Thursday, July 12, 2007
I hugged the sun yesterday
I got derailed on blogging on account of a hug.
Let me explain. Three years ago, as I was glowing at a Spa downtown when a man who looked like Jesus (only sexy and in a speedo. Ok. Imagine speedos were sexy…then J.C. with more muscle mass…then…roll!)
So, he told me that he loved the beads I was wearing. I looked at him, and thought him to be as wholesome as an apple beggin to be taken a bite out of. I listened some more to what he had to say. He told me that if I enjoyed yoga, then I would have to see Amma Chi. Who IS this? He said, ‘the hugging saint.’ Thus began a quest to see her.
I’m not going to get in to the dirty details, just suffice it to say that I finally FINALLY saw her yesterday. Here are the points I wanted to outline:
1. I remembered my intention to honor the mother, and Amma is doing Mother Earth’s work. I honored the memory of that and all of the women who occupy this Earth, taking on causes greater than themselves, finding the courage somehow to forge through and bringing joy to the world in some form.
2. it was a really long day (2 hours sleep the night before-BIG MISTAKE) getting all sorts of miscommunication and FINALLY getting my hug 13 hours later.)
3. the build up to the hug reached mythic proportions...but ultimately, I think it was a sound idea NOT to film the actual hug (that private moment was bliss!)
4. I was probably the biggest freak show on the way up to see her because I couldn't stop crying and I was having heart palpitations
5. One of the ushers gave me reiki, and I chillaxed a bit
6. When I was one person away from her, I swear it felt like I was Icarus approaching the sun
7. I gave her the headband I designed that day (as people typically give offerings)
8. She was stunned (as evidenced in her eyes). She looked to her ushers, and the ushers looked it over (as it was not the usual offering)
meanwhile...
9. I entered her embrace, and it felt like I felt just before I entered that tee-pee, just before sweat lodge (which I did after my 5th step)...like she was channeling EARTH MOTHER and I was channeling CHILD
10. My heart will never be the same again.
Labels: healing, hugs, reiki, Rumi, Sober Travels, Sweatlodge
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Revolution
I wish I could tell you that I went to the former Soviet Republic of Georgia in that winter of 2003 because I wanted to help make the world safe for democracy, but that would have only been one third of the story. I went to escape the boredom of a serious relationship, and I went because I needed to be bad. I managed to accomplish all three.
That winter, I wanted to be Laura Croft, Tomb Raider. I wanted to leap out of buildings and shoot automatic weapons. I wanted to smoke cigarettes one right after the other, lighting one with the next. I wanted to have an excuse to not shower, stay up late, curse and be politically incorrect. In a boring existence where I was always striving to be good and do the right thing, I wanted-no needed-an excuse to feel naughty. And naughty I was.
This is the BBC and these are today's top headlines... polling stations open today in Georgia... could this be the end for Shevarnaze?
The vintage car radio carried the broken British accent of a BBC reporter through the one functioning speaker of a rusty red Peugeot speeding East through the snow dusted hills of Turkey towards Adjara. I focused on the crackle of the voice to deter the vomit rising in the back of my throat caused by the sort of driving one would experience on a Disneyland attraction. But at Disneyland, because of an ever rising litigious nation I can pretty much assume I wont die. But there is no such knowledge of safety on the backroads of a nation fighting for their freedom and poised on the edge of revolution. Little Ms. Adventurous gripped the door and prayed.
I wanted to save my accidental over seas death for something exciting, like being shot admidst a rush on Parliament. I would rather not die lying in a ditch, gripping my recently amputated left leg, waiting for another driver to happen by and stop to help. My efforts to slow the driver resulted in a 30 second reprieve of the foot against the gas. But as soon as my grip on the car door loosened and the blood returned to my fingers, the assault on the gas continued. I closed my eyes. I could hear my driver change the radio station and I could make out the local dialect reporting on the election.
Polling station number 168 has been.... masked gunmen…. Ballot Boxes have been removed….
Without turning my head, I addressed Henrik in the seat next to me.
“Did you hear that?”
The aging Austrian diplomat was silent. I risked an eye and looked over to see Henrik’s head dipping into his chest and then bolting upright with every turn of the cars wheel.
How the hell could Henrik sleep with this driving? He was pretty old, perhaps he was closing his eyes to concentrate on maintaining his breath. A retired member of the Austrian Parliament, Henrik had signed on to this mission to do some Baltic sightseeing. He preferred lunches and tours of the botanical gardens to primary school buildings filled with smoke, turned into make shift local polling stations.
This sucks! While the other observers are getting action, all we get is closed polling stations and people voting twice. The others are being overtaken by masked gunmen and my greatest thrill is watching Henrik try not to fall asleep in a position undignified to a National Diplomat.
I sulked in the back of the car.
But before long, I had a plan. I pushed myself up into the front seat, between my driver and my translator and used a little broken Georgian.
“Any suspect polling stations where we might find a little corruption?”
My driver looked sideways at the pretty young translator and then back at me through the rearview mirror. He turned down the radio.
"We are instructed to take you to station no. 34."
"Where would you like to take me?"
He paused and continued to stare at the road.
"Down in no.13 they stuff the ballot box. You can find a staff in the back office just checking off names and stamping ballots valid.”
“Ooh, that’s good. Let’s go there.”
My driver snuck a smile and traded a look with the translator. She flashed a grin back and our driver pressed his foot down on the gas sending me abruptly back into my seat, jostling the arm of poor Henrik and causing him to wake from his peaceful slumber.
"Is it time to eat? Or is it the faster we drive, the faster we arrive in the next town, and the faster our driver gets to smoke another cigarette?"
Henrik wrinkles his brow. "Please Tell him that I would rather he break the rules and smoke a cigarette in the front seat then kill us en route to his certain lung cancer."
But instead, I used my limited grasp of the Georgian language to ask the driver who sings the song playing on the radio.
Henrik turned his body and tried to rest his head against the window. And I got ready to uncover a little corruption. But had I known what I know now, about the sort of corruption I would discover at polling station 13, I would have asked the driver to keep on going until we got to Adjara.
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Sober, Sober Travels
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Somewhere in Sapna
Somewhere in Sapna, off a dirt road near the Serb border, watching him buy gas that comes in a recycled sprite bottle. I look at him and I know.
I am falling for Kasmir. Even though he speaks not a word of English.
It is the careful way he opens the door for me. It is the willingness he has to wake at 6:00 AM to make me coffee before I go to work. It is the way he bucks Bosnian tradition by insisting upon washing all my dishes.
Last weekend, Kasmir drove five hours from a contract job he had in Sarajevo, just to touch my face, hold my hand, kiss me good night, turn around and drive back.
Kasmir sees me. He can't hear my fancy talk. My witty comebacks. My puns. I can't manipulate him with my words. He can't understand my complaints and mood swings. He just sees my actions.
And I see his.
I see the way he cares for his little brother. I see the way he respects the women in his house. I see the hard work and focus he brings to even the most minuscule of tasks. I realize how much more all his risks mean, considering where we are.
I saw his courage when he arrived in the all Serb City outside his village just to hear me lead an employment seminar.
He sat in the group as we went around introducing ourselves by name.
“My name is Milos, I’m 32 and I live here in Zvornik. I am here to try and learn how to get a job.”
“Thank you Milos. Thank you for coming.”
I saw him squirm as the circle closed in towards him. I didn’t understand. Sher told me later, "A name in Bosnia reveals your religion."
His eyes pleaded with me. But I didn’t know.
“I am Kasmir.”
That was all he could say. He hung his head. The circle moved on.
But now everyone knew he was a Muslim. A Muslim from the one Muslim village that broke the military line during the war. The Muslim village that the army couldn’t take. They held on. They fought back with rusty shotguns and pitchforks.
Kasmir was sixteen, too young too fight. But old enough to run food to the men on the front lines. Old enough to bury the dead. Old enough to recognize some of the faces in the group.
Sher translated the entire seminar. It was the first time he could understand my every word. Kasmir listened to my words flow out of Sher for five hours.
Now, I watch as he pays the man for the gas with a loaf of his mother’s bread, wrapped in a yellow paper napkin. The man places his left hand on Kasmir's shoulder. They exchange words and look back at me in the car. Then they shake hands and Kasmir heads back towards the car smiling.
He get’s in the car, turns to look at me and widens his already contagious grin.
"You!" He annouces to the roof of the car.
We look at each other and start laughing. He touches my hair. I start playing with the radio. Nothing but Bosnian folk music.
He takes my hand off the radio and turns off the music.
He turns his whole body to face me in the car and he takes my hands.
“Oh Lord. We are getting serious.”
He is giddy, he is happy. Like he wants to tell me something exciting, but he can't. He takes my hands in his. He looks down at them and rubs his thumbs over my fingers while he speaks.
“I must tell you… today… amazing… I hear you…” he pauses, “Volim Te.”
“Huh?”
“Volim Te.”
“Whoa cowboy. Did you just say that you love me?”
It’s barely audible through the thick accent, but he says it again. In English this time.
“I love you.”
“You barely know me.”
“I love you."
"Dear God. That's insane.”
“Jane. I love you.”
“I've known you for two months.”
He takes my hand and places it on his heart. I can feel how fast it is beating.
“I know.”
I just stare at him. I don’t know what to say. I know very little. I know that I am leaving this country in one month. I know that this would never work outside of this country. I know that once I am surrounded by people who speak my language I will be caught up in the sarcasm and wordplay and the games and I won't notice the little things anymore. I know that when my feet feel the ground of New York City I will not miss Cevapcici and Turkish coffee. I know that I will forget about Kasmir before the end of the year. I know I will date many more men in my lifetime. I know that none of them will ever try this hard, or be this happy to understand me. I know that none of them will wake up at 6:00 AM to make me coffee.
Labels: Boy Stories, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober, Sober Travels
Monday, April 17, 2006
reunion...
It wasn’t until she was sitting in front of me that I realized it had been four years since I had last seen her. Four years ago, she gave me a voice in a country where I didn’t speak the language and wanted so desperately to assimilate. Four years ago, I stood beside her as guns shot into the air, a bag of candy was broken over her head and a car full of Bosnian men stormed her home and carried her away to domestic bliss. Since then, our lives had diverged.
We met at the Jefferson memorial on one of those first warm days of spring. The cherry blossoms had just finished their annual bloom and a light breeze swirled the remnant petals through the marble columns, coming to rest in the space between us.
“You look good.” I noticed that she had straightened her hair, gone blonde and had her teeth fixed.
She looked me up and down and responded with the cultural equivalent.
“You look the same.”
We both smiled and filled an awkward silence with warm memories of a late summer and fall spent deep inside one another’s worlds.
The year was 2002. The setting was a war ravaged, recovering Bosnia.
Before I arrived in Bosnia, my knowledge of the country was contained in books I had read to write my Thesis. Until I met Sher, my introduction to her country was the chilly reception of my Serbian neighbors. As my translator, Sher allowed me to have ears.
I heard from Muslims, Croats and Serbs, men, women and children, soldiers, government officials and farmers. In Bosnia, the unspoken rule is that you do not ask people about the war. That being said, people want to tell you their stories. And once word has spread that you listened to one tale, people begin to seek you out. Like scorned lovers, they can’t wait to tell you their version of events as if somehow they can vindicate themselves, set the record straight, win you back, just so they can tell you they never wanted you in the first place.
I listened.
But when my contract ended I packed my life into a tiny suitcase, their stories into the forefront of my awareness and I left to join my colleagues in the Former Soviet Republic of Georgia. I vowed to dedicate my future work to the countries development. I got e-mail addresses and phone numbers. I cried when I promised Kasmir I would come back for him.
But the international presence in Bosnia was fading, agencies and organizations were leaving and funding was scarce. Like so many other countries ‘liberated’ by the hand of international intervention, the foreign invaders didn’t stay long. After the photo ops, political declarations, tasting of the local food and sampling of the locals, we packed our aid, our policy and our jobs and we headed for the next big world disaster.
I was no different from the rest.
Labels: Pop Culture Casualty, Sober, Sober Travels