Heading South

When I returned to India in January, the first thing in my loosely held plan was a trip to Kerala with an old school friend, who happened to be in India for a month.  Two girls, headed for the beach . . . sort of.  Being more of the intellectual hippy persuasion than the wide-eyed, bring-on-the-party, beach bunny persuasion, we decided on Kerala over Goa, because although both have beautiful beaches, Kerala has far more to see and remains somewhat less commercialized. Part of the appeal of Kerala, in fact, was its famous backwaters, lovely rides down old canal-like waterways, and witnessing the ancient ritual dancing that is purported to be seen everywhere. (I do sometimes wonder who writes the travel guides - as the gap between reality and the books is often . . . .well . . . significant). 

Our trip started with the plane ride from Delhi - we discovered mid-flight that we had a brief stop in Kochi, and as we hadn't really started planning the contents of our trip until we were in the air . . . we decided to try and get off the plane there instead of going through to Trivandrum - that would enable us to essentially start at the top of Kerala, and work our way south.  Unfortunately, despite all evidence that India is a by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of place . . . . it turns out this airline wasn't; they wouldn't let us off the plane before our ticketed destination.  And we did try . . . So we continued on to Trivandrum where we emerged into the heat and humidity of Southern India. ( with our luggage intact - I wonder, if they had let us out in Kochi - would our luggage would have joined us or would it have traveled on to Trivandrum and waited for us there?)

Once in the airport, we spent about half an hour at the tourist booth getting information on where we were, where to go, what to do.  We almost missed collecting our baggage we took so long with the tourist booth guy.  So after collecting our luggage and a scary trip to the bathroom, we headed out into the muggy air and I had my first chance to witness my travel partner in action: negotiating with the tuk tuk driver.  Damn, she's good.  I owe much of my current ease negotiating transportation in India to that week with her.  We headed for the train station to begin our adventure  .. . . which, that afternoon, entailed an hour long search (with two very heavy packs) for lunch.  Turns out our driver had dropped us at the back of the train station, not that we realized that until we had walked in circles for almost an hour - and then had to walk the long way around, up hill and over the tracks, to the front of the station to find our place for lunch.  I think I might have whined most of the way about the weight of my pack.  I had forgotten how heavy those things are when you're out of practice (and out of shape again??? shhhhh).

Lunch, however, turned out to be (almost) worth it.  We had traditional South India tali: 4 curries, rice and papad, along with the usual chutneys.  What made it amazing was the presentation.  The tables are set with banana leaves as people sit down, and there are several guys that walk around carrying the various components of the meal.  One guy walks around with a huge bowl of rice, and drops a big pile on your banana leaf as he comes by; another walks around with the super cool server thing that has 4 deep tiffins, each with a different curry, and he heaps some of each of them on your banana leaf.  Another guy walks around offering papads.  Essentially, it's all you can eat, but the buffet comes to you.

Perhaps because we were white tourists, they also included some cutlery on our table - no one else used them . . . and mostly I didn't either.  The South Indian way is to eat with your fingers - right hand only, of course.  Surprisingly, it takes some practice, having been admonished for so many years not to play with our food!  But it is an art form - to scoop up rice and dal or curry into a form that the fingers will pick up and carry to the mouth.  It was fun and satisfying; and really, really, good. 

Once we were stuffed to the gills, we were pretty much pushed out of our spot at the table so that it could seat the next in line.  I've noticed this is pretty typical of South Indian restaurants - even in Delhi.  They are busy, high turnover, and there is no dawdling over the end of your meal . . . and the food is always amazing.

After lunch we waddled back to the train station where we parked ourselves, first for a cup of tea, and then on the platform to wait for our train.  And wait. and wait . . . and wait.  Ahhh, India, how she likes to remind me that plans are such folly.  Our 'plan' was to head down to watch the sun set in Kunyakumari.  Of course, somewhere on a schedule, it also said that the train's plan was to be on time.  Neither plan unfolded quite like that.

The Taj Mahal

This past weekend, like millions before me, I made the pilgrimage to Agra, to see the Taj Mahal.  While I was there I had the privilege of seeing the story of its conception enacted, in full beautiful colour, at a local theatre.  I'm not sure what I expected of the weekend, or my experience, but it was definitely a thought-provoking one for me. It was also a gift.  The weekend was organized by one of my hosts here, and I was provided with a full-service tour, including a 'night-viewing' of the Taj under the light of the moon: this happens only 5 days a month: the full moon, and the 2 nights before and after. My host's connections not only enabled the night-visit, but also allowed us to by-pass all of the line-ups. Hours worth.  Really.

Many of you may already know the basic story of the Taj Mahal.  All I knew before I went was that it was supposed to be one of the "7 wonders" of the world - big, opulent and beautiful.  The words "Taj Mahal" have always to me been synonymous with wealth, luxury, and splendor . . . but that's really all I knew.  What I discovered is that for many it's also synonymous with love - it is a mecca for lovers; a place symbolize the power of love and devotion, to come in celebration and sanctification of a union.  Wikipedia explains that: "It was built by Mughal emperor Shah Jahan in memory of his third wife, Mumtaz Mahal. It is widely considered as one of the most beautiful buildings in the world and stands as a symbol of eternal love."   One India tourism site claims it as "the ultimate monument to love"

I confess, as a die-hard romantic, who can never resist a love story . .  . I was surprisingly nonplussed.  The structure is stunning.  The grounds are amazing.  The symmetry (the entire site is designed to be perfectly symmetrical in all four directions.  The hand-carved etchings and semi-precious gem inlaid designs are exquisite.  It is an architectural and artistic monument of immense beauty.  Perhaps a monument to devotion: 22 years of labour, thousands and thousands of dollars (350 years ago!) No idea how many million or billion that would translate to now.  I thoroughly enjoyed and appreciated wandering the grounds, taking in the beauty of the structures and the gardens, walking through the mausoleum.

Sadly, in my soft, squishy, rose-coloured glasses, love-story obsessed heart . . . . I just couldn't get past some of the not-so-romantic, and not-so-widely-advertised, pieces of the story. Frankly, even the basic story doesn't quite do it for me.

Apparently, the emperor was devastated when his third wife, who was his favourite, died during the birth of their 14th child.  I can't help but think that being his favourite wasn't in her highest interest - clearly, it's what killed her!  However, in the age-old tradition of great tragic love stories, love should prevail beyond reason and beyond life.  So, on her death bed, she implored him to grant her a last request:  Please, Emperor, do not be a king to your children, be a father.  And keep me close to your heart, love me always.  The Emperor was  devastated by her death and vowed to grant her request.

Continuing the tragic love-story theme, he couldn't eat, he couldn't sleep, he couldn't rule . . . he became obsessed with his dead beloved, and so he vowed to build a monument in her honour, to keep her close to him always; and this monument should be of the greatest wonder and beauty in the world. just as his Mumtaz had been: and so the concept for the Taj Mahal was born.  Sounds romantic - wouldn't every woman want a man to love her so much that he created something like that in her honour?   Except that I really wouldn't. In her shoes, I'd really have wanted to him to focus on the first part of the request: parenting the 14 children they created together: they are the real monuments to love. 


On the one hand, there is something powerful about any place that people flock to for prayer, and once built, and the Empress entombed there, the mausoleum was occupied regularly by followers coming to grieve her loss and pay their respects.   Not to minimize their loss or her importance, but I wonder if they'd have felt the loss quite so keenly if the Emperor hadn't abdicated his responsibilities to his people (and his children) while he focused on having this monument built.

And then there are the labourers, artisans, architects, and designers involved in the project, who are said to have been maimed; their thumbs cut-off, after their involvement in the project, in order to ensure that no one tried to duplicate the Taj.  I believe, truly, that the energy of the builders is left in the stones of a structure.  How can it be a monument to love if it was built by the hands of slave labour, living in fear?

I've thought about it a fair bit since the weekend, and I admit - there is something romantic about creating something beautiful in honour of someone you love.  But I guess that's the rub: something beautiful that honours love.  If I happen to fall in love with a ridiculously wealthy and powerful man, I really hope that should he be inspired to spend that kind of money on something in my honour - that he do it building hospitals, schools, housing for the poor . . . something to truly make the world a better place, something built by people paid fair wages, who were also invested in making their lives and their world better.

But perhaps there is redemption in the mecca that it has become.  Perhaps the energy of reverence and love, offered by its many visitors helps to balance out the misery of its conception.  Perhaps the joy that it brings to people, the opportunity to contemplate, to revere, to believe . . . are also something powerful, and worth acknowledging. Perhaps it provides an important opportunity to think about the concept of love, and how each of us wants to live that out in our lives. It has certainly given me something to think about over the last few days.

Semana Santa in Antigua

Easter Week: The biggest celebration in Guatemala.  In a way that many Westerners can't relate to, Christianity - in various strains - still powerfully guides life in Central America, especially among the indigenous.  Religion here is far more evangelical and almost fundamentalist, though fortunately, it doesn't appear to spark quite the same level of violence as in other parts of the world.  Devotion, however, is a living thing.

In San Marcos, one of its obvious elements is the daily sermons and psalms sung over the loud speakers from the two big churches every day (sometimes all day for days on end . . .)

With the arrival of Semana Santa, the entire country is mobilized into ritual, devotion, and creative acts of tribute to the story of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.  The epicenter is Antigua - so that's where I went to experience it.  (Turns out the second biggest and similarly interesting festivities are right on the lake where I've been living, over in Santiago - but I didn't find that out until I got back).

Antigua: The celebration is at least a week long. It starts the Sunday before Easter and grows each day, in exponential proportions as Good Friday approaches.  I arrived by chicken bus on Tuesday afternoon, and as I crossed through town to find where I would be staying, I could see that the streets were already beginning to fill with tourists, vendors, alfombras and processions.  Alfombras are the incredibly beautiful tapestry carpets created on the roads that the processions then walk over.  It's an incredible process to witness and contemplate.  It was these carpets that really became the focus of my week. 

My beautiful friend Leigh, Bless her, had rented an apartment for the week, and generously offered to let me stay with her.  Among other things, Semana Santa means that accommodation in Antigua is incredibly hard to come by, and double the price of any other time of year.  Leigh's generosity made this experience possible for me.  (Muchas Gracias Chica!!!) This apartment became our base camp from which we went on excursions in search of food, processions, alfombras, stories and pictures.  We found copious amounts of each.

It's hard to remember the sequencing of the week - between the colours, sounds, energy and lack of sleep . . . it's all a bit of a blur. We were warned early that sleep would be at a premium, as the processions and the parties were pretty much continuous, going right through the night, from Wednesday through Saturday morning  This was no understatement, and it became clear quickly that there was no way to do and see everything, and that sufficient sleep was unlikely.  It didn't Leigh and I long to find a favourite coffee shop to start each day at. Overlooking Parc Central, it provided an ideal launch point for the day, and a beautiful place for people watching and taking pictures of the festivities.

The Processions:

Each day was marked by processions.  Early in the week saw one or two each day, by Friday there were four full processions, starting at 4am and continuing through to 2am Sat. morning. (If not later . . . )  Each procession demarcated a pivotal part of the crucifixion story - from the betrayal right to the crucifixion itself on Friday - this being the most graphic set of floats and most intense devotion by those in the procession.  
The floats themselves were awe-inspiring.  Full-size floats with large tableaus of Jesus and whichever other characters were relevant to the particular story of that procession.  These floats, unlike those we might be used to in the Western world, are carried by men in purple robes - not on truck-beds, even though they are likely about the same size & weight.  Watching the procession, you can see the strain on the faces of the men literally shouldering these burdens.  Some floats, featuring the Virgin Mother, or another important female figure, were carried by women - these floats generally appeared to be smaller and lighter.

Each procession started in one of the many churches in the city, and culminated at one of them - sometimes the same one sometimes a different one, following a prescribed route and timetable.  Although the focus/story of each procession was slightly different, the basic elements were consistent:  Young boys/men in purple robes with big hanging censors smudged the path, including the carpets with incense (copal, I think).  They were followed by a roman gladiator-style band - horns, drums . . . something to announce the coming procession; then the gladiators, on foot, on horse, and/or with chariots, then more people wearing robes, carrying portraits, banners and signs, followed finally by the men bearing the floats.  Behind the floats trailed another band - this one in black suits, looking more like an orchestra.  Behind the procession trailed the children and other folks seeking to collect some of the debris from the trampled alfombras.

One evening we got to watch a procession go directly under our window - some of the photos form that are incredible.  Frankly, I have literally hundreds of incredible photos from that week.  At least half of them are of the alfombras.

The alfombras:

Stunning, intricate, time-intensive, creative works-of-love.  There are two basic types of alfombras: Wood chip stencil style and those created out of grass, straw, flowers, corn-husks, fruit, vegetables, carvings, and other assorted ingredients.  Regardless of the type or the level of intricacy, they are incredibly time intensive, and clearly works of love and devotion.  Even the simplest grass and straw alfombras take remarkable time and work to create.   People locate them, in front of their home or business, based on the prescribed route maps so that they are ready a few hours before the procession will arrive at that location.  Often this means that folks are out on the street at 1, 2, 3 in the morning creating them for processions that will start at 4am. 

On Thursday night, Leigh and I went to bed early and set our alarm for 2 am so that we could wander the streets watching them be built.  Just as the intensity grows exponentially over the week, so does the intricacy and beauty of the alfombras.  We witnessed some of the most stunning pieces of artwork early that morning, wandering the darkened and quiet - but vibrantly alive streets.  We watched the procession start at 4am, wandering ahead of it to catch photos before they walked over the carpets, obliterating them.  I can't help but think that these carpets are not just acts of devotion, but an incredible exercise in detachment for their creators- knowing they will exist for but a few hours (sometimes for less time than they spent creating them) before being trod over the procession. 

The food: 

Our constant search for alfombras was trumped only by our daily search for the food vendors - who moved their obscenely large fair each day to correspond with where the most important processions culminated. To get an idea, picture your favourite fall fair- and all of the food vendors there, then double the number of vendors, triple the number of people . . . and of course, make the food Guatemalan.  Tortillas heaped with meat, sauce and salads; Papusas (tortillas filled with gooey melted cheese), tostadas piled with guacamole, frijoles, beet salad and coleslaw; sandwiches aplenty, cotton candy, fried plantains, yucca, potatoes, etc.; candy apples, pineapple empanadas (like a calzone, but sweet), mangoes on a stick, coated in ground Pepita; pineapple juice, orchata (a sweet rice milk), chucitos, tamales . . . and of course, lots of soda and agua pura.  And all of it CHEAP.  Dinner for 25Q (about $3) meant eating til we hurt.

To provide some variety, we visited a couple of restaurants, in between our vendor hunts.  One is my favourite from my first time in Antigua, when I first arrived here. The food was as fabulous as I remembered - a banquet of traditional Guatemalan stews, salads, and other sides to choose from.  The prices were steeper than I remembered.  It's remarkable how different my perspective on money and price is after four months here, and especially after working in a restaurant.  Leigh had been craving Thai food for a few days, so we decided to give that a try one night also. Sadly, we both left still craving Thai food - as their version, while interesting, was definitively not Thai.  And because we're both foodees, and cheap, we also made a few meals at the apartment - generally tortillas (we bought those - 5 for 1Q) and Guacamole (I made that). I think my belly is still recovering from all the food.

The People:

People watching at any large festive event is always interesting.  This one didn't let me down.  Because of the importance and scope of this celebration, it attracts thousands of people from across Guatemala and around the world.  Because it's a religious celebration, it is family friendly, and it was quite amazing to watch the hundreds of processants in purple walk by - and realize that many of them were children, and some infants-in-arms . . .in purple!  In the park, children ran around with noise-makers, balls, and glow-sticks - some playing, some selling them.  Much like my first trip to Antigua, I was humbled by how young the children selling to tourists are - whether it's jewelery, cloth or services.  My last trip, I discovered that the shoe-shine boys start as young as 5 or 6.

The Guatemalan chant - pan de banane, pan de coco, pan de chocolate???? which I hear every day in San Marcos had many refrains in Antigua over Semana Santa as women chanted out the contents of their food baskets - be it fruit, breads, sweet corn, etc. 

The tourists were also incredibly interesting.  My favourites were the Israelis that I found myself standing next to watching the Crucifixion process on Good Friday.  Not that they particularly stood out visually, although their Hebrew speech made it obvious to me  where they were from.  But I found myself quite amused at the irony of so many jews hanging out watching the deeply religious Easter celebration in all its glory.  I didn't get their full story - but it seemed they were a good-sized group. Certainly gave me a smile for the morning.

There are so many details and so much more about this rich week that I can't even begin to put into words.  I know that I would love to do it again, and see more of the processions themselves, and have more time to hang on either end of the week so that I could better stretch myself without sleep for the good parts. I know that for everything I saw, there were at least 5 amazing things that I didn't . . . and in a phrase appropriate for the parallel Jewish holiday that same week: Daiaynu.  It was enough.

*End note: In looking up the correct spelling for "alfombras", I found this website which describes fairly accurately and concisely some of what I've subjectively described above - check it out if you're curious:  http://www.questconnect.org/guat_semana_santa.htm#Carpets

Mayan Wedding on the Sacred Hill

Early into my stay in San Marcos, I had the privilege of attending a Mayan ritual up on a sacred hill over looking the lake.  I don´t remember anymore how I found out about it, but I was told it would be a ritual to heal the lake and that it was open, so my friend (and fellow Cortesian) Barbara and I wandered up. 

It was definitely an interesting day.  The Sacred spot is up a steep hill, behind a hostel called Xamanek (pronounced Shamanek).  The climb to Xamenek alone is a good one . . . challenging enough for one as not-so-fleet footed as me . . . the hill beyond was work.  When Barbara and I wandered up, we didn´t really know where we were aiming for . .. we just knew it was up the hill somewhere.  When we got up to the hostel there was no sign of any ceremony and no people around . . . and the one woman working at the hostel was less than forthcoming or helpful  (I think she was having a rough day).  Stymied, we hung around for a little while . .. explored a little around the hostel and then decided to head back down, surrendering that we weren´t meant to go.

So we got about a third of the way back down the hill when we had to move aside for three men carrying a marimba up the hill.  Yes - a full size marimba up a steep foot path, I kid you not.  The marimba was preceded by a man I instinctively knew was the Mayan Shaman . . . .not certain how I knew, but I did.  Barbara and I stared at each other for a moment, contemplated the climb back up and decided that if they could schlep the marimba, we could manage to follow them.  It was shortly thereafter we discovered the even steeper (mountain goat) path behind the hostel, making us wonder aloud several times how these men could climb it with a marimba . . . and yet they did.

The ceremony was slated to start at 10 . .. it was about 20 after when the set up really began.  It started with creating the fire pit.  The circle of rocks are a permanent fixture on the hill.  What they dress it with for the sacred fire is astounding.  The Shaman started by drawing a + in the circle, with white sugar, making it into a mandala.  Then each of the corners was filled in with little circle things made, I think, from peat.  These were followed by groups of taper candles, honey, . . . and so many other things, I´m sorry I can´t recall.  What was most astonishing for me was the incredible number of candles that went in.  While some were put in standing up so that their wicks could be lit in the normal way, there were also just clumps of small and large tapers positioned into the fire pit.

Once the fire was started, it built into quite a blaze . . . often billowing black smoke as the paraffin candles were consumed, whole, by the flames.  I´ve never seen anything quite like it.


As it turned out, although it had been originally slated to be a ceremony for the lake, a couple´s yearning to be married by a Mayan Shaman had taken precedence and so we had the privilege of witnessing that. The ceremony went for well over 4 hours . . . although Barbara and I left after about 3 or so.  We hadn´t prepared sufficiently for the conditions - intense sun, intense heat . . . . sitting / standing for that long.  We just didn´t know. 

What we saw was beautiful and intense.  Much of it was translated into English, though with the marimba playing behind me I had trouble hearing much of it.  Prayers, invocations and gratitude spoken by the Shaman or one of the other circle leaders (not sure - assistants, other shamans . . . . apprentices???) alternated with ceremonial tossing of things into the fire.  Corn, rice, more candles . . . etc.  Generally whatever was being offered to the flame was passed around first to all of us so that we could put our own blessings / intentions into the items and then everyone had a turn offering their items to the fire. 

Again, while I missed much of the verbiage, there were a few things that stood out for me.  One was that the Shaman explained that before they had even been allowed to come up to the hill to be married in the ceremony, the Shaman had spent an entire day with the couple grilling them on their hopes, dreams, expectations and commitments for this marriage. During the ceremony itself they were also asked WHY they had opted for a Mayan ceremony - what it meant to them - and what their commitment was to this marriage, this process . . .etc.  They were then expected to answer in front of the circle of witnesses.  These were not rhetorical questions. 

The other thing that stood out for me was the level of devotion, passion, spirit that was brought to the ritual by those participating / facilitating.  I didn´t need to hear or understand the words being spoken to feel the love, the reverence, the beauty of what was being created and celebrated. I couldn´t hear the words of commitment spoken by the couple, but I could see it in their faces and feel it from their hearts.  Truly it was beautiful.

When Barbara and I decided to leave, I found I felt really ok to go.  While it would have been lovely to witness the remainder of the ceremony, I felt like I had been gifted already with all that I had experienced, and I knew that my body needed shade and lots more water.  It was truly a privilege to have witnessed as much as I had . . . and I trust there will be other ceremonies here if/when I am moved to attend again.  It´s that kind of sacred place here.

Arriving in San Marcos La Laguna

San Marcos is BEAUTIFUL!!  In stark contrast to San Pedro, San Marcos is covered in vegetation.  Trees and foliage line all of the cobblestone paths (not roads . . . the gringo part of town is all walking paths, not even room for a tuk-tuk).  Connecting the two main paths are dirt trails that navigate around whatever structures are in the way.

Las Piramides (http://www.laspiramidesdelka.com/) is in the middle the gringo village, surrounded by holistic healing centres, hotels and hostels.  San Marcos is a healing mecca, with a bit of a new age flavour, but so far, it´s not too woo-woo. 

I didn´t make a reservation for a place to stay here, and it turned out to be a more popular destination for new years than I expected.  I managed, however, to get the last dorm bed in a place called La Paz, which another traveler had recommended highly.  I really like it.  The owner is Guatemalan, and definitely a character; dinner is served family style and there are folks hanging around chatting and being.  It´s very friendly, and the gardens are STUNNING!!

I think I like San Marcos a lot.

Summer Awakening

Summer has arrived on the West Coast of BC, here in the Northern Gulf islands . . . hot, sultry, glorious . . . and it is only June! I have already spent several days bathing in the ocean – warm like late August, or the Southern Pacific. The earth yearns for rain, and while I glory in the sunshine, I also note with sadness the change in our climate and the probable impacts, such as drought.

I have also moved, again, as is the way of many Cortesians at this time of year. We call it the summer shuffle; as the winter rentals expire to become high-priced short-term summer rentals and/or to make room for those owners who live here for the short, beautiful, summer months. I have left behind my winter paradise cabin, 20 feet from the ocean for a brand-new little cottage in a ‘village’ for seniors. . . except that the expected seniors didn’t sign up to rent them. There are six cottages, and only three currently occupied, only one with an actual senior in it. I guess my old-soul is manifesting in a new way . . .

My move has been fraught with emotion. I find myself coming up against my expectations, spoken and unspoken, of others, of myself, of the place in which I live. I discover, humbly, where my growing edges continue to be – where my strong values come into conflict with each other. I am reminded why I moved to Cortes – and how my reasons are not necessarily the same as other people’s; how my story about what living on this island means is not the same as others’ stories; how different people’s needs, values, and perspectives can be about the same things.

I also pay attention how much love and beauty I am surrounded by. I breathe in deep gratitude for the friends that I have developed here, for the powerful women I am deepening into relationship with, for the water, the sunshine, and the freedom that I have chosen.

Yesterday I chopped wood for over an hour in the heat of the day (what was I thinking???) . . . and followed it by a swim in the ocean (ah, yes – the reward!). My friend led me through the seaweed and the rocks over the reef at low tide – further out than I’ve ever been, navigating carefully over starfish and other amazing sea-life. We lazed in the clear, beautiful, water as the tide came in, and I realized that little more than a year ago, I’d have been in an office at that time of day, either staring longingly out the window . . . or so busy in my ‘important’ life that I almost forgot that ‘outside’ was even there. Whatever challenges I face here, whatever frustrations may come with this life (there are always some no matter what life we are living), no matter little money I have – I am blessed truly with freedom and abundance here.

Ironically, I have been thinking a lot about going traveling. It’s not so much that I want to leave here, as that I want to see and experience other parts of the world. I want to meet people in different places, experience different ways of living . . . hear and learn other languages. Feel sacred places on the earth. I also have a story about traveling, and finding myself within that process. Connecting to the parts of me that are fully confident in my ability to survive, to navigate anything, to go anywhere.

Last night I danced and, as I spun and spun and spun into ecstasy, I suddenly knew myself as whole – no matter where I am, where I go or don’t. I saw my divinity and felt it through my body. Aaaahhhhhh. I learned, bodily, that I don’t need to go anywhere to find myself. I am already whole.

I still want to travel – but perhaps it can be a lighter experience, one I can be more present to, with less unnecessary expectation. For now I choose to travel through my everyday experience into the sunshine, through the evening, into the realms of possibility and presence. I choose to be here now. And here, now, is incredible joy.

Blessed Be.