Tag: seek

  • No One is Talking about God (Poetry)

    No One is Talking about God (Poetry)

    Quite a few months ago, I traveled down to the south of Costa Rica to visit friends living in a remote community on a very special stretch of coastline.

    I had a lot of time to reflect. A lot of time to sit in the dark too. Real dark, untouched by any trace of electric light.

    That kind of darkness opens us up to a kind of spirituality, or creativity, often blinded by the modern world. At least, it seemed that way to me.

    That kind of darkness brought me a lot of words. These are a few of them:

    god, wanderlust, woman, travel, ocean

    Talking about God

    I went to the ocean on a cloudy night, just to stare at darkness.

    I felt my heart beat faster as the waves rolled against the beach,
    and my body rolled too, in sympathy.
    This was solitude.
    Utter blankness upon the canvas of my cornea.
    This was emptiness.
    Division between water and sky barely visible on the horizon.

    My voice, when I sang out to that ocean beat,
    was unique in all the darkness,
    for it was the only thing that told itself to itself.
    The sea spoke to the moon,
    the raindrops spoke to the trees,
    the rocky beach spoke to the colonies of crickets —
    and then, there was me.

    I want so much to be a part of it.
    To lose track of my voice in harmony with the waves.
    To see my footprints disappear,
    my skin melt into the everything
    of that shifting, sucking darkness.

    I love my life, my body, my breath.
    Just, I want to be a part of it.
    The whole.

    You see, no one I know seems to be talking about god —
    it’s out of vogue to seek the divine,
    the mysterious, the ethereal and the invisible;
    children learn to count money but hear nothing of souls;
    we don’t care why we’re here as long as there’s football —

    And no one I know seems to be talking about god;
    we’re all too educated for that,
    leave it to the zealots and the black hats,
    write your gratitude journal and bow down to the fat cats —

    No, no one I know seems to be talking about god,
    but I want to find her,

    so I go down to the water and look into my own heart,
    because a wise teacher or two once said
    I would find a spark —
    there, where all the secret things we pretend not to believe in sing;
    where the ancient longing we don’t understand goes to hide;
    where the invisible and magical and wild abide.

    I heard, once, that god was at the heart of everything,
    including me.
    I read, once, that gods played and ate and shifted faces
    at the bottom of the sea.
    I knew, once —
    I knew, I knew, I knew, I knew, I knew —
    about the mysteries dancing at the horizon,
    where water meets sky,
    about the spirits who live between worlds
    and send stories with serpents and dolphins and dragonflies,
    about the beauty that gave birth to every single thing.

    But I forgot,
    we forgot,
    and I want so much to remember:
    I am part of it.

    No one I know seems to be talking about god,
    but, call me crazy,
    I want to find her.
    So every day, for a few minutes,
    I try to stare at darkness.
    I dive into that shifting, sucking water,
    and I look into my own heart.

    Originally published on Rebelle Society, July 2018.

    Written in November, 2017 at Finca Morpho.

  • If I Could Fly: Seeking Stillness in Movement

    If I Could Fly: Seeking Stillness in Movement

    Vermont. Early August, 2017. Stillness.

    It’s 1:04pm, and the August sun is hitting my laptop screen at just the right angle that I must squint to see what I write.

    The bus rattles and sways on the two-lane Vermont highway. Pen and paper prove unusable.

    I have music in my ears for a change, and it makes me think of caravan routes through the desert, the rolling gait of long-legged animals on sand, the scorching white heat of a cloudless sky at noon.

    I look out the window to my left and witness another set of elements entirely—green mountains, gentle New England sky. Yet, the felt sense is the same. It is a tenuous impression I have tried and failed to describe so many times, I nearly believe it impossible.

    It is the thing that calls me to move and whispers instructions to my intuition. It is the thing that taught me to dance, barefoot and alone. “Wanderlust” is an incomplete surrogate for the thing I mean.

    I look outside again.

    There is a story in the sky, like always; I could spend the whole ride watching the shapeshifting drama and chuckling to myself. Mountains undulate on the horizon, soft and green and melodic; I could spend the whole ride tapping out their rhythm against my thigh. Walls of trees enter and leave my sight, as varied yet indistinct as an ocean of faces in a crowded subway car. I could spend the whole ride absorbing their anonymous features.

    I could spend the whole ride sitting here, doing nothing, too—and for someone who loves to do things that’s already remarkable.

    Several weeks ago, I shared my favorite ways to pass a long train journey. Reading, writing, and snacking all featured on the list. So did “doing nothing.”

    stillness

    I wish I could remember the first time I experienced the peculiar, meditation-like (but not quite meditative) peace of being in motion, but I do remember the first time I wrote about it. Somewhere in Southeast Asia, frequently on endless bus rides through astonishing landscapes, I first tried to put words to an enigmatic sensation:

    What are you looking for?
    I am searching…
    I am searching for—
    I am searching because
    it is only in movement
    that I find stillness.
    In running I am free;
    In dancing I am liberated.
    But if I could fly—
    Ah if I could fly,
    I would be truly
    Boundless.

    — “If I Could Fly,” 2013

    ********************************

    I think it’s time to revisit this finding stillness in movement that has occupied my traveling thoughts for so long. I would like to try again to define the thing that calls me to move and calms me through action.

    What is it about being in motion—in trains or on foot, by boat or in dance—that soothes my mind into a stillness I have never found in sitting meditation?

    What is it about being in motion that, like an embodied lullaby, so entrances me—and, I suspect, many lovers of movement?

    The answer is in the question.

    Movement entrances. It occupies us—or at least it occupies me—so fully that there is absolutely no space for thoughts of elsewhere. Other times, other people, other places…these disappear in the all-pervading “this-ness” of moving. (Moving my body through space, or being moved through space, it hardly matters, so long as the coordinates change fast enough to pull my thoughts with them.)

    Four years ago I started writing about the inner stillness that arises when all else is in flux. Years before that, I experienced the same outcome in yoga and ecstatic dance. Its hold on me hasn’t loosened. I think it’s safe to say that this magic stillness is my only addiction. A single taste has you seeking it again for the rest of your life.

    A vagabond knows this. A dancer knows this. A meditator or a yogi knows this.

    However you step outside the borders of your skin and embrace “this-ness,” you will never be satisfied to remain inside the lines again.

    I hear two things more often than anything else:

    “What are you looking for?”

    and

    “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

    But it’s not a “what.” It’s a who and a why and a how. It’s a voice that calls me to move and a sense of boundlessness that keeps me coming back. It is a way of moving through life and through space.

    It is not a thing I can find and then be done with.

    It is the searching that gives meaning and form to the sought.

    And so we keep chasing shadows through the desert and melodies through the mountains. We keep seeking stillness in movement.

  • The Wild Song and Where to Find It

    The Wild Song and Where to Find It

    Seek. Wildness.

    The signals have been clear for a while now. Years. This is one of the most important things we can do in our overly sanitized, regimented, domesticated world.

    This is the wordless impulse that drives me ever further into the waves, the mountains, the physical and spiritual frontiers of the man-made. That galvanizes me to push the limits of my body, break past the boundaries of my known experience. This is the imprecise call that sent me on a vision quest, on an 800-kilometer trek across Spain, and next on a week-long journey into the wilderness of northern Greece.

    There is a song; I believe we all know it, whether we recognize it or not. It sounds like the sun on pine trees and tastes like bold green and smells like an almost-forgotten dream. It instructs us to seek wildness.

    Every so often, I try to do its bidding.

    If you have the slightest interest in eco-restoration or rewilding, I highly recommend a book by environmental writer George Monbiot called Feral. In it, he imagines a world—perhaps utopic, but nonetheless exhilarating—which is not free of humans, but free of human arrogance. In this world, elephants and lions, wolves and bears once again roam their natural habitats in Europe. In this world, human beings have relinquished the delusion of mastery and allowed a far wiser, far older system of order to reestablish.

    In that world, we wouldn’t need to seek out wild places, because they would exist in abundance. Perhaps the same would be true of our internal landscapes…

    In the meantime, however, it is not always so easy to immerse in wildness. That is why I am traveling to the mythic, mystical island of Samothraki to participate in a Wild Wandering School run by my good friend Casparo Brown.

    There I hope to learn a few more of the words to the wild song that so enchants me.

    But I’m not writing this post out of self-congratulatory narcissism (that’s what mirrors are for). I am writing in the hope that you will stop, for a moment, and listen.

    That song—the one that sounds like pine and tastes like green and smells like a lost past… you don’t have to travel so far to hear it. Sure, the wild places in our world are harder and harder to reach, but the ones within haven’t gone anywhere.

    I hear that wild song in un-self-conscious dance. In play. In getting lost. In risk. In fear. In hunger. In wonder.

    If you listen, maybe you will hear it too.

    Seek wildness.

    Put down the screens, the structure, and the insipid sterility for a minute and close your eyes. Underneath the rules ripples a harmony far wiser, far older than you or me.

    If you listen, maybe you will hear it.

  • Don’t Take My Word For It

    Don’t Take My Word For It

    Everything I have ever written, everything I will ever write, represents an infinitesimal slice (mine) of an infinitely complex whole.

    I may speak of the universality of experiences such as fear, joy, loss and love. And I do believe in the value of sharing knowledge. But still, someone else’s words will never be enough.

    A single truth only brings us so far.

    I can write that it is Saturday, that I am in Muizenberg, South Africa, that the sun is hot and high for so early in the day. And that is all true.

    I can write that I am sitting at one of the southernmost edges of the world watching the waves roll in against a backdrop of rocky peaks; that the wind and my hair and the sky taste of salt; that my shoulders ache from surfing; that seashells crunch under my feet as I walk. And that is all true.

    But this information is mine only. What of yours?

    The Buddha was fond of saying, “Don’t take my word for anything; go find out for yourself.” (I’m paraphrasing here.) In the Jewish tradition, debate and inquisitiveness are encouraged. We are not to simply take another’s words (or even doctrine) as truth, but rather—to fall back on a much-overused phrase—to discover our own.

    I believe much of the world’s wisdom boils down to this:

    Go and see.

    Today, I was going to write a snapshot of Muizenberg, a small coastal town just a thirty-minute train ride from Cape Town. But I changed my mind.

    You can Wikipedia that, and I think this is more important.

    “Go and see” does not necessarily mean, “Drop everything and go travel the world.” Although, if that is within your means and your calling, I certainly recommend it.

    “Go and see” means, “Experience the world—any world, your world—for yourself. Don’t just take my word for it.”

    Perhaps you won’t venture to the southernmost edge of the world, but touch the edge of something.

    Maybe you won’t be crossing international borders, but find a limit, a frontier, and surpass it.

    You may not “watch the sunset from every coast,” but you can watch the sunset every evening—and if it’s the watching that counts, then that’s kind of the same thing.

    There are many ways to seek, many ways to wander, many ways to cross borders; I share only mine. And while I hope you enjoy seeing a certain world through my particular gaze, I also hope you will go and see, because these words, these truths, are only the beginning.

  • When the World is in Chaos: Dance

    When the World is in Chaos: Dance

    “Yougottadance. Aslongasthemusicplays. Yougotta dance. Don’teventhinkwhy. Starttothink, yourfeetstop. Yourfeetstop, wegetstuck. Wegetstuck, you’restuck. Sodon’tpayanymind, nomatterhowdumb. Yougottakeepthestep. Yougottalimberup. Yougottaloosenwhatyoubolteddown. Yougottauseallyougot. Weknowyou’re tired, tiredandscared. Happenstoeveryone, okay? Justdon’tletyourfeetstop.” ― Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance

    7:00 p.m. Table Mountain summit, Cape Town, South Africa. 

    The sun is setting, and we are dancing.

    Two hundred participants, most dressed in white, headphones on—we are praising the earth, this mountain, the clouds streaming across the rocks and bathing the world in dreamlike mist.

    It’s my first time at a “Secret Sunrise” (or, in this case, Secret Sunset) event.

    I’ve taken the hard way up, along with one friend and two strangers picked up along the way, and my endorphins are already surging after a two-and-a-half-hour hike.

    But the world is in chaos.

    I can’t glance at Facebook, work a shift at elephant journal, or even have a casual conversation without this truth becoming painfully apparent.

    I, like many, feel compelled to do something say something change something—but, paralyzed by the overwhelming madness of it, I do little, say little, change little. And yet, and yet, and yet—every day I work to promote mindfulness. Every day I write to nurture cross-cultural understanding. Soon, I will return to school to study the art of peacebuilding.

    And yet, and yet, and yet—more importantly, in my humble opinion—every day I seek joy.

    The world is full of fear. So I fight my own demons. The world is full of chaos, and so I strive for inner balance. The world is full of uncertainty, so I dance with it.*

    And here we are. Dancing.

    Piano keys draw clouds through the sky. Eighties rock compels bodies—eight years old to eighty-eight—to move to the same beat. House music lifts feet up, gravity-defying, and down, solid and real.

    Each of us in our own headphone-cordoned world, we dance. Alone and together. And hell, if that’s not an apt metaphor, I don’t know what is.

    Alone and wrapped up in our own worlds, we are all nonetheless connected to one another by the same melodies in our ears, the same rhythm in our blood, the same music in our bones. We are all dancing, whether we realize it or not, on the same sacred ground.

    So, is this an odd time to be turning to joy, music, community?

    I don’t think so. In fact, I’d say that moments of chaos, uncertainty, fear are very much the right time to dance. To connect, however we do that. To create. To keep pushing for meaning.

    Because if we lose that now, then we’ve lost.

    So dance—not in spite of the chaos, but for it, with it, and through it.

    Dance—”as long as the music plays.”

    Dance—and don’t stop, because the world, chaos and all, is still spinning.

    Youtube video

    *This is a poetic response to turmoil; none of it is meant to underplay the value of activism in our current global climate. Act. Protest. Make change, by all means. But don’t forget the value of personal growth. I genuinely believe in “the power that living a good life can have,” as a friend once put it. Ideally, do both!

     

    Photo Credit: Juliette Bisset Photography

  • The First Time: When the Travel Bug Bites

    The First Time: When the Travel Bug Bites

    Some people will reminisce—with nostalgia, regret, or a little bit of each—about their first cigarette, their first drink, or their first time trying X (fill in the blank with your substance of choice).

    Me?

    Alcohol was never a big deal in my family, and I’ve stayed away from cigarettes like my life depended on it (oh wait, it kind of does).

    That doesn’t mean, though, that I don’t have a “first” on which to reflects with the romantic fondness of well over a decade of distance.

    I’m talking about travel, of course.

    Several early family vacations could count as that first—London, Canada, Florida—but one in particular stands out in the box of mismatched, half-faded memories I carry: Italy.

    Italy, first and most enduring love of my life… after horses. That first visit I only remember in glimpses: The heat (there was a record-breaking heatwave that summer). An old woman in a bead shop, and a strand of irregular, aquamarine beads (I would finally turn them into a necklace some fifteen years later). Crisp, white slices of coconut beneath a cascade of water glittering in the sun. Venice canals and dreams of carnevale (I have yet to visit at the right time). Cappuccinos for breakfast, and several subsequent bathroom breaks over the course of the morning. Fairytale mountain villages, and cities shimmering under summer sun.

    I have since been back to visit nearly a dozen times, learned the language, and made numerous friends across the country. I have bungee jumped in Piedmonte and reignited a passion for adventure in Sicily. I’ve indulged in pizza in Napoli, anchovies in Genoa, and fiori di zucca in Rome.

    Just thinking of it makes my mouth water and my palms tingle.

    Italy.

    But the dreamlike beauty of these childhood memories is about so much more than one country. It marks a beginning.

    I could trace my enthusiasm for the wonder of discovery to many moments—many trips:

    Dancing in a circle of women in rural Senegal at age sixteen.

    Wandering the streets of Spanish cities at Christmas-time with my peers, age fifteen.

    Age seventeen, arriving in Paris alone, and growing into a sense of adventure once too big for me.

    I could pick any of those or countless other journeys, but I choose to locate my travel awakening in that sweltering Italian summer many years prior. A seed already planted. A map already drawn across my future—big, swirling letters spelling, WANDER.

    And so I have. And so I do.

    The first time we meet ourselves is extraordinary indeed. Even if we’re too young to realize it. Even if we repeat the experience countless times thence. Even if we’re full of shit, and it wasn’t like that at all, and that dreamlike beauty is just the result of fifteen years’ obfuscation.

    So, I’m curious: what was your first time traveling like?

  • 12 Ways to Move/Travel to a New City/Country Where you Don’t Know Anyone—and Totally Rock It

    12 Ways to Move/Travel to a New City/Country Where you Don’t Know Anyone—and Totally Rock It

    I write about venturing into the unknown often.

    You might say it’s my favorite theme—in life and in art. You could say it’s my greatest fear—in love and in travel. You could say it is a subject so rich and fascinating it proves an inexhaustible source of meaning and poetry.

    You could say any of those things, and you would be right.

    Ah, the not-knowing…it is terrifying, exhilarating, life-affirming indeed. But maybe you want a bit more practicality and a bit less poetry; maybe you have concrete travel plans on the horizon (even tenuous possibilities or dreams), and poetic rambling philosophizing isn’t helping all that much. I get that.

    I drop myself into cities and countries where I know no one on a regular basis. I enjoy the challenge and the freedom, but I also forget that this is a practice like any other, and may seem somewhat inaccessible at first. I want to demystify it.

    The following suggestions stem from my years of solo traveling. I don’t necessarily follow them all for every trip, but one could in theory. I believe each one has a deep potential to cushion the fall into unknown territory.

    1. Reach out to friends and acquaintances.
    A simple “Do I know anyone in _____?” on Facebook can yield unexpected results. This method has found me friends (and often couches) in otherwise totally anonymous destinations from Prague and Montenegro to Berlin, Sicily and more.

    2. Mine for connections.
    Social media is a multifaceted beast, but it really comes in handy for certain kinds of travel. Asking my Facebook friends (and sometimes blog followers), “Does anyone have any connections in ___?” in the past has found me a house to rent in Cape Town, a Shabbat dinner in Paris, a yoga teaching gig in Zanzibar and so much more. The more I travel, the more this network grows—exponentially, it would seem. Couchsurfing is another amazing resource for making connections for friends and couches both.

    3. Be bold—ask questions.
    Every piece of information we could possibly need is available on the ground. No need to read travel forums, or even look up directions (although by all means do both if it sets your mind at ease). Depending on where I am in the world, there are metro maps, info centers, or throngs of aggressive taxi drivers at every possible port of arrival. Barring that, the local person sitting next to me on the bus/plane/train/ferry is usually an excellent resource.

    4. Get Lost and Like It.
    I have developed an impressive habit of always going the wrong way first. If it’s straight, I go left. If it’s left, I go right. I then employ method #3, ad infinitum, to take the longest route possible to my intended destination (thank you, legs). Getting lost is a common consequence of going in blind; even if we don’t like it, we can bring our sense of humor along for the walk.

    5. Set up a work trade.

    While it is 100% possible (and yes, fun and exciting) to just go explore a new place and find your way upon arrival, I have often found more depth and connection through work exchanges. Websites like wwoofing, workaway and helpx are just a few of many platforms for finding interesting, short-term placements abroad. Working or volunteering is, in my experience, one of the most effective ways to integrate into a community and create my place in the formerly unfamiliar. It is also an incredibly practical resource for information.

    6. Set up an Airbnb.
    If, like me, you need to work while you wander (or, also like me, you don’t want to commit to too much socializing), but still want an entree into local community, Airbnb is unparalleled. Set your price, browse your options, and choose a host who seems interesting. I’m still in contact with several of my Airbnb hosts, and owe unique memories (like tasting the best chocolate gelato in the whole world) to them.

    7. Keep up with hobbies.
    I always carry two extra pairs of shoes with me: dance and climbing. Dancing tango in Kenya, salsa-ing in Berlin and climbing in Cape Town, I’ve connected with people I never would have met otherwise. Same goes for surfing in Morocco and hiking in Spain. Those are my passions; follow yours, and you’ll find your people—anywhere.

    8. Become a regular.
    There is something uniquely grounding in being a regular customer (in a cafe, restaurant or even corner store)—in simply being recognized. When our default mode is anonymity, feeling seen, known, familiar offers a powerful sense of place. Especially when I have a few weeks or months somewhere, I find myself accumulating these “regular” spots. Though utterly departing from all known routine is a key—even necessary—element of travel for me, glimpses of familiarity within the unknown provide welcome—even necessary—moments of respite.

    9. Let go of should’s.
    I believe having a mile-long checklist of “must sees” and “must dos” limits potential for spontaneous discovery. I tend to get a decent amount of touristing in when I visit a new place, but I try not to force it. Excursions happen organically—often with new friends—when I genuinely want to do them, and not because I feel like I’ll be failing at travel if I don’t.

    10. Cook.
    My experience of travel altered hugely when I started to prepare a lot of my own meals (just as I used to when I lived in one place). Not all, of course, since tasting local cuisines is hands down the best part of traveling, but many. Wandering local markets, I’ve honed new language skills, felt rooted in my home-of-the-moment, and saved serious money. Choosing an Airbnb with a kitchen facilitates this, as does staying with friends. Cooking a beautiful meal has long been my favorite way to thank my hosts for their hospitality.

    11. Talk to strangers.
    They’re not scary—usually. When they are creepy, it’s usually pretty clear to my intuition. Strangers are typically one of three things: treasure troves of insider information, friends you haven’t met yet, or an excellent story for later. Instructions for talking to strangers: eyes up, shoulders down, words out.

    12. When all else fails, fail.
    I have days—sometimes weeks—where my social self goes into hibernation, my patience drops to zero, and the challenge of the unknown shifts from exhilarating to tiresome. When that happens, I take time to write, read, call friends and family, and simply be. No one can be “on” all the time. This lifestyle of exploration and discovery has curves and cycles, just like any other. These moments of pause make the adventure all the richer.
     
    May your journeys be—yours.

  • Did You Find What You Were Looking For? (Camino Reflections, Part 10000)


    My last visit to London, in July of this year, I had dinner with a former classmate. We had taken “Intro to Buddhism” together.
    I didn’t know it then, in my first semester at Middlebury College, but many themes from that course would wind their way through the following years of my life.
    Over our glasses of red wine—Merlot, I think—I recounted a memory of that class that stands out from the rest. It’s funny, sometimes, what ends up sticking in our minds.
    Someone had asked our professor if he wanted to reach enlightenment—if that’s what he was seeking.
    He had answered softly (he always spoke softly):

    “I’m not so interested in enlightenment. I’m interested in the possibility of expanding my awareness.”

    Maybe this is unhelpful, and maybe I’ve spent too much time around Buddhist philosophy, but this is what I have to say in answer to that oft-repeated question, “Did you find what you were looking for.”

    No.

    Longer answer: 

    I wasn’t looking for anything, so I doubt I would find it. That’s the difference between a trip and a journey—only one has a destination.
    I found no thing on my Camino journey. Nothing. I did not have any epiphany. My life did not change.
    If you set out walking (meditating, praying, anything) in search of enlightenment, I think you will be disappointed.
    And that’s not depressing; it’s inspiring. It is exhilarating, this not knowing. It is enthralling, this seeking-but-not-finding. It is magnetic, this grey in-between-ness of no-thing—neither empty of wisdom nor full of answers.
    If “no” is not a satisfying response, I’m sorry, but it’s the only one I’ll give—at least for now.
    No, I did not find what I was looking for.
    I wasn’t looking for, you see.
    Something on the same subject I wrote about halfway through the Camino, in a moment of clarity:

    “Will I come back wiser?” asked my ego. 

    I don’t know, my more honest self replied. I think I’d be the last to know.Do any of us come back “wiser” from anything? 

    I have my doubts. 

    I will come back with bigger calves from walking and stronger shoulders from carrying my pack. 

    This is certain. 

    I will carry in my heart thirty peaceful mornings where dawn breaks over still meadows, and the wind whispers a song only I can hear. 

    This is certain.

    I’m not interested in finding. The beauty is in the in-between.

    ***

  • Pilgrimage Today—It’s Still Relevant

    Pilgrimage Museum, Santiago de Compostela, Galicia, Spain

    I placed the noise canceling headphones over my ears, and an ancient melody flowed straight to my soul.
    It was my foodsteps—hundreds, thousands of them—plucked from a harp. It was the daily rhythm of walking made song.
    I stood at that display in the Pilgrimage Museum for a long time, and I listened to some of the recordings of the Resonet Musica Antiga group more than once. Recreated from sheets music in the Cathedral’s archives and reconstructed medieval instruments, the music might have run through my head at a distance.
    But somehow it didn’t. Somehow it connected.
    I arrived in Santiago on Friday, July 1, 2016. That Friday marked the culmination of a month of walking across Northern Spain (approximately 800 kilometers) begun in the vague interest of “seeking.”
    (We can talk about what I “found” once I figure that out—story for another day.)
    Pilgrimage is an ancient phenomenon. Historians have found evidence of its occurrence in Mesopotamia, Vedic India and ancient Egypt. Wherever it appears in human history, it follows the same principle: an outward, often arduous journey serving as an allegory for the spiritual path.
    Since the alleged discovery of the remains of Saint James (one of the Twelve Apostles) in the ninth century, Santiago—and its cathedral—has been one of the most important pilgrimage sites in the world. It is said that the Camino de Santiago—the Way to Santiago, and there are many—is a metaphor for the trail marked by the Milky Way across the sky. Again, a physical manifestation of a metaphysical path.
    That sounds heady and outmoded, right?
    Wrong.
    In the last decade, traffic on the Camino Frances (the most popular route) has surged into the thousands. Clearly, the ancient tradition still resonates. And lately, its popularity is growing fast.
    Just as ritual will always revive itself and traditions will be reborn, pilgrimage is finding its place in the modern world.
    The scallop shell, long worn as an insignia by peregrinos walking to Santiago, now hangs from my backpack, too. Symbol of water, life and healing, it is as timeless, endlessly resonant, as it is timeworn.
    These themes are eternal:

    WanderingSeekingThe JourneyWalkingLooking to the SkyWalking upon the Earth
    Questioning 

    The WarriorThe SeekerThe Scholar [1]

    As I listened to those modern recordings of centuries-old music, I heard my experience translated—so precisely—into sound. I walked a path that thousands, perhaps millions, had walked before me, and though the asphalt beneath my feet and electric lights in the distance were new, the the experience had somehow been the same. [2]

    That, in short, is why pilgrimage is still deeply relevant today.

    ***

    [1] The Warrior, The Seeker and The Scholar are the three archetypes represented by Saint James.
    [2] Sadly I have not been able to find the same recordings anywhere online. This is the closest I could find, but you may have to visit the Pilgrimage Museum in Santiago to hear the music I’ve described:
    Youtube video
    ***

  • The Modern-Day Renunciate

    Sobrado de Monxes Cathedral, Galicia, Spain.
    He asked if there was water nearby.
    The two dogs, attached to his belt by lengths of thick rope, were thirsty.
    We were about sixty kilometers (or several days) outside of Santiago when we met him. I regret that we didn’t get a chance to ask his name.
    He carried a huge walking stick, clearly decorated and carved by him, and an unraveling straw hat with a green band around it advertising for Amstel. He carried fishing gear, slept in a tent with his dogs and was running out of money. He had lost his passport one night in a flash flood, given away his watch. His hair and beard were unkempt and reddish brown. His eyes, wide, never quite focused on ours.
    In a thick, thick accent, he briefly told us his story.
    He had been a farmer in the Czech Republic. In December of 2015, the bank took his farm and everything he owned. So, he left with his dog and started walking. The second dog they found drowning in a river one night—still a puppy, it had huge paws, sure to be a big dog.
    When he reached Santiago via the Camino Frances (the most popular route, a bit farther south), he turned around and started walking the other direction along the Camino Norte (the Northern Way, where we met him). After telling us about the dog, the money, the passport and the watch, he concluded:

    “So probably I will spend my life walking. Just me, the dogs. I speak Spanish, so when I run out of money maybe I will find work somewhere, for a while. I think it is a good way to live, just to walk.”

    I think I can empathize. If I lost everything like that, I would probably lose any faith I had in property, money, things. I would probably—maybe—start walking and settle into a state of non-owning, non-needing, non-grasping, too.
    On the Camino, you run into a few of these modern-day renunciates.
    They’re not out for a month-long holiday, or even a six-month sabbatical. They’ve dropped—or lost—everything, and they’re walking, not for pilgrimage, not for a temporary detox, but for life. 

    I admire them, just as I admire anyone with a single-minded passion so single-minded that it borders on pathological. I think I understand the impulse, though I can’t imagine ever committing my life to just one activity. Different strokes, is all.
    More than anything, I’m fascinated by what appears to me to be a growing global trend, as the “real world” becomes harder and harder to stomach, of starting walking (or traveling, or what have you) and never stopping.
    Society has always had its renunciates. Those who live outside the bounds of normalcy—normal time, normal family, normal work, normal life—and follow another Way. I suppose the only difference is that our modern world doesn’t know as well what to do with them. It demands passports. It requires that we identify our place, our role, our function. It is, quite frankly, nonplussed by this growing race of outsiders. And yet, they are growing. 
    If you ask me, there will always be renunciates—those who chose not to participate in the world offered to them. And if you ask me, it’s not a problem; rather, it is for the rest of us to accept and allow their presence, walking the narrow paths between the borders of society.
    We told the former Czech farmer that there was a small shop in a house in the next town, just a kilometer farther along. He woke the dogs from their nap on the sidewalk, and we set off in opposite directions.

    Without a doubt, he is still walking.
    ***

  • Reflections on a Birthday: Wandering, Searching, & Answering the Call

    Yesterday, I turned 24.

    The past year has been anything but boring as vagabonded my way from Europe to Africa to the U.S. and back, teaching yoga, doing marketing, starting work at elephant journal and publishing over 100 pieces of writing along the way.

    Some of it I’ve written about here; much of it I haven’t. I’m committed to keeping this a travel blog only, and so today, that’s what I’d like to focus my birthday reflections on: this journey.

    A little over a year ago, I decided to go on a vision quest—four hungry days and nights alone in the Vermont wilderness.

    I was looking for something… I didn’t find it.

    I found nothing, in fact, save for a few lovely dragonflies, ducks, and one very long, very cold night stranded beneath the stars.

    Traveling—maybe—is a little bit like that.

    First, we answer the call. Second, we set out into the unknown. And third… third maybe we bring back nothing from our journey. What then?

    As I’ve written before, I’m not searching for [fill in the blank], and so it’s very unlikely that I’ll find “it” anytime soon. And sometimes I find myself stranded beneath those metaphorical stars—cold, hungry or lost… or all three!—and I wonder how the hell I ended up there. What crazy, impulsive, excellent decision got me there?

    But it’s always the right place.

    The stars never wonder why I’m there; they know, and at least that’s one of us.

    You see, I have a philosophy I love about journeys, choices and life, and it basically goes like this:

    Each of our lives is like a forest, or a valley, a mountain a desert, etc—it doesn’t matter—absolutely covered in paths.

    When we look around, we see all of those paths—infinite options, possibilities—choices to be made.

    But when we look behind us, we see only one path—our footsteps in the sand, tracks through the woods, etc—our path.

    That path—our path—is the only path we could have walked, because it is the one we have walked. And each choice we make—once it is made—is the only choice we could have made, because there it is behind us—another footprint, another step on our path—past.

    We answer the call; we make our choices. 


    I find this outlook deceptively simple, quite practical and deeply compelling. Maybe you will too.
    When I look at the year behind me, I see each step that has brought me to this place (a cozy couch in London, England at this particular moment). I regard that winding journey without regret and with no small measure of appreciation, for without it I would not be here—the only place I could possibly be.

    When I look at the year ahead, well, I do so with butterflies in my stomach and wings on my heels, because the forest is so vast—the paths so numerous—that I can take in but a fraction of it at a time.

    And that is every life—not only mine. Every year, every birthday, every moment and every step.

    I believe that, and the stars agree.

    Thank you for being a part of this journey—as a reader, a friend, a star, or all three!

    ***

  • I Want to Do All of the Things

    This is not a bucket list.

    I wrote this list a few weeks ago as the realization dawned on me that, without exaggeration, I want to do “all of the things.”

    There is not a country I wouldn’t want to visit, a language I wouldn’t like to study, an art or dance I wouldn’t want to learn or a food I wouldn’t want to try.

    Whenever someone shares a story of adventure, I listen carefully—not only out of friendly curiosity, but also out of a vested self-interest—making mental notes for the day I can follow their trail, or blaze my own.

    In the invigorating—and overwhelming—rush of ideas that tends to accompany an “I want to do all the things” epiphany (it’s not my first) I decided to try something new.

    I decided to write it all down.

    This list is a work in progress. I have surely forgotten things, and will doubtless add other ideas I haven’t even thought of yet. The list of places on the left is woefully incomplete, and I know I’m missing something major… no matter.

    One thing is certain, however: This is not a bucket list.

    These are not things I’m hoping to do some day in the future, before I “kick the bucket”; rather, these are (all) things I want do do now. Tomorrow. Next month. As soon as possible… It might take a decade or five, but I’m starting yesterday.

    My list includes the following items:

    • Travel the TransSiberian (or TransMongolian) Railway
    • Go to Argentina to study Tango—and Spanish
    • Go to Brazil to study Capoeira—and Portuguese
    • Travel across a country by horseback
    • Join the circus (learn a circus skill first)
    • Travel through Poland and Eastern Europe with my grandmother’s suitcase.
    • Chase the Northern Lights (I tried last week… no success)
    • Hike the Long Trail (VT)
    • Climb some tall mountains
    • Find a way to contribute—anywhere… everywhere.

    That’s just a few.

    Is it an extraordinary privilege to be able to look at every single item on this list as a real possibility? Absolutely yes. Am I still searching for the right way to be of service as I pursue these passions? Of course—although, since starting work at elephant journal I feel more assured of that side of things.

    Perhaps most importantly, why? Why do I want to do/try/learn/see all this?

    Why the tireless pursuit of adventure?

    A little secret: There is no why.

    There are secondary reasons—to learn, understand and grow are all real and valid motives. But they are secondary. The primary “reason why” is formless.

    Because.

    Adventure, travel, wandering, journeying for me have always been (and may always be) a raison d’être. A “why” unto themselves.

    That is, I do not wander because ______, or travel to _______; but rather, when in movement, when in the pursuit of adventure, I have no need of why’s.

    I do not wonder why I am here, what I should be doing or what my purpose is… I simply am.

    And so I want to do “All of the Things,” because so long as this list (and its much longer mental counterpart) are close to my heart, my wings beat of their own accord. Existence, then, is its own end—and that is every thing.

    So… what’s on your list?
    ***
    [I’ll be in London now through (almost) the end of October. Checking in after 2 weeks in Helsinki, Finland, which were so packed with adventure I haven’t had time to write about them yet! Much more to come on that very soon.]

  • The Importance of a Quest

    Today, I spent an hour looking for soap.
    Not just any soap (those who know me will know how picky I am about my soap… shampoo, lotion and face wash too!), but a soap without chemicals, fragrance, glycerin or dye.
    As I walked down the uneven dirt road from the beach to the village—slick with mud from the rains that won’t stop this year—I thought about three things:
    First, I wondered if my skin would be red later from the inescapable equatorial sun, still hot-hot at three in the afternoon. Second, I considered the fact that a less stubborn person would have long ago sucked it up and bought any of the ten brands of Imperial Leather impersonators—all rich with the aromas of chemical fragrance and a lingering colonial stench. And last, I recalled countless similar hunts from this trip and others past, and I wondered why they were so important to me.
    I love a good quest.
    A walk through a crowded market becomes a treasure hunt when I am looking for an uncommon fruit, or a rare blend of spices. The simplest of goals—acquiring a cup of chai, the perfect gift, stamps or fish sandwiches; finding a historical monument; the beach; the highest outlook or the bus onward—transmutes the everyday into something vital and full of purpose.
    When I am looking for something, no matter how trivial, every interaction suddenly has a point. Intensity. Urgency. Meaning. Senseless conversation finds itself replaced by words imbued with the strongest magic: A reason for existing.
    I am not merely walking; I am searching. And a search is an adventure.
    Now, I will be the first to champion aimless wandering for the sake of wandering—searching not for,but because. A search for nothing is far preferable to no search at all. But a search for something—anything—well, that is the best of all.
    As I stride from supermarket—proffering Dettol, Imperial Leather, medicated soap, skin lightening crap and a host of other pastel-hued and plastic-scented delights–to gift shop stocked floor to ceiling with everything but soap, I exchange the now familiar greetings and then ask for soap (sabuni ya kuoga). I explain in a mish-mosh of Swahili and English that I don’t want chemicals, and people are helpful, understanding, and repeatedly direct me onward, toward the village.
    Stepping into a shop selling only soap and flip flops, I am presented with more options. An unmarked, waxy pink bar, which I don’t trust because it is the color of pepto bismal. A new and equally off-putting brand of skin-lightening bullshit. And a bar of clove soap marked “herbal” and “home-made” on the box, on which the lack of ingredients at least allows for the possibility that it is actually chemical-free.
    I buy it and return home. My quest is complete.
    A search for soap—or chai, or the beach, or any number of things—is, on the one hand, silly and hardly worth thinking about. And yet, a quest is a quest, no matter how small. Those who have experienced the alchemical change that occurs when purpose is added to their day’s equation will understand that it is not the depth, but rather the presence of an objective that counts.
    Today, it was soap. Tomorrow perhaps it will be a decent cappuccino, gifts for my family or an empty stretch of shoreline. I won’t know until the next whim or need grips me and I set off again in pursuit of something, someplace or even someone (I may hate waiting, but it is another kind of purpose, after all).

    There is joy in wandering, and there is joy in searching simply because, but the single-mindedness of quest is a different, and I think necessary, component of travel and life.
    ***

  • I Went on a Vision Quest and All I Brought Back Was…

    At exactly 3:00pm today, I passed the “Town of Middlebury” sign on Route 7.
    I’m back.
    Though it will be days, weeks, or perhaps months before I begin to understand the last ten days, I wanted to share with you my first impressions. A selection (hodge podge) of thoughts and verses from my journal. Some spiritual, but more not.
    I will be recording more organized second, third and fourth impressions in the coming weeks, but I think this might actually provide a more visceral glimpse of my experience.
    I could sum it up by saying nothing happened. Or everything happened. Reality is probably somewhere in between. But I would rather share the journey…
    On Wednesday, September 17, the night before my departure, it takes me hours to fall asleep. Hours upon hours upon hours.
    Thursday, September 18
    I am searching for the cause of my searching.
    Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt made guest appearances in my dream. Really?
    Friday, September 19
    It is becoming clear that I brought far too many books to fill very little down time. (I packed a stack of ten…)
    Saturday, September 20
    I have decided to leave behind my camera (Sorry, that does mean no pictures), and my yoga mat. I have a feeling I won’t need them…
    I am leaving behind the known. Soon I will begin (or continue!) to walk my path into being. Yes!
    Sunday, September 21
    Today, I found my place of power (location for my solo time: 4 days and 4 nights). I hope. It is a solid 45 minutes, maybe more, from base camp… a little bit apprehensive about the walk out after four days of fasting. Close to the shore (Lake Sommerset, Southern VT), but back into the woods a little ways, and in a lovely circle of young trees that sing back to the wind.
    [Frog is making me laugh, trying to be so stealthy as he walks past my sleeping bag.]
    Today is Monday, September 22
    How many kinds of blue have passed before my eyes today, rippling across the lake? Could I name them all? Aquamarine. Periwinkle. Turquoise. Navy. Sky reflected in lake blue. Blue within and upon blue. What do we call that? Sky blue. Royal blue. Midnight blue. Blue that flutters in the wind. Blue that reaches beneath the surface. Blue that reflects a sudden bit of sunlight and sparkles. Do we have names for so many kinds of blue?
    Broken trees and branches are guiding me through the woods today.
    Sometime this afternoon it hit me: Shit, days are really long.
    Today is Tuesday, September 23
    I just spent the entire morning doing absolutely nothing. I’ve been lying on the rocks trying to take in as much sun as possible. The sun is hot, but the air is cold—I’ve had to keep rotating to keep warm. I feel no desire to do any ritual right now, no restlessness… I could do with a slightly more comfortable “do nothing” spot, though.
    No matter what, I’m telling myself, I will come out of this stronger, and knowing myself better—for that alone it will be worthwhile.
    [I’m hungry at this moment.]
    The sun may not have set yet, but I am ready for bed, and to move on to the next day. I let my stomach know that we still had 2.5 more days until food—best not to dwell on it.
    Waiting for Dusk
    As the water turns from shimmering teal to gray,
    And the last drops of sunlight fade from sight,
    I am here, waiting for dusk.
    She gathers herself—slowly, slowly—
    One wispy purple shroud at a time,
    Like the longest dimmer in the world, lowered without haste.
    And still I am here, waiting for dusk.
    The wind never tires, but my body asks for rest;
    The birds chatter on, and the flies collect around my tarp—
    The sky holds on stubbornly to blue,
    As I rest here, waiting for dusk.
    [Definitely still hungry. Dreaming about breakfast Saturday morning!]
    Today is Wednesday, September 24
    When I finally rise, the sun is already high in the sky, and the last wisps of fog glide silently across the water until they vanish. Soon, they will be only a ghostly memory. Now, the lake is a perfect mirror with foggy edges, and the grass along the shore sparkles with dew, iridescent.
    I have never felt so much doubt. I don’t feel any different; still have no idea why I’m here, what I’m trying to find. My mind holds on stubbornly, along with my stomach, to normalcy.
    My journey thus far, from Mother Earth’s perspective (abridged)
    I saw here wandering through my forest, so lost.
    I heard her cry out for guidance, but she will find her way.
    I listened as she lamented her doubt, her lost-ness to Tree, to Rock and to Lake.
    The brown leaves on which she sat carried them to me.
    I heard, but I did not answer…
    Maybe I will appear to her in spectacular fashion. Maybe not.
    This journey she finds herself on—the truth and vision and clarity she seeks—
    Well, it is all within her, and I can only play a supporting role.
    When she learns this, she will be ready to meet me.
    For then, it will no longer matter.
    Today is Thursday, September 25 (Last day of solo time)
    I want a fucking steak.
    (On the last night of a quest, many people choose to stay up from sundown to sunrise in something called a purpose circle. Inadvertently marooned on my chosen spot, far from my sleeping bag and other gear, I managed to stay up all night. Not because I wanted to in the end, but because I couldn’t make it back in the dark, and because I would have turned into a popsicle if I didn’t keep moving!)
    On the night of Friday, September 26, back in my tent and with food in my belly, I wrote this about the experience:
    The Darkest Night
    Strange calls rise up across the water, break this eternal quiet.
    A faint light hums at the horizon, taunting me with the thought of dawn, but that is far away still.
    There is no moon, this night.
    There is no rest, this night. No respite in sight.
    Icy dew falls heavy upon the earth, chills me to the bone.
    Geese honk through the sky, in a hurry to get where they’re going.
    I, too, am desperate to return.
    I, too, have called, unanswered, too long. Slowly my voice fades from song.
    I know there will be no more fire, this night.
    Any warmth must be my own.
    This is the darkest night, and nothing will break it but dawn.
    But I don’t see that Light has been there all along,
    Because it was right before my own eyes.

     I don’t know exactly what I learned or what I am bringing back from my time away, but I intend to find out.
    ~

  • Why I am Doing a Vision Quest

    (This article was originally published here at elephant journal. I decided I wanted to share it on this blog, too.) It’s just settling in that I am leaving to do this tomorrow…

    On the 18th of September, I will leave Middlebury for 10 days, 4 of which I will spend on a solo fast.

    I have decided to do a vision quest.

    Anthropologists coined the term “vision quest” to describe a particular Native American rite of passage. The practice of going alone into nature, fasting, and seeking vision, insight or clarity.

    However, this practice is ubiquitous across human histories and beliefs. Jesus, Moses, and Siddhartha Gautama all completed “vision quests” of a sort. I’m not trying to say I’m like any of them, of course. My point is this: such a tradition has roots in so many groups and cultures, and belongs to none.

    The program I have chosen to participate in strikes me as an archetypal rite of passage, following the classic anthropological characterization. There is a beginning (“severance”), a middle (“threshold” or “liminality”), and an end (“reincorporation”). There are, additionally, a fast and a period of isolation. The form, meaning and context of the ritual, however, depend on the individual.

    The vision quest has a rich and varied history. Still, I find myself sheepishly telling some that I am “going camping” for 10 days. Others, I know will understand and support my intention immediately. And some, upon hearing my real plans, ask, “Why the hell would you want to do that?” An answer is never quick to reach my lips.

    And so, I am sharing this letter of intent (requested by my program) for the first and the last category of people. For those whom I have not had the courage to tell, and for those who have not understood. Because I am proud of myself for choosing to embark on a journey that twines with the sacred and echoes across time. I want those people, and others like them, to understand why.

    I want to do a vision quest because the prospect of going alone into nature, facing my fears, finding my path, and meeting my deepest self appeals to me on a primal level.

    I feel that I am at a moment of deep transition. I have recently graduated from college, and stand with one foot through the door to the rest of my life. Not just the physical trappings, but also the emotional, metaphysical, and spiritual material of my life seem to be hovering in limbo.

    I would argue, too, that physically the last 23 years have comprised a prolonged transition from total protection and dependence to total self-sufficiency. These shifts call for ritual. I believe we need ritual and ceremony to mark significant passages, and I have chosen that which speaks to my Truth.
    I see my preparation for this journey as an opportunity to articulate for myself and for others the kind of transition I hope to undergo.

    I want to bury frivolity, selfishness and vanity. That is not to say I wish to let go of levity—the six-year-old girl who laughs unstoppably at silly jokes and chases after bubbles can stay. That is also not to say I wish to part with confidence, for that is possibly the greatest strength I possess.

    The 18-year-old woman who tested her power at the expense of others can stay in the past, though. So too can my high school make-up and gratuitous “selfies.” The pride that stops 22-year-old me from asking for help or accepting criticism may stay behind as well.

    Every coin has two sides. I would like to exchange frivolity for meaning, selfishness for generosity, and vanity for humility. I want to discover the outlines, the shadow, even, of the path I am on—the underlying purpose of my actions, choices, and the work I find myself doing. I want to explore the gifts I have not had the chance to cultivate, and then I want to share them with those who might benefit. Finally, I hope to do this for the right reasons, to avoid both praise and confrontation. I intend to return quietly, with grace.

    Moreover, I invite an abundance of joy, laughter, adventure, magic, spirit and stardust into my life. I wish my journey to be a never-ending pursuit of these things.

    Now the hard part. What obstacles block me? What do I really fear? I am afraid I don’t know my weaknesses. I don’t know what I really fear. That in of itself seems a major lacking of knowledge. I cannot fully know myself without it. Maybe it is dangerous to wish for, but I hope to find my fears while I am alone. Until I know what they are, I can’t confront them. Until I know what they are, I can’t defeat them. I am, undeniably, afraid to find out.

    Lastly, my strength. It flows from water. From the moon. From the earth and the stars. I do not connect with these sources often enough. That is, to end where I began, I do not spend enough time alone in Nature. When I stop to listen, though, the wind whispers secrets in my ears. The trees teach me to grow roots. The birds teach me to grow wings. The earth sets a rhythm for my heart to follow, and the rivers sing as they flow through my hair. They know why I am drawn to do this. I want to do a vision quest so they can tell me too.

    ~
    I will, clearly, be mostly ‘off the grid’ for the next ten days. I look forward to sharing some of my experiences when I return.