A Story from India

The people of the world seem to know that everything in New York happens quickly. What also happens quickly is the way the tourism enterprise of India gets you tumbling down their snow-covered hill... 

It is the dead-middle of the night in the enclosed streets of a Delhi back-alley, and the lights are a faded hue of orange. The sleeplessness of Jebadiah adds an ominous haze and further filters the dull light. The taxi driver insists, without Jeb's disagreement  to walk him through the narrow passages to the hostel. 

Previously, the driver comforted him as they left the airport with a warm welcome, a warm cup of sweet-ginger-milk tea and a loving description of his family. Without hesitation, though, the security of the moment was lost as he pointed out all the poorly homeless people and said it was very dangerous to go for walks at night. 

Now in night's corridor  the shawled men did not help to soften the discomfort. Jebadiah felt as though his senses should be on edge but the blur between the men and their shadows gave him a harsh felling of reality. He was in a new world without a clue about anything. He was quickly brought away from this feeling and into his surroundings by a bare-footed woman with a face of folded leather. She walks by and avoids the pile of loose-stool without breaking her nearly momentumless pace. Jeb stood tensely waiting for her to step in it or turn to him. Either would have disturbed him further. 

Finally in the hostel, his sleeping room was windowless and dark continued even after the sounds outside became alive.  

Jeb has spent the last year living on farms, hiking between seas, and resting at the homes of strangers. All of this with a companion. A companion that was to him as the new moon is to the night sky, always growing brighter, and becoming greater and greater in his eye.  Now, Jebadiah woke up unable to leave the room. He was bound by fear and by the images from the night before. With no view of the day outside it was impossible for him to imagine anything but the gloomy arrival into India. What finally set him in motion was acceptance. It is not the first time that Jebadiah would be taking a step forward due to the lightly guiding hand of acceptance, and it is not the first time that he would be accepting that he needed help. 

Help lead him to the desk of a travel agency. He signed a contract that bound him to pay, for three weeks, what he had spent in the past four moths! And at that moment it all became clear to him. He thought back to the warnings from the taxi driver the night before. The way the driver stopped and asked for directions 3 or 4 times. The way that he brought Jeb to the very tourist office that he sat at now (and that it was open at 4 in the morning no less). The way the tourist agent just so happened to have lived in Jebadiah's home city (and the home city of all other travelers too)! The way the manager at the hostel told him, "If you want to be a free bird, you must plan, and your best option is to go directly to the (SAME) tourist office, welcome to India. "  And he realized that he had fallen perfectly for the formula of fear and confusion that these people created for him. 

Even though Jeb knew that he had been bluffed into folding his hand, he was not ready to accept this defeat. He thought back to the freedom he traveled with in the past. He felt that he was the wind and the sail was his adventure. He felt that when the wind had been still, the force that is even more invisible than the wind blew him to the world's edge.  However, that force was gone. Not to be seen, heard, or touched and not to be shared. Now Jeb felt weak, helpless and resistant. 
----

Two thin lines of smoked raised from the dash-bored of the car that was honking and carving along the road.  Jeb thought that the incense was a pleasing touch and started to enjoy his comfortably guided tour. His resentment of the situation was decreasing, but it still humored him as he thought that the scented ride was not a luxury but a tool to cover up all the possible foul smells of the street.  Either way, Jebadiah still watched the curling smoke flatten across the top of the windshield. His eyes looked higher than the limits of the car into the tree tops, and then everything changed into a jungle. 

Giant hawks swooped and soared just behind the tail feathers of lime green parrots. The animals of the floor screamed, blared and hawked between each other. Nothing seemed to belong and everything seemed to fit. The stitching holding each patch of the city together was perpetually tearing and fixing together again, making for a magical quilt of chaos   The trail was full of aggression and empty of patience, but there is more to a forest than a trail. 

In this part of the world tea-gardens are the watering holes, and near the source of life often lies a place of worship. Jeb did not make this connection as he watched the women, men, elders, mothers, children, fathers, young-boys and girls laugh and talk over their tea. He just enjoyed the colors and walked on to the Hindu temple. His thoughts were now simple and loud like a narrator or a friend. He looked to the carvings on the pale-red outer walls and thought, Interesting, Nazis.  No, wait these swastikas do not represent Nazis. Ah and the neighboring triangles interlocked to make a star does not depict the ideas of Judaism either. But what a message they symbolize here, together, on the walls of a temple a place of peace and prayer.  

As you enter, the elements of the temple come together to captivate the visitor.  Jebadiah's shoes where obligated to be off so his feet could feel the details of the smooth cold marble floor. He slides his feet over each step before reaching for the next as he climbs up the entrance. With each stride up, more of the temple comes into view and a brightness begins to rise from far inside. With another step, the brightness turns into a shining. And another, the shining begins bursting with color. Fixated straight ahead Jebadiah walked to the threshold of the temple and slightly bowed his head; making the less exaggerated movement that others before him had made. This motion brought his eyes down to look to the feet of two statues. He raised his eyes over their sparkling dress and past the eight arms being held out. The excited aesthetics of these figures engaged him in a trance and he look directly into their pale blue eyes. The shrine was like an exploded firework of lights and color and Jeb thought this captivation must be something like prayer. 
----
Jebadiah, now back in the car with his driver, didn't have to think about where to go or what to do. In fact he didn't have to decide anything at all. With all this mental freedom Jeb was being carried along for the ride and could only think...

A Quick Little Something

These photos were taken after spending time with Yannis of Worldgrapher in Yerevan (the capital of Armenia) and getting some inspiration from him. 

Pagan Temple

Ararat: The Mountain Where Noah Landed His Ark  

"The Twelfth Moon"  

Half Way

People travel the world looking, searching for something; they try to live experiences that will uncover themselves. They move to find out who they are.

As for me, I go here and, here I go. I go as I go and go. My heart shaped compass has lead me half way around the world. And here I pulse to vibrate, to float, to sink, to tumble, and to whirl. I am as much of me as there is, and I still have another half way around the world to go! 

In Georgia

What's in the Dark

I am now in Georgia, the far Eastern European practically Euro-Asian country. I have not been in this new territory long and with the limited experiences I've had I am still in the dark about the possibilities of this place. What I am clear on, however, is what I remember about my final experiences in Turkey. 

I witnessed these Whirling  Dervish men performing their sacred ceremony, Sema 

I visited, again, an ancient cave-dwelling-valley, where I spent one night in a cave that I had spent many nights before; Yet, this time I was disturbed by something....

When all alone in darkness many things appear. The immediate silence all around is a clear backdrop for the crickets, breathing, and the subtle movements of the wild. These elements are the wake-up call for the companion of the dark. Even the shifting of your own foot, making an unfamiliar noise, can arouse fear. 

In the darkness there are moments of clarity, when the empty space around one's eyes is like a blanket for the mind. With peace the silence and songs of the night are a lullaby. Always, though, the ominous blank canvas gives room for creation, and rarely in the dark are the forms of art lovely. 

In the uniform black it is so easy to become restless, anxious, and on edge. In the dark you are blind and your hearing is your only sight. One altercation to the silence or the crickets and the heart hits the bottom of the chest. Inhales are shallow and one can't release the breath. Pressure is built from the throat down, through your gut and into each toe-tip until your body is compact, full of tension. All but the head, where the mind is spinning loosely, freely fueling the fear.You close your eyes as if the blackness behind the eye-lids can be different and safer than the unknown in natures dark. 

The most dangerous thing here, in your oppressed moment is the imagination. A man with a knife comes to steal your possessions  A mad, reason-less man comes to express violent acts. A friendly curious man accidentally seeming like the other two. Powerful-reckless authority coming to twist the innocent into dangerous. Sleep strains to win over, but a woman in the mind whispers, "there is someone out there."

Then, a wild horse galloping aimlessly in the night; a stallion ridden by a veiled figure, sword in hand. They buck hooves over where you lay. The risen dead, thousands, watching  disturbed, angry, grabbing you with invisibility, blocking you from escaping, bring you torturous pain. 

Open your eyes to escape yourself. You check the reality to release the poisoned air in your lungs. With searching and straining your sight to check all the possibilities the eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. In this new found grey world the perception begins to adjust as well. Now, in the darkness the unknown turns to an absence of all things. All that is left in the night is peace. And finally dawn breaks with the first brush of light. It sweeps away the dormant companion who waits for the twig to snap, waits to leap out of the eyes where sight would normally be. When darkness begins to leave fear is swept away.  

***

I reached a mountain built around a monastery closer to the heavenly eyes looking down upon us

 In the Black Sea Mountains, I crossed the path of this little Turkish friend who told me that I traveled through Turkey quite sluggishly, but he did not hide that he was feeling blue about me leaving.

 The winter is nearly here and the mammals of the hills are growing their thick coats, and in this time of gathering layers of warmth I hope to shed some light on the shadows of Georgia. 

Step by Step

Through the autumn each foot falling to the earth is leading me closer to the exit door of Turkey. One step at a time....

The loneliest traveler is never alone for too long in kitten-filled Turkey 

In Kas I dove with the groupers by daylight and slept dockside come night

Katherine and Atalay are creating their dream: They shared their young food-forest for a few days

An Olympos, flesh eating, sarcophagus; A boundary-less artifact allows one to be in this death-chamber, if they choose

And this waterfall in a city that built an archway at it's entrance to greet Julius Caesar long ago

Step, step, step... 

Where's the Path What's the Plan - The Lycian Way

Spoken of with great enthusiasm is a trail in the south; The trekking path, stunned into place by the vision it over looks, was used to link the ancient Lycian civilization. Where the Aegean meets the Mediterranean, the seas turn turquoise and I am here.                                                                                       With me is a tent, a tourist map, three liters of water, a head of broccoli,  a loaf of bread, a friend, and no plan.  An old man of the road once said "The departure is everything," so now we depart purposefully off the paved road and up the cobbled steps of a ghosted village; it feels light to walk the first steps of the trail.
  

Over the hill-crest into the descending sun, my shoes are tied tighter and a scarf is knotted to my head for shade. Some others catch up to us; where has the isolated wilderness gone? They tell us we are not on the path; my confidence is sucked away by theirs.The others declare, with the tone of someone seeking to gain something,  "the path you follow leads to nothing."  I walk with a grin in the direction they discouraged, to find the nothing.    
                                                                                                                                                                                           A perfectly lonely cove of sea crushing over rock, carved by life and the tide, is what we see from the paradise camping place under the lone tree.  The innocent water is white with the sunshine reflecting off the sea-floors silent bottom. The sight so clear the water could be one meter or one mile deep.  I leap into the purity, the purity, the purity.


  

There is a new phase of the moon and a new search to find the path we seek; back through the ruined village, the ghosts yield to lizards. We see a sprayed arrow, a written sign, and a red strip above a white; you symbols, must be the guide. We stride with near certainty through the painted pine path. Half a days walk empties out into a place with delicious-thick milkshakes and advertisement  beach-umbrellas; we swim and rest for a while in this place where nature has been tamed by the comfort-holiday goers. But blessed is the nature which is never lost to those who are looking.

Where's the path; what's the plan; why is this gap in the trail so wide. We hitch a ride, it's not cheating, a golden archway (with no fries) gives me the Lycian sign. We are back with the red and white trail marks, we walk the evening path; it soon leads to a couple of brothers making a coffee of the Turkish kind. We share an orange and then some more, with them we share the place we sleep.  A pair of Germans share it too, but their plan is to fast for ours, our none.

  
Now, with the Brothers Turkish, we walk, we walk, we walk; However, the trek is in solitude, silencing and isolating is the incline.  Our energy grows low, our food is low, we enter into a village; the perfect place it is.  
                                                          
First the figs the figs the figs purple and pink and delicious and the green marbles, yes the grapes, dangling from their twigs. Then the goats horn, the Turks call this pod from the tree, tasting of chocolate and bark; I am ripe from fruit but the Turkish meal is not complete without bread.  We find some bread with hospitality, so we eat again, a villagers lunch. Tomatoes, potatoes, cucumber, black olives, green olives, cheese, cay (is tea), cay, cay, and bread. Then it ends in green walnuts creamy with the trees oil that also is giving us shade.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        


In the place we stop for the entrance of this night, a tortoise is moving to find its resting place too; perhaps my large pack makes it think we are alike?  The load on my back I carry all day is now supporting me as I lean my-self against it; me and the tortoise are alike. 

Early rising is the rhythm of these days; the cliffs to the east hide us only until the dial shows ten. These towering cliffs provide perspective all day that thankfully shrinks the self. The sun shine retreats to shadow as we sink into a valley. There is little development and many others to meet.                                                                                                                                                                                                   

The morning light does take longer to reach this protected spot, just as the tourism and cement has taken longer, but in mid day the sun does shine, and in mid day the concrete will pour. Though, with pleasure, night will fall again because all is subject to the cycle of the stars.
               

Here the way is lost again for days, this time on purpose; We walk around the circles of peace-minded-people. They make music, share, and pass around the tools to forget. We wait for the right moment to find a sea-cave; the west facing opening loves most the days last light, in vain for how it makes her water glow. And another adventure leads up a path where trickling water grows, we climb up to where it swells and falls, we swim and rise above its pools to where it falls again. We go up the strengthening stream with the moss getting life from its bottom and jewelry with the beads of water on its top. The butterflies capture all noise to be just silence floating through the air.

We sleep not far from the red and white strips and again follow their way, to soon perhaps, but of course not. The steep climb is exaggerated by the rust of the valley's rest. The steps require great care for I am not the goats; this path is theirs and I spill my steps and wish I had their milk.                                                                                                                                                           

                 

Step, step, step, I can feel each step in my knees, shoulders  hips, and back. Each movement makes me find worthlessness in the valuable supplies and gadgets I carry. Summer is ending, leaving with the long days, and leaving with our time on the Lycian Way. We and the trekking path agree, in a different direction we will soon stray.

It is the final day of walking and our feet need a wash. A mirage of a ruined city appears spilling into the sea. I insist we leave the path and go directly to the sea; naive enough of me, I lead us to the only piece of land blocked off from the sea. I have no choice but to heave my pack over my head to cross the surging river emptying into our bath. We pass this obstacle and at last find the oasis of undisturbed beach for miles and miles and miles.    

The Deposits of Pamukkale

Pamukkale is one of the most naturally unique pieces of the earth I have arrived to in my travels. I will allow the wiki link and my photos to do the describing... 

Dede

Being busy can sometimes feel like you are living life in fast forward. City streets can pass you by as if they are a film strip while you walk through a routine filled week, month, or year. I have gone through cinematic periods of my life like this when I have woken up fuzzy headed after a new year celebration wondering why last January first seems like yesterday. It might be that most of us earth dwellers are locked in this fast forward position, but I have managed to flip the switch. Now in slow motion, I have been in Turkey for more than double the time that I was in France, Italy, The Netherlands, Germany, Austria, Slovakia, The Czech Republic and Greece combined. For the past ten months I have been geographically closer to where human civilization started than I ever was before, and I have been living a life that is more aligned with the way the first humans lived than I ever did before.

An organic olive farm was my place of comfort the majority of the past ten months. The land is dubbed Dedetepe, translated to Grandfather Hill, after the buried Sufi chief who is buried atop the orchard. Dedetepe Farm displays a vibrant harmony with nature and its resources. Me and all the others of the farm valued greatly the river, running from mountain springs. Not only did this become water for cooking, and washing, but it turned a turbine to produce power, sometimes, too. The olive trees of course appreciate the fresh drink as they swallow it to make plump their crop. Now don't be confused, I was living a simple life, but a complex system of renewable energy technologies allowed me to live this life with ease. A solar panel soaked up rays most efficiently by following the arch of the sun's path, continuously pivoting to face it all day. A different set of solar collectors accumulated the heat to provide us with warm water for doing dishes and washing other necessary areas. Finally, the big mama wind mill swirled its blades with furious speed. The hum of its rotations inspired the fantasy that the farm would, at any moment, begin to hover off the land and soar over the Aegean Sea.

Keep in mind though, that the sun was not always shinning and the wind did not always blow. It was at these times I appreciated the dancing imagines of the nighttime farm illuminated by only candle light. I tried not to resist these even more simplified days but the city still in me, just a bit.

Dedetepe is a dream developed into a working reality. It is a beautiful eco-camp decorated with the foot print of volunteers from around the world. Over time all of the farm's founders and visitors have put their unique expression into the flow of the breathing growing work of art. As for me, I know this place made more of an impact on me than I did on it. I am humbled by ALL Dedetepe has brought to me, however I did feel more like one of the trees growing on the land than just a volunteer passing by with the wind. Although my roots were only in the shallow soil, while I was there I found the sunniest spots and worked to give my sweetest fruit.

 Everyone that steps foot on the farm plays a role in the movement of the farm's existence and I am proud to say that my role came along with some differentiated responsibilities.  The most crucial things I was doing at the farm were managing water supplies, organizing volunteers and their projects, and facilitating communication between the layers of the farm. Each of these perpetual tasks deserves a descriptive story of its own, but this  piece is about my reaction to the work and not the work its self.

My expectation when I took on these ecological-sustainable responsibilities was that the lush nature of the position would diffuse any stress that might come along with it. I conjured up the idea that people in modern mayhem are often overwhelmed by the bulldozing of social construction, flattening the lives they live and tasks they do.  However, idealism is often defeated by reality, and I found some burden with my free-range roll.

At times the water was scarce. The volunteers grew in numbers. Coordination became less simple and pressure did build in my open spaces. It quickly became clear to me that it must not be the un-green doings of concrete life bring the stress, but of course it was me creating the sour air. Who else would know the details to focus on that ticked me off? I knew, I focused and I ticked.

Fortunately this ticking was not a time bomb. With a different style of self-management the tension I felt when simplicity left was lifted and I almost forgot what was bringing me negativity. It became clear that my mind was working inefficiently (sacrilegious to an eco-farm) by thinking up problems that did not actually exists and dwelling on future responsibilities that were not yet necessary to confront.  To combat this I started playing a meditative game as I went about my day: Watching my breath fill my chest, feeling the breeze one leg gives to another as I walked, relaxing my shoulders letting them skip with the rhythm of my step.

Traveling, for me, has become about finding a personal equilibrium throughout it all. Most probably, life is about finding that equalized space too. Naturally, seasons changed and so did the situation of the farm. As new challenges rose I adapted my techniques for working through the situations. My time was full of lessons learned and experienced gained. I now carry tools on my belt to facilitate communication and navigate individuals needs within a group. I have also walked a thin line, balancing the act of reaching project goals, being sensitive to the well being of those working on the project, and most importantly caring for me. In the future I will turn to the days of Dedetepe Farm to find valuable advice. I really worked to give all that I could during  my ten months on the farm. I think that no one was surprised that when the August heat dried up the river bed, all my giving energy had evaporated too.

Over the months people passing through often asked me why I had stayed as long as I had. I always gave them a fluid answer, telling them that I was responding to a feeling that said it is not time to go, and that I knew I was learning. I knew when I spoke this that it was incomplete, but I could not yet work out what was keeping me around. It was not until the absolute last moment of goodbyes that I felt why I was attached to the farm. In that moment before my feet left Dedetepe's earth I felt a great emotional connection to the few people who had been as constant on the farm as the natural elements.   I gave all that I did for the growth of a bond. A bond that developed within the passion to protect, participate in, and preserve the beauties of an universally harmonious life-style.

my gift to you

I am lost. 
Lost in a way that there is nothing around the river bend,
the pool here is deep with crystal.
Lost in a way that the size of the moon tells me how many days have passed.
Lost in a way that every gulp of water feels like a perfect moment.


I am lost in a way that nothing I need is out of reach.
I am lost in a way that I am far far from those who are always near,
and I am far far away from feeling they are lost.


I am lost in a way that holidays go unnoticed.
I am lost in a way that a birthday can't be more special than all the other days filled with spectacular beauty. 
Lost in a way that I feel fulfilled by memory alone.


I am lost in a way that I joyously know exactly where I am. 

In memory of celebrations with Papa Ralph, a lovely companion on the farm made a carnival for the occasion!

****

On these clear nights I look up and feel
I am in a globe 


A star globe, with some transparent force
In which it is all contained 


Not determining where each piece will fall
But holding sure it will all settle


And be shaken up once again 


****

Dogma

Turkey is a bridge. It is the land that keeps the Black Sea from weeping into the Agean and is the only country that claims to have a European side and an Asian side. Connecting the Western world to the Middle East and Asia, Turkey is a highway for spirits contained in bodies journeying outward and inward. The land that I reside in is a hub for the soul seeking traveler. 

As I play my hand in sustainable living on this Eco-Olive-Micro-Village, I am dealt volunteers from a well shuffled deck. Jacks from Spain, Queens from Australia, Kings from Palestine, pairs of Hearts from countless suites, and a few Aces in the hole from Turkey.  The shy traveler uses this place as an Eastern point after which they return back into Europe. The bold venture by land through Iran and Pakistan into India and beyond. So many faces and so many stories come through this junction that it is getting harder to find deep and meaningful connections with the temporary members of the community. Only those who share themselves fabulously find a place in my admiration, however everyone that contributes somehow sinks and settles into the bottom of my memory.

The diverse group of people arches together like a rainbow. Five, plus, languages brushing the air with cultural color. Kitchen clashing cuisines coming together like kin. No tradition compromised, the more exotic the more readily accepted.

The plethora of people makes this community more than unique in Turkey, a country made uniform by the steeples and domes of Mosques marking the cities like polka-dots on pajamas. It is curious to see that the multi-dimensional ethnicity of the volunteers are not match by affiliations with multiple religious groups. The majority of the individuals in Turkey are Muslim but it is rare to have a person joining the farm who identifies with any religion at all. It is safe to say that here a strong belief in nature, sustainability, and the environment unifies our thoughts, but no one is bowing their head in prayer for low carbon emissions. 

Our world has as many differences as the universe has moons and little can be seen as universal.  Some things like the sound of music and the logic of math can be understood across cultures. Other things, of course, can not be agreed upon from group to group. The truth that God has a different definition depending on who you are talking to has been curious to me. A force that is intended to be so unifying, in reality is creating so many divides. In some recent experiences with Islam and Christianity I realize that I can look at these two opposing belief systems as unified. In Islam a series of repeated body movements is incorporated in every prayer; to me this enhances a connection to the body an induces a meditative state. Further more, I realize when Christians pray they are most often focused on the inner working of their emotions and relationships; if nothing else this is enhancing self-awareness and creating an inlet for them to explore the cycle of their thoughts. For me,  practicing the body rhythms of Islam and the self-discovery of Christianity together can create a rich harmony of mind, body, and eventually soul. For the first time since I rejected the Catholic church almost five years ago, I can comfortably say that I believe in God and I do pray. My prayer is the constant effort to watch my throbbing thoughts, to balance my pulsing emotions, and to feel The spirit's tone reverberating under my skin. The God I speak of is quite likely no God at all. The formless energy undetectable by the mind and unreasonable to rationality is the connecting entity that is...