Blast from the Past

From an old journal during my trip to Sicily. May you find it as entertaining as I do.

26 Feb 02

So there I was in La Valle dei Templi. A bit of a red-faced morning since I got on the bus just as it pulled up in Agrigento meaning that I had to wait for 30 minutes. Numerous people came up to me asking if this was the bus for the Temples. “Si.” And where do you buy a ticket? “A la stazione.” All the while I sat there, my pockets empty of any sort of ticket. I never needed a ticket before. Buses in Italy seem to work on a sort of honor system. That is, most buses. Eventually, the bus driver boarded, followed by various people all having tickets in hand. Oh, I’m a real big schmuck, I thought. When he asked for mine, I said dumbly, “Oh, non posso comprare uno qui?” No, you idiot, you already told half the people on this bus that they had to go to the station to buy one. He sort of rolled his eyes and with a dismissal of his hand told me to go to the bar in the station. Right.

But I ended up in the right place. The Valley of the Temples. A name such as this conjures up so many images, doesn’t it? None of which completely met my expectations. In my closed-eyed fantasies, my mind stirred up images of towering columns of half-washed away marble, young flowers shooting out of long ago excavated tombs, soft amber light falling on ruins, people’s houses built long before Christ. I imagined myself running my hand along the partially eroded human sand castles, my intuitive mind somehow tapping into the lives that were led here so long ago.

The columns were definitely there and so was Giuseppe. “Una groupa? Una groupa?” No, no groupa. Definitely no group. Uh-oh. “Lone woman! Lone woman!” I could practically hear the radar going off in his round head. Everything about him seemed round. I suppose it was the combination of shortness and, well, fatness. Let’s not be eloquent here. He certainly wasn’t.

He had been in the middle of eating a panini when he called out to me. His mouth was full, bits of white chunks lodged into his teeth and moist whiteness wedged into the corners of his mouth. He followed me even though I clearly said I wasn’t with a group (nor did I want to be) and continued talking to me in his thick Sicilian tongue. Thick both in language and unswallowed food that seemed to be fermenting in his mouth. How is it possible that it takes a man 10 minutes to swallow one mouthful of food?! Maybe he has a salivary gland problem.

He was mildly interesting. He told me about some of the temples we walked past. I understood enough of his Italian to be slightly engaged. And then, of course, the conversation strayed into that same dull place it always does when a man is so uncreative in his wooing tactics. So when were you born? You like pizza? You like dancing? Let me take you out dancing and for a “bueno pizza,” digging his pointer finger into his cheek and twisting it everytime he said, “bueno pizza.” This gesture made me laugh with its childish ridiculousness. Bad move since he got the impression that he was amusing me. Even when I said I understood him, he frantically gestured and repeated the same things over and over again. I know Agrigento well so at six I will pick you up and we will eat a “bueno pizza.” The finger again.

I must admit that I silently contemplated the idea. Hmmm. A night alone with a possible bottle of wine or going out with this slightly irritating man for a “bueno pizza?” No finger this time. Wine? Pizza? Wine in bed eating chocolate, reading a good book or sitting across the table, having to watch this man eat and talk at the same time? Just as my decision seemed clear and amidst Giuseppe’s perpetual questioning (sounded more like an irritating buzz at this point), the round man farted. Loud. I heard it. And immediately following it, he began clucking. Just like a chicken. The round man had turned into a farting chicken. No, no, no, I will not go out with you and have a bueno pizza. Thanks but no thanks. Okay then, niente. I’ll see you, he said. Probably not.

And you think the story’s over but it’s not. Not yet. I did see beautiful temples. I ran my hands over them and placed a flower in the grotto of a ruined stone formation in blessing for a friend. I saw empty tombs and crouched into one where I smelled piss. Tomb turned outhouse. I wandered through flowers, as the strong wind raced across my face and through my clothes. It was all very beautiful and somber. And then I was finished. Tired of fantasizing. Tired of walking. Somewhat tired of having only myself with whom to share thoughts.

I went to buy a bus ticket since the old one had expired by ½ hour. I could feel this man’s eyes on me. The radar. The look. Not again, I thought. I can’t even play along this time. Can’t answer his stupid questions. He came up to me. “Che bella!” One rotten tooth came at me. His hair was slicked back and he had gunk in the corners of his eyes, like he had just woken up and only thought of slicking back his hair with greasy pomade. He touched my face and came close. I grumbled something in English. Pointless, I know, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the fire burning in the pit of my stomach and my blood vessels that felt on the edge of a great big messy explosion. My grumblings got louder and I started pacing back and forth, him following close behind. Where is that goddamned bus?! “Do you like dancing?” “Nope.” “Do you like beer?” “Nope. I like the bus. That’s the only thing I like.” After what seemed like years, the bus pulled up and he followed in his little black car. And when I got off the bus, and when he got out of his little black car, he had this strange look of triumph, his tan jacket whipping around him.

* * *

Looking back and reflecting on this particular experience, I am reminded of the vulnerability that often comes with being a solo female traveler. I remember being on guard, always aware of my surroundings. I also remember putting myself in situations that were not so safe but seemed fine at the time. Like the time I went back to Paolo’s place in Nice. It was just he and I. The door was closed. He started massaging my hand and I immediately became aware of all exits. What would I do if he tried something? He wasn’t a big guy but still…Luckily, he was a total gentleman.

And then, there are moments of absolute random kindness. Like the time I was walking down a street at night in Kumasi. God, I loved that city. I was so thirsty. And just as I thought this, a man passing me offered me his bag of water. Few words were even exchanged but there we were – two strangers passing on a dark street at night in West Africa and there was only beauty between us.

I have certainly been blessed in this life and still am. The web we weave really is quite extraordinary. I was thinking yesterday that in my massage practice alone, I have literally touched people worldwide. It was such a powerful thought and realization. And we can all do just this – practice kindness every day, even in the most challenging situations. That is where the real practice lies.

With Tenderness

This time last year you were still alive. I had already kissed you goodbye, ruffled your so soft ears and told you I loved you and to be a good boy. This time last year I was already at work busy with busy-ness. This day last year you died.

I can still feel the softness of your fur under my fingertips. I can still smell your rich dog smell – like the grass that you loved to leap through especially after it had rained. Rain. Grass. Wetness. Warmth. Fur. Black. Dark. Golden. Love.

Your death marked the beginning of a heart-wrenching year filled with what seemed like unbearable loss. For those who have not had the opportunity to forge a relationship with an animal, perhaps it’s hard to understand the grief that follows the death of this relationship. I will not try to explain the beauty and power of such a relationship. But I will say the love I feel for you goes as deep as an ancient spring. And this spring has irrevocably changed my life, changed how I love, how I live. In death, you reinforce my already strong belief in loving every precious moment, in not wasting a single breath, in opening our hearts even wider and deeper to the pain and joy of this brief and wondrous life.

This day marks the end of a cycle for me. I shed some tears this morning in thinking about you and our life together. Your death marked the end of a kind of innocence. In its place new seeds have sprouted and grown stronger with each day. They are seeds of wisdom, courage, strength and many heartfelt promises – to not give in to fear, to not live from a place of anger or blame, to not be a victim of life. Your death also forced me to slow down, to not work so hard. In grief, time slowed to an absolute stillness and deafening quiet. My heart may have even stopped for a moment. And it was in this stillness that I sat for a long while. Dark. Alone. Solitude. Doubt. Anger. Fear. Loss. Grief. Tears. Death.

With your death, I experienced a death of myself as well. And this happened over many months. Dying and dying again over and over in many ways and many places. Les petits morts. But from death comes life. And today, this day following closely after Spring marks new life and love. I trust again in the intelligence of this cycle of death and birth.

Coming into my house today with you so strongly on my mind and in my heart, I could have sworn I saw a fluttering of dark wings. Maybe it was your spirit come to visit, to say I love you and I am guarding you in death as I did in life. I am guarding your heart so you may be free to love and love and love again through future heartbreak and loss and death. May each time your heart break open a little more to love that much more. May it get bigger and wider and more spacious. May it expand as large as the infinite universe. And I say to you, dear furry friend, I promise to love with big bold strokes, unabashedly, unashamedly, dancing with all my might, no holding back.

Eyes wide open

So, while I was standing in line at the bank today, I watched the news and they were covering the anti-war protesting in San Francisco. People were laying in the streets blocking traffic, people were being arrested and taken away in handcuffs. And I thought to myself, this should be happening all across the country right now. I felt my blood pressure go up and I started feeling angrier and angrier. Why, as a people, as Americans, have we not been more vigilant about protesting what our government has been doing for the last 7 years? And I'm not speaking just about the war. I'm talking about environmental degradation, the disintegration of our public school systems, the fact that few of us (myself included) can afford basic health care. If something serious were to happen to me right now, I would be in deep shit. Are we blinded by the entertainment industry, deafened by our own survival instincts, numb to the fact that our country, and our world, seems to be in a serious state of turmoil?

Today, I read one of Barack Obama's most recent speeches. The title said it had to do with race, which it did, but it had to do with so much more than that. He's calling for unification. For us to have faith and hope in ourselves to change the course of our individual lives and, ultimately, this country. Feeling his words reverberate throughout my body, I am reminded of the importance of each little decision we make because collectively, we have a huge impact. It's a paradox isn't it? I was talking with a friend the other night about how our individual lives are so insignificant in a way. But, as a group, we have some serious influence over the world. This is the part most of us have forgotten, I think. We are a part of something much larger than ourselves. When I say no to a plastic bag in the grocery store, I am saying no (and yes) to so many things. No to unnecessary pollution. No to lazy convenience. No to an oil and war-mongering administration that doesn't seem to give a shit about quality of life. And yes! Yes to a cleaner future. Yes to biodiversity. Yes to clean water and clean air.

Do you think I'm exaggerating the meaning of taking a plastic bag? Multiply your one plastic bag by the millions that are taken everyday by other fellow Americans. This is what I'm talking about. We all matter. What we do matters in this world because there are so damn many of us these days! And a plastic bag is just a small example. Do you know that, according to Earth:the Sequel, "the United States will have to cut emissions by 80%." If we continue at the present rate of energy usage, "the scientific consensus is that inaction will change the earth within a few decades into a place unlike any ever inhabited by humans. Business as usual will open the door to catastrophe: flooding and the dislocation of millions of people in South Asia's vast deltas; chronic drought and mass malnourishment in Africa; wildfires, deadly heat waves, and coastal destruction in the United States; the extinction of half the world's living species."

Is this the kind of world you want to live in? It'd be easy for us to blame this very possible scenario on our fucked up government but, quite honestly, what we really need to do, in my opinion, is to simply look at ourselves and our own personal lives. How is George W. a reflection of myself and my own carelessness? He is merely an example of human thoughtlessness of which we are all guilty to some degree.

An example: a friend of mine recently shared with me that her mom is working on a new home. "It's not even a house," my friend said. It's massive and it's just for herself and her husband. Is this really necessary? Why the ostentatiousness? The excess? And you know what I think it is? So many of us are living in spiritual and emotional poverty. We have lost our connection to our tribe. We don't dance and sing around the fire anymore. We don't braid one another's hair or go hunting together. And I'm not saying we should go back to these ways but we need to find the equivalent to this. It's not enough to work day after day and sit in front of the television and do the same thing the next day and the day after that. This kind of monotony breeds the kind of consumerism that seems to run rampant in America now. The idea is that a new gadget will surely alleviate the deathly boredom of suburban existence. But it doesn't, does it? It's just more crap.

So what does it take to live an extraordinary, passionate life? To make very moment count? I invite us to think about this. I think part of it is not letting fear govern our decisions. We must not be afraid to leave our comfort zones. We must connect with one another and not through some silly electronic gadget. Face-to-face with eye and soul contact. In the grocery store. In the park. While shopping. We need to challenge one another to live more passionately and more creatively. This weekend, I hope to sit around a fire with some close friends and to sing some songs and to tell some stories. If we all felt nourished, deeply nourished, maybe we wouldn't be such parasites to the planet.

Woven

my eyes so tired
but my heart content
with you
the universe
the vast umbrella of stars
the half-lit moon
drunken on itself

my life
like a web
reaching
repairing
stretching
inviting
new and wondrous
strands of thought
tastes
experiences

could it be so simple
as saying yes to what we want
no to what we don't want?
if so,
may the stars bathe me in sweetness tonight
while the fire in my heart warms my soul
and your touch quenchs
a longtime thirst

Yes to you a thousand times
to life
to breath
to solace
to warmth
to new beginnings

This one life

It's a bright and sunny day here in Hawaii. I woke up a little bit ago and have been reflecting on some things. One thing I've been thinking about a lot lately is work. Two months ago, I consolidated my schedule so I would be on my land more and have been working only 3 days a week, sometimes 4. What's interesting are the feelings that have been coming up regarding this. Part of me feels guilty - like I should be working more. I've always worked a lot and have gone through brief periods of working less but this is the longest I've gone only working half a week. And, of course, there's another part of me that feels great and liberated! I have so much more time to myself to invest in creative projects and adventure. People always say try things on when young because there may not be another chance. I want to debunk this statement and fully integrate this newfound feeling of freedom into my hopefully long life. I know feelings don't last forever but maybe insights can. And what I'm learning is that quality of life is most important, however, quality of life is affected by how much we work and earn since, without some money, we are somewhat limited in what we are able to do. Although, even this idea has been debunked by various people.



In an earlier entry, I talked a little about Poppa Neutrino. I doubt he has a savings account of any kind or a 401k. And yet, he lives a passionate, creative life. He is also okay lugging around a "portable home" made of scrap wood. I can't say that resonates with me but the point I'm trying to make is how important it is to come to some kind of realization about what it means for each of us to live a creative, passionate life. There's so many books these days on this subject. It's ironic to me in a way because part of living passionately is to tap into our own creative juices. Do we really need to be told how to do this? Isn't part of the problem that we've all been so programmed from an early age how to be? So, wouldn't the real process be one of de-programming? That's the way I see it. We have to clear away the clutter. Who are the voices that hold us back? Are they our parents? Teachers? The voices have come to sound like our own but they're not.

In my life now, I am learning to be more discerning about who I share my hopes and dreams with. Some people are so good at dashing them. And, like freshly germinated seeds, they're so fragile in their new life and could die just as easily as they could live. So, I hold back but not with myself or, at least this is what I'm working on. I still have very strong voices of self-doubt that love to question my every maneuver in life. And while magic surrounds us all the while, we sometimes aren't able to see it through the many filters with which we've been programmed. And so that's what I mean about clearing away the clutter. Sometimes we have to disregard what we've been told about ourselves. I've always been told that I'm so sweet and good. Not bad qualities but this holds me back. Maybe I don't want to be sweet and good. Maybe I want to be sexy or sweaty or bold or feisty or stubborn or reckless or rebellious or creative or whatever! I want to be everything and sometimes nothing. I want to experience life in its many forms and not hold myself back because of ideas I may have about myself that were imposed on me at a very early age. This had nothing to do with me as an individual but had everything to do with the people doing the imposing. Unfortunately, as a child, we don't know any of this so we take it all in. But, at some point, we have to throw it all up and let it go. But it's a long, sometimes painful, process.

Where am I going with all of this? When it comes to the guilty feelings I mentioned earlier about work, I'm realizing that working to understand myself is just as important, if not more important, as it is to work for money. It's equally purposeful. I guess that's where I am now. I'm getting to know myself more fully in this time. Taking pause to tune in and discover what I truly want to do. Because it's about the quality of this one life I have. How do I want to spend it? How do I want to spend each moment of every day? Even when I'm doing something I don't necessarily want to do (like taxes!) how can I reroute my thinking so that it doesn't feel like torture?

Now the sun is out and has been for weeks. It's time to do some watering. Watering of the soil. Watering of the soul. It's all the same, really.

LoVE, lOvE, LOve

Well, hello. I haven't written in some time and it's already the 2nd day of March! Happy March! My motto for March is work less, play more. (Though, work enough to save money to go to Italy :)

I woke this morning to a beautiful and already HOT day. I also awoke to the sound of a bird fluttering its wings. This is fairly usual. The birds like to hang out and flap their wings on my roof, however, this flapping sounded a little bit louder and more frantic than usual. Turns out a bird had somehow managed to get into my house. (Note: this house is built home-made style by my own two hands and hands of others, namely my friend, David. God bless you, wherever you are today!) And so, being a homemade house, there are holes and open areas and places where things don't meet exactly right. But there's no other house like it - I tell you that!)

Anyway, getting back to the bird. It was flying this way and that, around my bed, crashing into my windows. (I have lots of big clear windows.) Poor thing. I opened up everything - doors, windows and it must have somehow found its way out after hitting its poor beak numerous times.

Now, the clouds seem to be rolling in. The horizon is gray and the air is much cooler, gratefully. We desperately need rain and I would do a rain dance if I knew how. But enough about the weather!

What I really want to share is the experience I had last night, late into the glorious star studded blackness. A couple days ago, I received an invitation to attend a ceremony called "Essensual touch." Without going into detail now, I will just say that I initially felt very resistant. My friend needed an R.S.V.P. and so I said I would go. That locked me in because a new and important practice for me is doing what I say I am going to do. As the time approached, however, I got more and more excited. I had no idea what to expect, no idea who was going to be there (except for the friends organizing the meeting) or who I was going to meet. But I knew the night would be magical.

We arrived one-by-one, in pairs, in triads. Each person was greeted by two welcomers. One held a bowl of salt water and the other a bowl of fresh rosemary. One asked to "draw up into your mind the worst self-judgment you have of yourself." As that thought registered, the other person dipped rosemary into the water and as she sprinkled it around the newcomer, she asked that this judgment be released. This set the tone for the evening.

And what an evening - we all gathered in a large white room. The floors were covered in soft padding and bedding with many fluffy pillows. We gathered into a circle and connected. We were led through various exercises to attune ourselves to ourselves and to connect with one another. After about an hour of facilitated movement and exercises, the space was opened up to freeform massage and touch. (This was the part I felt most anxious about.) But, to my wonderful surprise and delight, it was wonderful. I partnered with a lovely man and he massaged my neck, shoulders and back (which I desperately needed) and I worked on him, rubbing away soreness, stiffness and connecting all the while. My hands were worked on, I was tickled lightly, I hugged and cuddled, all with different people at different times. It was spontaneous, precious, human contact that was wholesome, nourishing, yummy wonderfulness.

And what I'm thinking now (as rain spatters on me from my open window) is how needed nights like this are in the world today. We all need to deeply connect with one another but not necessarily at a sexual level. With so much fear and anxiety about the future and the present, connecting with one another at such a soulful place and with such a physical presence somehow makes everything okay. Just to be held, to be cuddled and touched makes all the difference. I touch people everyday in my profession but this night felt different. We were all there with the intention that we were responsible for ourselves in what we gave and what we received. We were there with open hearts and open minds, giving and receiving.

I carry this feeling with me and will hold it throughout the day. It is a feeling and a knowing that we are all so precious and all so full of love. We just sometimes get blocked. And another thought. I carry many judgements, as most of us do. I judge myself, I judge people and situations. I am realizing, however that though I may not be able nor need to stop these judgments, I don't need to act on them. That is a new practice of mine. To have the judgement, to acknowledge it but to not let it stop me from living a full open-hearted life.

To all of you, much love. It's time to dance!