Time travel is real.
Chasing light to Kathmandu,
The journey begins.
We are exhausted and laughing in Kathmandu. We arrived this morning after what was an adventurous and mind-altering journey across time. Jenna explained to me that if you put your finger on the globe in the mountains of Southwest Virginia, exactly half way around the world is Kathmandu. I am the furthest away from home that I could possibly be. I let the night air cool my face, my feet and the delirious buzz of tension that accompanies a lack of sleep and 24 hours of airport re-circulated air. I am thankful to be here. The streets are bustling and busy with colorfully dressed people walking amidst rushing cars, motorcycles and rickshaws who will absolutely not swerve to miss hitting you and will probably not stop if they do hit you: so be careful! Makes walking an always adventure.
We adventured our way across a bridge of trash where water still manages to trickle, up hills of sardine-squished houses whose laundry is more beautiful than butterfly wings blowing in the wind. Everything blows here: prayer flags, white linen laundry, the florescent drapes that women wear with their jeweled and gold sandals, the dust-covered hair of the street children who run after us to be for spare change, attention a friendly smile or a distraction from the daily grind. We could see the shiny gold of Swayambu - a magnificent complex of temples in the center of the city - peeking out from the trees on the highest hill in the Kathmandu Valley. Valley: the city of Kathmandu rests in a crater-like valley that is completely surrounded by a perfect circle of peaks. One can feel protected or vulnerable, depending on how you look at it. But on the steps of Swayambu - what one feels is reverence. I could not stop losing myself in the hundreds of red, white, yellow, blue and green prayer flags that were miraculously strung more than a hundred yards between the tops of the trees. Do the monkeys hand the prayer flags? I wonder. Who could possibly have the strength the hurl a bundle of flags across the entire hill so that the flags blow just so, a symphony of prayers surfing the violin strings together: beautiful music. I stood mesmerized, too, by the feeding babies of the monkey mothers who sat just by the stairwell as if to give the tourists a show, expecting peanuts or bananas or a handful of seeds. How can one not be captivated. Tiny babies, so much like humans, learned to feed and follow and walk on their four legs and hold their tail just so so that they can swing and not swirl themselves out of balance. Swayambu is a holy place where hundreds of people gather to worship on any given day. Where hundreds of people gather to worship, to sell their goods, to make a living begging or to simply watch the circus. I am the tourist. I would not say that it is a role I love to play; but I am a foreigner in a faraway land: that is not something I can change. But laugh, share smiles, greet friendly and unfriendly folks alike with a sincere Namaste - that I can do. And listen, most importantly, I can do to. Learn from this place, from the people I meet, the places I see, the surprises, the shocks, the beauty, the struggle. We are beginning: today just scratches the surface.
We go to bed early in hopes that rest will allow our delirium to bloom into a pleasant and energized state of alertness, awareness, and joy. Tomorrow another adventure. Jane, Jenna and friends come home; I come to know this home and understand why it calls them back, again and again.
Time travel is real.
Chasing light in Kathmandu,
The journey unfolds.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Mantra
Knowing love, I shall allow all things to come and go.
Be as supple as the wind, and take everything that comes
with great courage. Life is right in any case,
my heart is as open as the sky.
This mantra comes from a film that hugely impacted my heart.
Maya, the main character, walks with me as I journey. She,
a courtesan in 15th Century India, learns that her heart is
courageous enough to risk grace in even the fiercest storm.
She continues to remind me to be grateful for all the moments
of this blessed life path: that it is up to us to recognize
the teaching in even the most terrifying shadow.
I carry this mantra in my heart and often repeat it, like a
prayer, as I dance the hills and valleys of my days.
Circle of Blessings
Mother Mary in my pocket
Heart-shaped stickers on the edge of my smile
Joyful laughter in my belly
Life-affirming tears on my cheeks
Barefoot on the grass, at the edge of the green garden
I open my heart to the blessings only Mothers can offer.
Safety
Joy
Fun
Open-Heart
Adventure
Love
Friendship
Courage
Health
Learning
Sharing
Mothers make giving your heart seem so simple
Flooding generosity and love burst the seams
of my seamless heart and send me
Laughing, crying, jumping in disbelief, excitement,
and a spirit overcome by the
beauty of a circle.
A circle of women. A circle of Mothers.
A circle of women who love without question and
bless the little girl
whose eyes have only grown wider in 25 years of
walking barefoot over the earth.
A circle of Mothers in a garden.
What greater blessing is there?
Heart-shaped stickers on the edge of my smile
Joyful laughter in my belly
Life-affirming tears on my cheeks
Barefoot on the grass, at the edge of the green garden
I open my heart to the blessings only Mothers can offer.
Safety
Joy
Fun
Open-Heart
Adventure
Love
Friendship
Courage
Health
Learning
Sharing
Mothers make giving your heart seem so simple
Flooding generosity and love burst the seams
of my seamless heart and send me
Laughing, crying, jumping in disbelief, excitement,
and a spirit overcome by the
beauty of a circle.
A circle of women. A circle of Mothers.
A circle of women who love without question and
bless the little girl
whose eyes have only grown wider in 25 years of
walking barefoot over the earth.
A circle of Mothers in a garden.
What greater blessing is there?
One Year Later
The moon dazzles this Virginia summer night with a generous glow, reminding her wide-eyed children that the world is full of majesty. It takes courage to reflect the sun's burning light. But rather than standing by contemplating the pain of a possible burn, the moon opens her heart like a June tiger lily and allows the sun's light to shine through to us all: the ants of Earth, so busy about our activities.
Here I sit, surprised that it has been a year since Rosario made the choice to turn-in her bright-eyes for a cage: a year since I turned to the typing board for the whisper of comfort that free-expression offers. In a way, I feel irresponsible for not being discipline about sharing more of my Guatemala experiences with the vibrant community of people that form the jeweled necklace that my heart wears walking. All of the moments leading up to this Virginia summer night buzz with the support of friends who, like light on water, sparkle in the current that flows in my veins and keeps my spirit alive. And so, how dare I not reach out more often How dare I not share stories and in so doing acknowledge the deep gratitude I feel for the love that has made me who I am. Perhaps it is that, I arrived in a place where I was a burning flame: sun up til sundown blue-orange-yellow alive and inspired by working with children and sisters who taught me to see the smallest wonder and surf the biggest wave. Perhaps it is that I could not bring myself to plug-in to cyberspace when the just-so movement of the banana tree leaves was so spectacular. Perhaps there is no reason in particular: just that the beating of my heart feels seamlessly connected to all of the friends I've met along the way. Space and time no longer feel limiting.
The point is: I am setting the intention to re-engage with the community of brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, friends and practical strangers who have expressed interest in my journey and supported who I am with no questions asked. The greatest gift imaginable. I am on the eve of departing for a tidal-wave journey to Nepal and Northern India. Jane, a friend and teacher, slid a beautiful Himalayan amethyst on my finger two years ago and said: "Two years, love. I think it will be two years." I smiled and somehow knew she was right. Two years to the day, she asked me to be part of a team that will travel to Nepal to deliver the documentary that she and two other friends recently completed: A Gift for the Village. Please read more at agiftforthevillage.com. An incredible story.
And so, in Guatemala with a Himalayan amethyst on my finger, I say Yes! Not knowing what else to say. I knew that answer when I was born. I will have to verify with Mother, but I believe I learned Yes! before I learned No. I finished the year in Guatemala with heart and soul burning with enthusiasm and love for the community of friends, teachers, children and rich-black earth that taught me, above all, courage, humility and a limitless belief in what is possible. I have written to the children about the upcoming journey: I carry them with me into each breathing-life moment and cannot wait to smile at them from the Himalayas. The next time I visit Guatemala, I will have more colorful experiences and surprising adventures (that somehow help me excavate and ponder the brightest parts of my being) to share.
Share: that is what I will attempt to do here, on this blog that will remain Guatemala-Living In the Flow. Life does flow. As Jane pointed out: "do you see that Guatemala contains both the words Gautama and Mala?" Indeed. So it is not so curious that Guatemala leads me to India.
One day, I will fill in the blanks of the Guatemala year. A dozen journals sit under my desk waiting to be read and edited. By the time selected stories arrive in cyberspace, the will be more refined, distilled, precise. In my evolution, I am learning to edit. It is so much harder than writing! For now, I set the intention to share stories from the Himalayas: guided by a dear teacher and an amethyst ring.
Here I sit, surprised that it has been a year since Rosario made the choice to turn-in her bright-eyes for a cage: a year since I turned to the typing board for the whisper of comfort that free-expression offers. In a way, I feel irresponsible for not being discipline about sharing more of my Guatemala experiences with the vibrant community of people that form the jeweled necklace that my heart wears walking. All of the moments leading up to this Virginia summer night buzz with the support of friends who, like light on water, sparkle in the current that flows in my veins and keeps my spirit alive. And so, how dare I not reach out more often How dare I not share stories and in so doing acknowledge the deep gratitude I feel for the love that has made me who I am. Perhaps it is that, I arrived in a place where I was a burning flame: sun up til sundown blue-orange-yellow alive and inspired by working with children and sisters who taught me to see the smallest wonder and surf the biggest wave. Perhaps it is that I could not bring myself to plug-in to cyberspace when the just-so movement of the banana tree leaves was so spectacular. Perhaps there is no reason in particular: just that the beating of my heart feels seamlessly connected to all of the friends I've met along the way. Space and time no longer feel limiting.
The point is: I am setting the intention to re-engage with the community of brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, friends and practical strangers who have expressed interest in my journey and supported who I am with no questions asked. The greatest gift imaginable. I am on the eve of departing for a tidal-wave journey to Nepal and Northern India. Jane, a friend and teacher, slid a beautiful Himalayan amethyst on my finger two years ago and said: "Two years, love. I think it will be two years." I smiled and somehow knew she was right. Two years to the day, she asked me to be part of a team that will travel to Nepal to deliver the documentary that she and two other friends recently completed: A Gift for the Village. Please read more at agiftforthevillage.com. An incredible story.
And so, in Guatemala with a Himalayan amethyst on my finger, I say Yes! Not knowing what else to say. I knew that answer when I was born. I will have to verify with Mother, but I believe I learned Yes! before I learned No. I finished the year in Guatemala with heart and soul burning with enthusiasm and love for the community of friends, teachers, children and rich-black earth that taught me, above all, courage, humility and a limitless belief in what is possible. I have written to the children about the upcoming journey: I carry them with me into each breathing-life moment and cannot wait to smile at them from the Himalayas. The next time I visit Guatemala, I will have more colorful experiences and surprising adventures (that somehow help me excavate and ponder the brightest parts of my being) to share.
Share: that is what I will attempt to do here, on this blog that will remain Guatemala-Living In the Flow. Life does flow. As Jane pointed out: "do you see that Guatemala contains both the words Gautama and Mala?" Indeed. So it is not so curious that Guatemala leads me to India.
One day, I will fill in the blanks of the Guatemala year. A dozen journals sit under my desk waiting to be read and edited. By the time selected stories arrive in cyberspace, the will be more refined, distilled, precise. In my evolution, I am learning to edit. It is so much harder than writing! For now, I set the intention to share stories from the Himalayas: guided by a dear teacher and an amethyst ring.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Bright eyes: Caged Window
Sister. Make me write. For her.
For the little girl whose pretty
face stole her youth and caged her
dream window with iron bars. It
was not only her pretty face that
pushed her onto the street and into
the arms of that cool boy with the
cigarette. Full of false promises.
Promises that evaporate like the
clouds of smoke that cover his eyes.
And her eyes too. The cloud of smoke
that makes her think he is handsome
and kind and ready to offer her a life
that is better than the one she is living
in the four walls of her home. She is
only fifteen. Too beautiful. Dangerously
so. I know they are rough with her. I know
when she arrived late in the night they brought
out the belt and hit her, hurt her, maybe out of
love, maybe out of a lack of education, a feeling
of loss, a feeling of pain. Maybe I would have
run away, too. But not to the caged window. Not
to the house of this new cool catch who speaks
promises and delivers piles of clothes to clean,
piles of dust to sweep, orders to please him with
tortillas and ... she is fifteen. Orders to please
him as he spits upon her dreams of dancing, of studying,
of learning, of her own development. She was just beginning
to believe that her thoughts are worth something, that she
is capable and competent and that yes! she can fly through
that dream window if she continues to work, to try, to dedicate
herself, to believe that she can find a way out other than falling
into the arms of the cool boy who smells of alcohol. The cool boy
who sees her sparkle and wants it for himself. Wants to own it.
Wants to control it. Wants to keep it from the world.
Why didn't she come and speak to us. Why didn't she come to ask for help?
Why didn't she come and speak to us? Why didn't she dare to leave him?
Life is different, here. I realize.
I do not move to lay my judgement on these particular rhythms.
Nor doI feel it is my place to impose my cultural practices on
the youth here. But I do hope to inspire the young people of
these communities, of rural Guatemala, to distinguish the cultural
practices that continue to be useful and positive and those that
no longer serve. Discrimination against women does not help anyone.
Women feeling that there is no way out of the cycle of leaving
their parents' house to marry young (because they are already pregnant
and didn't know they had the right to say 'no'.) Settling submissively
for the cage before they have the opportunity to study, to explore, to ask themselves what it is they hope for in this life...
This cycle. This destructive, caged-window cycle must stop.
Bright-eyes. I hope you can shine through your caged window. I hope
your dreams of dancing carry you to a place of empowerment, of self-respect,
of courage. (Though as I write this, a voice inside says: 'wake up ... not
a chance at this point'.) I miss you. I share your story for all the women
of the world who are made to feel small and powerless and afraid and brainless and thoughtless and invisible. I share your story for all the women in the world who feel like they have no choice but to accept the caged-window. I write this story because I know not what else to do as heart races and throat ties a knot around my tears. I miss you, Rosario.
For the little girl whose pretty
face stole her youth and caged her
dream window with iron bars. It
was not only her pretty face that
pushed her onto the street and into
the arms of that cool boy with the
cigarette. Full of false promises.
Promises that evaporate like the
clouds of smoke that cover his eyes.
And her eyes too. The cloud of smoke
that makes her think he is handsome
and kind and ready to offer her a life
that is better than the one she is living
in the four walls of her home. She is
only fifteen. Too beautiful. Dangerously
so. I know they are rough with her. I know
when she arrived late in the night they brought
out the belt and hit her, hurt her, maybe out of
love, maybe out of a lack of education, a feeling
of loss, a feeling of pain. Maybe I would have
run away, too. But not to the caged window. Not
to the house of this new cool catch who speaks
promises and delivers piles of clothes to clean,
piles of dust to sweep, orders to please him with
tortillas and ... she is fifteen. Orders to please
him as he spits upon her dreams of dancing, of studying,
of learning, of her own development. She was just beginning
to believe that her thoughts are worth something, that she
is capable and competent and that yes! she can fly through
that dream window if she continues to work, to try, to dedicate
herself, to believe that she can find a way out other than falling
into the arms of the cool boy who smells of alcohol. The cool boy
who sees her sparkle and wants it for himself. Wants to own it.
Wants to control it. Wants to keep it from the world.
Why didn't she come and speak to us. Why didn't she come to ask for help?
Why didn't she come and speak to us? Why didn't she dare to leave him?
Life is different, here. I realize.
I do not move to lay my judgement on these particular rhythms.
Nor doI feel it is my place to impose my cultural practices on
the youth here. But I do hope to inspire the young people of
these communities, of rural Guatemala, to distinguish the cultural
practices that continue to be useful and positive and those that
no longer serve. Discrimination against women does not help anyone.
Women feeling that there is no way out of the cycle of leaving
their parents' house to marry young (because they are already pregnant
and didn't know they had the right to say 'no'.) Settling submissively
for the cage before they have the opportunity to study, to explore, to ask themselves what it is they hope for in this life...
This cycle. This destructive, caged-window cycle must stop.
Bright-eyes. I hope you can shine through your caged window. I hope
your dreams of dancing carry you to a place of empowerment, of self-respect,
of courage. (Though as I write this, a voice inside says: 'wake up ... not
a chance at this point'.) I miss you. I share your story for all the women
of the world who are made to feel small and powerless and afraid and brainless and thoughtless and invisible. I share your story for all the women in the world who feel like they have no choice but to accept the caged-window. I write this story because I know not what else to do as heart races and throat ties a knot around my tears. I miss you, Rosario.
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