Tag Archives: travel

Memories of flying

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I grew up in Central California, Monterey County. We lived all over the Peninsula but I always had a special place in my heart for Carmel Valley. It was the heat. Monterey always had a veil of coastal fog that might or might not burn off. A chill ocean breeze. And a perfectionist kind of feel brought on by the need to impress tourists. As a kid, it felt like sitting on the “good” furniture.

Carmel Valley (at that time) was country – family farms, ranches, cattle, horses, rolling golden hills. My middle school was next to a corn field, part of PE was running around the corn field several laps. One of my fondest memories and forever longings is the smell of the wild flowers at Garland Ranch in the summer.

My childhood memories are of throwing rocks in the river, catching horny toads, and running from tarantulas. My brother took horse back riding lessons at a ranch and I took ballet in a big barn where we begged to have class outside on the grass meadow.

The summer I was 19, I was back at home after a year of university overseas. I had decided to come back to the US but was a bit lost and unsure of myself, my choices, my future plans. My parents had just divorced, I wasn’t surprised but was still thrown, and I spent most of the summer going back and forth to Santa Cruz hanging out with my brother. At some point in the summer he came down with the chicken pox. I took care of him and got it as well.

I took a last minute job as a summer camp counselor for two weeks at Pinnacles National Park. I packed up my Dad’s old army tent (circa 1970s), a camping mattress, canteen, hiking boots, kerosene lantern, trail mix, and probably not much else – threw it in the back of my pick-up, put on short jean shorts and a tank top, grabbed a gallon bottle of water, and set off for adventure, taking the long scenic route on the road less traveled. Carmel Valley Road all the way east.

My little, no A/C, pick-up got great gas mileage (a plus when gas stations were not to be seen for hours), and loved to fly along at a good pace. I rolled down the manual windows, adjusted the radio knobs, and was on my way. Once in the valley, the heat began to bake the earth around me. The air coming in through the windows was hot but laced with the smells of golden grass, oak trees, and wild flowers. The road was empty and I flew along feeling the curves of the road beneath me like surfing a wave.

A teenager on the road – free. My truck was my wings. The radio, my voice. Summer, the promise of possibilities.

This is all pretty rural coming from a self-professed New Yorker. I fit in New York in a way I never fit anywhere else – everyone fits in New York. I am restless and New York offers the World, accessible by subway. But New York also offers a questionable quality of life and massive obstacles to livelihood for those struggling financially. It’s a rough town. I’m taking a break, trying to find my footing.

I am again a bit lost, unsure of myself, my choices, my future plans. Again relying on being home with family, dealing with being thrown by the changes in my life, and recovering from what has felt like a long debilitating illness on an emotional level.

I find myself driving down country roads, rolling down the windows to smell the sweetness of the earth, singing at the top of my lungs, basking in the warmth and quiet. I’m trying to find the feeling of endless possibilities again.

Questions on Enlightenment

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Book signing November 13th 7pm to 8pm – Integral Yoga Institute (http://iyiny.org/workshops-and-events/)

Second excerpt from Dancing in the Bamboo Forest:

These two women monks have lived for decades dedicated to the path of service, observing strict rules with joy. If the final state of samadhi has not been reached, full living liberation, in his presence, will it ever?

There must be some doubt that creeps in after so many decades of practice. Once your source of inspiration is no longer there to hold your hand, does the devotion weaken? Do you begin to question some of the choices that are made for you? How to dress–does that really lead to enlightenment? How to eat, how to talk, how to sit, how to love, how to live? When the lessons have been learned, the meaning of each practice mastered, are those practices still necessary? Or are they never mastered? And is mastery really that important?

I accept learning discipline in order to truly find oneself on the deeper level, the level of understanding the separation of ego and the true Self. Learning to let go of all the distractions is important. When we have mastery over our desires, needs, bodies, and minds nothing can influence or obstruct the way within. When the body is healthy we are free from it, we are free to focus inward. When we have cleaned the mirror of the mind, only our pure Self is reflected back at us. When our hearts are pure, only God’s love radiates forth. But we can never remove ourselves from being human, imperfectly human. Imperfect.

Does true mastery mean mastery over human nature and the natural weaknesses that entails? If overcoming our humanness is impossible, should that be an obstacle to enlightenment? Is samadhi only possible with perfection? If you have dedicated this life to following the path, with patience and diligence, laid out for you by a trusted guru, and enlightenment (or the ultimate samadhi) is not attained, then what happens in the next life? What if your next incarnation has no propensity toward a spiritual life? Was it all a waste? Was it all a joy? Is how we live our lives really that important in the end? Is there an end?

At the Institute, I was given the task of keeping the ceremonial flames burning, little vessels on every altar throughout the Institute that should always be alight. This job entailed pinching off the burnt, blackened end of the cotton wicks, filling the little vessels with ghee, and relighting them. I also helped clean the guest rooms and bathrooms for the newly arriving participants. I enjoyed feeling useful. In joy.

I decided to visit the doctor who was giving us lectures on Ayurveda, an ancient Indian medical system. He sat me in his small, sparse office on a hard chair next to his desk, held my wrist, felt my pulse, and asked me many personal questions. He looked in my eyes and at my tongue. He covered every area of my health, and I discussed my particular issues. He instructed me to eat raw fruits and vegetables once a day and to reduce eating meat, as it was making my body work too hard and took away from my body’s own ability to heal itself.

He then gave instructions to his mother for the herbal mixture to be added to the massage oil and the particular way she should massage me. She led me into a square concrete room with a large wooden table at the center and instructed me to undress while she warmed the oil. I stood naked holding my clothes in a bundle in my arms. She gestured for me to put them on a chair and lay on the table. She generously slathered me with the warm herbal oil. The excess oil drained off into deep grooves around the edge of the table but left an exceedingly slippery surface.

As she worked, she moved me around and helped me flip over making sure I didn’t slide off the table. Her touch was vigorous, strong, and somewhat painful as she meticulously followed the energetic paths of my body, penetrating all points of blockage, tension, or dysfunction with her strong fingers. These areas were tender and deep. I felt bruised. She worked through every system of the body through the pattern of her movements: lymphatic, digestive, circulatory.

Then she led me to a little bathroom and scrubbed the oil off my body with coarse salt until I was raw. She left me with a bar of soap and a bucket of hot water to clean off. I felt warm and smooth. She brought me a towel and I was led back to my clothes to dress. She smiled caringly as I walked out the door and back into the dusty heat of the street.

Dancing in the Bamboo Forest

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Excerpt from my travel memoir:

In some semblance of an awareness of reality, not present in my body,
I watched as it moved from place to place, from movement to movement.
I watched myself pack a suitcase and print my boarding pass.
I watched my mind think and react as I marked time. I saw my eyes
seeing but didn’t see through them. I heard my voice speaking as if it
were someone else’s. I taught my final yoga class. I heard myself say my
goodbyes. I disconnected from relationships.

I drove to the path overlooking the Pacific Ocean and stood in
the rain. The earth smelled sweet, the plants sang, the waves beat the
rocks. I watched the world in its tumultous rhythm, its wild conversation,
while I felt nothing but the cold of the drops of water against my
numb skin.

I floated. Time was only on a clock and important only for getting
my body to arrive in my seat on an airplane at the right time to arrive
somewhere else on the planet.

I managed to get some sleep on the flight to Hong Kong. The first
leg of the trip wasn’t too bad, although in the beginning I wrestled
with some claustrophobia issues because the seats were so narrow and
close together. It was the craziest feeling landing in Hong Kong and
knowing I was halfway around the world. Airplanes still truly amaze
me. I walked around the airport and stared out the giant glass walls at
the island. Ships and boats of all sizes and purposes floated along the
water in front of me, silhouetted against the setting sun. The view was
serene and still like a painting, an odd trick when reality was a bustling
motion of constant activity.

Getting back on the plane after those 15 hours (with only an hour
break) knowing I still had many hours ahead of me was not easy. Finally,
there was sun out the window–between cloud layers as we gained
altitude, the sun shot out in millions of light pink beams, which were
filtered through the clouds down to the sparkling water below like
diamonds on the waves.

We landed in Singapore and after over 20 hours of travel, I had to
get out of the airport. The airport offered a free shuttle to downtown,
a map, a ride back to the airport, and a complimentary shower at the
airport spa. I took them up on all of it.

I stepped out of the cool airport into a great hot, sticky, sweaty climate.
Unfortunately, I had to carry my yoga mat and a backpack full of
books, wearing sweatpants and heavy sneakers. Singapore is quite a bustling
city with interesting European colonial architecture mixed with
Chinese architecture. A metropolis, it is the definition of cosmopolitan. …

…Walking on a major boulevard in the heart of Singapore, I came
across old, cracked stone steps that led up into a shroud of trees. I followed.
The shady path led me farther and farther until I reached the
top of a small hill. I had stumbled upon Fort Canning Park. As I wandered
around old stone buildings, I was drawn to the spaces between
and the trees that inhabited them. I stood in awe under these amazing
ancient, royal trees that held the secrets of the past. The most magnificent
was the Rain Tree, named so because its leaves curl up when
it’s going to rain. A giant palm frond covered the entire side of a small
greenhouse; I imagined living in a house with walls made of leaves. It
was cooler in the park and quieter. I was alone. …

…Singapore reminded me how much I love to travel and experience
the vastness and interconnectedness of the world. To breathe in an air
filled with the breath of different people. To see the same smiles broaden
around the world. To hear the bustle of life in other languages. To
smell and taste plants and animals growing from a unique soil and sea.

I felt so free in a new land far from everyone I knew, far from my life, far from who and what reinforced a perception of me that didn’t feel true. The blur was replaced with clarity, the dream suddenly faded into sharp reality. The thread of my life had not been broken; it continued in its interweaving trajectory creating the web of my existence, a creation seemingly tangled but that I know in its entirety is beautiful.

Excerpt from my book launching this Thursday November 13th at the Integral Yoga Institute New York at 7pm.

http://iyiny.org/workshops-and-events/calendar/book-signing-5643/

Buy your copy of Dancing in the Bamboo Forest here!

Memories transform my eyes

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Memories of India (excerpts from Dancing in the Bamboo Forest)

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The intensity with which Indians look instantly into your eyes is amazing. On the bus it was especially amazing – moving by so quickly in opposite directions someone will catch your eye – not for a second – but for an impossibly long time. It seemed as if you could see deep into each other in the smallest moment.

My breath deepened as I watched the film of life fly by past the open doorway of the bus: a sea of lotus blossoms, fields of rice, beaches in the distance. Every few moments the horn of the bus squawked as we careened around motorcycles, tractors, and oxen plodding along steadily, pulling their load as their driver tapped them with a stick while he laughed into his cell phone. The door was just a hole in the side of the bus, I was afraid my suitcase was going to fly out at any moment.

The bus stopped for a break. The flies invaded through the glassless windows while we waited. Bulls meandered past, followed by a herd of goats. I saw the resemblance between goat and human kids – energetic, running here and there, jumping out of line and being herded back into place, getting excited and then complaining about the lack of freedom. On the road again. The driver was flying; we made good time. The road from Mahabalapuram took me past Auroville and I reminisced about their delicious kulfi.

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In Mahabalapuram, on a shady wall my friend and I sat to catch our breath and cool down, when a young monkey scampered over to us. He had spied my water bottle and became determined to capture it. He wasted no time knocking it out of my hand and we watched curiously as he tried to drag it away. It was nearly full and I’m sure weighed more than his slight body. He pushed and pulled, it rolled down a little hill, he dashed after it. Finally he hunkered down to try opening the bottle to get at the good stuff inside. I almost wanted to go over and help him. A few adult monkeys felt the same way and he had to push and pull and drag his prize away a few more times. When he managed to crack an opening into the bottle and drink what didn’t spill, I was happy for his success.

Then he came back and thought he’d have a go at my guidebook. We decided it was a good time to leave.

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It has been a few years since I traveled and lived in India but the memories are still vivid and immediate. The intensity of the experience has been seared into me. Travel has a way of becoming who you are as all of those memories and experiences transform the eyes through which you see.

Riding the waves

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Santa Cruz is a beach town, a Northern California college town, a yoga teacher haven. The old hippy vibe never left even though the population has changed over the decades.  Trees are there for the hugging, dogs romp in the surf on their very own beach, drum circles hold the heartbeat, fog blankets the mountains. Strawberries, artichokes, brussel sprouts fan out in neat rows from the highway. Old adobes, ranch houses, and the odd yurt mix it up with modern developments, strip malls, and box stores.

It’s a place of paradox. “Keep Santa Cruz Weird” clashes with Starbucks and American Apparel. SUVs, hybrids, motorcycle gangs, skateboard crews, yuppie stroller squads.

One thing that doesn’t change is the ocean, the waves rolling in and the longing to be on a wave feeling absolutely free. I grew up on that bay and learned a healthy fear of the power of the Pacific, rip tides, undertows, jagged rocks, sudden massive waves, and great white sharks. But finally in my 20s, with a trusted guide who had been surfing Cowell Beach for 50 years, I suited up from head to toe, and paddled out into the deep blue.

I love to swim in the ocean, I have dived into many salty waters (all warmer than this part of the Pacific), and felt that singular kind of isolation looking back at land, fully focused on breath and the movement of the ocean, aware of my body alive and moving in this other body of expanse and power, much stronger than me, much greater than me, relentless in its constant change.

But there was something very different about sitting on a surf board, gently rising and falling, feeling the energy of the ocean beneath me rather than on me. It was incredibly peaceful. I felt a deep stillness and feeling of ease. There was a friendliness out there, away from the world on land, a community of joy.

I tried catching a wave numerous times before I finally felt the exhilarating sensation of being carried. I lost the momentum and the wave. I tried again. And again. And again. Suddenly I was on a wave, one foot planted, one knee grounded into the board and I felt a rush. When I tried to stand, I fell. Eyes stinging from the salt water, I heaved myself up onto the board and paddled back wanting more. Finally I managed to plant both feet, knees deeply bent, arms out, going on feel not technique and the wave moved me. My face was one big goofy grin. I rode that small wave all the way to the beach.

Happiness melted every aching muscle.

I struggled and worked and believed and then I let go and allowed the wave to take me to a place of peace and freedom. The little waves didn’t seem so daunting after that. I would have to work harder to deal with anything bigger. One day I might be able enough to ride any wave I meet.

Yoga doesn’t have to be found in a class or in a book. Nature is ready and willing to show us all we need to know if we just listen and feel and make ourselves fully present in the moment.