The Year of the Ox

Raisin Dig

2012-01-16T22:43:00.000-08:00

Sometimes my dig in-edness can get in the way.

Today, I was looking forward to walking down to my local swanky newly established hang-your-bike-on-the-wall-no-hipster-approval-needed-but-yes-we-are-truly-hipster-coffee shop.

Displayed on a beautiful glass cake pedestal, lusciously sliced pumpkin bread with chocolate chips…and I believed raisins. I had ordered the same temptress slice a month before on my maiden voyage to the shop, where I had been sordidly let down to bite down on a gooshy gummy raisin amidst my moistly slightly spiced sweet bread. I grumbled, yet ate around the raisins and enjoyed the chocolaty pumpkin while chatting and sipping my coffee.

Poised to be validated while embracing the full disappointment for not getting to indulge in a treat with my coffee, I ask the barista if there are raisins in the pumpkin bread.

Nope. They are all chocolate chips.

I begin the dig.

No, I am pretty sure that those are raisins in there. That one looks like a raisin. If you give me a fork, I could pull it out and show you.

I look up to see the barista looking a little taken a back, casting a quick sideways glance at her co-worker. He is standing next to me on the same side of the counter, cleaning up. He peers into the cake glass, makes a conciliatory nod at me and pipes in.

Yes, there are no raisins in the pumpkin bread. Those are all chocolate chips.

I dig in.

Hmm…You’re sure? No? Well, I am going to wait to order until my friend arrives.

My friend arrives and we return to the counter and the pumpkin bread.

I dig on.

Well, I was here before and there were raisins. I just can’t stand raisins. Did you ever see that movie? Benny & Joon? That said it all for me. The scene were she says how raisins used to be plump sweet shinny grapes, and now…well it’s like their dignity was just sucked out of them, and I totally agree. Do you know that scene? Yeah? No? Well, I just think raisins are sad and…..

Dig this. The friend that I was meeting, I notice that she too, is nodding conciliatory- yet I can’t stop digging.

I’m a baker, so I can tell they are raisins.

Even with the music piping through the café, it gets silent for a second. I realize the particular friend I am with, grew up in a bakery- her parents are bakers, hence a more authentic claim to the baker-ship, should be made by her. Er, uh…could be made, had she ever found herself in a situation where the baker card needed to be played, like I had just. Found. Myself in… I take the hint, and do my best to casually move from awkward dried grape talk to coffee talk. I get friendly reminiscing with a different barista and we get my half caff pour over specially made coffee pour moi and head towards the sidewalk tables to enjoy the sun.

As I pause to pick up my keys from the window seat where I had been waiting, I notice that the man sitting nearby had succumbed to scrumptious, and had ordered the pumpkin cake with chocolate and raisins.

Are there raisins in there? They said there wasn’t, but I had ordered it before and there were, so I didn’t get it. I don’t like raisins. They’re gross.

The customer chuckles and affirms that indeed, there are no raisins.

I’ve had four bites, and no raisins. Just chocolate.

I am thinking, yeah- just you wait. And I continue to hollowly dig out the truth while my friend continues to walk outside.

Well, they said that last time, and low and behold...there were raisins. Carry on! Good luck.

I start to walk away and stop this ridiculous inquiry when I assert my right to dig in deep.

Could you maybe tap on the window and give me a thumbs up if when you finish it there are no raisins? You know, just to be safe?

As if raisins now poise a danger? Could I be dangerously wrong???? HA! Laughable. I walked out to join my waiting friend, confident I had not just dug a tunnel to China. Surely he would never tap on the window, and shatter my illusions of a shallow dig.

And he never did tap on the window.

Dig –dig- diggidy do!!

Instead, he kindly walked outside to politely and happily inform me that I could go ahead and order a slice because there was not one raisin in the entire slice! Wasn’t that great!?

I smiled. Nodded and thanked him and dug on.

Amateur, I thought…not in your slice.

Moment of Decision

2011-08-08T09:24:00.000-07:00

Life continues to teach me that asking for help is the way to go.

Sometimes, it is something basic like asking someone to pick me up from the airport, or listening to me unload my frustrations. Other times it is heavier and or a more serious nature, like asking for prayers or assistance for a friend battling with cancer.

As this is not life or death, it falls somewhere in the middle.

Many of you already know that I have put my house on the market to sell in a short sale. I have amazing realtors who are working very hard on my behalf. Unfortunately, while we were in the middle of turning in paperwork for a short sale, the bank decided to foreclose.

It's odd for me to feel embarrassed, (hopefully a chuckle escapes from some of you) yet this situation has made me feel like a failure, and I am embarrassed that this is happening in my life. Many of you know, that I take pride in how I use my money, and my ability to save it-yet, this big ugly thing is happening anyway. Yet, I made decisions with my eyes wide open, that I thought were 'best' and made the most sense, and yet now I feel lost and hurt.

The days I found out that my house was really no longer my house, I was on the first ever Headley-mother-daughter-sister vacation in San Diego. My poor mom and sister, tried to be supportive, yet I was just hurt, lost, mad, and couldn't roll up in a ball and hide.

The Friday morning that I finally understood what was going on, I sat in the hotel room in front of the computer, and could not hold back the tears. I was trying to be silent, just quietly wipe them away without bringing attention to myself, than perhaps my mom and sister would not notice, and I could pull it back together so that we could get on our way and have fun!

My mom and sister, respectfully tried to give me sideways hugs and whispers of support to show that they had 'not noticed' yet wanted me to know how much they loved me anyway.

A bit later, I look over to see my sister hugging and comforting my mom, because she could not hold back her tears at my pain.

That was a moment for me.

To be reminded of how much love I do have, no matter the difficulties I face- NOTHING will be insurmountable in life because I have LOVE.

We all hugged each other, my sister and mom telling me that they love me and will help.

In fact, the people I have already shared this with, have all responded similarly, "Everything works out for you. You are loved by many."

And it's true.

As this continues, my realtors are battling. Right now, thanks to my realtors- there is a chance to turn the foreclosure around and continue the short sale.

I refuse to feel powerless. After all, I AM LOVED.

So, I invite you to increase this power, and today- after you finish reading this- if you will take a moment, a minute or two, to simply send your love and power to those who are making the decision to overturn the foreclosure , to DO IT! To fill their mind with overturning the foreclosure, and allowing me and my realtor to continue a short sale, all thru the power of love.

IF, you have or know of somebody that works for Citimortage or Feddie Mac, then please consider passing on their contact information to me, so that I can enlist their abilities to turn this around.

As Yuri Mishima wrote in Way of the Samurai, "One may choose a course of action, but one may not always choose the time. The moment of decision looms in the distance and then overtakes you. Then is to live not to prepare for the moment of decision?"

I have read and shared this often this year. That moment of decision is out there, looming. I choose to prepare for it by asking for help, knowing that great things, miraculous things, are achieved by the power of many, by the asking of one.

I am loved. I am prepared for what happens and know it will come out in the wash in the end, because I am loved.

Awakening

2011-02-23T16:49:00.000-08:00

This is big. I can feel it welling up in my chest, ready to break through. I sit still sometimes and just let it pulse. Other times, I blast the music and dance and leap through the kitchen until I am laughing at my own inability to keep the energy from overwhelming me.

I keep wondering how long I can keep it at bay until I figure it out. Name it. Tag it and bag it.

Will it lead me to a new city? Will it break my heart as to let it grow?

I figure it must be a job. Well, not just a job- but a career that will allow my passions and talents to cohabitate in blissful and synergistic prose. Prose that inspires, motivates and actuates into action that brings about needed change, growth, and rejuvenation.

Then I find myself shaking my head and chuckling at my dramatic musings.

And yet…my soul is awakening.

Home

2010-12-16T13:35:00.000-08:00

I put in an application last night for a Denver environmental nonprofit. It was horrible. I sat in front the computer for hours, staring at the existing resume that I have and wondered how to tweak it as to make the hiring personnel leap out of their chairs with joy at finding a candidate so perfect for their needs.

Brain dead and tight jawed- having missed yoga class by 13 minutes, I walked out of the office at my friend’s and insisted we watch some trash TV and finish off the chocolate turtles. After a numbing and yummy hour, I had lost interest in attending the next yoga class, complacent to keep my asana on the couch.

Thanks to John’s chiding, I dragged myself off the couch and rolled into my sleeping bag coat and headed out the door on what threatened to be the first snowfall since my move. It was cold, yet it had rained little, and thankfully there seemed to be no ice on the ground. My car was so cold I pretended to smoke each finger into reluctant warmth.

Upon arrival at the studio, I was warmly greeted by the owner/teacher who had me write my name down in the class log. As I started to walk away, I realized that perhaps I had initially signed up under my full name, versus Kory. I turned and gave her my birth name, at which she complemented its beauty and unique spelling. Embarrassed yet pleased, I explained that I loved it as well, and was trying to reclaim it to establish my roots in this new city.

I continued down the hall to the classroom contemplating how raw it felt to be in a new place with nothing but uncertainties lighting my path. As I entered and scanned for a place to lay my mat, there seemed to be only a spot in the front row. Sighing, yet accepting that I would not be able to hide in the back- I rolled out my mat quietly and began to warm up my ankles. Shortly there after Desi, walked in to begin class.

She started with few announcements about upcoming events and then went into a major announcement that the studio had found a new home and would be moving. She shared the experience of putting in an offer, how other more attractive ones had come, and how the owner chose them in the end. She then went on to share how home would be the guiding theme of our class.

As we lifted into Downward Dog and began to move in and out of different asanas, she weaved in and out of metaphors or anecdotes about home. How we can find home in ourselves, in our poses, even amongst discord. She sketched a vision of our bodies in motion without commotion, finding the ability to stay still even as we moved into a difficult pose. I found my leg shaking from exhaustion from which I was gratefully guided to a new position, one in which I found freedom from weakness and grace in strength.

"That's it, Korynne.”

It was the sound of home. The voice of love and acceptance. Family.

Throughout the rest of class, she used my name three or four more times. I tried poses I had never attempted before, and was shocked at my ability. As she continued to weave stories around our arms and legs, tears kept leaping to my eyes as she said the words I needed to hear about home while calling to me by my family name.

One at a time, little by little each worry and doubt about moving was replaced.

“Open the shoulder, bringing space to the heart.” I would find a job.

“Take your hand to the outside of your leg. It’s okay if you need a block, yet try first without one.” Accept help offered from friends.

“Turn the foot out at an angle, that will allow space for you to move.” I would find a place to live.

And then Desi told of a monk that taught her a valuable mantra. He said that as you step forward with one foot, one should say to oneself, “I have arrived.” And then once the other foot has joined it, “I am home.”

My mind quieted. A chord struck in my heart reverberating throughout my soul. It began repeating the mantra. With each breath of movement I repeated this mantra silently to myself, alternating between arriving and home, until they blended into one feeling of peace.

It is more often than not, that just at the point of giving up or giving in, if we just take one more step forward we will receive what is needed.

I have arrived.

I am home.

Great

2010-10-11T12:43:00.000-07:00

The journey of a lifetime has ended and I am back. Home, in the most literal sense, as I type these words from the Laura Ashley Doll room of my teenage years, I can’t help but to lament.

Living at my parents now for just over 30 days and I am starting to feel like I have done something wrong. Made a mistake. Joined the League of Losers that can’t take care and throw themselves onto the only people that will take pity upon them, parents.

I somehow feel redundant. I have done this before and I am not supposed to be doing it again. Like the snippets of conversation I overheard in a public restroom,

“How long does Fleet Week last?” Or “I like biographical biographies.”

I am repeating myself in a stupid and repetitive way. Like those snippets that are easily recognized by the receiver yet lost on the speaker, unless pointed out. And once done so, even in a fun loving way, makes the speaker feel like a trapped teenager whose timing is off and can’t recover quickly enough to laugh it off, and thus gets caught up in embarrassment and shame at being dumb. Yet that was not the intent in the first place.

I am meant to do great things.

Did you know this about me? I think you do. I feel it from many, in both a supportive and expectant way. I feel it from myself even more. Yet what are those great things? Did I just accomplish this by traveling around the world? Was that great? Many people seem to think I did great things, by volunteering in different countries, yet I still don’t feel like I have done something that is a big WOW. A definite difference that has made the world a better place.

And now, I am home. Off and running in a new direction, yet one that is definitely not a big WOW.

I am following another dream I have always had of being a waitress. People often pause after I tell them this, trying to decide if I am being snarky. Or they laugh, typically followed by a shrug and respond with something along the lines of You are great with people, or You do LOVE food. Yet now, there is reaction that gives me pause. People seem let down. They answer with a Really or Oh. In those instances, I quickly follow it up with that I will be looking into the nonprofit sector and hope to start on a new career there.

Or is it me who is giving myself pause? Is it I who is let down? I feel stress creeping in on me tangling with disappointment. Where is the big WOW!? The GREAT things I am to do?

During my travels I had hoped to get clarity on my next career. To find something that made me excited, hopeful, powerful, and passionate. Something I could throw myself into and in the process, do something great for the world and give back for all the greatness I have been given.

I did get clarity; just not on the topic I wanted. I found that, more than anything, I want to be a mother.

And while traveling that felt beautiful, yet being home, reality has set in and it just feels remote and unrealistic.

I don’t have a partner. I don’t have medical insurance. I don’t have my own residence. I don’t have a job that supports one, nonetheless, two. I don’t have the means to provide that which I believe every human should have the right to begin their life in this world with.

And that feels scary and sad.

But what I do have is a community of friends and family that make all my dreams come true. I do have a foundation of love, strength, belief in myself, founded by my parents, and built upon by friends and family, that teaches me that I will do great things- yet maybe just one step at a time. I do have friends that listen to me, and help me find the beauty that started me out on the path that became too cloudy and overcast to navigate without guidance.

So, I live at my parents. I have a job with an unsteady income. I have dreams yet to accomplish.

And, I have all of you. I have GREAT things that will make way for me to DO great things.

Sailing Sailing Over the Ocean Blue

2010-08-18T16:27:00.000-07:00

I knew the guide book had said something about getting wet, yet I was sure I had built it up in my mind for dramatic affect, versus the book playing it down. The dark cloud in the sky seems to be gaining in size and speed towards us, deepening in its gloomy warning, a nod to the book‘s cautioning. As I step down into the dwarfing panga, against the rising swell of the sea, I assert my confidence to increase in the captain. Surley he has made this trip a 1000 times and would know when a storm was too big to chance a crossing. Surley?

The plastic black tarp is thrown from the bow to the stern, I look for the grommets with which to hook securely to the boat. Upon realizing there are none and we are to hold on to it, I suggest to the young mother struggling to hold both baby and tarp that we switch. As the panga draws away from the peer, I can only see out of a ghoulish tear that is no greater than the length of my eyelashes and affords me about the same squinted view. It is like we are suddenly encased, as the tarp is pulled down to the sides of the panga to keep as much water out as possible. The panga crashes down upon four foot and swelling waves, trying to break before being broken, a wild wrestling with nature that seems doomed to defeat.

Crash. Slap. Slam. Each downward movement of the boat sends shivers of doubt of our safe passage.

A burst of rain pours onto us and my ghoulish tear turns traitor, dumping water disproportionate to its size onto mother and child. The young mother lets out a shriek and drops down into the base of the vessel, both cowering and cradling her child, desperately seeking comfort and protection for herself and young one. The wind, rain, and sea rip restlessly against my grip, slowing but steadily sliding my fingers towards the edge and until I seem to suddenly lose my grasp entirely. The tarp wrenched free, it slaps mercilessly against my chest and face and I am at once grateful that mother and child had moved down as I gracelessly try to regain my hold upon it.

Crash. Slap. Slam. I can see the waves crash over the front and suddenly one of the sailors loses his footing.

I regain control of the tarp, this time trapping it under my left hand as I wrap my hand around edge, just as the sailor regains his stance. My right hand grips tightly in the air the back edge. The lack of give of the tarp forces my head into a bow, in order to escape the constant whip of surf and rain. This humble posture induces reflection of my life, and the others in my boat. I had had nothing to complain about, only gratitude for the many opportunities placed on my path. Yet the young child held tightly in its mother’s arms. What experiences can it claim? I can’t help but to think of the thousands of refugees that risk their lives in this very manner to cross an ocean to a land with greater chance at life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. How did they endure? A rush of admiration washes over me as I multiply this moment by a thousand, catching a glimpse at the fear and courage these people have faced, and will continue to face.

Crash, Slap. Slam. I cringe as the reverberations from my bum climb up to the base of my neck.

I look sideways past my left arm through the gap the tarp leaves between grasping hands of passengers. How do the waves look higher than the side of the boat, yet not just seep in? I can no longer see any signs of land, and try to arch my head to gain sight of the watch on my left wrist. How long had we been here? How much longer could I sustain holding my right arm in the air to keep the water off others? How is the mother able to keep her child either sleeping or feeding at her breast? Her love from her heart must flow from her breast and directly into her child’s heart.

Crash. Slap. Slap. Slap. The tarp is lose again and suddenly slapping me while I choke and am blinded by sea water.

I small hand wipes away the hair from my face. I look over into the deep brown eyes of a young girl, not more than 12-as she reaches over mother and child to help me regain control of the tarp. Under the dark low protection of the tarp we smile. Her kindness fills me with hope, and all fear is washed away. With bent head, I survey the other passengers and see a glimmer of white flash from the front. The tall Belgian who graciously loaned me one Cordoba to gain entrance to the pier is smiling! I smile back and we hold each other’s gaze as a second wave of hope washes over me.

Crash. Slap. Slam. I giggle at the plastic the man in front of me ridiculously placed under him to keep his bum dry. It is dripping with water.

His wife reaches over and takes the tarp from his hand to give him a rest. He turns to her with surprise and they smile. Hope, care and kindness are spreading through the tiny boat at high speed. I am able to catch a the face of my watch. Only five more minutes left. What other beauty can I find before we beach at the dock? I peak my head back and out over the tarp. The waves are still large, the sky gray and then for just a second I see land. I close my eyes and smile peacefully as the elements bless my face.

Splash. Tap. Calm. We pull into the harbor and disembark.

As the passengers in the front amble out, the baby is roused from its tranquil rest. I crawl over the backside of the panga and onto the pier. I reach down and mother passes me her child. I look at the child and it lets out a loud cry, letting me know, that it knows, I am not mom. The sailor walks over and takes her out of my arms and I help mom out and onto the pier. Hawkers envelop the pier and try to get the passengers into their hotels or restaurants.

Adam, from the dive shop that I had emailed, is there and asks me how the ride was. I take a moment to answer, smile and say,

Beautiful.

Airpot Abuelitas

2010-07-14T18:03:00.000-07:00

A child was carried away from the security gate at he airport in her father’s arms screaming “Abuelita” over and over while grasping a Coca Cola in her hands. The love for her grandmother, audibly evident. The attempts by her parents to pacify her were evident as well.

Last night, instead of boarding a plane to Cartagena, I was given a bottle of Coke.

The airlines did not have a record of my flight, they said I didn’t pay, and therefore could not let us board-unless we paid again on the spot. In all my travels, this problem had never happened. This was totally unexpected, and as I had my brother and his wife with me, this being her first experience leaving the country, I felt double embarrassed and agitated that this was happening. After arguing for over an hour, producing the requested flight confirmation from our email, we were sent to a 5 star hotel and asked to print up my bank account statement that contained the record of payment and bring it with us back to the airport the next morning.

We did just that.

At the airport the next morning, upon delivering requested documents proving payment had been made to the airlines, we were yet again denied boarding passes. Supervisor one was brought out. Supervisor number two. Finally, Alejandro the head hancho arrivo‘d.

Twenty minutes of broken record talks resumed.

In efforts to find a solution, Alejandro asked me if I had made any other reservation. I told him that I had, yet it expired after 48 hours with payment, so I had to restart the payment as I had missed the 48 hour window of time. He asked me if I knew what times the flights were for the previous reservation, and I told him I did not. He could give me some times and I could guesstimate, or if they gave me access to internet, I could log in to either my email or their airlines and look for the old reservation. Alejandro looked at me and said in a seemingly sharp tone, “You don’t know your own itinerary?”.

I lost it.

It was about 11am by then, (we had arrived at 9am). I had gotten to the hotel the night previous at 11:30, and I had not been able to fall asleep until after 2am. To put it mildly, I was cooked. I shouted at him that it was HE who should know the timetables of his flights, not me. That I knew my present itinerary, yet not one that I could not reserve or pay for, hence it was not an itinerary at all. That I had done everything they asked for and they still would not let us on the plane. His airline had made the mistake, not me…and blah blah blah.

I am not to sure how long my solo shouting match went on for, yet the bun on my head fell apart along with me. Solidarity, now that’s what I am talking about.

A couple of minutes two army soldiers made their way over to us. They asked what the problem was. I threw up my hands in disgust, and let Jordan and Jessica talk with them and explain. I took a short lap around the ticket counters.

I returned beaten. J&J and I discussed it, and decided not to go to Cartagena. I would fight the payment that the airlines said they never collected when I got home and we would take some side trips from Bogota.

I explained to Alejandro the head honcho that I needed a statement from him, saying that we never got on the plane. That the airlines denied my bank statements that I paid, and that I should be full refunded as we did not use the flights if the banks could prove the payment was made. He said he could do it in 10 minutes.

With the decision made I felt lighter. Jessica and Jordan were ready to return to the US, and they decided we would go look at changing their flight to that day. Weight descended rápidamente on mia.

Alejandro approached me again and asked if I had any other record number from the reservation I had tried to make. If so, perhaps the could find the proof of payment that way. I said yes, again- I needed an internet connection. I was a bit annoyed, as I had requested access to the internet before to do just that.

It worked.

When I had logged back in to the airlines to pay for the tickets, it had dissolved my reservation as I had not paid within 48 hours. A message told me I had to make a new reservation. So I did, and this time paid with my credit card online at the same time. Apparently, the airlines applied the payment to the ‘original’ reservation and not the one I had just made. Hence, confirmation numbers were different, and flight times were different too.

So, we were back to going to Cartagena. The next flight was at 4:45pm. We had five hours to kill. I asked if we could go back to the hotel. Alejandro said yes. I asked if we could keep the return flight for the same time, and they were able to give us a one four hours later. I wanted lunch, and assumed we could eat at the hotel. As it turns out, no. In fact, El Jefe Andro thought I meant our hotel in the Candelaria area-at least an hour away without traffic, versus the 5 star hotel only 10 minutes away.

It all started to go back down hill. We could have fast food in the airport. The would pay for 10 USD of it.

I was sullen.

J&J went and had crepes and waffles while I wasted time arguing with El Jefe Andro about the ridiculousness of staying in the airport when we could rest gently in the lounge at the hotel and enjoy a real meal. I lost those negotiations badly and walked out of his office with $20 USD for lunch for the three of us.

The plane was on time, we arrived to our hotel that evening after 7pm. We had left our hotel in the Candelaria of Bogota the previous night at 8:30pm. My Dad did the math and sent me a message on Facebook.

"Sorry about the 30 mph plane trip, was it a glider?"

I opened my imaginary Coke, and thought to myself- Why yes it was a glider, but a very bumpy one.

The Streets of San Francisco

2010-06-20T10:30:00.000-07:00

Depending on my Chinese trip batteries, I try to capture the hussle and bussle of one of my favorite places on earth: Tartine’s Bakery. Charge battery symbol flashing red, I get about 3 crap shots and the camera switches off, rolls in the lens as if to say, I tried to warn you.

San Francisco California. My home, almost. And yes- I meant to delete the comma between city and state. I am back, and- well the city did not notice my absence-but that‘s okay. In fact, its how it should be. I believe, besides my family, this city, this beat, this constant move and groove left my heart aching for more. I missed it. I craved it. I had left my heart in it.

Walking through the Mission District, I take in all the sites and scenes that my soul carefully stored and used to measure the worth of each new city I entered. All came up short, as they lack the people, colors, smells, tastes that connect me to the human race. This place has it all…all of US. Each one is represented vividly, some with more pride and power than others…yet represented none the less.

Searching for parking, we slowly pass two vaqueros carrying their guitarras like peacock tails as they saunter pass the bright and bold murals that tell the historias of the progenitors. Metal piercings glitter in the bright sun as we walk passed young kids having a lively discussion that only Jerry Springer could rival for its shock and relevance. Stretching calves past their natural capacity we hit the top of a hill, just to slide right down to the distant sizzle of marimbas in the park. Wind whipped yet warmed by the sun, Sasha drops her slobbered tennis ball at our feet, and quickly finds a hiding place in the folds of Jessica’s black skirt, either relishing or unpulsed by our hands’ instant attention to her sleek fur and muzzle.

Long haired boys, muscled girls, and hairless dogs comb the streets. The young, the old, the fashion minded and the absent minded each add to this jigsaw of culture and couture. When men in tights with red boa-ed outlined wings are met with knowing smiles and SUVs with scowls. Ukuleles strummed by white hands, salsa swung by narrow Chinese hips, skirts swayed by bearded men- these everyday occurrences bring relief to my sense of being. Surround by so many bucking the norm, it is easy to be the norm, and lose any compulsions to live up to ‘expectations’.

Sitting here, at the family size (even Headley family sized) common table in Tartine, looking out into the intersection of 18th and Guerrero I am overjoyed to be me. Such an array of the world saunters past, unawares to my eye, and it fills me with a sense of belonging-without pressure. I become aware of this confidence of self- my intelligence, beauty, and worth- just from choosing to love and accept them, my world wise brothers and sisters.

It’s good to be home, even if its just for a bit.

Comadres

2010-06-18T00:46:00.001-07:00

On a wall in my parents house hangs a picture entitled, “Las Comadres” by Simon Silva. Two women, one carrying a child, while the other is holding a laundry basket and leaning over a wall to whisper something to her beloved friend, sister, confident. I acquired it from a street vendor in Los Angeles thanks to the bargaining skills my friend, Sister Chase. Chase and I served together as missionaries, and we referred to each other as sisters, as well as to over 100 other women we served with during a one and half year period. This picture, although showing two mothers, reminds me of my cherished relationships we women had as we worked to provide Christ like service. There were many difficulties and personal tribulations during that time, and we were there to listen, confide, and comfort each other.

Most of you know of my usual upbringing, that of being sandwiched between six brothers, three older, three younger. I often sought after their acceptance, approval, and alliance without much success- as after all, I was just a girl. My sister moved out while I was still in elementary school, so we did not develop our relationship until I was much older. That left me with my girlfriends. Luckily, my neighborhood, church, and school provided me with many opportunities to whisper my secrets to other girls that handled them with care.

Tonight I watched a documentary called, Born into Brothels. You can easily guess by the title its subject matter. The beauty of this film, was the hope the film maker brought to it. She provided photography lessons to the children of the women that worked the Red Light District in Calcutta. She became an advocate for the children. She worked to get them into a boarding school and out of the life that chained them to a brothel. I was so proud of this woman, for finding a way to bring attainable beauty to the children, and for showing me their gifts and talents.

I wanted to be her comadre.

I thought back to my travels, and wondered at what impact I had. Any? Was it positive? Anything long lasting? What lasting change could I really hope to attain in a short few weeks here and there?

Throughout the movie, an agitating conversation I had with some American boy while in Bangkok kept repeating itself in my mind. He had asked out host if she had been to the Red Light District (RLD) in Bangkok. He wanted to go. He had heard that women there did some freaky stuff, and he wanted to experience it first hand. Of course he did not want to have sex with one, he doesn’t need to pay for that- only to see them do the bizarre and humiliating stuff would be enough.

From the moment I heard him ask my skin began to crawl, and my anger was pricked. What a prick! Doesn’t he realize that most these women didn’t have a choice? Were forced , blackmailed, beaten, or sold into this? Mostly likely as children?

I tried to be calm. I tried to sound neutral. Logical. Statistical.

I asked him if he thought that these women, sex workers, worked in this ‘profession’ by choice. How many did he think chose freely and willingly this career? He figured at least 70% did. I believe he had his percentage backwards, and I felt that it was even higher. He laughed at my prudishness and replied something to the effect that the RLD did not want to lose any business, and they made a good living.

Again, I tried not to explode.

Who? The women? Perhaps the madams do, I spitted out, yet the average worker gets nothing. Perhaps enough food for herself and children, perhaps not beaten that evening for bringing in a good price. Then another guy at the table chimed in that NGOs had gone into the RDL, and they were kicked out. Nobody wanted their medical assistance or education.

Again, I was stupefied.

Who didn’t want it? The workers or the owners? Of course the workers did not want anything that would bring them trouble: beatings, gang rape, disappearance of children or other family members…the atrocities go on and on that their pimps could rain down on them in retribution for cutting a profit, or lessening their control over the workers. The owners? They don’t want anything to hurt their business.

I was in shock. I don’t know why. The sex industry would not be around if there weren’t customers. And those customers are men, like them.

I implored, don’t you see by going and paying for a ‘show’ you are supporting the selling of children, kidnappings, and inequality of women? You could instead use your time, money, and interest to show that this industry is losing its customers, it men, because they want women to have equal access in life.

I was rebuffed by the boy with, I’ll just go to the women that are there by choice. He and the other paying customer laughed in camaraderie.

I left the table at this point and headed upstairs to the restaurant’s balcony. It had been raining for the last couple of hours, but the rain had stopped, and the clouds were wondering off.

I felt so defeated. So un…unhelpful. Like I had just left all my comadres of the world down. I thought of the many different women and girls I had met during my travels, and my heart ached that they would all be able to carry hope in their hearts. Win their battles, ‘cause I had just lost one of mine.

In the film, one of the boys that is especially talented is invited to go to Amsterdam to meet this other young photographers from around the world. During the filming of the documentary and prior to his departure, his mother is burned to death by her pimp. This boy said that at one time he wanted to be a doctor, then an artist. Then he says, “There is nothing called “hope“ in my future.”

I am not too sure why I am writing this. After watching the film, the sad birds are resting on my heart.

Maybe I want to say our actions matter. That our decisions can make for positive change. I am not trying to imply that many of you visit brothels and should stop, or that you don’t care for the equality of women. What I think that I want to articulate, it that I am very grateful for the women in my life. My mother, my sister, my SILs (sis-in-laws), my friends, my nieces, and my acquaintances. I am also very grateful for my CO-, padres, brothers, guys, boys, etc. that prove that the women have a chance to move on and up in the world.

I love, that of the child rearing brothers I have, they all have girls. I love that they love them. I love that they will fight for them to have the best of it. I love that I am supremely confident that my bros will put every effort forward to do right by their girls. I love that they can be copadres.

I love that as I believe woman play a special role in women’s lives, men can too play a supportive role in each other’s lives. That although I am powerless to stop the RLDs of Bangkok or Calcutta, I am powerful in COtributing to my brothers’ daughters’ -and sons’- equitable and bright futures.

That perhaps soon, I will see a painting that depicts two men at a wall, one with child, one with laundry, sharing each other’s burdens or hopes. And somehow, somewhere that will mean there is one less born into brothels.

trailer documental "Born into Brothels"

2010-06-18T00:46:00.000-07:00

Vendors' Value

2010-06-06T19:03:00.003-07:00

The greatest love hate relationship a tourist can have is with the many street sellers trying to push their wares on you.

I am on a ferry cruising down the Lijiang River in Guilin, one of the most beautiful scenic routes of all of China. There are peaks, cliffs, and crags surrounding me and all I can pay attention to is the he man yelling, “Hello!”.

At the beginning of the tour, our first local guide had told the group about the Helong people. They will shout at you and try to sell you postcards, hats and other tourist paraphernalia. I thought it so interesting that a ethnic group had the corner on tourist sales.

Two days later, I overheard someone in our group making a joke about the Helong people. I was at very saddened and annoyed that people thought it was okay to be making jokes aimed at a group of people, and then I realized the joke was on me!

The tour guide had been making a joke, yet with her accent I had not understood it. She had dubbed the people selling tourist trinkets as the “Hello” people, because they shout hello to get your attention to what they are selling.

This is true everywhere that I have traveled in the past 8 months. Sales people learn this English word and shout it, and repeat it over and over. It has become a sort of tourist depression cycle for me. At first I find it entertaining and I smile and say, “No thank you over and over.” Then I start to find it annoying, feeling that I cannot go anywhere without being accosted by the shout. After a couple of days of the constant barrage it my reaction moves into anger, why won’t these people just leave me alone? Can’t they see the weariness in my eyes? And finally acceptance, which leads me to keep my eyes glued to the ground and employ my best snubbing skills.

During all these stages guilt is neatly folded in and weighing down on my heart. I feel bad. I have a rich and privileged life compared to these hard working folks. If my one or two dollars can provide an income for them, then why not? But then I think…they don’t want my pity. But then I think, is it pity? No! This is business. But then I realize, it’s not really business if I am buying something I don’t want. Do they even get the profit or do they have some type of tourist trinket lord that takes all the profits and makes them go out to work everyday. Then I think not everything is a special CNN report. Then I think…I can’t thing straight! ARGGGH! I become trapped in a crazy circle of guilt.

I have also found there is a direct correlation to the size of my guilt to size of town. For example, if I am in a big city my guilt is almost nonexistent. Whereas, if I am in a little or remote village-then I feel more compelled to use my money to support their way of living. I can’t help but to think of how hard difficult there life is compared to mine.

Which bring me back to what inspired these thoughts.

Here on the river we are on a large ferry. The tour is 3 hours long. I am sitting inside the ferry on the bottom level surrounded by windows when I realize there is a man outside the window yelling ‘Hello!”. He is holding ‘jade’ carvings of Buddha and other images of China. I let out a laugh.

The Hello people found a way to sell to us even when surrounded by water.

They paddle out to the boat on a small bamboo canoe, then hold the ornament up and shout to get the tourists attention, “Hello!” Then they start to say prices, try to catch your eye, and basically- break your heart…okay mine. Most other people at stuck in annoyance at this point.

Over and over again, from country to country I am impressed with how hard people will work to try and support themselves and their families. I sometimes wonder why they would pick the job they do, and then a resounding thump on the back of my head sounds, and I remember they are doing the best they can with what they can. I would never want to have to hock or sell goods to anyone. The hundreds of rejection a day, the annoyed looks, the diverted eyes, and the hands constantly brushing you away.

Now, I know there are some that are out to cheat and swindle you. Even those that lie and wish you ill. Yet more than not-there are those just out to make the best deal that they can for themselves and their families. It is my responsibility to check to make sure that what I am buying is the quality I am expecting. It is up to me to be just as smart and savvy as the sellers.

It took me a long time, but it seems within the last 6 weeks I have somehow gained acceptance for the hawkers. I have found that 4 out of five times, if I look the person in my eyes, smile politely yet with compassion and say, “No thank you” that I am left alone. It is amazing! It gives me a sense of mutual respect. I am able to continue walking on with an open heart and a growing love for the people of different cultures in our world.

We are all trying to carve out our place in the world. Some of us have been given butter knives to do the job, while others of us have been provided with powerful diamond tipped stone cutters. In the end, we all hope to create something of value.

Happiness

2010-06-05T08:00:00.000-07:00

The Chinese seek happiness in colors, characters, statues, temples, and highway underpasses. This morning I went to Heaven’s Temple, definitely a place one goes to find happiness. And happiness I and others did.

There were hoards of dancers, singers, ti chi artists, clappers, hacky sack players, and more. In the vast park area of this temple hundreds, most likely thousands of retired people throng to whatever it is that brings their heart delight. Watching them brought smiles, laughter, and eternal bliss to my soul.

I especially enjoyed watching the tango dancers. Such precision and pose. Such perfection in their movements, that I typically and falsely attributed to young bodies, yet these masses of wrinkled joy were showing me otherwise. Not surprisingly there were more women then men, so they coupled together or danced solo gracefully across the parks open spaces, and this gave me comfort towards the future. It was so cute too to see the newbie’s to dance, mouths moving to keep count and track of the moves. No old dogs here that can’t learn new tricks.

Later that evening in a new city, 1000s of kilometers away, there was still dancing and singing. This time however the beautiful back drop of the trees, temple, and grass was replaces by honking horns, flashing billboards advertising gambling, and tons of concrete.

As I walked home from dinner, in the distance I heard soft music and realized there were five woman practicing Ti Chi under the highway overpass at dusk. I clapped my hands and ran over to try and capture it on film from a polite distance. I stood marveling at these women and their dedication to health and self, their ability to create inner peace in the middle of an industrial and busy business district. As I headed back towards the hotel, the strains of a symphony playing Jingle Bells tickled my ears. I wondered if some parade was happening, and I quickly chased the sound to the another island of concrete under the highway.

As I neared the director was giving notes to his players, explaining the next piece they would play-wafting his attention from the horns to the reeds. The audience formed a circle around the symphony, all eyes on the director, all ears listening to the players, all hearts eager to remain open to the magic of music in the misty moonlight.

The man I was standing next to looked over at me, and then swung his head back in shock as he realized I was not from around here. I grinned and whispered, “Nee How” and he return my greeting with a large smile and vigorously nod of approval. My heart swelled.

Soon I scooted to a space in the front and squatted down right next to the clarinet player and busted out my camera to capture the sights that would later trigger melodic memories. Old and young faces peppered the crowd, while only wrinkled hands and lips created the harmony under the concrete jungle paths above.

I laughed at my own foolishness, and the tireless efforts of the universe to teach me. It had been three long days since being on an organized tour in China, and I couldn’t escape the feeling of being a caged bird. My wings had been clipped, my voice only grated those around me, and I was quickly falling into a pit of my own making. After all, I was the honored one here, and in China that is saying a lot.

Months ago my parents had delighted me with the news that they would come and meet me on my travels. China was the place and my mother vigilantly began making arrangements, getting the advice of her friends, and organizing a trip of a lifetime for us to share. The love and happiness I felt every time I thought, bragged, or talked of our meeting in China somehow escaped ruthlessly the first morning of the tour when our first stop took us to a overcrowded site filled with tourists and noise. I wanted to be grateful and pleased, but instead a snotty insatiable teenager took over, and my eyes seemed to keep rolling back as my arms were firmly crossed across my chest.

And here in front of me was beauty, joy, and happiness in the most unlikely of places: under the overpass of a highway, on an island of concrete with cars zooming by on either side.

Happiness is created. Happiness is the gift your own heart, hand, and head provide you, if you are willing to take it, create it, and have it.

I get to be in China. I get to travel. I get to be with my parents. I get to be loved by them. I get to be happy. If only I will. I get it….I hope.

Shambo

2010-05-11T21:52:00.001-07:00

Shambo

Sounded like a name for a whale or some other aquatic animal at the aquarium that was the latest display to attract the public. However, he is a Sivananda yoga teacher in Auroville. He also provides physical therapy and AUM (like OM) massage treatments. Shambo had posted a notice that he would be hosting yoga classes on T//Th from 9:30-11am starting next week.

YAHHOOOO!

That would work perfectly with my farm work schedule. I was ecstatic! Finally, the universe was agreeing to my plan of yoga. I was going to stretch and learn, and grow, and become more centered, and gain insights, and provide world peace!

At the first class, I felt so happy. I had found what I was looking for. The class taught meditation, stretch my limbs, and gave my mind seeds to consider. Shambo had said many things that rang true to me during the class. I felt a weight being lifted from me that I didn’t even know I had. I was just bummed that I would be leaving in 5 days, and could not have more.

At the end of the class, the other student -Emma, opened her mouth and said many things that I was feeling. It was enthralling. Then, she asked if there was any way we could have MORE classes with him. I thought I was about to cry, as she was articulating my thoughts and desires.

Shambo agreed and we set up a schedule that would provide me with all the yoga I could squeeze in with the short time remaining. I also set up an AUM massage for Friday, the day before I left.

The massage was amazing. I mean, of course someone rubbing your body, and relaxing you is amazing…but that was not the amazing part.

Shambo explained so many things to me about my body. For instance, he said that my legs were not meant to be always on the go. That my legs were the type that needed to plant roots. That I they would carry me to adventures, yet that they would always bring me home, because they were not restless wanderers. I knew this to be true. I have learned this during my travels, and had just discussed it with Candice the previous night.

Another mystery revealed was the my ankle problems. As many of you know, I have been trying to figure out how to heal the pain in my ankles that I feel on a daily basis, and that has kept be from running for over a year now. When Shambo explained what he felt, it rang true.

He said that my ankle problems come from my knees. That the problem requires rest. That my body is trying to communicate to me that I must rest them, otherwise later they will not even have the strength to tell me to take it easy, and will no longer be able to carry me. That I should realize this , and listening and respond to my body’s effort at communicating with me.

Energetically, problems in these areas typically are a result of problems with communication and relationships.

GULP.

He said it with such kindness and without a trace of judgment. Then he asked if I believed it. I nodded in assent. He asked if I wanted to change anything about my communication, and I again nodded in assent. He gently asked if I wanted to explain.

I told him that I was ashamed of my lack of control, especially when it came to getting angry quickly. He asked me what I did for it. I told him running.

And now?

Tears spilt from my eyes as I nodded my head negatively and choked out the word: nothing.

Shambo shaded in the picture for me. I would get upset, react, feel guilty, and then go for a run to let go of the tension and emotion. Now that I cannot run, I have not found a way to deal with my sparking temperament.

I nodded again.

He carefully talked about meditation and yoga asanas, outlining for me some ways to approach it, to begin to start a practice in order to direct my energy at maintain a constant energy that would not spark and fly off the handle.

A wave of tenderness and peace washed over me.

I have never walked out of a massage feeling confident that I had the tools to solve some of my deepest fears and inadequacies. Yet on that Friday I did. I know most of it, was due to finally allowing myself to open up and receive the lessons I needed to learn.

Treasure

2010-05-02T23:40:00.000-07:00

Words. So powerful. I use them to share this story, you use them to understand this story. They can be funny, romantic, cruel, frustrating, etc. I try to use them carefully, and often make mistakes. I say hurtful things purposefully, and then other times, try so hard to say the words that will bring understanding, only to get caught in frustration and doubt.

Last week, after a cerveza, tapa, and “it’s a small world” connection with a newly made friend in Milan, I was making my way to the bus stop on the romantically moonlit streets of Granada, when I came upon a treasure.

It was in front of a library.

I saw a man with one of those reflective vests you see worn by roadside workers , slip between two gate posts around a construction site. He had left the treasure by the gate for me to marvel at, sitting on a push cart amongst what I consider junk, debris, and garbage.

I stood there for a full minute with my mouth open while other passersby looked at what I was staring at. One man, nodded his head in appreciation and agreement while my eyes searched his body for a camera- or some device for recording my find. I did contemplate how I could take it with me. Would it be possible to store it at my friend’s house? I knew though, that it belonged to the man in the vest. It was his. He had found it, he knew it to be a treasure, although he must be in pursuit of another treasure of greater importance to have just left it here in this cart, for anyone to nab, and make off with.

But, I was on the wrong side of the river.

I needed to catch the bus, in order to get back to my friend‘s house. It came on the other side of the bridge, 200 meters away, and -most likely- it was the last bus of the evening. I could chance it, that perhaps another bus would come, yet it would be unwise to get myself stranded in another country, in an unknown city and worry my friend with no easy way to contact her of my predicament.

So I pushed it for another 2 minutes, hoping that the man would come back, hoping I would see a passerby with a camera, and at the minimum get a picture of the moment. Just to make it real. I mean- what was the chance of seeing this here? In front of a library, no less?

No one even walked by. I saw a bus coming, too blind to read the numbers clearly, so I ran.

I got visually clarity just in time to see the backend of the bus pulling away from me, 50 meters away- #171. I was waiting for either 180 or 181. Breath started to return in short gasps, including a sigh of relief.

But now, I was on the wrong side of the river.

I couldn’t go back, couldn’t chance the bus coming and me missing it. So, I strained my eyes across the river to see if perhaps my friend in the reflective vest might possibly be making his way towards me. Then maybe we could talk, he could tell me the story of how and where he came across it, and what he planned to do with it.

Or maybe he’d have a camera.

So in the meantime, I pulled out my book to occupy my brain with words. The images, the feelings, the world they invited you into , and allowed anything at all to exist. As I read on this journey, I often think of the words I will share with you, and how they might affect you-and your world. How important it was to me to have a keyboard, a way to type and save and share my thoughts with others during this singular experience in my life.

It was then that I realized that a reflective vest had just passed me by, pushing a cart with the treasure!
He was now 50 meters away…what do I do?

I ran after him.

Pardon! Pardon? Eh, Senor? Um…tienes un camera? Quisera un photo con….o solo de….una cosa? Come say dice…esto?

I crashed through my Spanish, awkwardly trying to ask he if would take a picture of it, and send it to me. I reached into my pocket, for one of my moo picture cards with my email on printed on it.

Mi correo electronic es aqua, y un photo de mi tambien. Si possiblemente enviar un photo a mi …correo electronico?? Por Favor?

The man laughed. He did not speak English or Spanish. He pointed at the 1950s antique type writer and then me.

Photo?

I nodded by head vigorously. He chuckled again. He took out his cell phone and took my picture. He said the words CD, yet I tried to convince to email me (I have no CD drive) by pointing to my email address on the back of the card.

I posed. He took the photo. We both smiled. And the bus pulled up.

Sitting safely in the last bus of the evening I thought of excitement and freedom that the typewriter signified for me, adding doubly by being in front of a library. The place that hold all those moments of typing, creating and expressing.

From one key at a time, to the keys that open all. Letter to line, page to book, I hope someday mine will be resting in a nook.

Sea Legs

2010-05-02T00:17:00.000-07:00

Some things in life just work out super perfectly.

Like eating breakfast to Glee’s rendition of Madonna’s Like a Prayer. I started the song as I was eating my idly and coconut masala. In true Kory fashion, I was in the Visitor’s Center and had earbuds in, and was rockin’ my head, toes and tummy as I slurped and mashed away at my breakfast. Song ends as I put the last deliciously melodic bite in my mouth! Viola! Perfection.

Or like waking up to the sound of the crashing waves. Getting to walk out the door and down the street and into the ocean. Feel refreshed by the water, and strengthened by the sun’s rays.

That is what I did this morning. I have a wonderful capsule mate, Candice of Canada, who has a friend who has the keys to a friends beach house. After a glorious supper of vege pizza, seafood risotto, and chocolate cake we headed to the beach house. I slept under a coconut grass roof and mosquito net, sliding into a restful slumber by the sea.

I awoke at dawn, as typical here, yet it was extraordinary as it was the FIRST time I awoke. I had slept through the entire night and it was sublime.

I headed out to the beach looking forward to being fully immersed in water. The first wave to crash over my head and soak me entirely brought a gush of laughter that could not be contained. I was home. Transformed by the sea to a feeling of comfort and calm that only home offers…and somehow these waters had been home and brought it to me.

I allowed the sea to lift and carry me. Sway me out and then let me slide on a wave back in. I felt this collective force picking me up and guiding me. As I relaxed, it coaxed me back and forth in a gentle lull. I closed my eyes and breathed.

In the bumpy bus ride on the way to visit a farm the other day, I saw a running race that was about to begin. There were about 30 men, and the scene looked antiquated- all the men could have come straight out of the 1940s or there about, with the shirts, shorts, and flat cloth like shoes that they wore. In fact, some had no shoes, and I noticed tape placed strategically on some. The numbers they wore on their shirts were hand written on cloth material. I saw a flag go up, yet had no vantage point to see the runners take their stance. And then the flag went down and I saw the first wave of runners round the corner just as the bus took me out of view. As we drove on, I noticed no markers, or signs to indicate the way.

I thought of races back home. Course all marked out, volunteers posted to provide water and electrolytes, music blaring to pump everyone up. I thought of all the fancy advertising, the shirts, the medals, the goody bags…the entire thing seemed to be filled with such glitz, that somehow made this race feel beautiful. Grounded.

It outlined a simple analogy in my mind. The roads in life are not always clearly marked or even constructed well. Yet we still must navigate our way. Sometimes we carry ridiculous accouterments that we think will make the journey easier, yet only burden us unnecessarily.

After about 15 minutes in the bus, we came to a small clearing with about two cars, and 7-8 people. I thought at first their car had broken down, or perhaps a picnic. Then I saw a water cooler (again..straight out the 40s..car and cooler) balanced on the fender with the hood of the trunk open. These people were there to hand out water and perhaps offer up encouragement. The support team.

Along the road, there will be those that offer help or distractions. Only we can decide for our own self when and if to accept the help or deflect the distractions.
Slam! I was covered and felt the fierce force of the wave crash over me and throw me about. I sputtered and coughed, and tried to wipe the sting from my eyes while ejecting the burn from my nose. I kicked and flayed by legs and arms until my feet found footing in the sinking sand. I took a deep breath and tried to keep my burning eyes looking about.

I had been indulging in my thoughts and lost my awareness for my surroundings. I had let go, yet the sea requires one to hold on to the present, being conscious of what is going on around you, and responding as needed. The waves can either carry or crash you, one must know this before going in and understand their own limits to the sea’s seemingly endless power.

Uh…whoa there girl! Easy on the thoughts and just enjoy the sea-consciously.

There seems to be a lesson in all I immerse myself in here in Incredible India. She has much to teach me. And I have much to learn.

Fish Food

2010-05-01T03:57:00.000-07:00

In the land of gurus, yogis, spiritual mysticism and vipassana, one would think that finding a yoga class would not be difficult. Yet I have not been able to, and have found fish food instead.

It all started with a simple request from friends for an ashram in the south of India that I could go and immerse myself in yoga. Six to eight hours a day of stretching, balancing, sweating, twisting, and expanding….

I was first recommended Pondicherry. Then, close to Pondicherry, Auroville- a community of like minded individuals, with integral yoga at the heart of the founder’s teachings. So, I looked it up on the internet, and it all seemed just what I was looking for. Upon arriving in Chennai, I got on a bus to Pondicherry to spend some time at the Sri Audiobindo Ashram.

At the ashram, I found the grounds to be beautiful, however, it was not a the teaching ashram. After spending 2 days in town trying to find a yoga class to attend during the hot months of April and May, I decided it was time to head to Auroville. I booked my ticket and was off in one of Sri Audiobindo’s Autocare cars towards Utopia.

Upon arrival to the area, I skipped the Visitor’s Center and went directly to the canteen. I ordered the ‘healthy meal’ and was in sprout and carrot soup heaven. I chatted with one woman who was also a visitor and she was staying at a rather expensive guest house. The next couple I asked were WWOOFing at Buddha Garden. In exchange for 3 hours of work (6-9am) a day, room and one meal was provided. My heart lifted up and I knew that was the place for me! I could work in the early mornings, and take yoga during the day.

Shortly after setting up my mattress and mosquito net, I learned from the others that most the yoga classes were offered in the morning. Poop. I was starting to feel that I was not destined for yoga in India. Within the next couple of days, I heard about yoga possibilities, yet one thing or another came up and kept me from attending.

Finally on Thursday, I was bound and determined to make it happen. I got on my bicycle and headed in the direction the map indicated. Within 25 minutes I realized I was completely turned around and confused. I started to ask local villagers for directions, yet the Tamil people were unfamiliar with my English written map, and I had no idea where was to get us oriented. After about 15 minutes of harassing a dozen or so people, a kind man explained how to get to where I wanted to go. I headed off and soon I heard a honk behind me, and the same man zipped in front of me on his scooter indicating I should follow. He got me to the next landmark and waved me well.

I then received directions from an Aurovillian who was familiar with the place. Within another 10 minutes, I had arrived. I parked my bike, and walked towards what looked like a big hall, where classes were most likely held. The doors were closed, as the class had most assuredly begun long ago. I felted bummed out, yet decided to at least walk around the grounds, and perhaps find a quiet place to wait and meditate as to allow myself to talk to the teacher afterwards.

I walked and found closed doors, and what appeared to be an empty dormitory. I then saw some open doors ahead. I slipped off my shoes and walked in and found a couple with their feet in the serene looking fish pond. I decided to sit down and join them.

I slipped my feet in the water and immediately my feet were kissed and nibbled by a dozen or so fish. I yanked my feet out and tried not to giggle too loudly. I then slowly lowered in my heels, and for the next couple of minutes tried to control and reign in my ticklish laughter as to maintain the stillness of the space. After a couple of minutes of building up my tolerance, I finally plunged both feet right in.

For the next twenty five minutes I became fish food.

The following morning I was describing the experience to fellow WWOOFer, Pierre while trying to laugh that perhaps the universe had not intended me to do yoga in Auroville.

He paused in our task and look calmly at me and said, “ Yet you are doing yoga. This is true integral yoga.”

And I realized I was. I was stretching, balancing, sweating, twisting, and expanding my mind, heart, body, and experiences while farming, asking, biking, and feeding the fish.

If They Could See Me Now…

2010-04-26T06:02:00.000-07:00

I wonder what they’d do. Kick me out? Reprimand me for laying my clothes out on the grass to dry in the sun? Or, would it be that I am using the reading room to type?

I just find it fascinating that I am asking the questions at Sri Audibindo’s Ashram, Park Guest House.

When I first arrived two days ago I was in utter bliss. I couldn’t believe that this place was right on the ocean, and quiet, and Sir Audibino and The Mother’s collective! I had struck gold. I was asked to read the rules, to make sure I could agree to them. Some being:

No Visitors - I knew no one here.
No Alcohol or Smoking- Easy
Doors close by 10:30pm- Looking forward to maintaining a trekking schedule of early to bed, early to rise
Check out by 12pm- Can’t imagine that is a problem

I agreed and was shown my room: Third floor, balcony that face the ocean and sunrise, while remain private to other guests. I could do yoga here! I could do yoga naked here (sorry if that was TMI). I am in bliss. I got my things in. Took a rinse of the sticky sweat shower and felt refreshed for 3 minutes. Headed to the canteen (as they closed in 10 minutes) for some dinner. Had a delicious lassi and edible noodles (top roman style) with ‘cheese’ on top, then dashed outside to walk along the beach front. I returned before curfew, read about allowing the body to rest just before sleep (one of many informative notices adorning the walls) and enjoyed a heavenly sleep with windows open as to be lulled by the crashing waves in my room dubbed, “integrity”.

The next day the ashram atmosphere continued to awe me. As I walked around the garden and grounds, I began to read the many stones, notices, or art that invited me to be calm, tranquil, and learn.

In the meditation room:
What do I need to learn? What do I need to change? How can I take what I have and transform it into growth?

In the canteen:
Food is an integral part of our nourishment. Chew slowly and give mindfulness to what the food is providing for your body. Control your food. Allow the sniff of flowers to nourish the body too.

In the stairway:
You could just see the stairs as something you must go up and down. Yet allow yourself to feel the body’s ability and strength grow with every step you take.

In the garden:
The grass love’s your feet. Open yourself to the garden’s influence….Stop in it…observe..identify..grow…let each step be a revelation.

Here I was surrounded by knowledge, and I began to feel uplifted and inspired to be my true self!

I passed the afternoon in my room and garden reading. It was glorious. That afternoon I went out to explore Pondicherry and find one of the scrumdilicious French restaurants I had heard so much about. I returned just before 7pm with excited about attending the Transgender Festival being held the next night. I went to ask permission, that if the bus returned later than the stated 10:30, would they let me in?

NO

I received this answer from reception while he busied himself with his cell phone. Deflated, I tried to ask if there were somewhere-

NO

This time cutting me off mid sentence and still not giving me the common decency to pretend to be paying me any attention.

“Um, I was about to ask.”

YOU ARE NOT UNDERSTANDING? NO. THAT IS THE RULE. THE DOORS WILL NOT OPEN FOR YOU. THE ANSWER IS NO AND IT WILL NOT CHANGE FOR YOU. UNDERSTAND?

I understood that I was getting upset. I understood that he was being rude. And I could not understand how this was happening at an ASHRAM for goodness sake.

I ridiculously got on my teacher self and tried to school him in some cell phone etiquette and reception manners. Waste of time.

The next morning, I went to inquire about renting a bicycle.

Would you like a two wheeler?

My mind froze, as I was unsure if this was humor or if they offered tricycles for the balance challenged.

Hello madam. Two wheeler or bicycle? Do you know what you want? Today only? I am asking you which you prefer…

He -different reception dude- continued in the rapid fire questioning for sometime, and after attempting to get in an answer twice I shut my two fine lips together in meditative closure. Finally, when it seemed he had used all his breathe, I ventured to state that I thought the sign read they did not offer scooters, IF that was what he was referring to when asking me about a two wheeler, as if it matter to him, bicycles also have two wheels.

By now I was wondering if the receptions folks are trained in anti-ashram practices in order to push guests to the limits of mind over body power, as I was feeling the tinge to kick him in the shins- accidentally of course.

At check out time, I brought my required blue card that I was instructed to have give and key. They took nor looked at either. I saw a place for the key labeled “checking out”, yet nothing for the card, so I left it on the counter. I waited patiently for either the woman or man to look up at me, and after a minute finally asked if there was a place I could leave my bag for the next hour.

NO

Unashamedly, I asked if there was a place to leave my clothes to hang and dry- fully knowing the answer, yet wondering how many negative replies I could get without eye contact.

NO

Could I ask the bellboy guys to keep it? Could I type on my computer in the lounge? May I still order something from the canteen now that I had checked out? Was I now considered a visitor? Did I have access to the garden anymore? Did they notice any of the teachings? Were they believers? Do you even like people?

And as Amy Winehouse sang:

NO. NO. NO.

Okay, I didn’t ask any of those last questions…because I didn’t want to hear the answer. Especially after the bell boy tried to put my bag behind his desk, and we both got denied, again.

So instead, I followed my inner voice and went straight to the canteen and ordered a coffee. Asked for some ice (got initial NOs here, yet I knew their hearts weren’t black and smiled and explained). And made (definitely to the shocked of the canteen workers) an iced coffee to calm my nerves. Then I went and laid my clothes out on the grass to dry (far from the eyes of reception) and am presently sitting in the ‘reading’ room typing away. I wonder what they do if they could see me (and my underwear) now.

Why? Because I say:

YES. YES. YES.

Wonder of Wonders, Miracle of Miracles

2010-04-21T06:53:00.000-07:00

Wonders #1:
The internet was working at the café this morning before 8am in Kathmandu, allow me to speak with my dear friend thru google video.

Of Wonder #1:
Why don’t the management or waiter ever seem to know when the internet is working or not.

Miracle #1:
Able to repack bags, speak with friend, eat yogurt, drop off laundry, print up letter for VISA and get taxi all by 8:30am.

Wonders #2:
On the way to Chinese Embassy I feel confident and happy that I will arrive on time as the doors open, thus a sign that the doors will be open to a double entry VISA.

Of Wonder #2:
Why there are pages missing from my passport, including my Indian VISA and all the pages after 27. I look at picture and do not recognize myself…because it is not myself!

Miracle #2:
Taxi driver changes course and takes me to opposite end of town to Immigration Office to return identified unidentified passport and pick up mine. As it turns out, the woman, married to Nepal’s most famous actor (cannot release her name as story might make it to press -causing an international scandal) had yet to pick up passport up, and mine was waiting patiently for me.

Of Wonder #3:
Why the Immigration officials would not return the 500 Rs (7 USD) I paid for rush processing, as they had made a major blunder in handing over the wrong passport. True, I could have checked to make sure it was mine, yet after two people checked the receipt I gave them before handing over ‘my’ passport , I ASSUMED (ass out of you and me) that is was the correct one- and had only bothered to check the extended VISA was correct.

Wonder #3
That whole process had only taken 30 minutes!! Wow! Perhaps I could make it to the Chinese Embassy by 9:15 am, as the taxi driver was waiting outside to take me there.

Wanderings #1:
There are two Chinese Embassies…old and new. Where to go for VISA? I had address for old…taxi believes that is correct. As we pass the new one, he points it out, and I tell me to pull over and I will go and ask. He cruises by and responding that it is the old one, and not this embassy. We continue and I realize I might need more Rupees if they do not take USD, so we stop at an ATM…and I am ready! I run up to embassy, and security tells me it is the other embassy I must go to. Jump back in taxi, we head over to other embassy, zooming around cars, scooters, people, rickshaws, motorcycles, police directing traffic…and arrive. There is a HUGE line down the street- happily its for Qatar airlines. I run to the gate, security directs me to the other gate…I run and it is sealed shut!

Of Wonder #4:
Why do guards only open a steel gate only 3 inches wide and seemed to be impatient when they cannot understand what one is trying to say?

No Wonder #1:
The Chinese Embassy ‘boss’ told security that immigration/VISA would close today at 10am.
“ Come back Friday”… awesome…my plane leaves Friday.

Of Wonder #5:
What do I do now? Go to the Thai Embassy to see if the VISA requirements are changing for entry there? (a girl at immigration mentioned it yesterday). Go visit one of ‘wonders’ of Kathmandu? Patan? Bakhtapur? Pashupatinath?

Wanderings #2:
I sulked away from the embassy. I stop in at two travel agents hoping they will miraculously solve my VISA problems with some super sonic connection they have. No such luck. I pass a movie theatre and wonder if I should hide out in there, masking my tears as a reaction to some sad drama I could watch. I pass the Palace and wander over to a guard and ask about buses. He shrugs, raises his eyebrows, and I can only hope he was smiling under his pollution mask, trying to let me down easy due to lack of understanding. I find myself at the corner of honking and motors running, still without direction. I head over to the shady side of the street and realize I have found my way home: Embassy of the U.S.A.

Wonders #4
Wonderful woman tries to answer my questions about VISAs, and sites. She kindly directs me to where the buses congregate, so that I can hop on one to Patan. She gave such careful and accurate directions that I left cheered and confident of my decision to sight see.

Miracle #3
I found the bus. I got on it. After 10 minutes, it left. It stopped ONLY once. At that stop, an American volunteer got on bus and recommended Dhokaima Café for lunch. She mentions cheese. She mentions basil. She mentions arugula. She walks me part way and wishes me well. I wish her a glorious life. She tosses me a suggestion to walk into open doorways, as the often lead to private temple courtyards.

Wonders #5:
I skipped 250Rs Durbar Square and wander past a open doorway that gleamed of gold. I retreat back and enter into the Golden Temple. As I am not wearing leather shoes I can enter with mine intact. Wow. Beautiful art, sculpture and work. Photo heaven.

Miracle #4
I find the restaurant. From the outside it looks tiny, dirty, and old. From the inside it looks smaller, with a cake display, and only one table. I inquire about lunch and am lead through a doorway ….to a luxious garden courtyard!!!!! (Sara had forgotten to mention the scenery, probably as she saw I was so caught up in the food). I had a sweet lassi. (oh..heavenly cool). I had a grilled cheese with tomatos, basil, and …parmesan type cheese. Homemade chips on the side, with a few slices of the most tasty cucumbers marinated with red onions and tiny tips of green hot peppers. Divine!

Miracle #5:
Dessert. Deserves its own paragraph. Apple and banana spring rolls with chocolate ginger sauce and a scoop of vanilla ice cream. The chocolate was fudgey on the ice cream. The spring rolls were crunchy, sweet, and dripping with melt cream and sauce. They soothed my VISA troubles away. I got an iced coffee to wash it down.

Of Wonder #6:
Can I lick the plate?

Wonders #6:
I finished lunch at 1:30. The Chinese Embassy opens at 2:30 for those lucky enough to PICK UP their generously rewarded VISAs. Should I leave this oasis and try again? I have enough time to get there before the steel wall will slide open. I walk out of the café, and a taxi is there…and AGREEs to my price. I get to the embassy at 2pm. At 2:30 the iron curtain rolls open 12 inches…”Tibetians Only”. Five minutes later…they let us all in, and I slip in without a slip.

Of Wonder #7:
Why must my turn be after the screaming swearing girl who curses the embassy official?

Wonder of Wonder, Miracle of Miracles
The official looks at my documents and asks why I need to go twice. I explain the itinery of the tour group my parents joined, leaves mainland for Singapore, then returns to the mainland after 3 days. He says the rule at this embassy is if you are going to China for the first time, you may only enter once. He tells me I can get another VISA in Hong Kong. I say that I was hoping to spend that time with my family, as they were coming so far to see me. He looks are me, and says:

“Okay. For this special reason.”

I can’t hold back, I cry with relief and joy!

Xie xie!

Ro Ro Ro Your Boat...GENTLY Down Your Stream

2010-02-25T10:09:00.000-08:00

I will find the answer if I let it go Give myself sometime to falter Everything will come around In time

Tonight I spoke with my dear friend Rochelle. It was AWESOME. Skype is a technological miracle, and I am so grateful to connect with those I love. Like most of you, Ro thinks what I am doing is brave and exciting. Not to burst her or your bubble, yet I told her it is mind numbing how normal life is carrying on as I carry on around the globe. I typically feel behind in emails, blogs, and posting pictures. I often wait until the last minute to make reservations be it accommodations, train, or plane and end up with not quite what I wanted, yet with it all working out in the end. I don’t make it to bed early enough, and leave the dishes for the next day, and wake up late only to leave brushing to the chewing gum.

Rochelle reminded me how fortunate I am, getting to experience such vastly different places, cultures, and people during this stretch of time. She listened as I moaned about my neighbor/housekeeper who is eating my chocolate, accidentally locking me out, and calling my digestive cookies ‘dog food’. I went on to brag and beam that I love the girls and women at the center I am volunteering at and that they love me! I teach impromptu to dances classes, feel productive and useful in English class, and most importantly-finally feel free to be my silly seriously goofy self.

She asked me more questions, and I continued to rattle on about ‘Incredible India’ and how I am in love with the head tilt jiggle. I boasted at how I did it myself unconsciously yesterday after only 4 days in India, and how I received many eager and happy girly tilts in return.

And then it DAWNED on my to ask her about HER in return.

The lumpectomy was a success which she knew directly after surgery on Friday. She received her prognosis from the doctor today that 14 of the 16 lymph nodes are clear, leaving just two as pooh stubbornnotgettingthehinttheyarenotwelcome left.

Yes, while I have been prancing around the world, Rochelle, Queen of Roboobia, has been battling breast cancer.

When I gleefully come across her on FB chat, or reach her my voice or video, she is positively interested in me. My goings and comings, my interactions with people, my health, safety, and so on.

I seriously tend to forget she is going through this war on herself while speaking with her. Instead, I get this burst of energy, surge of happiness, and feel ladles of her love lapping over me.

Towards the end of the inandoutSkypefromonehalfoftheplanettotheotheroverinternet call, she tells me about some documentary that she is going to send me in email. She was going to do it , ‘right now’ so that she wouldn’t forget to send it to me.

I receive the email with two attachments. The first is a zip file with PDF documents about the director, producer, and the timeline for the film. I am a bit curious as to why I should bother with all that stuff, and look at the second MOV attachment that has only download 4% and figure I should take a look at the first. I first read about the director-never heard of her, then move on to the producer, and I am starting to feel like I should recognize something. I like the title, “Right Where I Belong” straight away without knowing what it is referring to, beyond applying it to my own life. It is not until I start reading about the film, that I see Rochelle’s name.

The film is a documentary about her experience with breast cancer.

The trailer has downloaded, and with it my tears, my guilt, my frustration, and most importantly my renewed admiration for Rochelle.
I watch it again, crying the full 3 minutes. I then go to her blog, and reread, and shamefully-read for the first time about her experiences in the last 5 months. Tears were steady, and began to pound behind my temples. Could it really be that long that she has been dealing with this? How could I be so blind to all the trauma, pain, and fear that Ro Ro-who is so near and dear to my heart, has been experiencing?

Looking for comfort, I ran to iTunes to listen to songs that make me feel connected to Ro. I typed in Wicked, “ For Good “ and realized it is only on my recently lost iPod. I next typed in Sarah , and got “Perfect Girl”, a song until now I hadn’t especially like.

The first line seemed to be the questions I was feeling, and the chorus felt like answers from Ro.

Am I faithful? I am I strong?

Don't worry you will find the answer if you let it go Give yourself some time to falter But don't forgot know that you're loved no matter what And everything will come around in time
This is how I feel every time I speak with her. That I am on a journey to find some answers, and to take my time and enjoy. If there are times of doubt, times I want to run home, to remember that she loves me no matter what.

Towards the end of our phone call, we were both marveling at the different paths that our lives were taking, and yet how important it was to be ourselves, independently growing and feeding our souls the lessons that would create our true selves. I wanted a hug from her at the end of our phone call, and yet I knew I had just received one.

Tonight I was going to do the normal and mundane things that life requires. Go to bed early, find out more information about the trains and hostels, answer emails, cook dinner, and read my novel until I fell asleep.

Instead, I received a astounding jolt through visual image and sound of the tumult that Rochelle lives everyday.

Again, I am so grateful for technology that connects me with those I love.

I am so proud and amazed by Rochelle’s fortitude and ability to share her experience so that others might grow and feel empowered to find their true self.

Tonight, I took one step closer to mine my true self. Thank you Rochelle for loving me and allowing me to attend to my journey as you attend to yours.

To read about Rochelle’s light and energy that shrunk her cancer go to: http://www.navigatorgaia.blogspot.com/

A Heart Full

2010-02-17T00:29:00.000-08:00

I have bits of words from the musical Les Miserables stuck in my head, ‘A heart full of love….In my life…..touches my life….waiting near…waiting here’.

I have been on the African continent since November, experiencing the ebb and flow my heartbeats, skips, and aches.

Last night I picked up a book about a Aussie woman’s experience living and working in S.Africa, and since then I am finding it difficult to ignore the aches. Page 28 finds me on the verge of tipping over. I have continually fought back the urge to get my computer and type this, yet page 28 won. I now sit in the large spacious common room in Durban’s hostel, The Happy Hippo and wonder if I should move back to my room where tears in waiting might be better received.

The author arrived in South Africa in 1988, during apartheid. She talks about how her whole life she dreamt of coming to Africa, and how she was prepared to fall in love. She was surprised at the underlying hostility she felt once crossing the border from Zimbabwe into SA.

I too feel it.

I’ve spent my time with Black, white, and mixed race, what here is termed ’coloured’, yet the majority of my time has been with whites. I wonder why that happens. In Tanzania and Ethiopia that was not the case, yet whites are also the minority there. Yet here, wandering around on my own, I still tended towards meeting and befriending other white people. Walking down the street in Wellington, the small town I stayed while working on a wine farm, it was white people who waved me over to the local watering hole and insisted on buying me a drink. Yet last night in a huge Texas like thunder and lightening storm, it was a Black man that rolled down his window during the tumultuous rain and asked if I was lost. I then followed him to the street that would lead me to my night’s destination. People are kind. People are good.

Yesterday, I failed to give a young Black man a ride out of the National Game Park. I felt guilty the entire drive out. I have given loads of women lifts, yet never a man-regardless of color, though honestly a white man was never asking. Would I have turned that young man down had he been white? I hope so (as does my brother Jared), but…

One cannot help but to continually role the ideas of race around in this country. As the farmer I worked for said, “We are all just one race-the human race. Race is just fabricated by us as an excuse.”

But is it really this country? I often find myself struggling with such issues and ideas at home as well. What would have been my life like had I bought a house in Oakland? Would I be more aware of the problems, as I would be more a part of a Black community? Has my life been kept idyllic living in sweet suburban Campbell?

When I was around 7 or 8 my mom asked me if I had anything against Asians. What?? She went on to say that she had noticed that I did not have any Asian friends and wanted to make sure that I felt positively towards all people. I wonder if my mom remembers this, as the impression it made on me has never faded. I believe I made an effort to create my own little United Nations circle of friends. Yet looking back, I do not believe I had any Black friends. Did she only ask about the kids in my neighborhood? I don’t even remembering having Black classmates until middle school.

Since I’ve gone back to my childhood, I am going to dredge up a haunting memory. Many of you know I wear contacts and glasses. I did not get contacts until I was a freshman in high school, and as a child my glasses were Coke bottle thick. I was often made fun of and taunted due to my ugly ducking goggles. During the ride home from a field trip to Marine World some kid from another school made fun of me with the usual taunts of Four Eyed Freak and Ugly. Now these were nothing new to me, I got them at home regularly from my brothers so one might have thought I’d built up a tough skin by then. But no, I found that I finally had something hurtful I could say back. So I called the kid a Nigger.

It worked, though like me- he was able to quickly cover up his hurt with anger and his verbal barrage started a fresh. I have no idea what he said back then, but still now, I remember the moments after I said it felt as if a heavy weight came down on my chest and shoulders, pinning me to that place while the rest of me was desperately trying to run away.

Again the impression of that moment has never faded. That I retaliated with hate, and with something that my young mind did not quite comprehend the power of. I learned young, that that was something I did not ever want to repeat. Not just using a racially derogatory word, but spitting back hate.

This has been a bit of a purge, now hasn’t it? Bear with me.

Africa, and more particularly, South Africa brings to surface all of these confused feelings of race. Yet, digging deeper, it is really about where we all fit in. Having a place in the world where one feels accepted, valued, and has the ability to prosper are the basics needs of the human experience.

Hence page 28 of Sandy Blackburn’s Holding Up the Sky.

“… to believe in God means to care about what is happening in the lives of people around you.”
Now this has a bit of a stickiness to it for me due to the reference of God. So if I take the word God out, and substitute it with us. Us meaning, we the people of the planet earth, I feel calmer about my place here is the world because I know I care.

Blackburn continues to explain her purpose as part of a mixed group making presentations to high school students in the Durban area during apartheid, “ We were attempting to communicate that if you were black you could not avoid politics; and that if you white, you were still impacted by politics although it felt far less uncomfortable.”

Campbell is far less uncomfortable than Oakland. The U.S. is far less uncomfortable than Africa. My life has been far far less uncomfortable than probably 90% of the world’s population.

So what am I doing about it?

My baby step is caring about what is happening in the lives of people around me. I still have more white friends than Asain or Black, but I do care about others.

And Africa fills my heart with that.

Baggage That Can Weigh You Down

2010-02-14T07:50:00.000-08:00

I repeated a scene today at the Cape Town Airport from Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible. In fact, I took it to the next level. Kingsolver’s character’s are smart enough to the check the luggage weight limit before they got to the airport, I on the other hand, assume I will not even be close. Guess, I picked up a couple souvenirs two many from the wine farm.

I arrived to the airport about 5 hours early, thanks to a great friend that offered me a ride from Wellington, so I did not have to take the train. And because I was not taking the train, I would not have to manage my luggage (car, cart, plane), hence the overabundance of food and drink items I felt free to bring that might otherwise have weighed me down.

I got up to Mango’s counter, after carefully repacking some more items (food) acquired along the way, and smartly double checked that I could take on 6 bottles of wine- as it was a domestic flight to Durban.

Three.

Three, really? Are you sure? I was told six.

Told, smold.

So I not so happily trotted outside to the bubble wrap department and paid to have 3 bottles bubbled and skipped right back into the counter.

So, I can carry on all three of these?

Got the head nod, thumbs up and expected to see the counter agent waving me in with the neon lukeskywalker saberish traffic control lights when I was told there would be an additional charge for the overage.

It seemed I was 8.5 kilos over…17.6 lbs and it would cost me 240R ….40USD for my oversight. In light that my ticket was only 320R, it seemed ridiculous to pay so much for a bag.

Um…really? Can’t you just pass it on by and give me a ‘Hey we’re glad you came to our country to volunteer’ type thing? (yes, I know…I volunteered on a wine warm. It was still volunteer work!)

She looked at me and suggested I try repacking.

Entered amped up Poisonwood Bible scene.

I first decided I must off load my books, the ones I was hoping to give to someone who wanted them or resell them back to the used bookstore in Joburg. I found a woman at the tourist counter, who after calling her supervisor to make sure it was okay to accept my contraband, thanked me for the 4 books. (-1ish kilos)

I then started my repacking by finishing my Stoney ginger beer, baguette with mouth watering salami and goat cheese on the assumption that they couldn’t weigh me. Next, I went to the ladies room and opened my Ceres white grape juice and drank as much as I could (I can just see the pride on my father’s face) and poured the rest in my water bottle hoping security will over look it. Then I started to take out items and stuff my pockets. I mean stoof! Wallet, glasses, ipod, camera, journal, pens, phone, chocolate bars (had to be counted), and headphones. Then I pulled out my fleece and tied in around my waist, and tied my jacket on top of that, stuffing those pockets as well. Place my hat on the head, and hung my sunglasses over the neck of my shirt, as they looked ridiculous on, inside and would most likely fall off if resting on my hat- causing me to have to bend over to retrieve them whilst other items would follow suit from my pockets and expose me to the authorities as a crook. Lastly, I put more things in my basket that previously just held my backpack, hoping they would only weigh my backpack and not look into my bag.

I was ready.

I returned to the counter, a new ticket agent was behind the counter, yet the same supervisor who naysayed my volunteer line was still on duty.

I smiled and handed over my ID. I slightly panicked and thought the jig was up when she asked for my credit card that would require unearthing from my over burgeoning pockets, yet managed to dig it out without incident.

22.5 kilos! I had managed to offload 5.5 kilos…most of which was secreted on my body. I held my breathe as I waited for her to comment on the 2.5 overage…yet she just kept asking about my travel experiences while beautifully multi-tasking my bags on through to the conveyer belt.

Hurray!

Next step security.

36 memories

2009-12-18T11:56:00.000-08:00

So I was pondering the immensity of the age turning process and all the wonderful things that I have done, learned, and experienced over the years. I at first thought I’d make of list of 36 things I have learned over the years, yet instead I thought I’d share 36 memories from my life-starting from the first year up until the present one- some I truly remember, others were told to me.

1- Almost drowning in bed. I was in the crib, which happened to be under part of the roof that was covered with a tarp as my parents were mid construction on the house. It had rained recently, and apparently water collected on the tarp, and the weight of the water was too much and caused the tarp to slip- allowing water to fall on my face. I was in a brace to help turn my duck legs into dancing swan legs, and was unable to move. Luckily, mother’s instinct alerted my mom and I was saved. I love water to this day, just not in bed.
2- Apparently I was quite precocious as a youngster, and was speaking sentences by 2 years (in better stories it was 1.5 years) and would turn to strangers in the supermarket while pointing to my mother and say, “Do you know that woman has 6 children?”
3- Gymnastics. My teacher’s name was Paul. He scared me. I must have insisted on wearing a tutu to class because I have a vague memory of him threatening to take it away if I did not comply with his request. The idea of no tutu! It was cukoo!
4- Going to Mexico baby. I remember leaving Joel behind at Grandma’s (lucky!) and a vague memory of piling into a taxi (our family of 8) in Mexico (maybe it was Tiajuana?).
5-Flunking my first year of school. As my birthday is in December, I was able to go to kindergarten early. As my speaking non stop inspired others to believe I was of high intelligence, they sent me to a private school. Unfortunately, my skipping skills were not up to par, and it was recommended that I repeat kindergarten.
6 - Meeting my new neighbors that came from Ing Land. Mr. Joyce had long shaggy hair (just past his ears) and a wall full of records. Melanie had Barbies ( not an item in the Headley House) and Becca was a YOUNGER sister. Mrs. Joyce invited me for tea!!! I drank hot cocoa.
7- Getting caught in the second grade stealing a Twinkie out of Sarah Willard’s lunch box. The classroom appeared empty, until I realized my teacher was staring at me with while I held the Twinkie in one hand, and Sarah’s box in the other.
8- Getting baptized. I couldn’t wait, ‘cause it meant I got to choose a restaurant to eat at for dinner. I chose this kind of dive bar place in Los Altos called , The Echo, so that I could order a baked potato.
9- Riding on the Boy Scout banana seat bicycle that one of my brother’s earned/won?, on the first day of fourth grade in my purple draw string and tie in the back overalls with a white puff short sleeve top. There is a picture of this somewhere, which is most likely why I remember this. Yet the distinguishing moment was that I remember feeling pretty in this outfit. My first memory of clothes making the girl.
10- Directing my first play, “Paddington Bear”, starring Jenny Pettibone, Annie Norbey, and Courtney Rowe. I remember there being drama during a rehearsal and we got in a fight that the principal, Mr. Anderson, had to help us work out. I have recollection that I did not like the way he handle it! None thespians.
11- Getting my period and debating whether or not to tell me mom- cause I knew she’d say something awkward AND tell my Dad even if I asked her not to (geez). I was right. She said, “Welcome to womanhood.” and told my dad. (double geez).
12- Becoming a Beehive (start of church youth group) and getting to hang out with Anne Packard and Barbara Whitman, two adult woman who seemed to know how to be silly and fun! I wanted to grow up to be just like them!
13- On a water-ski trip with my church youth group, my girlfriends and I huddled in the campsite bathroom reading the directions for how to use a tampon.
14- After studying for months over a hundred ballet terms in French, improving my strength and flexibility, and taking more classes as to pass the test to be on pointe-I provided an unsolicited answer to a friend during her test..after I had passed, and while she was stuck….I was caught, and caused us both to flunk.
15- End of freshman year, the day after the last day of school. I am in the home economics room finishing my sewing projects as to avoid a failing grade, as Ms. Grennals took pity of Mr. Headley’s way to talkative and not so talented at aligning darts and cutting out interfacing daughter. This class brought Carolyn Balfe and then subsequently her sisters Marianne and Kathleen into my life.
16- Claire Soucie made a sign for my birthday picnic at school during lunch that read something to the effect: “Kory’s sweet sixteen birthday lunch. If you don’t have a present or chocolate….BUZZ OFF!!”
17- Receiving the call that my grandfather passed away. I tried to call my dad at school, yet they would not transfer me to his room!! My friend Ali happened to stop by in her car, thus providing me with a way to get over to my dad.
18- Riding at a full run on a horse in beautiful Southern Utah. I took a road trip with Becky Sampson and met up with Ali while exploring the amazing sites of natural in Capital Reef, Goblin Valley, and Bryce Cayon. Becky’s family had a camp with horses that we were able to ride during the trip. It was so exhilarating! I was terrified and excited all at the same time.
19- Moving out to become a nanny...in Los Altos! I offered many apologies to my mother for complaining about dinner, not putting away my laundry, returning unfinished lunches, and my overall snot attitude to her.
20- Watching Pride and Prejudice (Colin Firth…wet shirt) with the Slaugh sisters and Kim. I then decided our house needed a name as done in Jane Austin’s time…so I slapped a pad above the door and dubbed it the , “Maxipad”.
21- Turning 21 in Paris. I had 3 Nutella, with various other deliciousnesses- like banana/strawberry- crepes, saw the Paris Ballet perform Swan Lake, and bought a dress! Then was flirted with by a cute fellow traveller. Oh la la!
22- Becoming close thru writing letters to family and friends, yet especially my brothers Jacob and Joel while all three of us served missions.
23- Working for Jared and Rick at AfterImage. We would tip toe around the office when burning a CD. It would take an hour to burn, and another hour to finish. Often, if the door closed to hard, or someone bumped the table, the CD would fail and we would have to start all over again.
24- Riding in the California AIDS Ride 4. I was so amazed by the financial and emotional support family and friends gave me while I fundraised and prepared for the bicycle ride from SF to LA.
25-Deciding to leave the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (Mormons) because it did not support marriages of love for all people.
26- Falling in love.
27- Teaching my first full year in Saratoga. It was a disaster. Yet, I have made such wonderful and lasting friends through that job. I remember hiding in the closet from a parent one day, ‘cause I just could not take her daily gnawing.
28- Falling out of love.
29-Learning to scuba dive in Thailand on Koh Tao (Turtle Island) and realizing that my heart and soul were opening up to life again while swimming with the fishes.
30- Running a marathon in Hawaii. I was super slow…5.5 hours…yet I raced the last quarter mile and leapt over the finish line. Directly upon returning to SF, I had some amazing friends come together to celebrate my birthday with me….my mom made me my favorite cake to take to the dinner party.
31- My dad’s graduation gift to me upon earning my Master’s degree (first Headley!). He went around to different stores to buy all the different types of specialty chocolate bars that he could find. He then wrapped them each individually, and came over to my house and hid them all over. My roommate had to help him relocate them out of her dog’s mouth reach. He also made a photo book from cards and pictures of me from special moments of my life.
32- Celebrating Christmas in Costa Rica with Danny and Drew and some other new friends. We danced to Madonna’s Immaculate Collection (who knew it was such a great Christmas Album), poured the pie (minus the crust) that never set into the blender, and shared gifts of sparklers on the moonlight beach. True spirit of giving!
33- On my first night in Sparspach, France visiting Sebastien’s family, his niece Antonia (then 5 years old) asked if she could sleep with me. I was so blown away by the love and trust of his family, and the way children can feel free around others.
34- My parents coming over with comfort food (chocolate covered pretzels and mini brie bakes) when I told them that my boyfriend and I were splitting up. I felt so loved, cared for, and normal. I think the number of dinner invites by my brothers and their wives peaked in those following months.
35- Wading through the stream at the hot springs in Jamaica, a little boy pointed to me and said, “Chinese! Chinese!”
36- Dancing to “La Bamba” sung by a Tanzanian band in a little bar called, First Left, in Sakina, Arusha, Tanzania, after drinking my first Krest- as a Stonie was not available.

Forward

raniy day blues

2009-12-04T02:30:00.000-08:00

It’s raining today. It didn’t start until about 1pm, right after I finished hand washing my clothes. I had thought it might, as the sky had a big dark cloud heading our way, yet often it just rains for 30 minutes or so. And it did. I was so proud of myself. I rang and rinsed out my clothes, and then hung them up to dry in the hot sun. I sat outside with my banana stew that Irene had made for me, and felt appreciation for all the times she has washed my clothes, without me saying a word. I would just come back home, and there would be my clothes clean, and folded, along with my shoes scrubbed and clean.

Then it started to rain again. I thought, eh..my clothes are wet anyway, and I didn’t think I did such a hot job washing them anyway, so now they are just getting an extra rinse.

That was four hours ago.

I think I just made more work for Irene, as they must think I am totally inept. I had wanted to wash my clothes to use less detergent, so I put a bit in and let my clothes soak, as the directions indicated. Within 5 minutes of the soak, a family friend, Eleeza, began washing them and went to get more detergent, as “There is NOT enough soap in here.”

Wait. Wait! It’s okay, I think it will be fine, I tried to dissuade her.

Oh no, these won’t get clean.

Yet the package says to soak them for an hour, I try.

Now, you must realize that I am speaking English, she is speaking broken English, and then Swahili with my host family’s 8 year old daughter interpreting as best as possible. Clearly, the package is not reason enough. She kind heartedly goes to put more detergent in the bucket…

Wait! Please….I am thinking about the slightly soapy feeling my clothes have had recently, and realize I am in a corner that should not be explained away.

Yet I do anyway, saying ASANTE over and over, and pantomime scratching….mumbling that too much soap makes me itch.

She backs away, and feel relived that I will be able to wash my clothes with just enough soap, and show them that I am not a lazy bum, who is too good to wash her own clothes or only knows how to use a machine.

Yet now the rain continues, and I just saw one of the kids wringing out my pants.

Later that night, as I am returning home, Evita (host mother, although I am 3 years her senior) is laughing at me as I walk up while pointing to my wet hanging clothes. She comes and hugs me while laughing saying, “Poli Poli” (sorry). She just makes me laugh. She, her husband and I are laughing at what a dork I am for washing my clothes on a rainy day. Her husband is explaining to her how back in the states I use a machine and only press buttons.

Oh well, I should not be ashamed of my, PoorAmericancan’tdoanythingwithoutallherfancymachines status.

Spit Shake

2009-12-04T02:29:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, a woman spit on me. It took me by surprise, and was unsure of how to respond. Then I realized she wanted me to spit on her in return. I’ve never suffered from such a dry mouth as I did in that moment.

I was returning from the Olasiti Orphan Center, after getting a treat of seeing young people practice songs in as a chorus. The treat was momentary, as some boys thought it also the perfect place to joke around and chat. After asking them to be quiet without success, I headed back to my home stay, in a bit of a perturbed mood.

Along the way, as is wondrously usual- a regular parade of children walked with me. Along the way, we met in the road a Masai women in traditional clothing. Our eyes met, and we reached out our hands to shake, and that is when she spit. I wish I could have seen my own face, as I was so startled, and had no idea the intention.

The children laughed at me, and the woman continued her grasped, until it dawned on me that she was trying to gesture with her free hand and mouth that I too should return the spit. I puckered and pouted and tried to spit out some liquid of non offensive proportions, yet really all that issue from my mouth was a dry French tout!

The woman kindly acquiesce my hand, smiling knowingly at my blunders, and continue down the road in the opposite direction.

The children left in the road with me quickly started to sing a song to me,

Jambo
Jambo sana
Harbari
Inzuri sana

It is a song of greetings…the first line says, “how are you?’ the second line returns the greeting and responds fine, and the 3rd and 4th do the same, in a more formal manner. Now that I know what the words mean, I am totally impressed at how fast the children were trying to teach me the everyday survival skills.

Too bad there isn’t a line in there about spit!

Smokers' Breath

2009-12-04T02:25:00.000-08:00

My nostrils are filled. My head is pounding. My eyes can’t blink away the haze. The Addis Ababa Airport is filled with smokers, and I am not one of them. I want them to go away. I looked for a out of the way place for myself and I still couldn’t get a way from them all. Literally placed my self in the outermost corner, and they seem to be magnetized to me. I was doing my yoga stretches. Trying to feel sane, healthy, and calm. It started to work…calmness. Body getting more flexible with each stretch. Breathe in..YUCK!

I moved to find a new spot and…...

Through the glass separating those at the gate for their departure, from where I was wandering up and down the shopping area, I saw my biker dude. He could even have been a former member of ZZ Top. He had a bald head and a long white beard. He was thick and muscular, wearing a Harley Davidson T-shirt. I looked at him through the glass, probably a bit too long, and he got up and moved towards me. He was probably trying to figure out if he knew me, since I was staring so openly. Now THAT would be cool, eh? To see someone you know unexpectedly on the other side of the world. He looked at me for a while, from a distance and then headed back to his seat.

I wanted to run over and put my hand on the glass, and have him do the same. To make a connection with..with…a biker dude? With someone, that I knew. But just seeing him, made me feel good. I don’t know why, maybe he just looked so American. He was the epitome of my home. Not the geographically correct answer to , “Where are you from? ‘United States.’”, but America! The land that I know people.

Get your motors running….Head out on the highway…..Looking for adventure…

The stinging and tearing of my eyes brings me out of my reverie. I am in the computer lounge and no one in this 30 x 30 room is smoking, and still my eyes are stinging. I keep coughing now and again too. Just to try to give you an idea how bad it I…For the past three weeks, I’ve been in countries where it seems the majority of people smoke…and did so all the time! I’ve slept in a pub for the last two nights. Ya think I’d be okay with the smoke by now. NOPE.

I must say, the amount of natural light in the airport is gorgeous! Although, perhaps that is why it seems so hazy…the light reflects off the smoke.

Poop…just a splinter of positive thinking arose.

Maybe I’ll go check out the biker again for a breath of fresh air.

Wash Out

2009-11-20T07:07:00.000-08:00

I told Zenan that I wanted to visit a secondary school, one comparable to our high school level. I wanted to observe the classrooms, the students that were being sponsored by FOTO and the type of styles employed by teachers in the classrooms of Tanzania. Zenan heartily agreed and asked if I wanted to spend the entire day with the students, starting early in the morning and accompany them to the school.

“That would be great,” I replied.

A satisfied smiled spread on Zenan’s face as he nodded, “Wednesday?”

“Perfect.”

Tuesday, 10:30pm…Rain Storm

Wednesday, 18 Nov 09
6 am…Cool, refreshing breeze from my window. Yard looks refreshed and clean from the rain.
6:30.…Took a lovely warm wash/shower
7 am… Rain returns…heavy
7:15... No Zenan…would he cancel due to rain? No, he would probably be happy it is raining so that I get an uncompressed experience.
7:20... Zenan arrives…. “Do you have a rain coat?”
I showed him what I had. “A longer one?” I shook my head in the negative. “Rain pants?” I held up my umbrella in triumph.
7:30... Chai in thermal travel mug and umbrella open, we begin down the mud and water swelled road.
Road: Large bugs fill the road, air, and my umbrella. Termites. Edible when roasted, or raw-just twist the head off as demonstrated by a plucky five year old later in the afternoon.
Chapatis: We stop at a roadside café and I watch the woman pound out the dough (looks and tastes like a flour tortilla, bit more greasy) and cook over her indoor woodfire.
Vegetables: Woman with basket on head ½ her size takes it off -it is filled with an entire farmer’s market stand. Zenan chooses bananas, avocado, and carrots to go with our chapattis.

7:45...on side of street in pouring rain with about five students, waiting for bus- although Zenan keeps saying truck. I think he is confusing the words, until a large semi construction truck drives by and he point to it, and says, “One like that. The drivers are heading out to collect rocks and dirt for construction and return empty, so the kids can get in. Only their large tires and engines will be able to handle the road.” My first thought, why is a school built where only large trucks can go? My second, TRUCK.

8:??… I am not clear how long we have been waiting, yet I decide to attempt to keep track. Joints ache, and I am determined not to utter compliant or show weakness. Rain has soaked through my pants, shoulders, and the camera case it squishy. I have on a rain coat and hood, I’ve passed off my umbrella to some students. Zenan is completely dressed in rain gear, and is explaining to me that some students might wait up to 2 hours for a ride to school. He then mentions that perhaps we should take a Dala Dala (minivan shuttle) to a spot where trucks pass by more frequently.

8:??+20 minutes…I inquire about whether we are taking a Dala Dala to the more frequented place. Zenan shakes his head and quietly responds that he does not want students to rely on him when things get difficult.
8:??+30 minutes…Large construction truck approaches on road, female students are strategically placed in front of male students to flag down truck. I let out a little sigh at the prospect of getting a ride, and then an even larger one as it continues down the road. Zenan explains that sometimes the police ticket the drivers of the trucks for picking up students and passengers. I am annoyed that the police are interfering with students getting to school. Is it for safety? Or for monetary gain? Zenan concedes both, yet more for the money. I curse the police.
8:??+40...Rain god realizes the cars can produces larger splashes to roadside standers if clouds release greater amounts of water with greater force.
8:??+45...Zenan leads us lambs down the road a bit to a glorious tin roof covered area. I soon find a mug of hot chai in my hand.
8:??+60...Zenan hails a Dala Dala, we are packed in with Zenan standing on the outside rail, reaching a hand thru an open window to hold on.
8:??+70...we arrive at ‘transit’ area, and within 5 minutes students have secured transport on the other side of a newly formed creek. I successfully leaped across, yet land in mud passed my ankles. I look for the truck, and take my first belly laugh as I see the students climbing into the bed of a trailer containing three sheep pulled by a red tracker.

8:??++…The side of the trailer reaches my knee, so I must bend over sideways to grasp the rail. I am not the tallest present, yet after a bit my side and shoulder ache. I try sitting on the gate, and soon learn why it was empty of passengers as we go over a bump. I fly up and land back on the gate, stamping my behind with a multi-colored tennis ball size bruise. Students are joking around with each other, all somehow intertwined by hands, arms, and feet to lend security. I wonder if the tractor is really moving faster than we could have walked it. My mind wanders to the steady ground as I try to keep my knees bent, and relax my grip on the rail as we continue to lurch and bounce down the mud road. About ten minutes later, a Dala Dala passes with students in headed in the opposite direction. They shout, “Flood” and Zenan explains that they have turned back because the road has flooded and they cannot pass. I wonder why we are not turning around ourselves, yet somehow lose the thought before it can be uttered.
After about forty minutes, one boy jumps out and starts to jog along the tractor. He walks, he stops, then bursts into a fast run to catch up again. He is acting the clown and the students are loving it. Laughing, pointing, and teasing him along. Soon, another boy joins, and still another. I am hoping we are closer to the school. That the willingness to jog alongside, means we can’t be too far off.
We pass over an area where the rain has caused part of the road to collapse into the river. I close my eyes as we pass over the bridge, hoping that nothing will go wrong. We pass a large semi that seems stranded on the side of the road. The load was too heavy and the wheels got stuck in the mud. Then the students are all a flutter and I see them become more animated with there hands, with some intensity that raises a red flag in my mind. Zenan relates a story of a truck that turned over this past year trying to make it up the hill we are going down; its ‘passengers’ were killed- including 12 students. Right now, the students are telling the same story and explaining how to jump out to safety to avoid being crushed to death. Not five minutes later a one of the construction trucks whizzes past full of students. The tractor kids shout to the others to take them. I think back to the cursed police, and silently thank them.

10:ish…We arrive about an hour later. I see about 30 students standing alongside a muddy stream, some chatting, others washing the shoes the mud. As I walk towards them my feet become heavier and heavier as the mud collects like garbage at a dump. I try to maneuver to a drier looking patch and my foot begins to sink, yet this time I am able to yank it out before it reaches my ankle. I now see where the road is washed out, unable to pass. There are about five students standing at the edge, just watching it. I ask where the school is, and they point to some bright pink bougainvillea about one kilometer away on the other side.
Zenan is talking to some students. I go over the stream and try to wash off some of the mud. A girl next to me is doing the same with greater success, and reaches over with her handkerchief and wipes the tip of my shoes clean. I wave her away good naturedly, and the other kids giggle and laugh. Seconds later, she tries again with a shy kind smile and I have to look down in haste so she won’t see the tears that have leapt to my eyes.
I wondered aloud to Zenan if we are now just waiting for another truck to take us back to town. No, he returns in his typical calm and informative way, they are waiting for the water to die down so that they can cross. I realize we are here for the long haul , and resolve to engage the students in conversation. Not long after, Zenan asks if I am ready to go. I look around for a truck, see none, and ask if we are walking back. No, he continues in his usual manner, I mean for us to cross the river.
I knew this was coming, I just thought we, like the students ,were waiting for it to die down. Now?- I question him. He nods. How deep is it? He gestures to mid calf. I raise my eyebrows to signal my doubt, and hope he picks up on my lack of desire. My resolve to make no compliant falters as I think about all the fields that rain has washed over to make this river. Walking in muddy animal feces in shoes is one thing, but barefoot? I balk.
I had already tried to convince myself earlier, that this would be no big deal. The kids do it regularly. I would not pick up any diseases or, or..yuck. I turned to Zenan, and told him I did not want to do it. I pointed out that the river was full of animal feces from all the surrounding farms and homes. I reminded him of the student with the swollen and pussing finger due to digging in the earth. Remember the worm?, I implored. Zenan nodded and humbly explained that it was because the child was digging, that the worms don’t enter at the feet. I could tell he was disappointed, and that annoyed me and concreted that I was not going to be guilted into crossing.
Shortly thereafter, a student attempted the first crossing. He was successful, and I triumphantly pointed out to Zenan that it came up over his knees-and the student was on the tall side. Again, Zenan politely nods.
I see a man with a bicycle approach. I get my camera out again. He places a stick in to measure the depth. He takes three or four steps in to measure the force of the current. He returns for the bike, carries it on his head across the river. He gives it to another man waiting, then wades back across.
Zenan!, I call. Let’s go. Home?, he questions. Across the river, and I began to untie me shoes and roll up my pants.
As this has been long, I will try to wrap it up from here more quickly.

Once crossing, it was impossible to wash my feet off and remained balance on the side of the hill, as I kept sinking ankle deep in mud. So, I continued the 1 kilometer trek to the school barefoot, as did most of the students. Once arriving there with my newly caked feet, I, along with other students began to wash and scrape the mud off my feet and shoes. Again, students were kind, and went to the rainwater container and drew water for me by climbing up stones, and one bowl full at a time, filled a bucket for me. It was brought to me, so that I did not have to pick my way through the chips and splinters of wood leftover from one of the many chores students do daily to support the school (chopping fire wood to help keep the classrooms warm during the cold months). After 10 minutes of attempting to get my shoes clean enough for the classroom, I was informed (though I had been warned at the river that this might be the case) that the school would not open. Only one teacher was there -one of two that lived on the premises- and that would not be sufficient to hold school.
But the students (eh, em) have come all this way, I whined! So, there is no point in me cleaning my feet or shoes, cause we are just going to turn around and head back? Again, the Zenan nod.
I asked a nearby student for the time, 11:30. FOUR HOURS of traveling, for nothing. No teacher. No head master. Some students…50 or so, yet NO SCHOOL. And, I still have to make my way back.
The one teacher comes over to speak with us, and I try not to show any anger or frustration. He seems reasonable, it makes sense that he can’t hold one class of students, as they are at all different levels. At least he came, and on this day (Wednesday), his teaching is usually over, and given to preparation time. He says he will take a roll call, and bids us farewell.
I am steamed. Literally, the sun has come out, the rain is gone, and my clothes are steaming dry. I headed back barefoot, knowing this time, what lay ahead.

Looking back, I think I somehow thought I would garner respect from the students, the teachers, and Zenan for coming to their country and trying to assist. Cerebrally, my plan was to go to new places, learn new things, and gain in my understanding of others. Yet, after just one week of walking around the town with my celebrity white status - cheerful children intertwining their hands in mine, every passerby wishing me a good day with their “good-bye!” calls, and assistance given without question…I think I got a big head.

Yet, for these students, this was such another typical day. I was nothing special, and neither were they.
Yet they are where the real story begins. Day after day, these students go against enormous challenges, just to get to school. Weather. No transportation. Distance (this school is about 20 kilometers away, by unfinished and difficult roads). And once the arrive? No adequate teachers, supervision, or materials. The school itself, looks like abandoned warehouses of some sort.

How so we even begin to measure education in this condition? How are these students supposed to compete in a global market? Competition? Must we not first, level the playing field? Yet, how do we begin?

Well, the students have begun.

I believe I got the experience that Zenan hoped I would. Now, the challenge is what I do with this story, this experience. Will this experience too, be a wash out?

This is IT

2009-11-10T08:00:00.000-08:00

I owe MJ an apology.

For the last decade I have overused the phrase, “ Michael Jackson? I liked him when he was a black man, as a white woman- it doesn’t work for me.”

This coming for the same girl, who at the age of 10 during the fourth grade, at the height of Thriller, asked her teacher to call her Mrs. Jackson. I got a paused, look down the nose, emphatic NO.

The popular girls in my class had formed a club, as part of which each girl was to pick a famous movie star, ie: Tom Cruise, Matt Damon, C. Thomas Howell, etc. I, of course, having taste beyond my years, considered who was the most amazingly talented star out there, and wisely chose Michael Jackson. I don’t remember my choice meeting with criticism, although I do remember this sort of surprise or shock at not picking some hunky babe. Thinking back on it, it was one of those opportunities that the popular where laughing at the not so popular, and perhaps had even put me up to the task of asking Mrs. Uluman if she would address me as Mrs. Michael Jackson for the remainder of the year.

I didn’t turn my back on him then. In fact, I started looking back to the Jackson Five era for music with which to choreograph. Again, wisely, I chose ABC and once found that groove just made me, plus the young kids I was teaching, bust it out!! I couldn’t stop there, I added, Dancing Machine, I Want You Back, and The Love You Save. It was like crack. I used his music throughout my young adult years. Especially the music from the Thriller album.

Unconsciously or not, as long I as I used the music when I could still identify with him as a black male, I was jamming and busting and shakin’ ‘til my lungs were burning.

“ Sit down girl! I think I love you! No, get up girl, show me what you can do! Shake it , Shake it baby! Oh oh! ABC! Do Re Mi! Baby! That’s how easy love can be.”

Then he died, and I didn’t mourn. Instead, I got really annoyed at the media. REALLY annoyed. I was upset that his death was taking up of the airtime, focusing on all the accusations, drug-use, and oddities that he employed. That because he was the “king of pop” was should honor him. Um, honor the guy who doesn’t even like himself? Who, in my eyes, has devoted himself to changing his looks as to erase his race? And really, hanging your baby from a balcony for the whole world to watch how out of touch with reality you really are?

I was angry at him. Why couldn’t he just let things be? Why all the plastic surgeries, oxygen beds, skin lightening? Why the accusations of child molestations? How do you spend that much on pharmaceuticals? Why couldn’t he love himself? I loved him? Lots of people of difficult childhoods. Look at Drew Barrymore. She came out okay.

And then last night, I had my just desserts.

I saw the This Is It film. I kept telling myself not to add to the cooperate greed of profiting from his death, yet I felt compelled. I wanted to see him, just one more time.

I clapped, tapped, and shook my booty in my subwoofing movie chair (I was in Spain. I kid you not, the chairs vibrated from the base, a subwoofer in the chair…there was a lot of base). I was taken back to my youth. I sang along. I was amazed and wow’d by the dancers. I cried.

Actually, I bawled.

I fell back in love with Michael Jackson. The white, misshapen almost unrecognizable entertainer who has a pile of allegations, mishap after mishap , and yet still LOVES to dance, sing, and do the things that no one else ever has. I was amazed. I kept wishing he was alive, as I pledged I would pay whatever amount was demand to see him live. I would go to his concert so that I could feel inspired, awed, and thrilled like I did in that moment. Instead, I was mourning his death- and all that could have been with him still in the world.

I know, SUPER cheesy.
Maybe it is because I love to dance. Maybe it is because I wish I could sing. Maybe, I just want to be like him on stage. Creative, energetic, humble, kind, and …his own person.

He is who he made himself to be. He had a ton of problems, yet despite all of that- he awed us. He created songs, dance moves, and changed the way we thought we should be entertained. In the spotlight of the world he fought to find himself, making mistakes along the way, yet choosing and ultimately accepting those consequences. It is these qualities that I admire most in my friends and family. That they are who he or she has chosen to be.

Thank Michael for reminding me of that. Please accept my apology for not accepting all of you. If I cannot accept the sweet with the sour- then how can I hope that others will accept the semi-sweet that is me.

Mangiate bene!

2009-10-31T12:48:00.000-07:00

Certainly a four hour train ride should give me ample to time to write a blog. I got on the wrong train, on purpose too, as mine was late- so I thought this one would get me to Florence faster. Totally got what I deserve, as the one I am on will get me there 1.5 to 2 hours slower. FUN!

Despite having an entire row of 3 mid section seats all to myself, I was still unable to sleep on the flight from NYC to Rome. As much as I would like to blame it on the excitement, I think it was just too dang loud! Having lost my Bose noise reduction headset (seriously, my brother Jared SPOILs me!), along with iTouch, memory cards, and oh…my passport @ JFK, my sensitive ears just couldn’t take it. Although my body was not in knots, my eyes had sunk down to my chin upon arrival to the land of golden food opportunities, and I was desperate for sleep. From the airport, I promptly hired a room that was to be ready within the hour (8am) next to the Termini train station in Rome, and 2 hours later- I was there, being told the room would be cleaned in 30 minutes. I went up to the room, hoping just to wait for the cleaning service to clear away the cigarette ash from the floor and desk, and give me new sheets, all the while bumping into each wall as I struggled to get out of my trekking size backpack.

For the next 3 hours, I jerked and turned carefully on my self supplied “clean” bed , in the non-sleep of the waking dead as doors all around me opened and closed with a slam, hurried feet took to stairs, and the polizia whistles directed traffic outside my window. At 2pm, a clerk arrived to clean the room, I compromised and took clean sheets, a towel, and an empty garbage bin, plugged my ears with foam and slept decently for the next 3 hours, though noting with resign that the sun had come out and the afternoon looked warm and inviting, compared to my cold cell of a room.

I finally dragged myself out of bed at 5 to discover Roma, brushed the grit from my teeth, and slammed the door behind me as my feet pounded the stairs to the door. After wondering around, and inquiring at a few hotels for a possible upgrade, I came upon a internet café and was able to check my email for any news from Matteo, a fellow burner and couch surfer Italiano de Roma. There he was in black and white telling me to meet him and some friends at a bar off such and such street after work, and I could then return with him via a car to sleep upon his couch. Now, suffice to say, it was great to finally get an email from him although it seemed to me that some details were missing, like…..the name of the bar….the time that was considered “after work”, and perhaps some sort of description of Matteo. He did give me his number, and after waiting for 30 minutes at the fountain facing the 2 “bars”- one restaurant, the other said bar and gelato- I finally went to the one with the world bar in it and waited for another hour until I ‘asked’ the owner with lots of gesturing if he could call the number for Matteo. He did, Matteo answered, “Pronto” and I told him I was here, and he said he’d come out to the fountain. I rushed to the fountain at about the same time a tall skinny version of Mario de Nintendo (minus the overalls, plus a fro of curly black hair- keep fat bushy mustache) walks past me circling the fountain, stops and scratches his head in confusion. I approached him, “Matteo?”, and he jumps back a little before giving me two welcoming Italino kisses on either cheek and says, “Kory. I thought you were a man!“ I’d forgotten how my name can cause confusion, even with the gender hinting, “k”.

What proceeded was a foodie’s Italian dream. We went into the restaurant, aka ‘bar’ to meet his friends and help them finish off their 2nd bottle of white vino, scooted (okay Giovanni did, we car-ed it) over to Giovanni and the expecting Annachiara’s for dinner (their daughter is due on my birthday!) .

Holy Wow! Annachiara had already started dinner by the time we arrived. Vino rosso was poured as delicious smells were pouring out of the kitchen. I stupidly forgot to take pictures of people that evening, and I only caught two of the four courses we had on film.
*Fresh mozzarella and sun dried tomatos (Giovanni was excited for me to try this…he lived in L.A. for two years, and says not even Whole Foods can get this). The mozzarella was so amazing. It has a skin- that is a little thicker than any I‘ve consumed previous, and the inside is so chewy and salty and flavorful! In the states, I’ve never had a wet fresh mozzarella with so much flavor! It is usually the dry ones that have a distinctive flavor to them, and this had both the doughy chewy lightness with a clear aroma and flavor.
*Ricotta herb torta (individual sized soufflés), with sun dried tomatos on the side. I inhaled this so quickly not one word of praise could escape my lips until I had finished it. Think of the best lasagna you’ve ever had, take away the noodles, and put the tomatos on the side, yet only after they’d been sun dried. One fork of steamy cheesy herded heaven that just melts away (no chewing required), closely followed by cooling chewy sweet tomata. Bellisimo!
*Pasta (like spaghetti but not and I forgot the name so don’t ask me) with thick chunks of bacon ( from the pig’s cheek- from Annachiara’s parent’s farm) covered in Asiago cheese. Giovanni then pounded fresh pepper corns (from the family farm) with mortar and pestle and artfully sprinkled my serving. Nothing else added, no oil, or cream or anything! It was divine. It was creamy oily heavenly and melted in my mouth, and kissed my lips so I had to keep licking them and rubbing them together between smiles. Giovanni opened another vino rossa, this one grown only 1000 meters from the first. Mama Mia!
* Prosciutto wrapped in pounded chicken, served with wild greens
Um, yum. These were bit sized portions, and I watched Annachiara pound the chicken flat with just one or two expertly place wacks, wrap up the prosciutto, and then throw it in a pan to sauté to a golden brown perfection. The greens, again from the family farm, were like Sorel yet more bitter and not as tough.
* Ricotta Torta for dessert. Smooth and sweet ricotta in a pie crust, with a hint nutmeg. Italiano cheesecake. Had to have two!

What an amazing Italian awakening to an exhausting day!

Ciao Roma! I have eaten well. Ho Mangiato Bene!

The next night, Matteo’s roommate Alberto made pasta vegetable soup with bacon, and baked eggplant, tomatas, and Parmigiano. Everyday I have tried I new baked good- pine nut cookie, rice pudding cake, and gelato-pistachio, cappuccino. And of course everyday had a cappuccino, pizza, or vino in it!

I am looking forward to Florence, and a nice sit down restaurant.

The ABCs of Renting: Asking, Believing, Committing

2009-07-02T17:46:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, I own a townhouse. Yes, I bought at the top of the market in 2006, and yes, my mortgage motivated me to work- hard and often.

And yes, perhaps you noticed the past tense of motivated.

I have decided to be bold, and DO some of those things I have always talked about. In October, I will leave the United States-heading East in search of service. Delicious food served to me, and my spirit of energy and hard work served to others. I hope be spending my time volunteering with varies NGOs and nonprofits , as I travel east across this amazing planet of ours.

I have saved this past year to make this happen, yet I am still in need of one thing: a renter.

So, as with most of the endeavors that I take on that have significant meaning and scope- I ask for your blessings and help. Last week, as I was walking home contemplating how to find a renter, the idea of asking all of you for help entered my mind and heart. This overwhelming and humbling belief filled me with awe as I thought back on all the undertakings so many of you have helped me to accomplish (just to name a few: Aids Ride, Marathon to benefit Leukemia, Special Ed Teacher, Cameroon School Supplies, etc).

Here is my proposal:

This Sunday, July 5 2009, I am asking you to commit to asking one person if they know of anyone looking for a new place to live in the bay area.

Yep, that’s it! It is that simple. I am convinced that by asking all of you to ask someone –even if you are in New York or Berlin, that our collective efforts of asking and believing, committing to this simple yet powerful idea that each one of us individually supports the whole, you will succeed in helping me to find a renter.

I was worried that this would come off too cheesy and goofy, yet the memory of looking at a donation sheet from the 1997 Aids Ride 4 bolstered me. I will never forget the feeling of humility and strength I felt as I looked over the names of those who contributed to the cause. Every time I felt tired and cranky as I pedaled through deserts, hills, and into head winds- I thought back to all the people who believed in me, simply because I had asked. This strengthened my commitment to complete the almost 600 miles on my bike, to pedal every mile, and ride across the finish line with all you as my tailwind.

Please join others and me this Sunday, July 5 –by taking 30 seconds to share my belief that your commitment of asking will give me a new tail wind east.

With love and affection,

Kory

Please feel free to give out my phone number and email.

What Inspires Me...and maybe you

2009-03-19T23:11:00.000-07:00

Tonight I danced. The class was over an hour, yet I estimate that I danced for a total of one minute.

It first happened during warm-ups, and lasted about 11 seconds. I felt my eyes go to the ceiling and I saw my happiness flow out of my finger tips as I threw my hand over and swung my hip away. I was free and floating. I was a dream. I was dancing.

Then I became conscious- aware of where I was, and the manual controls took over and the moment with it.

Sitting here typing I can't recall the exact moments it happened again. Yet it did and that in itself is fantastical enough. I had forgotten about them, those moments of body, mind, and soul uniting me to be, well- the me I love to be. Dance had completely lived on in my mind, and only slightly more, on the kitchen floor.

I have so many, "I should find a class," " I miss dancing" "I'm going to a dance again" floating about my tongue, and finally inspiration bounced them straight out my mouth and into a studio.

It was Becky, if you must know, and her email with video clips, from "So You Think You Can Dance" that inspired me. In fact, I believe it was even the very first clip in the queue of many, of these two young kids dancing to , "Bleeding Love". My heart ached as I watched them. ACHED. I wanted to dance so badly.

So the next day, I looked up dance studios in my area. I found a class right around the corner (go earth power!) and watch SYTYCD videos on You Tube until the appointed hour of the class. I did a bit of freaking out...should I bring clothes and try to dance tonight? And ended up rushing out the door at the last minute with the idea that I would observe the class, and if I liked it-go the following week.

I watched. I loved. My heart fluttered. And then I spluttered for two weeks. Afraid to see myself in the mirror. Afraid to fail. Afraid it was too late. Afraid my body would not be able to do it anymore.

But it did! First for 11 seconds, and then again for 20, and later back down to 5 and then 9 ....yet over time it added up.

And now, I am at home typing this for you. 'Cause who knows...what inspired me, well-just might inspire you.

#17 is the same for me

2009-01-31T21:48:00.000-08:00

Agree or disagree:
Laughter invokes tears
Tears invoke laughter

As much as I proclaim not to be a Facebook fan, I think I am checking my home page at least once of day....mainly to see if anyone has said something to me.

...and I hit paydirt tonight!

Typically, I sign in to read any message that people have left specifically for me. Then I continue scrollin' 'round thinking that I should respond now, 'cause I most likely won't later- yet somehow ingeniously induce Jedi mind tricks to keep the scrolling versus typing type activity continuous.

I scroll down through all the pictures, and I especially like to see the tibbits of what my family members are saying to each other, although I haven't quite figured out how to follow a particular comment's thread to its impetus- thus often leaving me confused or imagining scenarios that are quite unlikely to be true yet could possibly add to the mainly (though I orginally typed manily -which would be a great pun as I have so MANy brothers) nonexsistent family drama that I feel obligated to dream up since my family is so GInormus and surely should have more than it does. Anyway, I digress.

Tonight I scrolled down and saw that my sister Cyndi and commented on something that my Sil (sister-in-law) Laura had posted. First of all, I have no idea why if my sister is talking to one of my Sils and not directly to me it should show up on my homepage. I guess Facebook makes eaves dropping a thing of the past?

After reading Cyndi's comment, "#17 is the same for me", it was compelling enough (pehaps just way to vague really) to try to understand the impetus of the thread, nor creative enough to inspire imaginative family drama. So, here I realize I have the opportunity to find out what two of my family members are up to. Ha! A twoforone! So I ventured out on, on my own...into the Facebook world.

I clicked on Laura's name and it takes me to her homepage. I see the beginning of the thread that my sister commented on entitled, "25 random things about me" and notice that another Sil has also commented. So I read her comment first, zip my eyes back up to the thread only to realize that it is truncated. It only shows numbers one through five and I need 17! What the #*&$#! (hence the adult viewing status required to read this page)

Duh. No need to panic, just click on the thread title and out pops the entire thread. I quicly scan down to number 17:

17. There's no one I can laugh with like my sister.

heart beat skip, tears drip, smile slips

Agree or disagree:
Laughter invokes tears
Tears invoke laughter

AGREE!

love you too Nin