I am Silence; hear me roar.

 
The following is a journal entry I wrote on the last night of my silent retreat with Adyashanti.  It's now been a month since I started the retreat and life's doubts and insecurities have slowly crept back into my life.  Even so, everything I felt and experienced from my time in stillness continues to hold true.  And I am convinced that years from now, when I look back on the path my life has taken, this week that I spent by myself, with this teacher is one that has changed the trajectory of my life.








The last night of Adyashanti.  The last night of silence.  The retreat ends tomorrow at noon.  I'm not ready and it's time.  Time to integrate; to experiment; to see.  There is a time for learning and a time for living.  That is when we see if we have learned, what we have learned, how we have learned.  It's the time to see if the teachings have life beyond word and feeling.

This week has been a revelation.  No big awakening or  mind-blowing visions but rather a quiet and profound deepening, returning.  So many memories have come back to me this week along with the insight that time, space and knowledge allows.  It started as a trickle and then today the floodgates opened up.  Memories of adolescence, the divine disguised as the mundane, came back to me in vivid swirls of flashbacks: the teachers and teachings of my spiritual journey thus far:  my first gurus at St. Joseph's Church, Father Piet and Sister Mary Lou; my 3rd grade CCD teacher; the time Mr. Dascoli, my high school History teacher, asked me to argue the existence of the soul; recognizing my trip to West Africa to study drumming and dancing was actually one of my first spiritual pilgrimages; and on and on.  
There came to me an understanding that my life has not been a series of disjointed, unconnected, jumps from one thing to another but rather a thoroughly connected journey where each step has led me exactly where I am; perfectly where I need to be.  And more important than that, realizing that I have never strayed from the path I have been trying to find all this time; the path of true being and authenticity; to spirit, divinity...dare I say...GOD.  Recognizing that the same God that I spoke to in the bathroom countless nights during my childhood through a face full of tears is still with me.  It's the intuition and the inner voice that guides me to this day.  The one that was there for me through that tearful, confusing childhood; the one that stood up to my parents and turned my family life upside down; the one that told me to move to the Caribbean; the one that popped into my head after my beloved doggy Bronx died and whispered, "travel the world"; the one that guided me here - to Omega.  The suffering has come not from hearing that voice but from invalidating it; consistently denying it as illogical and struggling to justify it's voice to the outside world.  I may not be awakened but I've made it this far because I have made realizations and ultimately though all the chatter, I've ended up listening to that inner voice. 

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming...

It's been quite a break I've taken from my blog but not from my life...not from this journey.

My world trip ended and I found myself back; an unfamiliar person in an all too familiar place.

Home.

or was it.

What is home, now?

Where is home, now?

Coming home.

Leaving again.

Returning to...

taking off...

In some ways, I collapsed.  Fell into the comfort of the warm grooves of this accustomed space.

In some ways, I expanded.  Found those loved but long forgotten people, places and things; clearing space for a bigger blossoming. 

In the end...It didn't fit.  I didn't fit.  I never had.  

But at least I felt welcome and returning is no longer painful.

And so, I am off again on a new adventure.  

A new life

in a new home

with a new tribe.

working toward the Omega point.

More will follow...when I am inspired to share, to write.

For now I am still pausing...

"It all comes from learning to pause for a moment."

maybe I'll follow this path...

or maybe this one...

Sacred Sunday stroll...

Buddhist Monk sitting on a bench 

Skipped out on morning practice because I wasn't feeling well. I walked the Chora this morning...a Chora is a circumambulatory walk done around Tibetan temples. Often there are prayer wheels that you turn as you walk that are built around the outside of the building. The Chora I walked this morning was a trail really. It was the Chora that surrounds the complex around the monastery, temple and home of the Dalai Lama. A walking meditation. It was unbelievably moving; watching as monks passed by in their crimson robes and old Tibetan grandmas and grandpas, one hand gripping onto canes, the other clutching their fingers around each little stone of their malas, breaths heavy, as they mumbled their mantras; families, kids tagging behind parents, dogs tagging behind owners, girls clasping hands or elbows; monkeys crossing the road or swinging from the trees, their families in tow as well; brightly painted rocks and tiles displaying mantras in sanskrit..a few loudly proclaiming "free tibet"; rows and rows of prayer flags waving in the wind..climbing up and up...the mountain landscapes of the Himalayas providing the backdrop for it all. It was overwhelmingly beautiful and overwhelming period.
I felt honored to be allowed to walk this path, to be a part of what was surely a daily ritual for many there that day. I felt the urge to make the sign of the cross.

Prayer wheels 

Growing up Catholic; that is my go-to instinctual religious move even though it has been years since the church was part of my life. I was incredibly religious as a child; talking to god all the time, praying and secretly loving going to church. By the time I finished college, I had learned too much about science and history and philosophy...about "the real world" to believe in a omniscient being who's purpose it was to create and judge.
But seeing another culture, another religion's reverence for the divine, I felt a new respect and connection with the ritual of celebrating the sacred, the unknown, the mystery. There is something about seeing everything in life as an opportunity to praise the fact of life and being alive. From waking up to eating to going to the bathroom...(seriously!) everything can be a practice for noticing and celebrating the divine. Maybe my divine isn't a god with a white beard floating on a cloud but those are merely details, totems, signposts, vehicles that try to explain not only why and how we are here but why as humans we even think about why and how we are here. Right now..for me...it doesn't matter why, I'm just grateful that I am here, right where I am.

A sea of prayer flags...if you look closely you might be able to spot a cow resting underneath them...

Are you there, Buddha? It's me Cristina...am I enlightened yet?

I would be lying if I said I didn't have expectations. I left everything behind for the better part of a year! Just me and the world...I imagined how each new place and experience would change me physically, mentally and spiritually into the person that I knew was inside me trying to break free. This was no mere "vacation"; I was on a vision quest!
And it seems like everyone around me supported this vision. I can't tell you how many people made references to the book/movie "Eat, Pray, Love". And although, I never saw it, I was on board...after all, most Julia Roberts movies have great happy endings. And even though I ate (Boy did I eat!) and prayed (in churches, cathedrals, mosques and temples) and even loved a little (a lady never tells!) as I arrive toward the end of my adventure, I feel quite ordinary...no worse...I feel the same. I'm still the same ball of nueroses I was before I began. And I gotta tell you, it's more than a little disappointing.
My first solo adventure was to Mali West Africa when I was 20. Barely out of my teens; I still saw myself as the shy fat girl that defined my self image during much of my youth. In Africa, I became a Nubian goddess. drumming and dancing 8hrs a day, I shed pounds and gained confidence. I did and saw things I never imagined. I came back changed.
Last summer, I found myself literally living in paradise yet feeling like I was trapped in a prison. Outside the sun was shining 360 days a year but I only noticed the rain. I remembered that time in Africa where I was focused and moving and happy. I wanted to recreate that feeling. So I went to Mexico and studied yoga and meditation for 8 hrs a day. I gained strength, lost weight and learned to stand on my head. I literally flipped my perspective and came back changed.
So...what gives?
Solo adventure...check.
Exotic locale...check.
challenging my body...check.
Transformation...uh...nope.
And maybe that's the lesson.
Maybe I have come to a place where I need to stop running toward the next adventure, the next once in a lifetime experience. Maybe this time I turn back and face that shy fat awkward girl. Because you know what? She's still there and still hurting and instead of taking her in my arms and squeezing her tight with love and compassion; I keep trying to change her.
As a dear friend, much much wiser than me said; I have got to make friends with that scared angry awkward judgemental girl inside of me and try to love that part of me that is kicking and screaming and raging against it all like an angst ridden hormonal teen.
I think my greatest adventure may be yet to come; that of being still and present and raw and broken. In a couple of weeks, I am literally "going home". I will be back in my parents house with no job, no obligations, only time. It's a place that scares me more than any foreign country ever could. But maybe, just maybe, it's a place where I can find my happy ending...

Indiaaaaahhhhhh!!!!

Well the European adventure comes to a close here in Athens and the Asian vision quest begins....
Five months of travel...done!
What have I accomplished?
How have I changed?
Have I accomplished anything?
Changed at all?
Who knows? It's most definitely too soon to tell. In my pre-trip fantasy, at this point I had envisioned myself as super-fit from all my walking and eating fresh local fruits and veggies;
relaxed and calmed by the solitude of my travels; invigorated by all the wonders I have witnessed and above all-ready. Instead I feel soft around the middle from my steady diet of cheese and carbs; sluggish, tired and broke down from endless hours of walking and mentally exhausted from the sheer amount of sensory information I have taken in these past months.
I could use a yoga class!
And so I am reminded (and was reminded by those close to me) that whether or not it looks like I had envisioned, everything is coming together just as I planned; as it is supposed to be.
And so ready or not...I am jumping head first into my adventure within my adventure.
Ready...
Set....
Indiaaaahhhhhhh!!!!!!

Graffitti Barcelona

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Family Ties...

After 3 months of travel, touching down in Italy felt a little like coming home. It always does. Even though each time I go I am reminded that I am more American than I care to admit. Italy is a refuge, a solace, a fantasy. I've been escaping to this place since I was little. It's always been a place where I could relax and reflect. And even though I still had almost 4 more months of travel ahead of me, Italy was not a place to linger but rather a pit stop; a place to recharge my batteries and take inventory of where I was at the halfway point.
Instead it turned into an all-you-can-eat buffet of food and guilt. That is also Italy for you. My family; Aunts, Uncles, cousins, friends, all bent over backwards trying to get me to eat, drink & stay a little longer. If food is love then I was showered with constant kisses all throughout my Italian journey. I felt heavy both physically & emotionally by the weight of the food and the love that it symbolized.
When you live far from your country of birth, there are always going to be people you love who are far away. And though a part of me wanted to stay, ultimately I knew I had to finish what I began.
It felt selfish.
I felt guilty.
Traveling alone is lonely and here was a country filled with people who wanted me to stay.
But vacations end.
And you can't live in a fantasy.
There is a comfort in being with my family that is dark. It's like the part in the Wizard of Oz where Dorothy falls asleep in the poppy field.
I get cozy and sleepy and warm and forget that there is a mission; a goal.
The work of living is tiring and sometimes it's nice to sleep and let someone else take care of it all. The old patterns may not serve you but they are familiar and require little effort unlike the constant attention needed to figure out your next stop, your next step and how to get there.

Got a touch of poetic inspiration as the bus left the station and I waved a final goodbye to my "Zio".

Train station in Carrara...close to where I used to live from 0-5 years old.

"Time flies
No sooner have you set down your roots
Then the time comes to fly again
Though greener pastures await you
The thought of sunsets remains
The dark and the cold and the hole that's left as you're walking away
I want to hold the entire universe in my hand
I want to hold the whole entire world in my hand
I want to have my entire universe safe in my hand
Squeeze it tight
Keep it warm
Have it all
Then I could never stray too far from you
From all that is love and all that is dear
Oh these thoughts
Oh the fear
Oh the fear
Oh the fear
To leave
To leave the ones you love"

The Vagina Monologues- Morocco Edition



The busy streets of the Fes Medina
 (Mr. Australia with the backpack)



Morocco is great! The people are friendly, helpful and always willing to show off a little something they know about your language/culture. There was the girl on the train who nudged me awake before she got off at her stop so that I wouldn't miss mine. The taxi driver who realized I was nervous arriving in Fez at midnight and so got out and walked me to the front door of my hostel. And the lady at the bus station who excitedly told me her great grandmother was Italian and spent 20 minutes telling me how much I looked like that side of the family. I have truly found kindness and generosity in the people here. But everyplace has its assholes and Morocco is no exception. At times the nature of Moroccan life itself can be infuriating. This is a hustling, bustling, scrappy, gritty place and the hustle is always on. You can NEVER simply ask for directions; can't be seen looking at a map. Even your gait needs to be steady, for a hint of hesitation is an invitation for an offer to "help".

"My friend! You want to go to old city? Come. Come!"

Some will straight up tell you they expect to be paid. The sneakier ones will say it's free, then ask for a "gift" at the end. On the whole, the concept doesn't bother me. I get it. I read the guide book. I know what I'm getting myself into. I have no problem with smiling politely, firmly saying no and then walking away. I'm also not worried about being perceived as rude for ignoring the more persistent ones who, even after a firm no, follow you down the street or start walking in front and guide you regardless. Most of the time, I found people really nice and helpful even after my "no's". However, things change when traveling with others. You and your co-horts need to be on the same page.

Here in Fez, I was fortunate enough to find a friend; well he found me, a bright, funny, extremely intelligent Australian who was also traveling alone. We got along swimmingly. He; however, was too nice and his idea of a firm "no" was wobbly at best. Most times he would rather slip someone money than deal with the hassle. And let's get this straight, we're talking about 1 or 2 dollars to navigate a labyrinthine city center (the largest in Morocco) that even with the best map would still confound. Overall the pairing was perfect; good cop/bad cop. Sometimes he would acquiesce as I would roll my eyes and other times I would step in when we really didn't need the hassle. This morning, however; something went wrong. Maybe it was because we had acquired a 3rd person; a friendly and quite chatty Chilean guy. Maybe my patience was wearing thin from the day before. I don't know. All I know is that we knew roughly where we were going...the Jewish Quarter to visit a cemetery and synagogue...and we knew we were heading the right way. All of a sudden a guy approaches Mr. Australia (since I'm a woman I'm never approached when in the company of a man). The guy offers to take us somewhere. I can hear Mr. Australia mumble under his breath, "oh not you again" and then continue,

"Oh thank you. We're just walking around. Thanks!"

I don't hear him actually use the word "no" but I do watch him nod his head up and down while he speaks.

It's clear that while he's speaking English, the finer points of the language may be lost on this Moroccan guy. I'm pretty sure that all the nodding and thank you's will NOT lead him to leave us alone and now our little group is stopped in the middle of the square. So I turn around and with my hand on my chest (a gesture of respect in Morocco but one I had the habit of doing even before learning this) and say, "Thank you but no", twice firmly but not angrily or aggressively.

FUCK YOU!
That's his response. And he doesn't stop there.

"Who are you to do this (he mimics my gesture) and talk to me like this. Fuck you and I fuck your mother!"

My companions are shocked. Strangely enough, I'm not bothered. His words cause no reaction in me and I don't fear for my safety. I'm pretty sure a young Moroccan boy is not gonna use violence on a woman tourist in an open square in the middle of the day. Also I find I have a pretty good instinct about who is just blowing off steam and who has a real potential for violence. And so, I am calm-even pleased. My intervention has had the desired outcome. The guy turned, walked away &; left us alone.
I turned around to my new friends.
"Wow...ok...I wasn't even rude to the guy, was I?"
Mr. Chile responds, "Well, yes..you ARE a woman".
I stop short. I feel like I've just been told to remember my place. I feel like I've just been gut-punched. Then Mr. Australia says something about me coming off as masculine or aggressive or something. I don't really know because I can't really hear him. He's standing right next to me but I am crumbling into myself. My entire sense of self plummeting to my feet as a hot molten rage boils and rises; ready to blow. My insides are crying and screaming. I open my eyes and realize the universe is not as I thought. No one here thinks I'm equal. Even these seemingly seasoned travelers believe there is something not right about a strong direct stubborn, outspoken female. I can't believe they would have found anything wrong with the same action had it come from a "dude".
Heavy with sadness, I took a moment for myself to breathe and let the tide of emotions swing wildly until it passed. But I was changed. After that I became acutely aware of my tone, my choice of words. I didn't offer my opinion; kept my thoughts to myself. I realized that it is these subtle beliefs that can be more damaging than blatant ignorant brutality...which can easily be ignored.

Barcelona

Some places you just know.  Barcelona and me...love at 1st sight.  I travelled to many amazing cities; London, Paris, Amsterdam but Barcelona felt like home.  It felt like a place that I could put down roots.
So please forgive me for the sheer amount of photos in this album and keep in mind that I started with over 900!  So take a gander and I hope you fall in love with Barcelona as well...

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Morocco- Day 1 Part 2-Masamba..ooh say it again..

Masamba...hanging in Tangers.

It only took a few moments standing alone in the middle of a square before I made the acquaintance of a tall, handsome, dark chocolate, deep-dimpled, Sengalese boy named Masamba. I was standing at the entrance to the Medina trying to inconspicuously figure out my map. At first I didn't notice him; didn't even realize he was trying to talk to me. He sat on a ledge about 5 feet away...speaking French. I thought he was on the phone. The 2nd attempt he leaned in towards me. I dramatically ignored him; staring intently at the map in my hands. He tried 2 more times. It was distracting. I needed to give my map my complete attention. I needed to address this. I look up and uttered that familiar French phrase, "Je ne parles Francais". He asked what I spoke.
English?
He shook his head sadly..
Español? He asked hopefully.
I hesitated but finally nodded.
Come stai, he asked...in Italian.
Wait...what?!?
Suddenly things got interesting...
Turns out, Masamba had spent two years in Italy and spoke enough Italian to carry on a proper conversation. We chatted for a bit. He told me how he had followed a friend to Italy (illegally of course) & eeked out a living selling umbrellas, socks etc. on the street. He really liked Italy but with the economic crisis he wasn't making it.  Morocco wasn't any better but at least it was easier to be under the radar. I got a really good vibe from him so when he asked if I wanted some company, I said yes AFTER making sure he understood I wasn't looking for a guide nor would he be paid with money or anything else for that matter. All I had to offer was an afternoon and conversational Italian lessons.
His face dropped. He obviously felt offended and told me I would learn he was not like that.
And he wasn't.
He was clearly interested in me but behaved like a perfect gentleman. We got along like fast friends. I was grateful to have a local to wander around with on my first day in Morocco and I found him to be fun to talk to and easy going as well.
Then at one point late in the afternoon, while we were visiting the American Legion Building (side note: did you know Morocco was the 1st country to officially recognize the United States as a country back around 1789..yup!) Masamba got a very serious look on his face and made me sit down on a chair in the courtyard. He swung his chair around to face mine. He asked if he could go with me to Fez and onward through the rest of my time in Morocco. He had been building up to this all day; joking about coming with me to my next stop but this time he was thoughtful and careful with his words. He made me sit still and look him in the eye as he spoke so I could know he was serious. Then he began.
"If I tell you that I love you, I know you won't believe me."
He went on to tell me how he had gone to a fortune teller 2 weeks ago who told him that he would soon be meeting a woman, older than him, a white woman, who he was destined to marry. He had been waiting in front of the Western Union office across the street from the square when he saw me. He almost never approached women, definitely not white women; definitely not as an illegal black man in Morocco but something about me drew him in.
Uh-huh.
Now this story comes as a surprise to absolutely...noone who knows me at all. I swear my ample ASSets act as a honing beacon to any man within radius that has so much as a hint of African ancestry! After 35 years and the past 4 living in the Caribbean; I've heard more than my fair share of over the top but hollow declarations of true love.
But...
But Masamba was so earnest. He kept looking down and rubbing his sweating hands down the legs of his jeans. He told me he felt embarrassed to tell me all this but he knew I was leaving on a train that afternoon and it was now or never. He wouldn't get another chance to get these feelings off his chest.
Suddenly, my go to move of rolling my eyes and making a snarky comment didn't feel appropriate. My heart leapt from my chest and broke for him. I felt like I could cry from the power of his quiet emotion. The only problem? I didn't share his feelings. He was so nice. Part of me just wanted to make him happy and say, "The hell with it! Let's go! If I can't fall for a sweet, polite, funny, good looking guy professing his undying love for me...well...who then?!?
In the end, we exchanged email addresses. And as I left for the train he told me I didn't know what it felt like to want something so badly that isn't wanted in return.
Oh Masamba...if only that were true..

Morocco: Day 1-Part 1

Sitting on a hot train in Tanger on my way to Fez. I have (nearly) survived my first day in Morocco. I'm not gonna lie; I was nervous. I've just spent a month in Spain comfortable enough with the language & culture that I could explore without any fear. It also didn't hurt that with the appropriate sized hoop earrings...I could easily pass for a local. Morocco, although a place I was extremely excited to include in my itinerary, posed many obstacles. In my mind's eye, Morocco came jam-packed, loaded with tons of preconceived notions. The guide book I bought to arm myself with knowledge vs stereotypes did nothing but heighten my anxiety. I should tell everyone I was married. I shouldn't walk alone after dark. To prepare myself for the slack-jawed stares of the Moroccan men, I should avoid eye contact and arm myself with a good pair of dark sunglasses. The streets were filled with nothing but people trying to hustle you at every turn.
So I prepared myself. Armed with a steely gaze and surliness perfected from nearly a decade of living in NYC, I stepped off the bus in Tanger. No sooner had my foot hit the pavement when an old leathery man in a plaid shirt and dusty jeans approached me.
Taxi?
I firmly shook my head no, careful to not make eye contact. I grabbed my bag and hurried purposefully down the street keenly aware that he was following me and asking me questions. I ignored him which was easy to do considering he was speaking in French. He caught on and switched to Spanish.
That's when I realized that I was walking down the street in a foreign country without any clue as to where I was or where I was going; and all without a dime in my pocket. Whether I liked it or not; I needed help.
I turned to him and said that I did not need a taxi or a guide or help; I jut needed to be pointed in the direction of an ATM. He told me I was going the wrong way and immediately began to lead me down the street.
Oh great! I panicked and my mind began racing. Now this guy has latched onto me and is going to pressure me to drive around with him as my guide all day! At the very least, he's gonna follow me around until I give him money which he knows I have because...well...he's walking me to the ATM.
Fail! I can't believe I let this happen. Then a funny thing happened. We chatted a bit; he showed me the ATM and then hailed me a taxi. As he shot me a wide toothless grin and wished me well on my journey; I realized he didn't want anything at all from me.
The cab driver; the guy who helped me figure out the train schedule; the porter at the left luggage office- everyone was so open & kind. After the 1st 30 minutes in North Africa, every stereotype I had was shattered. By the time I made it to the entrance to the medina, I was ready to drop the surliness and explore the old city streets.
Then I met Masamba...but we'll leave that story for another day.

The French Riviera - Final Thoughts

Outside of a day in Nice and one in Monaco...I spent the rest of my Frenchy time loungy on the beach...travel is tiring & it's always nice to have a somewhat free day...I did decide to go on one other adventure...to Cannes...but I was REALLY dissappointed by it. It reminded me a little of L.A. a little superficial with a huge theatre (along with the requisite celebrity handprints running along the front of the buiding) and a mediocre beach. Maybe you have to see it from a yacht during a film premiere to truly appreciate it! less…

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The French Riviera - Nice

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Versailles

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Paris

So I have finally gone through my pictures of Paris. It was a daunting task. 1...because I took loads of pictures since Paris is iconic and stupid gorgeous. But also my camera broke in Paris and I got a new one and when I uploaded the pictues they were all in the wrong order and such. They still might be.

Paris is an amazing city. I have a love\hate relationship with my time there. Had it tough in Paris, personally and emotionally but I also saw some amazing things. Had a life changing moment with the Monet waterlillies...saw fireworks....made friends...

Hope you all enjoy the photos!

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Toro! Toro! Oh, no!

  This morning, my last in Seville, I found myself anxiously pacing back and forth outside the bullfighting ring like..well...like a bull sizing up the enemy. On the one hand, I am in Spain trying to soak up and understand Spanish culture & history. On the other, I'm a year old vegetarian who studies yoga and has trouble killing a bug. Still, how can I criticize something without understanding it and what better way to understand it than by touring the oldest bullfighting ring in Spain? But what is there to understand? Bull enters ring. Bull more than likely dies a slow painful death. The crowd cheers. Do I really want to give my money to support that kind of "entertainment"? Defiantly, I walk away. I realize my statement is small and the €6 I've kept in my pocket will not crumble the National Bullfighting Association of Spain..or whatever it is they call themselves.

Tradition, History. It's a part of the Spanish identity and cultural heritage; just as important as its language, music or art.

The fact that Bullfighting still exits in 2012 in modern western society is quite curious to me. Italy hasn't carried the tradition of gladiator fighting into the 21st century and as far as I know, jousts or duels to the death are no longer part of western culture. And no, the show at Medieval Times does not count!

Bullfighting is so blatantly violent and bloody though. I just don't understand how the Spanish people (more more specifically, the Andalucians) can accept and celebrate it under the guise of sport, tradition or art.

On the other hand, I don't think most of us have to go looking too far to find something we participate in or

readily accept that flies right in the face of our core beliefs. I know

I don't.

I just need to look down at my wrist.

June. Toronto. The distillery district. My friend had taken me to a really cool spot that had lots of working artists selling their wares. I found a bracelet and immediately fell in love with it. It was a cuff shaped of leaves and flowers. It highlighted the dove tattoo on my wrist so much so that it looked like the dove was perched on one of the leaves. I decided it was made for me. I got home & showed off my purchase to my friend's husband.

"Is that made of leather? Hey! Aren't you vegan?"

No! I am not vegan.

Technically true but the point was clear. And it stung.

At what point to you go from being an ignorant bystander to active participant?

I decided to stop eating animals after studying "ahimsa" or non-harming during a yoga retreat; yet, if I really stop & examine my daily life, there are many ways in which I do harm every day whether it be in the products I use or the companies I choose to support or even the thoughts I have.

I'm not saying we should take up every cause; grab a bullhorn and go preaching through the streets or conversely to throw our hands up in defeat because we are overwhelmed by it all. Becoming a vegetarian was a huge step in aligning my core beliefs to my daily lifestyle but I realize it is just a step and not the end goal. It won't happen overnight but I want to remain vigilant and keep my eyes open to the silent complicity in my choices and see if there isn't a way to turn it into a roar of quiet protest; like keeping that €6 in my pocket.

IAMSTERDAM!

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La muerte de Señor Cucaracha

A funny thing happens when you become an observer; you begin to see things...





Although I have already seen many iconic sites on my journey; from the Golden Gate bridge to Big Ben to the Eiffel tower, the purpose of my travels is not only checking off items on some invisible inner bucket list of places and things. There is also a second, concurrent journey happening; an inner journey, a time to reflect and take inventory of where I truly am and would truly like to be. And just like the trusty Michelin Guide I picked up on my first day here in Spain, I am not without "guide books" for the inner journey as well. Among other things, lately I have been reading and rereading passages from "The places that scare you" by Pema Chodron and auditing a UC Berkley "Intro to Buddhism" class via iTunes.  I find most of this stuff boils down to the same practice.  Be in the moment...observe. Perhaps it's an oversimplification probably informed by the fact that all my days consist of is observing: go someplace, see something, process & repeat. It's an interesting parallel. So I study and reflect and meditate, not quite sure if anything is changing. I don't feel zen or peaceful or one with the universe. Quite the opposite. When you begin to open that channel, you feel like a crazy person.
Enter Señor Cucaracha.
I have just put my bag down and am waiting for my overnight bus to Bilbao when I see him; merely inches from my foot, motionless. I wonder if he's dead.  If anyone knows me they know my aversion to cockroaches. Now I know no one "likes" them but my dealings with them border on the irrational. I once called a boyfriend in the middle of the night because I had found one in my apartment. It was clearly dead; on its back, yet I was having a near panic attack, frozen with fear and unsure what to do. He stayed with me on the phone and after 20min I was able to summon the courage to sweep it into a dustpan. But I couldn't throw it in the trash; couldn't have it in the house so I opened the front door, ran to the curb, and flung it across the street. That's just one example.
But as I am now a Zen master, I have learned that just because I am bothered by something doesn't mean I have to react. I can sit and observe. So I tell myself, "This cockroach has as much right to be here on this earth, in this bus station, as I do. He's not actually doing anything to me". So I sit and I breathe and even though the inner panic starts; instead of pushing it away, I bring it closer. I try to quell my thoughts and focus on the feeling of fear underneath that's fueling them and  I just try and experience the physical sensation; the hairs on the back of my neck; the twitchiness of my muscles; the heaviness in the pit of my stomach. It's intense but instead of continuing to panic the emotion subsides. Señor Cucaracha & I? We cool.
As I sit and wonder at the power of my mind and pat myself on the back for being able to harness my thoughts, a bus worker comes by to smoke a cigarette and steps on the cockroach; not enough to squash it, mind you, just enough to mangle one of it's legs and flip it onto it's back.  I jump up and move away.  I look down at the cockroach and watch it's legs and antennae flail around as it struggles to right itself.  I watch the cockroach struggle and then...well...then I start feeling the cockroach struggle.  I want to help it but I can't bring myself to.  I haven't magically stopped being insurmountably grossed out by cockroaches, I've just been able to tolerate this particular one's  existence for a few precious moments.  But now I am in a panic.  Noone else notices what is happening.  DOESN'T ANYBODY SEE WHAT'S GOING ON!  Maybe I can find a broom or long stick and nudge it right side up.  The only other option is to ask someone to help me which is absurd.  I imagine the quizzical looks as I ask someone in Spanish to help me "salvar la cucaracha", save the cockroach.  At best I would be ignored as someone who did not have a basic understanding of the Spanish language or at worst only serve to hasten the cockroach's death.  I watch it struggle and think, "it's struggle would be no different from mine in the same circumstance" and still I can't bring myself to help him.  I can only watch from a distance and feel crazy with guilt and shame.  Only when I realize they are making the final call for my bus do I tear myself away from the scene.
As the bus rolls out and I calm down, I am amazed by what has transpired in me; the internal drama of what would normally be an ignored scene.  This is absurd, I tell myself but in a deeper place I realize that it's not.  It's open. It's connection. It's yoga.  It's just new and unsure and unfettered.  I feel bad that I didn't help the cockroach but I couldn´t.  Really, I felt paralyzed.  I could not help it even though I wanted to.  Then my mind's eye began flashing on moments in my own life when I felt people could have...should have...helped me out but didn't.  Then I started having real compassion and understanding for the possibility that maybe they wanted to but were also paralyzed by their own fears.  I, know! I know!  It all seems a little insane that my heart and soul crack open from a momentary encounter with a Cucaracha but that is the reality of inner exploration.  Damn this stuff is potent! I am completely petrified and exhilirated by the prospect of what's next....

All directions...one way

I keep seeing this sign around Catalonia and each time it strikes me as funny; all directions...one way. Really now? But when I met this sign yet again as I was walking between towns along the mountainous ridges of the Costa Brava, I had a moment of reflection and revelation.

Indeed, I thought; it doesn't matter which way you go; you ultimately
end up where you are; and oftentimes exactly where you need to be. In my current incarnation as professional vagabond, this is a point that is not easily lost on me. Every day, without fail, I am called to make decisions about where to go, how to get there, how long to stay and when to move on. Sometimes everything works out perfectly and those days are AWESOME. But most days, something goes horribly wrong. Buses are missed; train schedules are wrong, places are closed, items misplaced, language barriers insurmountable. Those moments, if you let them; and I have, can derail the rest of a perfectly good day. If you let them. But I have also found that there is always a next train or a bus to someplace else that's interesting. Leaving something behind is an opportunity to gain something new. And language barriers can be a path towards new understanding. Ultimately, it doesn't matter which road you take, you will always come to the same end. I have come to learn, in a very practical sense that every day begins & ends whether or not I want it to; whether or not I have crossed everything off my sight seeing list. Whatever direction I decide to take, wherever I go or don't go; whatever I see or don't see; each step is moving me forward to the same place-the end of this journey.

In the penultimate sense, it's also true. All directions...one way. Every road leads to the same place for everyone. There is only one real direction we are traveling in, from the moment we breathe our 1st breath, and it is the march towards our last, towards death. And I don't mean it in a macabre and depressing way. It's actually quite liberating. It is a fact of life. One we are startlingly adept at trying to avoid. And I am not an exception. Yet again traveling like this, to so many places and for such a long stretch of time; the concept of monumental beginnings and endings is always staring me square in the face.
"Wow! I'm in London!"
"oh, I'm leaving London"
"Wow! I'm in Paris!"
"oh, I'm leaving Paris"
But beginnings and endings are all around us, always. And now that I have begun to settle into the lifestyle of a solo traveler these subtle beginnings and endings also start to reveal themselves; of breath and thought and emotion. I have started watching these things much like I'm watching the scenery outside the train to Valencia. Mountains come and go, cities pass, the sun begins to set and ultimately disappear into the horizon which itself disappears into the oncoming darkness of night. Soon I will be at the end of this day of my life; this small trip within my larger journey. Where to next? Mmm..All directions..one way.

God save the Queen: the UK Jubilee Tour

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Pictures of my chilly July in the Northern UK...

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