There is No Short-Cut on the Way Back Home

Switching back and forth up the ever rising Himalayan foot hills, Jebadiah attentively stepped aside, off the narrow path. Two donkeys sporadically hustled down the way to obey the yelps of the man following them with a thin stick and a thin grin.  Up this high, where you would think there was nothing, a scattered village looks down into the valley which, from here, looks like there is nothing.  Rice paddies appear to be emerald steps for the gods terracing up the hillside. Women thrust bright garments against stream-stones as if they are straining to leave color on the rocks. And finally Jebadiah passes the last speckle of the scattered village and heads out of the grazed-to-grey cow pasture and into the pines. 

He walked a barley visible trail without any need to attend to anything but his movements. In only a few moments he was alone with himself. Without any need to go further he headed towards a near by opening in the dense trees revealing a great light. He headed over to a cliff-ledge. At the moment he arrived two pheasants squawked and took flight straight off the edge. One was brown with white and pale-blue markings, and the other had deep-shimmering blue feathers, a patriotic-red head, and a long tail like a trail of ornaments.  Jebadiah stood and looked out into the final dip in the landscape before the earth began its climb into the monumental Himalayan peaks. He slowly raised his line of sight up past the last spots of vegetation towards the enormous rock-faced walls and tried to imagine the evolutionary journey the planet had to take to reach these results. Focused in contemplation Jeb didn't notice his eyes continue the climb. Without warning he was startled by the blazing snow-capped tips he was staring directly into. The sun gleamed an outstanding reflection and left him blind of sight and stunned of thought. From neither his sight, nor hearing, nor mind, formations began to emerge from a space unknown to him. 

He observed himself on a noble journey. He walked through the dazzling streets of marble cities. He felt the life-draining drudge across seas of desert, and he passed through the violent interruption of waves across the open ocean.  The salt water spoke. "The longer you give to bare my wake the sooner you will return home." 

He witnessed himself leaving each thing he carried with him along the journey. Piece by piece he was completely-lightened. Yet he saw in the end unveiling bundles of fine silk, parcels of rare spices and precious stones for all before him.
   
Again he became alone and there laying behind him were all the market places of all the world. The languages from everywhere melted together and carried to him, "pockets turned inside-out there is nowhere left to turn." With clarity beyond the capabilities of vision, he saw himself turning straight down the only road there is to take alone.  His feet appeared on a forest path, much like the one his body stood on now, and he experienced the awe a child feels while looking up at a balloon vanishing into the sky. 

Jebadiah's eyes finally adjusted to the glare, and the images of the magnificent mountaintops took him away from that auspicious space that silently spoke to him. Made timid by the overwhelming power he had just experienced, Jeb decided to go back. He had to will himself to take a first step.  One foot lifted and then fell forward. From the pine-needles beneath the step came a sound... 

"There is no short-cut on the way back home." 

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...

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... 

Turkçe

We all know when you reach a fork in the road it is wisest to travel down the road less taken. However, at times the road you trek down splits off into, not two, but bundles of possibilities. There are occasions that the path is frayed like the shoe-lase that lost its solid tip and has accumulated endless numbers of steps. In situations like theses Mr. Frost has no advise to give.  Now as I walk the long walk I have come to this junction. It is here at Dedetepe, the olive farm, that the whole Eastern world lays in front of me. At first I was undecided where to go so I took a seat to ponder. Then I started toying with fantastic ideas, so I squatted to fantasize about my next move. In this position I stayed resting and dreaming, until all around me the grasses and flowers grew lush. 

Sometimes no path should be taken because it is your resting place where you belong. I am nowhere that is not the perfect place for me to be. What a feeling it is to take my worn soles off and to let my feet breathe. Only in periods of true rest, deep to the soul, is where I find fruit blossoming all around. (It is not unheard of to experience this deep calm even in moments of chaos.)  The sweet juices of my place in the olives are not all I receive. It turns out the pit I have stopped in is furnished with Turkish language lessons too. 


For some time the inspiration to write has overlooked me, but now I am feeling a Turkish creativity. Can you discover the meaning of my poem; how many ways can you understand my Turkish pros?

Nehir kenarinda olturuyorum

Guzel suyu goruyorum

Kucuk balik oluyorum

Kucuk balik oluyorum

Gunes te isinuyorum

Winter Wind

The name of the game is Eco-Living; the obstacle, Winter. She is harsh, but I do not blame her. This season never sees fresh green meadows polka-doted with flowers. Nor does she admire young life wobbling through an awakening forest. All it knows of these joys are from the falling whispers of Autumn who only hears the story of a first flight from the fading heat of summer. The challenges that this quarter carries do not need to be mentioned, but it is not surprising that her symptoms are called fridgied. However those who resist her don't feel her, they just judge her as cold. Through her and truly, winter brings a simplicity that gives an opportunity for the imagination to be the hero that slays the beast 'till spring. 


...this night I spoke out-loud a stream of improvised pros...

The flickering light lets the wood crawl free over the walls. The air so cold even the candle glows blue. Relaxation courageously comes and the calm breath begins to synchronize with the slow bounce of illumination. And when smoke rises from the wick my eyes bat closed. Finally I see the lantern that will reveal our ways.  

Compliments to the frost bitten vision of Ash

Reborn Greek

The rolling curls of the Aegean Sea rocked Jebadiah out of an unrestfull sleep. He opened his eyes to the harsh florescent lights of the ferryboat’s lounge to find an ache crawling within his stomach. He stared out the window searching for some distraction from the discomfort, but the horizon swaying up and down through the narrow portal made vomiting sound appealing. It was cold and windy out on the deck of the vessel but Jebadiah knew a good upward release over the rail into the sea was the best thing for his bowels.  From stern to the bow, port to starboard, and head to crow's nest he passed waiting for the perfect moment to heave off the side. The moment never came. He thought back to childhood summers pleasantly riding the rough seas, just to find the ache bringing him out of his memory. He looked off the back of the boat to Turkey with the comforting idea of the cozy wood cabin that had cuddled him the night before. Then he gazed forward to the coastline ahead with hopes that the Greek island Lesvos would provide some relief to his squall. 


The boat reached port and as Jeb's feet hit land his stomach was soothed. In customs he handed over his, United States of America, navy blue passport. A moment later the boarder control fired a question at Jeb, "Where are you from?" (They were holding the document which proved his identity.) A bit caught off guard Jebadiah answered, "The United States." They followed this up by asking him if he was living in Turkey, he told them he was not. “ I’m a traveler,” he said with confidence, for his identity as a nomad is at times the only thing Jeb is sure of on his journey.  He met Ashlei where a man in street clothes was searching bags and told her about the funny question at passport control.  She knew he was pleased by their confusion, because Jeb likes to think that his dark features allow him to pass as a local where ever he goes. Together they walked out of the port customs building into the streets of Greece and the pain crept back into Jebadiah’s belly. It was clear that land’s sturdy plain only tricked his mind into temporarily relieving the problem. 


The travel duo now moved along the seafront passing the luxurious sea hotels to meet a student of the city Mytilini who would provide them a couch to rest on. Jeb looked longingly at the hotels with the thought of an elegant room to help curve his pain, but a bug is not enough to cramp his travel style. He would stick with the free-of-charge accommodation.  They found the cafe where they would meet their host. Jeb had previously agreed to share a conversation and a beer upon meeting, Lisa, the generous student, but he could barely put down a club soda. When Lisa arrived she brought along a posse, all beaming with smiles and warmth. Jeb was desperate to let their friendly vibes reach his gut so he could return the high spirits. He decided that if he went about as if he was feeling healthy his mind might again be fooled into making the body feel good. He ordered a beer. He took a few unwelcomed gulps and passed it along to Ash. It was clear at this point that he was not suffering from the rough seas and that he was going to be ill. He regretfully told Lisa that he could not be strong and they returned to her hillside home. 


Jebadiah could do nothing more than get into bed. Shivering, he could not even take off his clothes. Moments later his stomach began to rumble and he cautiously got up and went to the bathroom. He stuck his face in the toilet waiting, then nothing. He got up and sat on the toilet waiting, again nothing. He waddled back to the bed and decided to make a cocoon of his sleeping-bag and blankets and hibernate until he felt well. He was thoroughly enclosed and warm and sleep took over, but not for long.

Jeb woke up feeling as if he was again on the stormy water, but this time there were no waves rocking him. He was spinning and a familiar liquid taste began to fill his mouth. He had little time, however he was locked into his sleeping spot trapped by his covering. Struggling, he peeled himself free and ran towards the bathroom. Unfortunately the contents of his stomach were not considerate and they erupted towards his mouth in the middle of the living-room. Desperately Jeb threw his hands over his chops and contained the vomit. Seconds later another explosion rocketed from his pit just as he crossed the threshold of the bathroom. Like popping open a champagne bottle Jebadiah released the cork and the bile spewed into the bowl. After four of fiver powerful surges it was over. He turned around to find himself looking into his own eyes in the mirror. Orange foam coated his beard and mustache. He looked miserable, but felt a peace he hadn't felt since before getting on the boat. He slept soundly the rest of the night.  


The next day was full of Greek opportunities: a tour around the island, hot baths, feta cheese, wine, and a party of young people exchanging ideas. Jeb did none of it. He knew it was best to stay horizontal and regain health. He wanted to be alone. While he lay doing nothing he realized that his isolation was not only for rejuvenation after his stomach’s storm. He was resisting being social and blocking himself off from having experiences with new interesting people. He saw himself having critical views and felt some negativity that was out of character for him.  Jeb took the time to do some introspection, some internal searching. He found some taxing moments of his travels that he had not yet released. It was clear he needed a fresh start.

When he felt well he started to explore the city and port. An almost familiar college town holding cafes with dim light, playing chilled-out music. What was dissimilar to other tranquil cafes he had been to was that a short distance away was another cafe filled with weathered Greek men hollering to each other and ordering the waitress to go out to buy them cigarettes. The duality of this place gave Jeb the joyful feeling that he was in a foreign land. It was the bipolar characteristics of the city that made it like no other place Jeb had been. 


Jeb stayed aware of the realization he had while ill. He walked about focused on a positive energy. He stalked his thoughts and feelings when a negative vibration stirred or a critical thought shook he disrupted it with a breath of life. 


In this style Jebadiah walked again the traveler's path. He met a group of guys who were going for a mid-Januray swim. With the wind at his back Jeb joined them down towards the sea, seeking a cleansing bath. Although he had second, third and fourth thoughts the water was pulling him towards it. The clear teal Aegean Sea was appealing even on a day with snow flurries. To hesitate would have been the end of this spontaneous swim, so Jeb did not. Clothes off, courage on he stepped into the icy water. With each moment the water reached higher on his legs. The slow crawl was discouraging, he needed to be fully submerged or not at all. In the shallow water he sprawled his body forward torpedoing under the sea. After a smooth glide back to the surface Jeb instinctively let out a yelp, but no noise followed. The cold water stole his breath and voice. He gasped for air but nothing but the cold was entering his body. A moment of suffocation gave way to a full-hearted swim. Stroking strongly, the cold water seemed to turn into insulation for the bodies heat. He was not warm but there was a clear difference between the temperature of the water and his body. He was filled with vigor and dove down five meters to the rocky sea floor. Jebadiah pushed himself to a limit underwater where he no longer needed a breath of air. The joy of being one with the sea relaxed his desperate lungs and he soared back to the shore as would a sea turtle. He left in the water some pieces of darkness that had been lingering in his baggage.  Now shivering out in the open air a  breeze filled his open pours replenishing his spirit and re-birthing his adventure. 

The Camel Man

When I was a child I would day-dream about being an astronaut, climbing trees with monkeys, and finding a princess on a cloud. As these dreams fade and my waking life starts to seem like a fantasy, I see that our juvenile wishes are not the only things that can bring us joy in adult life.  Being an easily distracted youth my restless thoughts were constantly wondering. Now as a young man my restless travels take me wondering into experiences that even the creative mind of a child would not draw up. I never will walk on the moon, but I did spend a hand-full of days living the gypsy life.

You need two things to be a proper gypsy, one is a head wrap and the other is animal companions. During my time learning this life-style I put much effort into befriending a camel. Over five days I grasped tightly to the opportunity to help my gypsy friend take care of his animals and learn his way of life. The whole experience is an outstanding chapter in my book, but with the camel especially I have developed a story. Here is the flip-book version...

She is not so willing to let a new guy get too close 

You will learn to keep your distance; her size is quite intimidating

With time she will let you share an intimate moment with her 

Although this does not mean she won't quickly change her mind and try to take a bit

If you are lucky her Dad will let you ride her

But there is still a risk she will try to throw you

After a few dangerous conflicts with the camel I grew to fear her, so when she invited herself into the human living space I could do nothing but offer her some bread

The only one she will be obedient for is, Gorhan. Gorhan, The Camel Man has been traveling his life along The Silk Road, the gypsy way. He goes about in a fashion that some can not imagine. He travels with a donkey, a cat, a hawk, goats, dogs, chickens, and a quail. Of course the camel too, who pulls his "camel-car" in which he sleeps and carries all of his possesions. He lives off the resources of the land as much as he can, all organically. He is a living inspiration for anyone interested in traveling or living with sustainability.  
Fresh goat's milk and honey soak his mouth each morning, but even out-side of society a man does not find complete bliss. I spent many hours listening to parts of his tale and I see that as he becomes more of an aged man the struggles of his life on the road come out through his physical health and attitude. Although he has faced many difficulties and finds his situation less hopful it is clear that his journey has lead him to be more spirit than man. 

"to live is to travel, to travel is to dream, to dream is to live"

No Meat-Meet

After a super-naturalist stay, living in caves, Jebadiah had a few ideas swelling like a tide through his head. "Slow-travel" was one train of thought that moved him to make a change in the way that he journeyed. Starting now, he proceeded with his transit without a rail, bus or plane ticket; he proceeded with his transit by means of auto-stop. With his feet on the road, he shinned like the glorious day that it was. He made one stop and then another. In his third success, an eighteen wheeler, he found himself laying horizontal in the cabin's sleeping accommodation, while his current and temporary companion sat upright in the passenger seat of this gas -guzzling-transport-machine. In this surprisingly restful hitch,  Jebadiah and Ash rolled through any doubts of  a failed hitchhiking experience. With this ride they avoided hours of thumb-aching on the side of the road and completed 320 kilometers into their desired destination- Ankara, the capital city. 


As Jebadiah was assuming the position of laziest, kicked-back, trucking through the heart of Turkey he contemplated another thought that he had while roasting a fresh pepper over an open fire outside his former cave abode. A meatless life? Although he had a few qualms surrounding the issue, in his mind he had made the decision of trying the style of vegetarian. 


In Ankara, Jebadiah and Ashlei were greeted by a one-two punch of a hospitality. The combination was a mother-daughter duet. The expectation of warmth from Alya and Ayse was fulfilled physically, emotionally and in Jebadiah and Ash's stomachs. 
Jebadiah's interest in both eating and preparing food drew him to watch Alya, the mother, work her way around the Turkish kitchen. Through a secret recipe for orange cake and a well known one for a savory pastry, Jebadiah wondered when his newly decided consumption habit would be put on trial. He had a full day without a meat dilemma until a bed of rice supporting an arrangement of fish in a flower pattern came out of the oven, smelling delicious for dinner. At this moment Jebadiah instantly replayed all the events leading up to his denial of eating animals. 
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While having a late morning walk through a valley of cave art and artifacts just a week before, another companion who abstained from all animal products ironically said, "Oh, if only I ate meat," as a wild goose walked by. "Shoot, I couldn't kill that bird and I love eating carcass!"  Jebadiah said as he relived a scene from his past when he had participated in the killing of a chicken. Jebadiah's mind replayed a highlight reel of this memory.  Images of one piece of poultry hanging upside-down by bound feet, a dangling-broken neck, flapping wings, desperate squawks, and a slow stream of blood pumping the last bit of life from its veins flooded his conscious. A mental light paused him from continuing his walk.  Out-loud Jebadiah proclaimed, "If I am disturbed by the killing of a chicken, I definitely can't fulfill the task of slaughtering anything breathing for food."  
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Now with Jebadiah's attention back on the fish at hand, he scanned his memory for any traumatic first hand fish murders. Coming up empty, he soothed his doubts and enjoyed the perfectly seasoned and spiced fish right down to the last tail-fin. "Maybe just a pescatarian,"  Jebadiah said to Ash as she gave a smirk towards his weakness.  


Jebadiah has a habit of meeting people on the road and using their references as momentum towards finding intriguing opportunities that need seizing. It is through this channel of receiving knowledge that he had directions to a small hillside village that was  "worth-visiting." This tip came from a pair of French nomads who lived out of a tractor-trailer. Their mobile-home was fueled by recycled cooking-oil, was well-furnished and burned wood for warmth inside. The couple gained experience by personally exporting vehicles into Africa; therefore, their recommendation was coming along with a feeling of well traveled knowledge. 


After one last homely breakfast with Alya and Ayse, Jebadiah and Ashlei kissed the pseudo-relatives good-bye and were on the road again. On route to the village, Seyhamami, Ash and  Jebadiah found humor in a taxi drivers discouraging remarks towards their refusal to pay for his service. "You are heading towards a cold remote place and you will be in danger of execution if you walk there," they guessed as the meaning of his Turkish warning.  


Safely and easily the pair of comrades caught a ride to their destination.  The village was three buildings, six homes, and nine times the amount of live-stock compared to humans. This pin-point sized town was deeply submerged in a valley sorrounded by three-hundred and sixty degrees of emerald mountains sparkling with winter's frost. Just as directed to expect, Jebadiah and Ash found Durson Dundar at the center of it all. This grey man seemed to be colored-in when he saw the faces of the travelers. Jebadiah understood Durson's enthusiasm better when Ash introduced herself. Ash, Jebadiah had learned, was similar to the Turkish word ashk, meaning romantic love. Upon mistakingly hearing the young angelic woman call herself "romantic love," Durson formed a cheeky expression and his face reached a bright shade of rose. It was clear that Durson was a lonely man and just the presents of Jebadiah , and mostly Ashlei, was bringing him pleasure.

Durson is the owner of the only business around- the hamam, the Turkish style bath. He was proud of this establishment and took Jebadiah and Ash to enjoy a gender divded bath. In the hamam a low framed wooden door opened to reveal a dark passageway streaming with a flow of fog.  Jebadiah stripped from his cocoon of dirty clothes on his way down the corridor and unfolded himself into a soothing, hot, browned-water pool. He glided through the liquid that was visibly lifting directly from the earth, up between the stony floor, to fill the container. The mountainous area's thermal springs created a most authentic humidity and sustainable heat for this natural sauna. Jebadiah viewed the scene from the back corner of the bath and gave his attention to it as the pulse of the traditional Turkish Bath thumped its beat.  


The water rippled to it's limits finding form in the Islamic architecture. The steam reluctantly became independent as it lifted in a cloud from the water. The domed ceiling's windowed center let the past noon's light weave through the vapor; the floating moisture expanded its molecules and played with the reflection on the bath's surface. The quartet of water, walls, air and light mingled together, slightly swaying.  Jebadiah gracefully hummed a gospel song to test the acoustics before a voice joined the performance singing a different tune.  Jebadiah yielded to the Turkish lyrics of his host, Durson, who sung a wooing melody.  The song echoed into Jebadiah's perception and his creative intention began to tingle.  Jebadiah withheld from developing the tickle of inspiration to let the poetic moment sink deeply into his excited senses. Now, like the steam, he felt his own molecules separating; his body was loosening beyond its solid state. 


Like waking up from a dream, Jebadiah suddenly found himself out of the bath, dried, clothed and sitting with Durson and Ashlie in the living space of Durson. The high from the bath must have let him suppress the torment of leaving the soak. In a haze from the transition Jebadiah passively watch Durson roll, light, and pass a large cigarette. With this, Jebadiah subtly melted into his seat and Durson began to fill the table with food. None of the fruit, cheese, bread, nuts, or chocolate really caught Jebadiah's eye. However when one platter was uncovered his attention was held. It was smoked, spiced, savory-red-meat.  

Discover Cappadocia

As a lone traveler I venture down many roads and think, the places I see and the things I pass by are too magnificent to describe. As a person with many valued relationships left behind, I work to convert the intangible into a picture book to tell the story of my voyage.  This duality in my identity has left me in contemplation before. Up until now it has been a question I ask myself, but while I have been experiencing life lived in a cave the question has surfaced as more a personal dilemma. 


Why do I write? Is it for you; is it for me? It seems as with all things, I find words to string together into sentences for a spread of reasons.  I have family and friends who I adore and who I hope enjoy following my adventure line. At a more superficial level, I hope people will view what I am doing and see it as something worth giving recognition to.  However, these reasons for writing are only additional motivation behind the source of my inspiration. I would not create prose and I would not publish photos if it wasn't for the feeling  that my products are something evolving inside of me with the intention to become a part of the world. Although I have this organic desire to write and create I wonder now if it is truly pure. I am worried that the pressure of sending updates may soil any true passion for this art.  I always am pleased with my finished work when I put The Energy into it, but that energy is sometimes exhausting to access. As an amateur writer I can not help but wonder if this form of self expression will fade from my life.   


As I bring you, now, into my present I am even more hesitant to reveal in detail what I have been doing. It is not because I am ashamed or feel guilt; in fact I am proud and revived by it. There is a place in central Turkey that was inhabited one thousand years ago by a civilization of people living in caves and off the land. Now this place, called Cappadocia, is spotted with tourists and lush with abandoned caves. Here I have been living for ten days, cooking over an open fire, exploring ancient artifacts, collecting wild fruit, and sleeping on straw in a low dark cut-out of rock.  I am shy to share this experience in full because it has filled me so deeply with life and I think that telling anyone about it would be a cheat to feeling it for yourself.  My loose sense of morals are telling me to be vague in hope that you will discover this experience on your own. 


For a small push in the direction I will leave you pondering this... 


What, beyond body warmth, is created when you share an ancient way of life with new found companions?  

How must it feel to wake up after your first night sleeping  within stone, wondering if your shelter is going to keep you secure, to find that you slept in the warmth of a cradle and the valley you reside in is covered in snow? 

How far away does modern society feel when you gaze at the same celestial pearls from the same earthly abode just as one did a millennium ago? 

The answers, I wish for all to find themselves, but I will tell you what they may provoke in you. For me the time here has led me to decide on the continued growth of my hair and beard and discontinued use of soap above my neck and discontinued consumption of meat.  

Cappadocia is a way of life...

Dedetepe-Well-Being

Warm rays of pink, orange and gold sink through my eyelids, drawing me to rise just a moment before the sun can rise herself, over the Autumn forest hills. Rhythms of this life, no need for alarm. I wake-up well.

Her body is scored with scars. She looks at the world through a cloud of trauma, seeing with only one eye. I accept her fear towards our tailless kind. Slowly gently, I absorb her aggression and get close to tend her wounds. Day by day I can hear more comfort in her response to my call, "Hey girl." I care well.

Earth: births the olives that drip the oil, sprouts the seeds that grown to be food, gives the mud that is molded for an oven, supports the trees that ignite for cooking, holds my feet, so I can patiently combine the gifts into an organic slow-food meal.  I am nourished well.

photo from Linda and Eriks

Focused energy streams through my actions producing progress to the task I attend. A group of bodies sharing a breath, food's fuel goes unwasted. Physical tasks accomplished satisfy more than my host. I labor well.  

photo from Linda and Eriks

I follow the music to find what I hear, I go to the land's edge to see what I find. Off the guide-book-trail I work to crack the surface of what is here. I inquire well.

Moments of laughter, moments of appreciation, moments of acceptance, moments of respect, moments of compassion, moments of communication, moments of creation, moments of weakness, moments of strength, moments we share, together our relations are well.

Here I am nature. Here I am free.  Here there is time for me to focus on me. I stroll down the river to feel the source. It is a connection like this that keeps me on course. Now as I go, self-care vibrates like a soft ringing bell. I-be-well.  

On the Road Again (part 2)

During the change of seasons weather moves quickly, and so do I. Hopping, skipping, jumping, driving, flying, and training, here is where I have been...

Cinque Terre is a place that capes off of the NW Italian coast. Five Villages, perched on the edge of diving cliffs, resist the temptations of the sea and stay nested where they are. These pastel clusters of homes and touristic restaurants  are cuddled by slopping fields of typical Italian agriculture. Evergreen trees and everlasting seas create a harmony of emerald and blue that resonates with a most beautiful tone. 

As I came out of the Milano underground, I immediately lay eyes on the Duomo and my first impression of the city. 

Bergamo Alta, the old stone city a top a hill is where Stefania and her generous Mother and Sister (my temporary host family) took me out for some outstanding pizza and unreal tiramisu. 

First impressions come and go, but lasting impressions are what you carry with you. I walk away from the region of Lombardia with the warmth of a group of friends who are a joy to share a glass of wine with next to a flowing river. 

From new friends to good-old-family, next I went to the airport. Not to catch a flight, but to meet some familial faces at the arrivals gate. From New York I found Uncle Mike, Aunt Sherry, Lovely Cindy, and of course Papa Stevie. We embarked on a Piemonte pilgrimage to visit some not so distant Italian family...