Happy Halloween!

Reduce, reuse, recycle!

Two snowy feet.

Once again our old house in the hills has been spared the worst repercussions of the unseasonable, heavy snow storm that's blanketed the Northeast. Though we are buried under 28" of powder today, so far we only lost electricity for a brief moment last night. Compared to other towns in the area, some of whom don't expect to have power restored for several days, we're blessed.

The sun returned this morning as it always does, coy and beautiful after a heavy storm, illuminating banks of snow covered in golden leaves. We headed into the woods, J with skis, me with snowshoes, Vixen with her bare paws and sudden forgetfulness of how old she is.

Foliage + Snow

The beauty of this first (early) snowfall is tinged with a bit of anxiety about how very long and difficult these New England winters can be — challenging me to try and stay in the present and simply appreciate.

First New England Snow

This is the wintery view from my home office/studio window today...big fluffy snowflakes piling up, the tarp-covered peak of Woodpile Mountain just visible above the roof line (the nicest 4 cords of wood we've ever seen, I might add), the trees along the road going bare. I've just harvested what will probably be the last of the fresh parsley and cilantro from the exhausted garden. The wood stove is crackling.

Tonight friends are coming over with mulled wine and I'm cooking a chickpea/tomato/potato stew. This was the first time in a long time, perhaps even a decade, that I had the time to soak and cook dried beans for a dish rather than relying on the convenient-but-less-nutritious-and-tasty canned. It's a small thing, I know, but getting to cook from scratch and having the time to get together with friends when I would normally just be getting home from work after driving through the sloppy mess of this first snow feels hugely luxurious to me. There are definitely sacrifices and gains involved in stepping off the corporate wheel.

It feels like the whole world is ready to slow down for winter. 

Smriti: that which is remembered.

A small boy looked at a star and began to weep 

And the star said, "Boy, why are you weeping?" 

And the boy said, "Star, you are so far away 

and I will never be able to touch you." 

And the star answered, 

Boy, if I were not already in your heart 

you would not be able to see me.

— John Magliola

This past weekend I returned to the ashram where I met my Teacher two summers ago during his annual week-long retreat.

J came as well, and I enjoyed seeing him experience this place for the first time, absorbed in the teachings and silent meditation, appreciative of the delicious vegetarian food, enjoying the somewhat ramshackle natural beauty and the welcoming atmosphere. It's a spiritual safety zone, open to anyone. We met new friends and even ran unexpectedly into friends we know.



On Saturday a small book catches my attention in the gift shop and as I stand leafing through it I realize this is exactly the kind of book I want to write. Inspired, I bring it home.

On Sunday J and I meditate together in the quietly powerful room that was once the Guru's living quarters.

As always I find there are direct and indirect messages for me there in both private conversations and in the formal teachings at the ashram. I kept J awake mulling over the various stories and lessons we've heard, repeating them until I put myself to sleep sieving for every last nugget of truth.

Even though one of the messages was actually "stop constantly thinking with words" (giving ourselves the time and space, instead, to silently meditate) and we were even told to forget the words of the teachings and simply remember how they made us feel as we were listening, I do love being challenged and inspired to think about a talk for hours and days afterwards.

However, I did return to my silent meditation practice when I got back home. I've been avoiding it, only tiptoeing in to sit on my cushion some days when the afternoon light is entering the room just right, illuminating the pictures, the benevolent faces of the deities and teachers who keep watch while my eyes are closed.
 


Looking out at the ashram lake I remember some words I scribbled in my notebook one morning while eating a silent breakfast by its edge, in the middle of last summer's retreat week.

Together in all togetherness,
Lover and the Beloved are never apart. 
Even now they float as one across the lake
all wings and webbed feet.
Even now they've merged on its surface
water and sky 
the branches above bearing witness
the breeze encouraging them to dance
the rocks below rejoicing.

I walk on to find a giant leaf with a heart-shaped hole.
Maybe that's what my blocked heart chakra looks like, an empty little space waiting for energy to fill it.

I kneel at the water's edge and release the leaf.
If only the rest were that easy.

What Kind of Path is That?

“Let us unlearn our wisdom of the world. . .
and learn that truth alone makes rich and great.”

— Ralph Waldo Emerson

J and I were stopped at a busy intersection on the way home from the ashram this weekend when I turned to look out the window and noticed a man dressed as a giant disposable cup standing at the entrance to a fast food chain, waving at the long line of traffic.

"That poor guy." I said out loud, "Can you imagine?" Even though his face wasn't identifiable through the costume, I could only imagine feeling humiliated and shamed by having to appear in public dressed in a silly costume.

Today, however, I was reading the Santé Fe newspaper online and spotted the headline, "In tough job market, man finds niche as dancing pepper, waving in eatery patrons." The article went on to tell the story of 35 year old man who dons a hot pepper costume for a local restaurant and says of his job standing on a busy corner, "I want to give Santa Fe a hug...My goal is to emotionally connect with every person who passes by. I love the people in Santa Fe, they have welcomed me with open arms and beautiful smiles. Every time someone honks their horn, that's encouraging. It makes me dance a little more. You feel like you are giving something to society."

The truth is, on our individual paths we can only start from where we are, and we can only offer what we have. While I am constantly pushing myself towards a better-seeming starting point and wishing I had more perfect or useful-seeming gifts to present, this man offers a silly dance and a simple wave while dressed as a hot pepper and in that, finds fulfillment.

Occupy the Possibilities

See the dog head?

As I shiver here in the Northeast, watching the leaves fall, the temperatures plummet, a stack of canning jars full of fresh tomatillo salsa grow in the pantry and a mountain of firewood rise by the woodshed where it may or may not get neatly stacked by the time the snow flies, I continue to ponder my brief quest to the Southwest and the gut feeling, once I arrived there, that I should return.

See the owl?

During my summer retreat at the ashram I began having a vision of life and the Universe as a whole as a beautiful multi-faceted jewel. I imagined this jewel as a large clear stone, unevenly cut, having many faces, and as I contemplated how engrossingly intricate life is I mentally turned this jewel around in my mind. 

What occurred to me is that everything can be viewed at a variety of angles, each one different — none wrong, none right. What looks like the truth to me may look like utter heresey to another. What looks like a curse from one person's angle may look like a blessing from another's. Some view past actions with regret, having hoped to see an outcome that looked different. Others are able to let go of their attachment to outcome and see things more impartially, from the vantage point of an actor in a great, unfolding drama. An actor who is learning their lines along the way and doesn't know what the plot is.

As strongly as one person regards their opinions as "just" or right you can be sure another will hold the exact opposite as morally superior. What some see as a punishment others view as karma, with one's present state being determined by one's own past activities and one's future state being determined right here and right now by one's present actions...meaning that a person is what he has made himself and can make himself what he chooses (if one believes in the concept of reincarnation that is, another facet of the same jewel).

See the heart?

Anyway, since then everything I try to pin down, come to a conclusion about, or decide on kind of melts into "it's all everything" and I end up talking in circles. This feels excellent (ok, occasionally I exhaust even myself) save for the fact that the world we live in often feels as if it's all about duality, us-against-them, polarization, an all-or-nothing competition, a frenzy to define who the "losers" and the "winners" are so we can make sure we're on the "right" side.

As I watch the OccupyWall St/OccupyEverywhere protests unfolding I can't help but notice the magic that happens when people simply Unite, when there are meaningful, mature, open-minded and accepting conversations going on. Maybe everyone is beginning to recognize the Universe as the jewel it is.

Beyond that, on a more personal level, I feel it's important focus on keeping that jewel in motion and not letting oneself become fixated on just one beautiful, shining angle. Was coming back to MA a veer off the path, or was it a veer onto a different path than the one I was expecting to find? Only time, distance, and a healthy amount of detachment from finding only one answer to that question will tell. There are a multitude of answers and a multitude of possible outcomes either way. I know I've probably voiced this here already.

See the person doing a shoulder stand on the rock?

I'm headed to the ashram this weekend and J is coming too, for his first visit. It's the second-to-last weekend for camping there, excellent weather predicted, Vedic fire ceremonies in the morning and evening, Readings from the Masters in the afternoon, amazing communal meals, a beautiful lake to hike around, a fantastic gift shop, and plenty of time to turn that jewel.

May the jewel of your own life glint in the sunlight of your observation.

Links & Inspiration

I just wanted to share some stories, videos, links and inspiration that have grabbed my attention online this week...

Inspiring:

I'm organizing some friends from the hilltowns and hoping we can meet up with the group protesting at OccupyNorthampton next Thursday night.

Delicious (and local): Green River Ambrosia Ginger Libation.

Something I plan to make (and eat) soon: Golden Potstickers.

The inspiring story of how one 45-year old man from Canada, fed up with his 9-5 job, decided to change his reality (and makes my escapade to New Mexico look like a walk around the block): Montreal Man Returns Home After 11-Year Walk Around the World.

Good for the body, good for the mind (but admitedly hard on the sheets): The Value of Oiling Your Feet 

News that will inform without scaring and depressing you: Yes! Magazine

I saw this when we were in Maine, the night before our friend's wedding! And until tonight, while researching something else entirely, I thought I'd just seen the biggest shooting star ever.

A homey way to travel on the cheap (and not be lonely along the way): Airbnb.

And finally, an amazing love story: Iowa Couple Married 72 Years Dies Holding Hands, 1 Hour Apart. 

And the first song I thought of after I finished crying :

Linoprint Poster Designs

I just wanted to share a couple of the designs I've been doing for the window at Goldthread to promote our new monthly themes. With cold and flu season just around the corner the month of November will be dedicated to maintaining our body's natural immunity with the help of herbs, teas, spices, whole foods, medicinal mushrooms and more...

I'm getting a lot of good linoleum cutting practice working on these!

Self-Serve Temple

My friend AJ died a year ago today and the chilly October showers falling outside the window remind me of the last time I saw him, standing behind the counter of his brightly lit shop and asking me if I wanted to stay for a cup of coffee. I'm glad I didn't accept his offer to come out in the rain and pump my gas that morning, though the task soaked me. I do wish I'd accepted the coffee and stayed for a few minutes. I was running late for work, as usual. I also didn't want him to notice how drenched I was and feel bad. It had been my choice to go there that morning just to see him for a minute and connect. I actually had plenty of gas to get to work on.

The gray commutes to North Adams that followed the news of his death began to feel endless, full of rain and fallen leaves and the sad, bare branches of trees, everything exposed to the increasingly cold world. The whole work process had become mechanical, and suddenly I felt entirely too isolated, me and my dashboard Ganesh watching the days and miles pass without feeling any closer to where we wanted to go, not even sure where that place was, listening to Jagjit Singh croon this bhajan over and over again until I had it memorized.

Now Jagjit Singh is gone too, and standing in for my friend at the shop is the twin of the red Ganesh he'd so admired on the dashboard of my car. Instead of a photo to remember him by, his wife placed the statue on the shelf. That's when my gift to her became her gift to me. She seems to think I have a direct line to God and asks me to ask Why? Why her husband? when I meditate. But I don't know. I question too. Every time I go to the shop to visit I can sense her feeling of being betrayed, and in her anger I think she would like nothing more than to reject every one of these many forms of God she was raised with, forget these deities who seem to permeate every aspect of her culture. And then there's me, standing on the other side of the counter with my silver Aum and Sanskrit name, endeavoring to adopt a practice I wasn't raised with, looking for spiritual community at a rural gas station, joining a congregation of three. Now two.

Vakratunda Mahakaaya
Suryakoti Samaprabha
Nirvighnam Kuru Mey Deva
Sarva Kaaryeshu Sarvada

The Lord with the curved trunk and a mighty body,
who has the magnificence of a million suns,
I pray to you to remove the obstacles
from all the actions I intend to perform.

Love. Hard to Forget.

 My dad on his birthday, about 4 years ago I think.

On Sunday we had a quiet celebration of my dad's 80th birthday. With the progression of his dementia my dad is beyond truly comprehending his age, and much of the time is in a world of his own, occasionally visiting us with moments of clarity inspired by us prodding him with memories. A year ago at this time I believe he was still somewhat aware of and frustrated by his short-term memory loss and still able to express that frustration. The last few times I've seen him he seems beyond even that — perhaps forgetting now that his mind used to work efficiently and what that efficiency even feels like. He isn't able to recall our old house or even remember my mom unless she has just visited him in a dream, which it sounds like she often does.

It's painful to witness, but there's also a kind of sad grace in his forgetfulness. Time is a man-made construct anyway, right? So go ahead and forget it, dad. And perhaps if he remembered our house my dad would remember that he can no longer live there or even visit, and that would bring him sadness. If he remembered his wife he would remember how sick she became and remember her death - more pain. "I do not know the name of the pleasure that does not end in pain" writes my Teacher. And I don't know what's worse, dying with full awareness of what you're leaving behind, like my mom did, or forgetting it all beforehand. My dad is even forgetting how to walk and can barely shuffle from the living room to the kitchen, even with two or three of us encouraging and guiding him along through the hallway.

I'm thankful my mom didn't have to witness this.

Though his appetite has waned considerably, one thing my dad does remember is the taste of pineapple upside down cake. This cake has been his birthday tradition for I don't know how long. Perhaps since he and my mom were married, or perhaps it began with his own mom baking it for him — which would make me the third keeper of the pineapple upside down cake flame (and the only one to consistently forget to buy marachino cherries for the top). As soon as the cake is brought close enough for him to recognize the golden circles on top my dad is in tears.

I'm not even sure he fully comprehends the difference between mother/wife/daughter anymore because as he put forkfuls of cake into his mouth on Sunday my dad said with a kind of sad awe, "You've been making these for a long time, haven't you?" In reality this was only my third year, but I think in his mind my distinct "Daughter" edges have faded and I've become simply A-Woman-I've-Always-Loved-Who-Has-Always-Loved-Me. And that, my friends, is our essence, all that remains when the job and the house and all the little things in it are gone, when even the ego and the memories and the faculties of our bodies get packed up and ready for the next journey: Love. The first thing we remember, the last thing we forget, and the only truth there is.

Last year's birthday cake.

Emptying the Attic.

On Wednesday afternoon I found myself tending to a small fire in the backyard, a blaze of old letters, journals and ephemera I've been carrying around with me for over 2 decades. A stack of RSVP cards from the wedding I called off in 1993. The subsequent stalkerish cards and letters from the jilted fiancé. An autograph book from grammar school in which several of my classmates wrote in loopy and mispelled cursive that I was "too quiet" but promised to "keep in touch." My performance evaluations from the years I worked for Disney. Store bought greeting cards signed by people I barely recall.  

"You cannot destroy your past, but neither need you permit your past to manipulate you like a puppet, since you can alter your future by acting in your present." I've recently read. There are letters and items I won't part with, but in the time leading up to my brief journey to New Mexico and in the time since I've returned, I've felt overwhelmed by the amount of stuff that surrounds me, much of it held onto more out of a feeling of obligation or clinginess than from actual need or want. Much of it symbolizes the past, and while I acknowledge and embrace the past, I am simply tired of living in the present with so very much of it around. It can be heavy.

I want to be free - I'm just trying to figure out from what. 
Not from J, clearly... 

Slowly the house, at least the downstairs, grows less densely packed.

We arrive in this world with nothing and we leave with nothing. In between, we gather all these objects that must help us to feel anchored and more permanent. I can't imagine why else we spend so much time and money and energy accumulating them — myself included.

I can't help but think of how long it took my brother to empty my parent's house after my mom died. Unlike me he isn't one to keep things purely out of sentimentality. On the days J and I helped we filled an enormous dumpster that had been dropped off in the driveway. The garage floor disappeared beneath overflowing bags of donations for Big Sisters - clothes and shoes and handbags and drapes and blankets. We filled a rental truck too, and J and I brought stuff back here to the hills — stuff I've been sorting through lately. I kept far more of it than was helpful. The reality is, having more of my mom's things doesn't make her any less gone. And having more of my own things doesn't make me any more here.

Maybe part of the allure of getting 2,000 miles away for even a little while was the concept of having a clean slate. I brought with me only what I needed, and was actually disappointed to find the kitchen cabinets at the casita cluttered with too many dishes and drinking glasses and cheap utensils when I arrived, storage containers filled with sheet sets beneath the bed, enough towels for a family of 4 in the bathroom. I gathered all the extra things up and put them in the storage shed. Otherwise there was only one closet for hanging clothes, no crowded attic, no cellar full of mud and rotting wood, no overwhelming barn. Even the terrain around the casita was bare and clean and empty, without many places to hide. Maybe that's part of the spiritual allure of the desert, the emptiness, the space to breathe.

How often do we get a clean slate? I guess as often as we're willing to clear off the old slate and as Suz says, "Begin Again."

Last summer I met a young couple who had just returned from a 6 month trip to an ashram in Tamil, India and then a stay at a related center in Pennsylvania, studying the Vedas in both locations. Prior to leaving everything behind and embarking on this trip he had worked as an aide in Washington DC and she was in a Master's program in Biology, something she'd found she felt no passion for. When I met them he was cleaning the bathrooms and she was working shifts in the kitchen at the ashram in NY. We shared several delicious meals together and they seemed happy even with this simple work and were trying to decide what to do next. They had no desire to return to the seemingly successful but stressful lives they'd left behind in Washington. That was three months ago. I hope they are well and continuing their journey of discovery.

In the past few years I've met so many people in various stages of this same journey. It's as if one begins to meditate and study and the next thing you know you've become a helium balloon that society's pudgy little hand has carelessly let go of. Away you float, not knowing where or if you'll ever land, unsure of whether or not you'd rather be held down, which certainly feels safer, even though it isn't, especially today. Such a shift is happening in the world. Critics might stand on the ground and point while you float off, but this is no better or worse a path than any other. Besides which, once you've reached a certain height you won't be able to make out what they're saying anymore.




J says he is patiently waiting for me to come up with a new plan, a new adventure I will drag him along on. We laugh because this is true and inevitable. We are each other's co-pilots. At least that much has been determined.

Back at the starting point where it's now cold and rainy, I try to let go of what's in the past, I vow to commit to what's in the present, and I hope to accept that the future is going to come at its own pace. Meanwhile I will not be afraid to pause or to change direction. I think this quote from Maya Angelou perfectly sums up what I've been feeling this week:

“Each of us has the right and the responsibility to assess the roads which lie ahead, and those over which we have traveled, and if the future road looms ominous or unpromising, and the roads back uninviting, then we need to gather our resolve and, carrying only the necessary baggage, step off that road into another direction. If the new choice is also unpalatable, without embarrassment, we must be ready to change that as well.”

7 Months.

Today was the last class at the herb farm, which commenced with a grand potluck dinner — another event I regretfully thought I would miss. I arrived a bit late in the morning and was greeted with squeals of happiness and hugs — not something I'm accustomed to (though I could certainly get used to it). Everyone wanted to hear about the trip and find out what (or in this case who) brought me 2,000 miles back, asked what I'd learned in the process, how it felt to be home again.

We spent the gorgeous autumn day working in the fields, harvesting Ashwaganda seeds, putting beds to sleep beneath a layer of compost and hay, washing root crops. Fittingly, I even got to 'plant' inocculated mushroom pegs by pounding them into holes another intern was drilling in oak logs. Here's the hammer and a log filled with future Shitake mushrooms....

I love farm work.

After dinner (and a punch bowl full of kava) a friend decorated my hand with mehndi, (a coming-home gift), and we all sat around the picnic table talking until the full moon rose above the darkening hills.

My classmates wanted to know if I will continue with the next phase of the herbalism program and I'm fairly certain that right now I will not. At the moment taking on another 8 month long commitment scares me, as does laying out more money for a class and the thought of having to commute anywhere during the winter months — something I'm finally not going to have to worry about this year after many seasons of braving New England ice and snow on a daily basis. I've decided instead to take a less expensive and more academic 3 month long online course through the Oxford University Center for Hindu Studies: Introduction to Understanding Hindu Identity. In the spring when new herbalism classes start up I'll reconsider where I'm at.

It's been amazing to be around a group of people for 7 months who are on a similar wavelength and a similar path of self-inquiry and discovery, all of us surrounded by the healing herbs, the passage of the seasons, and the medicine that is fresh air, physical work, and natural beauty.

The decision to participate in this internship at all was a big bold move in a new direction for me and has provided an amazing, life-changing experience, tons of personal growth, and of course the new job I'm very happy to be back home to continue doing. I have no idea what's in store for 2012, but I know my word for the year is going to be something a little less ambitious perhaps, a little more focused on what's sacred and unfolding right in front of my eyes, if I could only pull my attention away from the distant horizon and acknowledge all that's right, right now: plenty.

Here are 7 months worth of herb farm posts.

7 Steps.

Yesterday J and I attended the second (and final) celebration of our friend's wedding — this one in the Hindu tradition. A small puja fire was lit invoking Agni, the Fire God, to bear witness, fire also symbolic of the illumination of mind, knowledge and happiness. Here the bride and groom, her sari tied to his kurta, are taking Saptapadi, the 7 Steps, while the Brahmin pandit reads the blessings that accompany each step:

1. May this couple be blessed with an abundance of resources and comforts, and be helpful to one another in all ways.
2. May this couple be strong and complement one another.
3. May this couple be blessed with prosperity and riches on all levels.
4. May this couple be eternally happy.
5. May this couple be blessed with a happy family life.
6. May this couple live in perfect harmony… true to their personal values and their joint promises.
7. May this couple always be the best of friends.

This is the highlight of a Hindu wedding ceremony and often incorporated into less strictly traditional marriage celebrations. It is said in Hindu philosophy that if two people walk seven steps together then they will remain lifelong friends. In many parts of India bride and groom are revered as incarnations of Lakshmi, Goddess of Fortune, and Vishnu, the Great Preserver on their wedding day. In this tradition the boundaries between "mortal" and "divine" are constantly blurring, serving as a constant reminder that while we each have our individual personalities and destinies we are, in essence, all manifestations of the One.

I, of course, was not expecting to be at this celebration (otherwise you can be sure I would have bought myself a beautiful traditional Indian outfit) and was quite happy to be there with J — our friend's two unique wedding celebrations like bookends on a very intense few weeks of travel, separation and reunion for us.

Ghazal king Jagjit Singh died of a brain hemmorage this morning. I discovered Jagjit's devotional music while looking for an album of Ganesh bhajans to remind me of my friend AJ after he passed away last year — and since then J and I have kept his albums on heavy rotation in both the house and car. His voice certainly accompanied me across the country. I'd always hoped he would make his way to the United States for a tour.

Your amazing voice lives on in your music Jagjit!

Nebraska (was so sweet)

Now that I'm back at home, unpacking, unwinding and thinking about what my abreviated journey out West meant (and still means going forward), let's catch up a bit on the trip out. As I mentioned, J (a Kerouac on his maternal side) drove for 28 hours straight to get us from Massachusetts to...Nebraska. Our route out West was so much more scenic than my route back, which was chosen for straightness and speed, not for sightseeing.

The meeting of the big sky and endless fields in Iowa and Nebraska, punctuated by windmills, silos, and farms and intersected by straight white gravel roads was a painting I wished I could take home with me and hang on the wall, an absolute masterpiece of light and simple beauty.

Using the road atlas, I chose a campground (Fort Kearny) that sounded promising and was far enough off the Interstate to make it quiet without putting us far off course for the next day's travels to Colorado, which both J and I were eagerly anticipating. The dirt road leading to Fort Kearny was lined with corn fields that stretched for miles. Imagine wandering in there? I asked J.

The sun was just beginning to set as we chose our spot for the night by little Lake 6. The campground's clean, park-like setting was lovely. Autumn had arrived in Nebraska and there was a chill in the air. The Cottonwood trees were full of birds. I saw my first Osage Orange, green and bumpy. Long shadows fell across the site as we set up our small tent, wandered around the tiny sandpit lakes that dot the property, gathered quarters for hot showers, and arranged dinner — hot tomato & roasted red pepper soup with Wassa bread and slabs of fresh Mozzarella. Nothing tastes as good as a warm meal when you're camping out under the stars.

\

J and I used to camp a lot before we bought our house - usually in VT or the White Mts. Growing up, camping had always struck me as a romantic notion and J was the first person to accompany me, showing me how to set up and take down the tent, how to build a fire. Since becoming homeowners we haven't ventured out with our tent much, spoiled by the comfort and privacy of our own home — despite having bought many new camping supplies when we first moved in.

"This is fun." I said to J, looking out over the lake. "We should start camping again. When you come pick me up in May we should take a couple of weeks to get back, not days." J nodded. That seemed a long way off. Night was falling and he was sitting at the picnic table with his slide guitar.

"Nebraska is so sweet" he sang, making up the words as he went "Nebraska is so....."
"Neat" I squeaked. We laughed.
"Nebraska. Nebraska. Nebraska."

From then on we sang that simple tune for the rest of the journey - in the mountains of Colorado, at the casita in New Mexico. Like a mantra I couldn't get it out of my head. We're still singing it. In fact as I type this I can hear J upstairs in his studio playing it.

That evening we woke to owls calling in the Cottonwood branches and a bright crescent moon shining in through the tent's mesh window. It was frosty and cold, but we'd brought a flannel-covered down comforter to wrap up in. Actually, it wasn't that much colder than our unheated bedroom in MA, except that we don't sleep on the ground there.

The next day brought more bright sun and we took our time leaving such a sweet spot, talking to some of the older campers who had set up in RV's closer to the campground amenities, charting our course for the day ahead, and taking a few photos we hoped would sustain us during our separation and remind us of what was turning in to an amazing trip... 

Nebraska. Nebraska. Nebraska.

When I unpacked my things at home again this week I didn't put the camping supplies too far out of reach. I have a feeling we'll be using them again soon.

"Independence" has nothing to do with being alone.

A contrail that stretched across the wide sky above the casita before I left on Sunday afternoon.

"You will travel for your education" my Teacher said, and it's true that I have learned so much in my pilgrimage back and forth across the country.

"You are very honest and love people deeply and honestly. And...you are very independent" he'd also added, with a smile. I nodded and laughed. Oh, you have no idea.

Or perhaps he did.

Now I am home, overwhelmingly grateful for the gift of freedom and independence I was granted in this process. Grateful to be with someone who is strong enough to give me the space to be myself and follow my heart without needing lengthy explanations and convincing. I imagine how different the outcome of this adventure might have been had J tried to convince me to stay here with him in the first place. I would have rebelled, no doubt. I would have stayed in NM just to prove something. My teacher said love needs space to grow, not constriction. And now I see that
space is space
whether it's one mile or 2,000; one day or 8 months doesn't really matter — these details are just our limited mind's way of measuring so we can wrap our heads around the concept. Our thinking minds need these organized boundaries of time and distance, but they are a human creation. There is just as much space to grow sitting here in my own living room as I did standing alone under the wide open New Mexico sky. That's why turning off the thinking mind and simply being open to what is such an important practice, whether you call in meditating or praying or something else. That's when the real truth can reveal itself. We have limitless time and space.

I thought it would take 8 months to heal my rebellious heart, to prove to myself that I am unafraid and free, that my feelings are valid because they're mine, that I can only walk the path in front of me, that my life can be like the rivers I so admire, flowing, unstuck, that I will not die thinking I wish I had not been so afraid of things.

My word for 2011 has been manifest. I focused on locating my Teacher and found myself sitting in the presence of a holy man, the room around us a blur, a thousand lifetimes, like the concepts of time and distance, suddenly meaningless in their singularity. I am here.

I focused on this journey to the Southwest and all the doors swung open, all the obstacles were removed. The one person who could have stopped me did not, I found the perfect place to live and the perfect landlady to welcome me like a family member, like a guide. My job at the herb farm was held for me. The drive out was magical, the places we camped heavenly, our days in New Mexico amazing.
 
The one day we had car trouble on the way out (poor quality fuel combined with pushing the limits of the heavily loaded car through the mountains of Colorado by using the cruise control) we pulled off the highway onto a hilly residential road. Almost immediately a white van stopped and an older man asked if we needed help. We explained where we were trying to head for the night (to camp), what we were doing, what we thought the car problem was. He pulled out his map. Don't try to head there tonight he warned. You have some mountain passes to get over and if something happens after dark it will not be a good situation. I was terrified and suffering from some altitude sickness — feeling shaky, dizzy, and not quite myself. Colorado is a rugged, wild place (which is what I loved about it). He advised us to spend the night in the Buddhist retreat that happened to be right down the road. He advised us to visit the car garage that also happened to be nearby (and still open at 4:59 pm when we rolled in) and at least let the mechanic take a look — which he graciously did and found nothing to prevent us from continuing on our journey.

Before the man in the white van pulled away he said "If you have any trouble and end up stuck, please call me and I will come and help you" and handed me his business card. His name was Michael. Do you know what his title was? "Head Angel" of "Angels Inc." I didn't know what to say. I just looked at it and back at him and said, "thanks."


I am here. We chose a closer campground that night in Colorado that turned out to be incredible, and the car was fine afterwards.


I focused on getting back home safely and woke up in my own bed this morning crying tears of gratitude — because there were some close calls along the way. There was a moment on the confusing and congested ramps through St. Louis at rush hour that I cried out, "NO. HELP ME" and had to surrender to the next moment, which was all there was, really. Tuesday night I was so tired and unable to see that by the time I found the little motel off the Interstate I almost made the mistake of driving across their front lawn instead of the parking lot. That's how it gets for me at night. They had a room. They had a Shiva and Ganesh statue on the counter. I am here.

Whatever it looks like for you, keep looking for it and you'll suddenly see it's everywhere.

I pulled into the driveway yesterday afternoon amidst a swirl of fallen leaves and gust of autumn wind. The dog greeted me excitedly as I began to haul bags and boxes back inside. I called J at work. I'm here! I said. We drove all the way to Northampton last night for wood fired pizza and white wine to celebrate.

People ask me if I have regrets, if I feel disappointed. Are you kidding? I just took a vacation/therapy/and spiritual retreat unlike anything I could have imagined and proved something to myself that for whatever reason I needed to prove. In some way I just graduated from a curriculum of challenging myself.

I have an amazing love.

And as far as formal studying goes, the Institute and my Teacher are still there. Besides seeing him in NY next July I could go on week long intensives at the school with J and turn it into a vacation for us both. If I still feel called I could even reapply to the Institute in a year or two and figure it out in such a way that we can rent out our house and be there together. Not because I can't do it myself, but because I don't have to, and I don't want to.

I have no idea what will happen next. Who does? Figuring out what I want and what I'm capable of, discovering how selflessly I'm loved and how much I love in return, and realizing that independence has nothing to do with being alone in the desert have been plenty of lessons for one trip.