Lomi Lomi, Show Me, Show Me

I am now 33 Continuing Education hours closer to being a licensed massage therapist. Funny thing is, a few weeks ago I never considered touching people for a living. And it's not that I now see massage as my new career path, but after taking Jeana's Lomi Lomi (which is an ancient art form rooted in Hawaiian healing traditions) Fundamentals class, I have in fact discovered a new guiding light. For as I stood over a body on Day 2, following the instructions being called out with minor frustration, something came up through me and suddenly the tears were flowing. I'm not quite sure what started it--though I have my theories--but what I do know is that the energy was moving at that moment and I couldn't stop it. What I didn't know until a few days later was the force of this energy, and how warm it can feel when you are ready to accept it...

Read more in my guest appearance on Jeana's blog

A Day with Kumu

I am often absorbed by minute details of day-to-day life and find such moments easy to write about. I often skip over big events when writing about my experiences, perhaps because I feel that I wouldn't do the moment justice, and so I'd prefer to let it fall into the past untouched, unrecorded, untainted by hindsight.

I am going to taint this experience. For the sake of preservation, I hope.

This past Tuesday, a rust-red moon took center-stage amongst a sea of stars, and I was lucky enough to join Kumu Mike Lee at the ahupua'a-- a pie slice of land with cultural significance-- that is supposed to become a stomping ground for Target shoppers any day now, to watch this miraculous event. Uncle Mike led a group of us all day up the volcano of Haleakala to do cultural practice. He taught us about the sacred waters and the limu-- a seaweed plant that absorbs angry spirits; he chanted, calling upon his ancestors, and played the nose flute in a cave along the mountainside; he showed us how the mist rolls in upon the ancestors' arrival.

And when a yelling, swearing bald man stumbled out of his tent at Haleakala National Park, shouting at him to "move your religious bullshit over there", Uncle Mike chanted some more, calling upon his ancestors to be with us, and he chanted until the man's shouting stopped, until he walked away. "This is my family's land," he said, "and if you don't like it, it's a beautiful world out there, take a walk."

As the battle between men came to an end, I felt a hotness come through me, from my center out to my cheeks, and it didn't stop until tears flowed down my face. My heart sank and floated at the same time, as this hopeless determination came over me. It wasn't about me at all, I knew this. And yet I felt so utterly connected to this timeless war: people against people, fighting for their own versions of peace.

We moved on. We felt the angry man's defeat and we moved on when we finished our lunch. And we continued on to the summit of Haleakala where we observed Hawaiian cultural practice from 10,000 feet high. On our way there, La'au and Kala, two of the young boys I look after some evenings, debated the tallest thing in Maui. "What's taller than Haleakala?" one asked. "A billion jillion ants stacked on top of each other," the other answered. "Ninety-eighty-five people standing on top of each other," the smallest laughed. What's taller than Haleakala? The twelve-story telescope that the government is building at one of the island's most sacred spots.

So Uncle Mike encouraged us to take pictures to document Hawaiian cultural practice. For it is no longer enough to put heart and soul into something-- to save what he loves, he has to prove it.

Uncle Mike, like countless other Hawaiians today, is willing to taint his experience. For the sake of preservation, he hopes.

Circular Journeys and Rules of Grammar

It's a funny thing to end a journey where you started. If you separate life into journeys, that is. 

My seventh-grade Language Arts teacher had it right. He said that sometimes teachers lie-- that they don't tell the whole truth. When you're learning the concept of a sentence structure, he might have used the example, you don't need to be bogged down with all the exceptions-- you'll have an easier time understanding them once you've already conceptualized the verb and noun in their general forms, their untainted states. The elementary school teacher says 'Never start a sentence with "because"' and eventually you learn that you can, too, do this, understanding how to make your fragment a complete sentence by adding another clause after a comma, following your clause.

If you want.

"Speaking is different from writing," my teacher said. You don't have to speak in correct English in all situations, in fact oftentimes it's simply inappropriate, he encouraged us in our resistance to formality-- our fear of seeming to our peers too eager to embrace the knowledge handed to us by figures of authority; written English, he encouraged us, is a different beast. He presented to us, in this Language Arts class, this opportunity to stray from our acts--for in those days, we were all acting most of the time. 

I was comforted by this chance, as I often felt--and still feel at times-- the need to subscribe: to one image, one system of beliefs, one consistent lifestyle--  But here I was being told that I could learn a language, the written English language, and I could convey a precise message about the world. By knowing where to place my punctuation in describing "the wide brick path" I could speak of the world and be completely understood.

But he, too, was not telling the whole truth. And this I did not know until journeys later; and to what extent he dismissed the whole truth, still I do not know.

To end a journey where you began is like learning the exception to the ruse. And you get this feeling like you never really knew what something was the first time around. You return to it, having abandoned that place, that moment, for another, re-contextualizing its entire significance and meaning. Your perception does not alter its being but to you, its and your existence have forever changed.

-

I wrote this sitting on a couch in Meadville, four months after graduating College in that very place; these months held many homes for me until I completed something of a circle, ending my summer travels in the town that birthed the idea, back when it was still snowing. It's a funny thing to end a thought as you began it; that is, I suppose, life begins to seem so funny.

It's Easy to Make a Friend

Meet Glenna: an old country woman who grew up on a ranch, lives alone in a log cabin home with a big green lawn, well kept, in a small town near Grand Mesa, the largest flat-top mountain in the world. She sees it every morning from her front door; every morning she also talks to her sister on the phone, who calls promptly at 5am. Glenna is a delightfully certain character, warm and with conviction.

And warmly, and with conviction, Glenna invited us into her home. This past weekend, after Tyler and I hiked around Grand Mesa and explored the towns between here and there, we met Beth's aunt as she welcomed our company. We chatted with Glenna around the kitchen table until dark, and climbed into the coziest beds in the world (beds with mattresses and lace in place of zippers and tarp).

I woke to a fast flick of the light switch and a "Rise and shine!" from our sweet host. By 5:35am, we were learning how to make her famous cinnamon rolls.

When it came time to let the dough rise and later to bake them, Tyler edged Glenna's lawn while I sanded down one side of her house that needed a fresh coat of paint. Luckily I still had the steel wool in the trunk of the car from when I thought I'd be spiffing up my bike. After biscuits and gravy, we both got to painting and in between coats, joined Glenna at her Baptist church. She was excited to have the company and introduced us to all of her friends with a big smile, and each time with a different explanation of our meeting. I'd never been to a Baptist church before; I loved the singing, which felt like patriotic karaoke (as it was the Sunday before Independence Day). I tried not to laugh when Tyler side-glanced at me for replacing "brotherhood" with "sisterhood".

Roots

Almost a week ago we arrived at New Life Gardens in Grand Junction, CO, to begin our WWOOFing experience. WWOOF USA: WorldWide Opportunities for Organic Farming, in the US. WWOOF is a web-based network where farmers meet travelers, the first seeking a labor force and the latter seeking experience, room and board, knowledge, what have you. Beth is the owner of New Life Gardens and our host and mentor. Thus far, my experience with Beth has been an exchange of my open ears, willing hands, fresh eyes and ideas for delicious meals, a well of knowledge, unwavering trust and a place to lay our tent, to say nothing of the farming experience itself.

Beth has a vision for her garden: a place for healing, open to the community, full of color and light and light and healing herbs; a coy pond, a swing, a variety of vegetables so vast that she does not know what to do with it all; honeybees, clover paths, and places to sit and rest in the shade of tall trees. The amazing part is that most of what I've mentioned is already here, cultivated and cared for by Beth and volunteers, day in and day out. Every day, folks in good spirits walk through the beautiful chaos of "rows" of plants, caring for them with the blissful ease that is doing something you love.

On my first morning at the garden, Tyler joined Beth in the kitchen making homemade biscuits and omelets with vegetables from the garden (Every meal has vegetables from the garden), while I joined Paige, the other Paige/WWOOFer, in the strawberry patch. While she tore up vine weeds, throwing them on the ground to dry up and join the dirt ("Organic matter matters most."), I worked my way through the strawberry plants looking for long stems of what I learned to be young roots. I would cut these stems close to the mother plant and set them aside. After a tasty and welcoming breakfast, we all returned to work. And so would be our days, beginning with the rising sun, sprinkled with fresh meals, mint tea, good conversation and quality alone time.

The next day I rooted the strawberries-- that is, I cut down the long stems so that the roots of the plant could sit nicely in its nook of a seedling tray. Beth and I watered the trays, and so they sit in the small greenhouse among their young and tropical neighbors. Beth told me that she'd always done strawberries the wrong way, choosing the biggest and sweetest strawberries to root for the next year's patch. But this year, she now knows that the biggest strawberries don't make for the best starters. The trick is to root the young generations--the outgrowths of the mother plant--for these will produce sweeter fruit.

Over the next few days, as I dug and dug and dug the hole for the coy pond, braided garlic, hoed an irrigation stream into the lawn, cooked meals, ate honey-soaked bee wax, talked about healing herbs and dreams, and thought about all the possibilities that sit before me, I realized it is fitting that my first experience on the garden was preparing strawberry roots. I have learned from Beth and her garden that life is variety, that life takes time and there is no rushing nature, and the best fruit comes from experience and strong roots. As I braided the green and brown scapes of garlic, I thought about my roots in a new way. While I am not taking root in any one place, I am cultivating the roots that will help me grow, creating a lifestyle as vibrant and fruitful as the garden that inspires me.

From Denver to Grand Junction

I began my latest journey a few days ago, as the wheels of Montana (my so-called airplane) lifted off San Francisco International's runway. My flight would take me to Denver, CO where I would meet my boyfriend, Tyler, and his loving and efficient travel-companion-father. I arrived late in the night and was greeted with the freckly smile I missed and love. That same grinning boy brought us to a stinky, dirty extended-stay hotel (He booked it luck-of-the-draw style) but I didn't mind. (I told him I wanted us to stay in shit-holes together, but for him to get me the best. He laughed knowing that I was mostly serious.) Anyway I liked our beginning, as it marked the start of all kinds of living. In just five days we've stayed in two motels, one fancy Sheraton and one tent--the one that will be our pop-up home for the months to come.

On the first morning, the three of us searched for The Grubbery to have breakfast. In the middle of an industrial park, we found our meal. After hearty pancakes and omelets, we walked through prairie dog paradise-- Tyler's first dream of the west: realized. Then we said our goodbyes to Mr. Miller at the airport topped with circus tents (my guess is they're for cooling).

We checked into our hotel and took over the parking lot so we could organize the car-- our other summer home. The streets of Denver that night were full of musicians and artists performing for tourists who did not like the rain. We returned downtown the next day for the Pride festival, which was full of people: happy, friendly people. And I wouldn't attribute that just to the event-- Colorado seems to me one of the friendliest places on earth (Look out, Walt). We left Denver after getting the chance to walk through the art district, which was full of Westword Music Festival-goers, young people and friendly "hello's"; I'll fast-forward through our long search for a campsite (short version: naive to think we could check-in to a campground on the weekend in one of the most desired outdoor areas in the country? yes.) and skip to our arrival at Idaho Springs, CO, where the gold rush began. We had iced mochas and a chat with the woman running the small town's museum (She came from Medina, NY and never went back).

Sylvan Lake State Park sits in the center of White Water National Forest, suitably named after the flowing rivers that weave through the mountains. We arrived at Sylvan Lake on Sunday night and set up our campsite, and we brought only the food we could eat in two days. Our first dinner was a potato mash: 8 red potatoes, one cup of greek yogurt, olive oil, garlic, and the greens of our rainbow carrots. We wrapped the potatoes in foil and baked them over fire, then mashed everything together in my cast iron skillet. I might dare to say they were the best mashed potatoes I've ever chewed. 

Sunday morning we hiked through the greenest mountains I've ever seen. Everywhere I looked was green, save the dirt path that led us along the river and the blue sky above. When we weren't climbing up and down along the mountainside, a beaten dirt path led us through a sea of grass that swayed in the wind and glistened in the sun. The rocks that lined the ice-cold river made a perfect spot for lunch: half of an avocado sandwich, half of a ChocolateP.B.&BlackberryJ. with almonds.