. I am most alive in places where the unknown unleashes itself on landscape without plan or reason, where the mystery sculpts my flow and rocks me into a closer openness than I have ever felt before.
By the pond, a swallow dips down from a pendulum flight, sapphire back gleaming, to crunch on a tiny water-borne insect. Three orange fish emerge into view from muddy depths of the pond. Hazy reflections of trees, sky, and air ponder thoughtfully upon the water's surface.
I sit here alone, longing for sky and earth to hold me again. I remember when I was little and talked with apple and maple trees in my Iowa backyard. I remember rolling myself in long swaths of dry grass underneath a country sky. I long for an open dream of space upon which to alight, like an insect finding itself in a world so utterly huge it has no choice but to be here in this instant and breathe.
I desire to be small again, to hold myself in a miniature cocoon unseen by light or flavor. I delect in the painted cloud canvas, atop turrets of trees subsuming waves of grass.
I remember who I was one year ago. I am afraid to admit that I may not be any better now than I was then. I cast off the illusion of growth and betterment for the truth of immediacy and homecoming. Why continue bartering with myself over issues of self-worth when time and sky are intermingled like cupcakes and icing? This place is not a judgement room, but a seminary of the soul.
Illustrious sky beings come to press their faces against the curve of earth's atmosphere. Their breath coalesces in pungent airdrops, forming clouds and rain. There was a time when no humans lived here. It was all trees, grasses, mud. Other beings have left their footprints and still live on in light and shadow.
I have forgotten how to walk up and over a mountain. Today, I feel the journey is not so as to stretch my limbs but to taste the circumference of my own destiny. As I walk, I circle closer and closer. This way, life is not a conquest but a meandering through beauty.
Nature brings me to tears when my body re-enters it. Something fills me like a glass vase that can never be broken. Soft, nonlinear, round, flexible. Going this way and that, meandering like a stream.
Realizing I am not alone is a marvelous thing. In the country, my walls crumble and I come to touch the skins of other beings who know the vastness of time and space. I am more attuned to the gentle nature of hugs. My thoughts don't scream quite so loudly--the din calms and I can sense the flow of waves again. Softness is an all-encompassing feeling of place: the trees affect it, the birds sculpt it, the soil holds it, the waters cleanse it. I am most alive in places where the unknown unleashes itself on landscape without plan or reason, where the mystery sculpts my flow and rocks me into a closer openness than I have ever felt before.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
It's Normal
I am my own Universe
I am my own galaxies
I am my own sun.
I hold myself to myself
Like outer shells of valence electrons.
Coming home to the abode of my All-ness
Feels like a joke it is so easy.
No one ever told me,
But it's normal.
I am my own galaxies
I am my own sun.
I hold myself to myself
Like outer shells of valence electrons.
Coming home to the abode of my All-ness
Feels like a joke it is so easy.
No one ever told me,
But it's normal.
Heavy Bellied Cloud
Sometimes I feel
Like a heavy bellied cloud
Rising,
Falling
With each breath of wind
Carrying rain I cannot carry alone.
I wonder where the clouds are drifting to
And where my rain will take me
Letting the water come down
Brings resistance to a halt
Even stone melts in water
Even fear goes away with love.
Like a heavy bellied cloud
Rising,
Falling
With each breath of wind
Carrying rain I cannot carry alone.
I wonder where the clouds are drifting to
And where my rain will take me
Letting the water come down
Brings resistance to a halt
Even stone melts in water
Even fear goes away with love.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Dying with Grace
Through my work as an elder care companion, I was called to sit with a dying woman and be present with her as she fell asleep each night. Not many people have the privilege of sitting with a dying stranger. Tonight is my third night of sitting with Grace (name changed) by her bed at the nursing home. I smile at the wonderful opportunity she is giving me. I wonder how my presence here beside her bed is affecting her. It certainly is changing me. This evening I picked up a book by Stephen Levine called "A Year to Live." It has been on my shelf, unread, for the past two years. I am reading it now, as I sit with Grace, and I am becoming more and more convinced that this is how I would like to live this year, starting now, as though it were the last year of my life. I also like the idea of living it as though it were the first year of my life and I was suddenly thrust into the adult body of an young woman.
Right now I notice more compassion arising in my heart and in the space between thoughts. This compassion softens and gentles the edges of every opposite that occurs in my mind. Compassion is beyond argument or debate. It simply is. And I like that.
...
She is dying, sweet Grace
As I am dying
And you are dying.
We all die as we live.
Grace's body
Softly melds into white pillows under her legs.
Her arms are crossed in her lap.
When her eyes open,
They gaze into space
And seem to open from the inside,
A light radiating
Layers unveiled.
I wonder if she can hear me now
As I write this poem.
"Yes," she says. "It is very beautiful."
Grace,
As I write this poem
I am fluting a beautiful memory of you
Out into earth
For others to read and be touched by.
You may not have friends or family
But you have me and my pen
And I will do my best
To let your light shine through it.
...
Last night
As I was leaving Grace's room
I saw her roommate lying asleep
With a look of utter bliss on her face.
A slight smile on her lips,
Slowly,
She removed her hospital gown.
Smiling more brightly now
She touched each of her breasts
With a look of ecstasy.
A few moments went by
And she touched one arm,
Then the other.
I should not call it touch,
For what she was doing
Was more of an exploration
Or a discovery.
Sunlight shone out of her complexion
Even though it was nighttime
And she was sleeping.
...
I am sitting by the bed of an old woman.
She is preparing to die.
She eats no more food,
Takes no more pills.
He breath moves in and out
Calling her home.
Death stands by her head
Cloaked in black
Hands resting behind her shoulders.
Sun angels shine on the other side of the room:
Bright newness, eagles, dawn.
How interesting that both Death and Dawn Light
Are here in the same room together.
The old woman is wrapped in whiteness
In layers of sheets
Like a mummy
Being prepared for the next stage of the journey.
Whiteness moves into the Spirit realm
Where the owl and the wintertime are waiting.
The old woman is cradled in between,
Held amidst presence and past,
Time and eternity.
She wakes again,
A brief fit of coughing,
Then struggling no more.
Her eyes are open but see nothing,
Breath moves the folds of her neck
Up and down,
Mouth open, lips relaxed and parted,
Chin hanging down.
I wonder which breath will be her last.
How will she go?
Where to?
Perhaps down the infinite galaxy of time
Through a whirlpool of stars
Back home to the Mother.
...
I sit and see
My birth and death standing next to each other.
My warm baby body
Curled up
Pulsing with newness and Spirit.
The same Spirit encircles me on my deathbed.
It is very beautiful.
I am wrapped in white
I see loved ones around me, friends, family.
I am moved by the spectacle of community love.
I am receiving myself
Again
Through the ritual of body.
I am ancient.
I reach back to touch ancestors.
We are all linked by arms and hands
In a chain of forgiveness.
We pause
And look at each other
With the same familiarity
As a husband and wife.
We pause to remember where we have been
And where we are going.
For we are here,
Quite alive,
Ready to be seen and heard in our beauty.
...
When we get old, approaching 100, we become like infants again. We must have other people feed, bathe, and clothe us. We cannot do the simplest things we take for granted most of our lives - other people must do them for us. They say that a baby dies if it is not loved and held. What happens when an aging beauty is not loved and held as she approaches death? In Grace's case, this is her choice - when I ask permission to touch her, she says no. But in my case, when I am old and dying, I would like to be held, touched, and cradled one last time in my corporeal form. That way, when I get to Heaven, maybe I can better remember where I was and who I was, like a fingerprint on a stained glass window.
We are helpless when we are born and helpless when we die. Perhaps this is so our lives will be surrounded by people who care about us, so that we know we are cared for at the edges of our innocent lives.
...
Death is not such a burden. I like to think of death as an old friend who walks beside me. We are living and dying together all the time, in every moment.
...
I see Grace's tongue
Crackled and barren
And wonder if my tongue will ever be like that.
Most certainly, it will.
It will grow old and die and dissolve into earth
The way all tongues do.
Maybe the point is not to have a pretty tongue
But to use it well,
To make beauty with words and song.
Then, if mine gets old and crinkled,
I know it will be because I have used it up completely.
Finished and totally spent,
My tongue will slither into its grave
To sleep happily ever after.
Right now I notice more compassion arising in my heart and in the space between thoughts. This compassion softens and gentles the edges of every opposite that occurs in my mind. Compassion is beyond argument or debate. It simply is. And I like that.
...
She is dying, sweet Grace
As I am dying
And you are dying.
We all die as we live.
Grace's body
Softly melds into white pillows under her legs.
Her arms are crossed in her lap.
When her eyes open,
They gaze into space
And seem to open from the inside,
A light radiating
Layers unveiled.
I wonder if she can hear me now
As I write this poem.
"Yes," she says. "It is very beautiful."
Grace,
As I write this poem
I am fluting a beautiful memory of you
Out into earth
For others to read and be touched by.
You may not have friends or family
But you have me and my pen
And I will do my best
To let your light shine through it.
...
Last night
As I was leaving Grace's room
I saw her roommate lying asleep
With a look of utter bliss on her face.
A slight smile on her lips,
Slowly,
She removed her hospital gown.
Smiling more brightly now
She touched each of her breasts
With a look of ecstasy.
A few moments went by
And she touched one arm,
Then the other.
I should not call it touch,
For what she was doing
Was more of an exploration
Or a discovery.
Sunlight shone out of her complexion
Even though it was nighttime
And she was sleeping.
...
I am sitting by the bed of an old woman.
She is preparing to die.
She eats no more food,
Takes no more pills.
He breath moves in and out
Calling her home.
Death stands by her head
Cloaked in black
Hands resting behind her shoulders.
Sun angels shine on the other side of the room:
Bright newness, eagles, dawn.
How interesting that both Death and Dawn Light
Are here in the same room together.
The old woman is wrapped in whiteness
In layers of sheets
Like a mummy
Being prepared for the next stage of the journey.
Whiteness moves into the Spirit realm
Where the owl and the wintertime are waiting.
The old woman is cradled in between,
Held amidst presence and past,
Time and eternity.
She wakes again,
A brief fit of coughing,
Then struggling no more.
Her eyes are open but see nothing,
Breath moves the folds of her neck
Up and down,
Mouth open, lips relaxed and parted,
Chin hanging down.
I wonder which breath will be her last.
How will she go?
Where to?
Perhaps down the infinite galaxy of time
Through a whirlpool of stars
Back home to the Mother.
...
I sit and see
My birth and death standing next to each other.
My warm baby body
Curled up
Pulsing with newness and Spirit.
The same Spirit encircles me on my deathbed.
It is very beautiful.
I am wrapped in white
I see loved ones around me, friends, family.
I am moved by the spectacle of community love.
I am receiving myself
Again
Through the ritual of body.
I am ancient.
I reach back to touch ancestors.
We are all linked by arms and hands
In a chain of forgiveness.
We pause
And look at each other
With the same familiarity
As a husband and wife.
We pause to remember where we have been
And where we are going.
For we are here,
Quite alive,
Ready to be seen and heard in our beauty.
...
When we get old, approaching 100, we become like infants again. We must have other people feed, bathe, and clothe us. We cannot do the simplest things we take for granted most of our lives - other people must do them for us. They say that a baby dies if it is not loved and held. What happens when an aging beauty is not loved and held as she approaches death? In Grace's case, this is her choice - when I ask permission to touch her, she says no. But in my case, when I am old and dying, I would like to be held, touched, and cradled one last time in my corporeal form. That way, when I get to Heaven, maybe I can better remember where I was and who I was, like a fingerprint on a stained glass window.
We are helpless when we are born and helpless when we die. Perhaps this is so our lives will be surrounded by people who care about us, so that we know we are cared for at the edges of our innocent lives.
...
Death is not such a burden. I like to think of death as an old friend who walks beside me. We are living and dying together all the time, in every moment.
...
I see Grace's tongue
Crackled and barren
And wonder if my tongue will ever be like that.
Most certainly, it will.
It will grow old and die and dissolve into earth
The way all tongues do.
Maybe the point is not to have a pretty tongue
But to use it well,
To make beauty with words and song.
Then, if mine gets old and crinkled,
I know it will be because I have used it up completely.
Finished and totally spent,
My tongue will slither into its grave
To sleep happily ever after.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Poems of Heart and Good and Evil
There comes a time
When the sound of your heart
Becomes the most important voice you hear.
Other voices can be loud, frightening,
Even when they say they come from Spirit.
Ancestors, Spirit Guides, Power Animals, Teachers, Friends, Therapists,
They all think they know who you are
And tell you what they believe is the best path for you.
But if you see them
As anything other than extensions of your true self
You will be guided into confusion and anger.
Confusion comes when we do not trust our own voice.
The heart can be as clear as a bell,
Yet what the mind thinks and the ears hear
Can tell us differently.
The mind deals in opposites,
The heart dwells on unity.
The heart always has a simpler answer,
And it is always the right answer.
Not trusting the heart leads to fear and abandonment,
Trusting the heart leads to homecoming, presence, and celebration.
There is nothing you must do or achieve.
This is the old way of thinking
The belief in good and evil
The illusion of separation.
On one level,
Good and evil are real.
On another,
They cease to exist at all.
They are together,
And in being together they make each other whole.
...
The same occult war of the world
That happens between Good and Evil
Is happening in our own minds.
The peace we find in our hearts
Is the same peace that solves and undermines this war.
The spacious eye of the heart
Is the whole-ness
That has been there all along.
Never bragging,
Never choking.
Biding its time
In quiet depths of the soul.
...
There is no symbol
That can stand for the unity of God.
Perhaps a sun
Suspended in the center of my heart
Will suffice for now.
When the sound of your heart
Becomes the most important voice you hear.
Other voices can be loud, frightening,
Even when they say they come from Spirit.
Ancestors, Spirit Guides, Power Animals, Teachers, Friends, Therapists,
They all think they know who you are
And tell you what they believe is the best path for you.
But if you see them
As anything other than extensions of your true self
You will be guided into confusion and anger.
Confusion comes when we do not trust our own voice.
The heart can be as clear as a bell,
Yet what the mind thinks and the ears hear
Can tell us differently.
The mind deals in opposites,
The heart dwells on unity.
The heart always has a simpler answer,
And it is always the right answer.
Not trusting the heart leads to fear and abandonment,
Trusting the heart leads to homecoming, presence, and celebration.
There is nothing you must do or achieve.
This is the old way of thinking
The belief in good and evil
The illusion of separation.
On one level,
Good and evil are real.
On another,
They cease to exist at all.
They are together,
And in being together they make each other whole.
...
The same occult war of the world
That happens between Good and Evil
Is happening in our own minds.
The peace we find in our hearts
Is the same peace that solves and undermines this war.
The spacious eye of the heart
Is the whole-ness
That has been there all along.
Never bragging,
Never choking.
Biding its time
In quiet depths of the soul.
...
There is no symbol
That can stand for the unity of God.
Perhaps a sun
Suspended in the center of my heart
Will suffice for now.
Empty Space is not Empty
I do not believe that empty space is empty. When I am hollow inside, I am not a vacuum. I am full of rich soil twisted with deep roots. As my roots twist around darkness that lives in me, I feel more surely that I am whole. Darkness and shadow are companions of the light. We do not exist without our opposite. We have form and being precisely because we are a mixture of light and dark. To cast out darkness is to dismember a part of who we are. To cradle the unknown places in us, the edges of light, the deep thresh holds of darkness, is to widen our love to be large enough to hold all of who we are.
Salsa Dancing with Spirit
While salsa dancing,
My partner told me
"The Universe is like an onion,
Many layers live here where we stand.
We may not see them
But we feel them
We know they are here."
A wise teacher once told me
"All the layers are stacked up
Right here
It is only a matter of where we put our attention."
My salsa partner
Also told me
"We cannot change anyone
All we can do
Is get centered
And radiate."
...
I am remembering
The Spirit that moves through all things.
I see tiny seeds of myself
In all that lives around me.
The chickadee sings
And I know it is my own voice calling out.
The wind moves a rhododendron
And I am the one who feels it.
These things are not to be spoken of daily,
In passing,
Like chopping an onion
With a steel knife,
But held gently around your body
Like flowers or gems
Plucked from Eternity's unfolding.
My partner told me
"The Universe is like an onion,
Many layers live here where we stand.
We may not see them
But we feel them
We know they are here."
A wise teacher once told me
"All the layers are stacked up
Right here
It is only a matter of where we put our attention."
My salsa partner
Also told me
"We cannot change anyone
All we can do
Is get centered
And radiate."
...
I am remembering
The Spirit that moves through all things.
I see tiny seeds of myself
In all that lives around me.
The chickadee sings
And I know it is my own voice calling out.
The wind moves a rhododendron
And I am the one who feels it.
These things are not to be spoken of daily,
In passing,
Like chopping an onion
With a steel knife,
But held gently around your body
Like flowers or gems
Plucked from Eternity's unfolding.
Meeting Destiny
I thought
That in living destiny
I had to dance under the sun of a magnifying glass in summer.
Not so.
As it turns out,
Destiny finds us
Among stars and deserts,
Even inside a wind-weathered cave.
The way to greet her
Is with a "Hello, nice to see you again."
Hold her hand
Let her hold you
She will walk beside you
Like a friend giving flowers along a road.
Be together a while.
Do not do any data analysis
Your fingers will get tired
Your hair will fall out.
The first thing to do when you meet destiny
Is to sing.
Because you know the true flower
Is rooted in dirt.
That in living destiny
I had to dance under the sun of a magnifying glass in summer.
Not so.
As it turns out,
Destiny finds us
Among stars and deserts,
Even inside a wind-weathered cave.
The way to greet her
Is with a "Hello, nice to see you again."
Hold her hand
Let her hold you
She will walk beside you
Like a friend giving flowers along a road.
Be together a while.
Do not do any data analysis
Your fingers will get tired
Your hair will fall out.
The first thing to do when you meet destiny
Is to sing.
Because you know the true flower
Is rooted in dirt.
Stronghold of the Heart
I am ever watching you dream on and on into reality. You land on some landscape inside the stronghold of your heart. There is no love there, only life. No power, only connection. God lives there. The door is unlocked. Your secret fantasies are coming true. The more you listen, the more you wander inside your heart, the vaster your positive influence becomes. You are a rose in bloom, deepening majesty with every scent you release. There is no room left for hunger; your heart is already a tabernacle of light. The doors are open. The mirrors reflect the sun in a thousand directions.
The eagle stands guard here. No one is allowed to enter except you and God, which means everyone already has entered and lives there eternally. Step out of the lie that you think you discover more of yourself every day. You already know who you are. You have been here before. You know this place, this silent abode of secrets. Let the secrets move you like they used to when you were a child of stone. Do not dream of saving the world - you will become used up and tire of your work. Dream instead of planting seeds. Cast them widely and freely. Be as you are with no pretense at saving anyone, and people will notice the light you carry. Intermingle with everyone. Choose not to refuse but to include. For you are not separate, my love, no. Your heart was made for this. Your life was built out of your own body. You are made of mostly empty space, tingling, vibrating, pulsating. Your whole being is but a speck of dust on an unaddressed envelope, yet your feelings and intonations can rumble a thousand mountainsides.
The eagle stands guard here. No one is allowed to enter except you and God, which means everyone already has entered and lives there eternally. Step out of the lie that you think you discover more of yourself every day. You already know who you are. You have been here before. You know this place, this silent abode of secrets. Let the secrets move you like they used to when you were a child of stone. Do not dream of saving the world - you will become used up and tire of your work. Dream instead of planting seeds. Cast them widely and freely. Be as you are with no pretense at saving anyone, and people will notice the light you carry. Intermingle with everyone. Choose not to refuse but to include. For you are not separate, my love, no. Your heart was made for this. Your life was built out of your own body. You are made of mostly empty space, tingling, vibrating, pulsating. Your whole being is but a speck of dust on an unaddressed envelope, yet your feelings and intonations can rumble a thousand mountainsides.
Hollow Place
The hollow place in your heart
Is full of mystery.
Tell it to sing to you.
Open it up
Like a womb or a gift
Receive what lives in there.
It is time.
If you are scared
Or the pain creeps up
Do it anyway.
You will never forget
Why you could not get out your gun
So stop trying
And come back to yourself.
The mood will never be right
For perfection
Or honest love.
Love messily
Perfection needs to die
So that humanity
May live.
Is full of mystery.
Tell it to sing to you.
Open it up
Like a womb or a gift
Receive what lives in there.
It is time.
If you are scared
Or the pain creeps up
Do it anyway.
You will never forget
Why you could not get out your gun
So stop trying
And come back to yourself.
The mood will never be right
For perfection
Or honest love.
Love messily
Perfection needs to die
So that humanity
May live.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
The Gift
Life is not a destination.
We don't start empty and slowly fill ourselves up until we are full.
We begin with our gift unwrapped
In the center of our heartbeat.
We do not even know what it is at first.
We see inklings:
A desire for this
A creativity for that.
We begin unwrapping it
Ever so tenderly
One piece,
Then another.
Light grows as we follow the tunnel into unraveling destiny.
Gradually we begin to carry our gift on the outside.
We share it with others
And bring more breath into being.
The starlight of many generations
Is wrapped up in this gift.
If we allow it to lead us,
Out hearts open up from behind
And spirals of light extend themselves
Over outstretched wings.
Eyes closed,
We leap with our gifts in front of us,
Trusting
That the arcs of other people's starlight
Will come to carry us on.
We don't start empty and slowly fill ourselves up until we are full.
We begin with our gift unwrapped
In the center of our heartbeat.
We do not even know what it is at first.
We see inklings:
A desire for this
A creativity for that.
We begin unwrapping it
Ever so tenderly
One piece,
Then another.
Light grows as we follow the tunnel into unraveling destiny.
Gradually we begin to carry our gift on the outside.
We share it with others
And bring more breath into being.
The starlight of many generations
Is wrapped up in this gift.
If we allow it to lead us,
Out hearts open up from behind
And spirals of light extend themselves
Over outstretched wings.
Eyes closed,
We leap with our gifts in front of us,
Trusting
That the arcs of other people's starlight
Will come to carry us on.
Birth of a Body
She walks down the aisle of her own birth.
The canal is ablaze with fire
And talks of heroism.
She has returned from the underworld
Coming out of the womb
She unfolds herself
Like a moth escaping a cocoon.
The blistering closeness of skin
Is slit open as she pours out
From Mother
Empty at first,
Now full out in the open,
She takes her first breath.
Soul rushes into her
The beating heart is alive
The eyes see
The brain digests
She has arrived
Carrying the ends and beginnings of dreams
To be woven thickly together
In a nest of survival and belonging.
You know who you are when you arrive home,
To jump out of the nest is frightening
But there are those whose hands you can walk upon
Until you can stand up by yourself.
The birth of a baby is the birth of a human,
The arrival of a new gift for Earth.
The baby carries ancestral starlight
She never lets go
Of who she has become
Through the passage of birth.
Her body remembers
Being cocooned in safety,
Then suddenly thrust forward
Into motion and action.
She emerges as a lotus
Sprinkled with dew.
She is beauty
She is a babe in swaddling cloths
She unfolds herself limb by limb
Escaping darkness
And thrusting her body
Into the light.
The canal is ablaze with fire
And talks of heroism.
She has returned from the underworld
Coming out of the womb
She unfolds herself
Like a moth escaping a cocoon.
The blistering closeness of skin
Is slit open as she pours out
From Mother
Empty at first,
Now full out in the open,
She takes her first breath.
Soul rushes into her
The beating heart is alive
The eyes see
The brain digests
She has arrived
Carrying the ends and beginnings of dreams
To be woven thickly together
In a nest of survival and belonging.
You know who you are when you arrive home,
To jump out of the nest is frightening
But there are those whose hands you can walk upon
Until you can stand up by yourself.
The birth of a baby is the birth of a human,
The arrival of a new gift for Earth.
The baby carries ancestral starlight
She never lets go
Of who she has become
Through the passage of birth.
Her body remembers
Being cocooned in safety,
Then suddenly thrust forward
Into motion and action.
She emerges as a lotus
Sprinkled with dew.
She is beauty
She is a babe in swaddling cloths
She unfolds herself limb by limb
Escaping darkness
And thrusting her body
Into the light.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Some Things Need No Verification
Some things need no verification:
Sweet magnolia blossoms touched by rain
A handshake of love with your elderly friend
Knowing that you too make a difference.
Some things need no verification:
The unearthed life inside you
Touching itself with respect and attention.
One white tulip blooming in a field,
Weaving words together with ashes and smoke.
Some things need no verification:
The cleanswept rug
A quiet breathing
A baby waking in the morning.
Love has no ends
But it does have edges:
One edge touches the other,
And curves in on itself
To kiss all that is alive and growing.
Remember today,
For it is the first day of the rest of your life
And the last day of the life you have lived.
This is the day of weaving,
The place where past memories and future possibilities
Meet, touch fingers.
It is the time when no time exists at all,
Except the pounding of earth
And a blue heron taking flight.
It is the realm of possibility
Curvature of roses
Touch of doves
Glow of candlelight.
This space you abide in is called Home.
You belong here,
Between the edges of your personality
And the infinite abyss of God.
You etch out a shape among the stones,
Who welcome your brief presence
With an otherworldly smile.
You breathe in Heaven,
Aiming to carry as much of it with you as you can
So that whomever you meet
Might be made better by your presence.
You forgive.
You remember your wholeness
And that everything you touch
Is a piece of you.
You come home to yourself,
To love,
And find that this is who you have been all along.
Sweet magnolia blossoms touched by rain
A handshake of love with your elderly friend
Knowing that you too make a difference.
Some things need no verification:
The unearthed life inside you
Touching itself with respect and attention.
One white tulip blooming in a field,
Weaving words together with ashes and smoke.
Some things need no verification:
The cleanswept rug
A quiet breathing
A baby waking in the morning.
Love has no ends
But it does have edges:
One edge touches the other,
And curves in on itself
To kiss all that is alive and growing.
Remember today,
For it is the first day of the rest of your life
And the last day of the life you have lived.
This is the day of weaving,
The place where past memories and future possibilities
Meet, touch fingers.
It is the time when no time exists at all,
Except the pounding of earth
And a blue heron taking flight.
It is the realm of possibility
Curvature of roses
Touch of doves
Glow of candlelight.
This space you abide in is called Home.
You belong here,
Between the edges of your personality
And the infinite abyss of God.
You etch out a shape among the stones,
Who welcome your brief presence
With an otherworldly smile.
You breathe in Heaven,
Aiming to carry as much of it with you as you can
So that whomever you meet
Might be made better by your presence.
You forgive.
You remember your wholeness
And that everything you touch
Is a piece of you.
You come home to yourself,
To love,
And find that this is who you have been all along.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Poem for Sunrise
Sunrise. Towering up, chopped down and shaven close. Raw, forbidding. Daylit sky scrubbed blue with steel wool. Cracks crumbled from within. One inching vine crawls toward the center...where is it going? No one knows but the insides, the sap, the hollow opening in the stem. This tree grew from seed, grandfathers, anchored in stone and arching up to kiss the sky eternally.
I am a tree. I stay in one place, ever moving my hands to clasp sapphires in the air. My tongue is fire; I embellish voices in my mouth and bring them to you dried and ready. Throbbing between my toes: earth. Soft and subtle soil climbs through my pores, drips into my veins and fills my brain with lusciousness. I freeze, then thaw at the first eternal springtime. Winter is over. I survived! Now it's time to breathe again, to be new again, to live again. It's time to come back to life.
I've never been afraid before, just stuck in a place where I don't know how to get out. I can still breathe through a hole in the cave, but my eyes don't work and my body can't move. I am alive. My flesh fills with emotion. I drip with sweat, effort, work. Nothing budges except my eternal discontent.
The breaking through is a breaking asunder. Molten pieces of rock, clay, volcanic ash. I am on fire. I spew everything I own into the upper atmosphere of existence because I know my friends are up there to catch me. I know if I die I will end up clasped in the arms of an eternal beloved one. I never fear, for I too will die. I will die with you, for you, amongst you, because of you. And I will live again that one bright morning we all look together and breathe.
The breath openness, stillness, flow. The brake of innocence, sweep of stars. I know not where I came from, yet my hand aches with the desire to tell my story to you in gold-leafed pen. Will you listen? Will you shut your mouth long enough to receive one tiny message of eloquence or desire flown forth from my tongue? This is medicine--flame, fire, flamboyance.
I know you think I'm joking but maybe this iron is too hot to use anymore. Maybe my feet will rust with under-use if I forget to wear my special shoes. Do you remember the last time you took a walk with God? Did you see him? And if you did, what did you say? What can you say to God? He knows everything in your heart. He is one with you. You are his baby, his child. He loves you like a father. Then maybe all we need to say is Thank You, and put a rose on our heart to show the grace we feel.
Tender-lipped openness
A dove winding high over a mountain cliff
I forget
Why
I didn't love myself yesterday.
There were so many reasons
Yet they all vanished
The day I saw my own reflection
In sand.
Where does time go when it goes away? Back to the future? Maybe time is stored up in some beloved one's hourglass, constantly recycling itself to be used again as Mayan Calendar energy or Revelations from the Bible. Maybe all I know how to do anymore is write. Maybe I've forgotten how to be afraid. Maybe I've stepped into my ship of dreams and I am finally living life from my heart. I know I put my eye in my chest--my poems reach out from there and touch the heavens. Do aliens from other galaxies read my words that are all strung out between the stars? Perhaps they feel my prayers as the golden light reaches out to eternity.
I am a tree. I stay in one place, ever moving my hands to clasp sapphires in the air. My tongue is fire; I embellish voices in my mouth and bring them to you dried and ready. Throbbing between my toes: earth. Soft and subtle soil climbs through my pores, drips into my veins and fills my brain with lusciousness. I freeze, then thaw at the first eternal springtime. Winter is over. I survived! Now it's time to breathe again, to be new again, to live again. It's time to come back to life.
I've never been afraid before, just stuck in a place where I don't know how to get out. I can still breathe through a hole in the cave, but my eyes don't work and my body can't move. I am alive. My flesh fills with emotion. I drip with sweat, effort, work. Nothing budges except my eternal discontent.
The breaking through is a breaking asunder. Molten pieces of rock, clay, volcanic ash. I am on fire. I spew everything I own into the upper atmosphere of existence because I know my friends are up there to catch me. I know if I die I will end up clasped in the arms of an eternal beloved one. I never fear, for I too will die. I will die with you, for you, amongst you, because of you. And I will live again that one bright morning we all look together and breathe.
The breath openness, stillness, flow. The brake of innocence, sweep of stars. I know not where I came from, yet my hand aches with the desire to tell my story to you in gold-leafed pen. Will you listen? Will you shut your mouth long enough to receive one tiny message of eloquence or desire flown forth from my tongue? This is medicine--flame, fire, flamboyance.
I know you think I'm joking but maybe this iron is too hot to use anymore. Maybe my feet will rust with under-use if I forget to wear my special shoes. Do you remember the last time you took a walk with God? Did you see him? And if you did, what did you say? What can you say to God? He knows everything in your heart. He is one with you. You are his baby, his child. He loves you like a father. Then maybe all we need to say is Thank You, and put a rose on our heart to show the grace we feel.
Tender-lipped openness
A dove winding high over a mountain cliff
I forget
Why
I didn't love myself yesterday.
There were so many reasons
Yet they all vanished
The day I saw my own reflection
In sand.
Where does time go when it goes away? Back to the future? Maybe time is stored up in some beloved one's hourglass, constantly recycling itself to be used again as Mayan Calendar energy or Revelations from the Bible. Maybe all I know how to do anymore is write. Maybe I've forgotten how to be afraid. Maybe I've stepped into my ship of dreams and I am finally living life from my heart. I know I put my eye in my chest--my poems reach out from there and touch the heavens. Do aliens from other galaxies read my words that are all strung out between the stars? Perhaps they feel my prayers as the golden light reaches out to eternity.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Poems
Supple blades of power
Enjoined without snake's bitter bite
An apple opened, revealing seeds
Scattered where?
Up, around, beyond
Every motion contains presence
Power
Purity
These words
Are leaves on my tongue
Flickering fire, flaming gold
"Abundance"
"Where am I going?"
Said Twitter to Twatter,
"I'm going up frolicking hill.
And when I get there,
I"ll have lots to spare,
With enough left over to spill."
Enjoined without snake's bitter bite
An apple opened, revealing seeds
Scattered where?
Up, around, beyond
Every motion contains presence
Power
Purity
These words
Are leaves on my tongue
Flickering fire, flaming gold
"Abundance"
"Where am I going?"
Said Twitter to Twatter,
"I'm going up frolicking hill.
And when I get there,
I"ll have lots to spare,
With enough left over to spill."
February, Orcas Island
Love. Light. Presence.
Choppy waters
Tidal surge
Rocks below me
Yearning to escape tangles of fears
Knowing not how, or when
Wanting to know the deep squeeze of sunlight
That opens at the end of this tunnel
I am tracking alone, in the dark
I hear echoes, echoes, echoes
Complacent,
I march forward,
My breastplate polished and shining.
Artistry is a new voice in the pen of my soul.
I never imagined that language could contain or channel
The creative impulses of my bones.
In writing
I have found a river, a cave, an ocean to explore.
I have not forgotten what it feels like
To dance with stars on the back of a lion.
I remember being a young innocent one
Birthed from the hands of Creator's wish
A bright morning full of possibility.
I sometimes find myself drowning in impossibility:
"These are all the reasons why I can't
Move, play, create, explore, travel."
Yet something keeps pushing.
Something keeps growing and whispering inside.
It is beneath the phrases of doubt,
A heaving surging motion
Freed from desire, taste, or want
It is only an is-ness
It helps me be who I am.
Being is different than knowing.
It scrapes up from under the covers
And explains everything by mere presence.
Being is residing, staying.
Being never judges or casts out,
But welcomes in all unexpected joys and glories.
I have never heard someone say,
"You are being something wrong!"
Only I have heard people say,
"You are doing something wrong."
Being is beyond right and wrong.
It steals away the juice of judgement,
The militant pressure of opposites,
And blends asunder.
Choppy waters
Tidal surge
Rocks below me
Yearning to escape tangles of fears
Knowing not how, or when
Wanting to know the deep squeeze of sunlight
That opens at the end of this tunnel
I am tracking alone, in the dark
I hear echoes, echoes, echoes
Complacent,
I march forward,
My breastplate polished and shining.
Artistry is a new voice in the pen of my soul.
I never imagined that language could contain or channel
The creative impulses of my bones.
In writing
I have found a river, a cave, an ocean to explore.
I have not forgotten what it feels like
To dance with stars on the back of a lion.
I remember being a young innocent one
Birthed from the hands of Creator's wish
A bright morning full of possibility.
I sometimes find myself drowning in impossibility:
"These are all the reasons why I can't
Move, play, create, explore, travel."
Yet something keeps pushing.
Something keeps growing and whispering inside.
It is beneath the phrases of doubt,
A heaving surging motion
Freed from desire, taste, or want
It is only an is-ness
It helps me be who I am.
Being is different than knowing.
It scrapes up from under the covers
And explains everything by mere presence.
Being is residing, staying.
Being never judges or casts out,
But welcomes in all unexpected joys and glories.
I have never heard someone say,
"You are being something wrong!"
Only I have heard people say,
"You are doing something wrong."
Being is beyond right and wrong.
It steals away the juice of judgement,
The militant pressure of opposites,
And blends asunder.
"Misery Dies Slowly"
My dear,
You are the one who molds the shape of your life
You are the one
Who fills your body with tender-lipped caresses
So as to touch
More of the earth-opened sky
Your fingers move gently
Opening one petal at a time
You forget your name
You reach for a paintbrush, a pen,
Anything to express that
Crystalline longing
Now bursting from inside your veins
You write until your thumb is tired
Your hand now a claw,
Grasped in eternal fighting for expression.
The moonlit gaze of absoulition
Or friendliness
Is your stranger.
You fight.
You flee the one place in you where love still resides
Stay away--all doors are bolted here
There is no room left
For wanting
Your bookshelves are already overloaded
With suffering
Cast out and drip dried,
You arrive at God's eternal waiting room to find...
Being upon being in your same situation--
Displaced of thought, love, presence,
Entwined in grief
Plagued by pain
You all see each other
And grin
Not because misery loves company
But because misery slowly dies
In a room full of strangers
Who finally start seeing each other
You are the one who molds the shape of your life
You are the one
Who fills your body with tender-lipped caresses
So as to touch
More of the earth-opened sky
Your fingers move gently
Opening one petal at a time
You forget your name
You reach for a paintbrush, a pen,
Anything to express that
Crystalline longing
Now bursting from inside your veins
You write until your thumb is tired
Your hand now a claw,
Grasped in eternal fighting for expression.
The moonlit gaze of absoulition
Or friendliness
Is your stranger.
You fight.
You flee the one place in you where love still resides
Stay away--all doors are bolted here
There is no room left
For wanting
Your bookshelves are already overloaded
With suffering
Cast out and drip dried,
You arrive at God's eternal waiting room to find...
Being upon being in your same situation--
Displaced of thought, love, presence,
Entwined in grief
Plagued by pain
You all see each other
And grin
Not because misery loves company
But because misery slowly dies
In a room full of strangers
Who finally start seeing each other
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