A New Pet-Owner's Manifesto

It started like any other ‘day off’ in Portland, with a hankering for black coffee and smash-browns. We went to our go-to brunch place called ‘Juniors’ in the Southeast and waited in the rain with the other starving, tattooed, Kurt Vonnegut-enthusiasts who don’t wear rain coats. James twirled me, I fake-boxed him, and we moon-walked up and down the sidewalks-- little games only played when minds are hypocaloric and fuzzy.

  Juniors is the quintessential Portland Cafe: very limited seating, ambient-velvet-underground-esque tunes scratching just a titch too loud under old tomato juice cans filled with succulents, and a cornucopia of vegan brunch options. The walls are gilded damask, specials written in chalk, papier-mache’d busts of slap-happy unicorns and cobras with Pharoah crowns observe the eclectic patrons dine, while a cardboard Sasquatch cutout woos passersby.  

Sliding into diner-style booths, we ordered cowboy coffees and scrambles, taking to our standard brunch formation--him with a crossword and me oogling the new animals at the Oregon Humane Society.

Many weeks had passed in which I had been cruising this website in a somewhat manic fashion. At times I found myself checking out the cats up for adoption even though I am severely allergic.

I have a habit of attaching myself to ideas, obsessing over their possibility, and then hastily making them reality. I think of every angle, google every con, and envision all the pros, but in the end I am oftentime blinded by compulsion to get my fix of newness, whatever the cost. While this could be considered a virtue—perseverance, determination, et cetera—my tick breeds with it unencumbered ‘all or nothing’ adventures from which I glean lessons or patch-up qualms.

Then I saw him. ‘Curly’ the 9 month old spaniel mut with a freckled face and wagging tongue.

“Baby, look at this one!”

“Aw, what a cutie.” His reaction tempered by my routine excitement when scrolling puppies. “He looks like a Brittany with that coloring.”

I swooned, staring at the picture again and again, as if some new information would magically appear if I refreshed enough times. I began picking at my cuticles and guzzling coffee--ruminating the possibilities.

“Should we go see him?” James posed without pause, picking up on my elated ado.

“Oh my god….Can we?”

“Let’s go check out puppies!”

I was tempted to scarf down my sourdough toast as fast as humanly possible, but then something within me demanded; ‘be calm, if its meant to be its meant to be.’

Now, we had been through this before, brunching at Juniors and opting to daytrip to the Humane Society “just to look.” We had met with a few puppies and even put a hold on one--a gorgeous brindle italian greyhound who peed immediately upon seeing me.

And it was meant to be. This time, I left the Oregon Humane Society with a 16lb Heinz57 mut from a shelter in Northern California with a ginger face and fluffy white mane whom I named Koba.

Back in December, while I was boarding the plane to Denver I got a voicemail from my Dad explaining, “Keira is in the doggy ER with stomach torsion,” and “we are hoping she’ll make it until you arrive.” My heart fell right through my chest with the thought of losing our family dog--a feisty Japanese Akita with a penchant for sniffing crotches and bolting out the back door.

There’s a fantastic photo I took of Keira during my exploratory photography phase; I must have been 16 or so. It was a quintessential Colorado day--sunny, snowy, with rugged mountains undulating as far as the eye can see. Keira is bounding full-speed down the trail behind our house; she kicks up glittering snow with a giant smile on that speckled monochrome face and with four legs suspended, you can feel her velocity. This is how she will always be preserved in my memory--unbreakably free.

During my stay at home, my sister and I nursed Keira back to health. We fed her a wet diet of brown rice and chicken breast; shoved pills down her throat three times a day; carried her outside to pee; documented her hydration schedule; and lifted her on our hallowed “off-limits” parents bed in their absence for extra comfort.

Of course, Keira is notoriously naughty. She won’t come when called unless she hears meat drop in her food bowl and/or if you speak to her in spanish. She is very aggressive towards other dogs, having sent many to the hospital. She will alert you if a bear is on the deck or a racoon is in the garage with that thundering howl. She will ALWAYS jet if given the chance. But she does come back; she waits by the sliding glass door after riotous jaunts through our neighborhood, terrorizing dogs or begging to be let in at Grandma’s. She sleeps most of the day and is always over-joyed when you get home. Above all, she’s there, a constant presence in the house--licking the furniture and laying at the foot of our parents bed.

Keira was my greatest companion growing up. We would often take long walks behind our house while I digested that bounding teenage angst. We have an unspeakable bond, telepathic if you will. Being a child reticent to divulge personal information, I would share my struggles with Keira, lay my head down on her sprawling abdomen and nuzzle or cry or simply listen to her heartbeat. The pure unwavering presence animals provide their human counterparts cannot be duplicated.

This morning, I awoke to a wet nose snaking beneath my covers, tiny paws grazing my face, and puppy teeth exploring my palms. Koba’s 9am wakeup call. We snuggle in bed for a moment. With a few belly rubs and ‘down-dogs’, he really wakes up--boisterously demanding all who lay horizontal to rise and greet the day by pouncing on faces and limbs or gnawing on covers. I wrap myself in a blanket and walk him outside to make him ‘hurry-up.’

We take a moment to breathe in the morning. To simply notice the cherry tree pushing out blossoms, steam rising off the grass, wispy clouds clearing for a tangerine dawn or a light rain kissing your cheeks, matting your eyelashes.

This puppy forces me to be present to these sacred, quotidian moments that mark our existence. I have spent so many days outside of myself--planning for the future, stressing about the past, always in a hurry to move forward--the progressive American autopilot. But when I wake up to this creature whose elation could never be squandered, it is difficult not to catch his enthusiasm.

After finishing, Koba prances over the dewy grass and sits at attention in front of me--ready to run or eat or annoy Bear (my roomie’s Dachshund). I leash him up and we set out in the Portland streets. Walking for walking’s sake was never an activity I would partake in before I had Koba.  In my mind, it had no point--the exercise wasn’t strenuous enough, I had no destination--there were so many other ‘productive’ things I could fill my time with.

I never noticed the gnarled root base of the maple tree on my corner--how it’s warts and grooves and scratches elucidate a Tolkien-esque story of synergy no amount of transcendental meditation could decipher. Or the many moods of a Pacific Northwest winter: fog so thick you can’t see 10 feet in front of you or the calming pitter-patter of relentless drizzle on rooftops and chain-link fences.

Dogs are irrevocable ‘beings-in-the-world’ (to borrow from Heidegger). A reminder of why we are on this planet--to live joyously, and with love. This little pooch fucking LOVES me, unconditionally. And I feel that every day.

He is also a huge responsibility. And that role requires me to arrange my days such that both of our needs get fulfilled. And they aren’t so different--eat, play, shit, sleep. Life gets pretty simple on dog island, minus the whole ‘i still have a full-time job’ reality. But on my off-time, it is full-force puppy-heaven. And its pretty fantastic--hikes, dog-park, tug-of-war, and tricks for days. Koba has reinforced my values in life--that relationships are worth it; working less hours is worth it; experiences are worth it; home is worth it. Also, I always have an excuse to stay in now (an introverts dream).

To have a living being express unremitting ardor throughout the seasons of your temperament and to bear witness to all of your truths with unconditional bug-eyed loyalty--this relationship cannot be reciprocated in the human experience and I feel so grateful to have found this little boy.  

Reset Button

 
          

There is this thing we used to do with Taft a month or so ago. When he was wailing super hard and nothing would console him, we would blow into his face. He would get so startled by the gust that he would essentially forget why he was so upset in the first place. It was our special reset button—almost like knocking the wind out of him so that he came back to earth from whatever infant-spiral he was on.

Sometimes I feel like I need to do the same thing—to just hit the reset button on myself; regain my center with some fresh air; remember all the people around me who are pushing for my growth and happiness; appreciate the love and let life rock me back to sleep.

Ruin is a Gift

A friend took me to the most amazing place the other day, it's called the Augustian. Octavian Augustus built it to house his remains. When the Barbarians came, they trashed it along with everything else. The great Augustus, Rome's first true emperor--how could he have imagined that one day Rome, the whole world as far as he was concerned, would one day be in ruins?

It's one of the quietest and loneliest places in Rome. The city has grown up, around it over centuries. It feels like a precious wound--like a heartbreak you won't let go of because it hurts too good. We all want things to stay the same. Settle for living in misery because we're afraid of change, of things crumbling into ruins.

Then I looked around at this place--the chaos it's endured. The way it's been adapted, pillaged, burned, then found a way to build itself back up again and I was reassured. Maybe my life hasn't been so chaotic, it's just the world that is and the only real trap is getting attached to any of it.

Ruin is a gift. Ruin is the road to transformation.

Even in this eternal city, Augustian showed me that we must always be prepared for endless waves of transformation.

---Eat, Pray, Love

Be Ahead of All Parting---Rilke

 
Be ahead of all parting, as if it had already happened,
like winter, which even now is passing.
For beneath the winter is a winter so endless
that to survive it at all is a triumph of the heart.

Be forever dead in Eurydice, and climb back singing.
Climb praising as you return to connection.
Here among the disappearing, in the realm of the transient,
be a ringing glass that shatters as it rings.

Be. And know as well the need to not be: 
let that ground of all that changes
bring you to completion now.

To all that has run its course, and to the vast unsayable
numbers of beings abounding in Nature,
add yourself gladly, and cancel the cost.

Ranier Maria Rilke
Sonnets to Orpheus II, 13

Happiness-- by Susan Griffin

Happiness. I am not used

to this. (There is always

something wrong.)

Look at it

the bright early tree.

(I am trying to find out

how you fell.)

The leaves have already turned.

(I want you to see

this, how they

glow outside the glass.)

Morning light strikes

differently. For so

many years I hardly 

had time to know such

moments. They struck me

with such intensity

I would have said

battered me open.

I never understood

they were mine.

I was panicked.

Unhappiness caught up with me 

all the time.

Did you know

the speed of light never alters

even when you go faster

it will be

still that much faster

than you?

(I am thinking that in you fall

something momentous occurred.)

What I see as beautiful

I want you to see too.

Next door, the workmen are hammering.

Very soon we'll go to lunch.

For some reason this moves me to tears.

How life is.

(One does not have to explain

what occurs. One only need say

it has meaning.)

Years ago, when I was young

I traveled to Italy, took in

the great sights. I was in awe, yet

I did not understand

seeing Masaccio's frescoes

fading like shadows into the walls,

this would be the only time

nor that

I would never forget. 

Those muted shades are 

still with me, as possession

and longing, and the view too

of the square before that church

the air, newly spring,

that day, all of it. 

Life, I have finally begun to realize,

is real.

(All this time you recover

from falling

will sink indelibly into mind.)

The leaves

may fall before you are able 

to see them. Science

has recently learned

the line

of existence is soft

and stretches out like a field

wind and light shaping the grass

energy

of sight giving consciousness

force. In the meantime

we live out our lives.

(This morning we talked for so long

everything became lucid.

How can I say what I see?)

At each turning

perfection eludes me.

One moment is not like another.

Last spring

the house next door caught fire.

There was the smell of gas.

We thought

both houses would go.

I vanished up the hill,

went to the house of a friend

where we listened for the flames

and to that aria from Italian

opera, was it the one of love,

or jealousy, or grief?

My house was untouched.

Now the one next door is painted,

fixed. In place of

perfection, the empty hands

I turned out to the world 

are filled.

With what? A letter

half written, the notes

I make on this page,

this new feeling about my shoulders

of age, that sad child's story

you told me this morning,

the workmen's tools sounding 

and stopping. What? As time

moves through me, does it also

move through you?

I keep remembering what you said,

ways you have of seeing (and that

light must have curved with

you fall.) This

is the paradox of vision:

Sharp perception softens

our existence in the world.

Celebrate & Surrender

The 7am double decker train brought me up from Chennai to Bangalore. I had to wrap myself in my dupatta because of the a/c and the utensils they gave you at lunch were flimsy. This kind of 'indian luxury' fashioned in haste to meet the needs of the rising middle class masses makes me even more uncomfortable than the Taj Mahal regality. The real India can be witnessed beyond these thresholds of partitioned serenity, where sewage flows freely in the gutter and dogs have organized territories over trash receptacles. No matter, I sip my 10Rs (what a rip-off) chai and watch the Tamil Nadu countryside sweep past in a mirage of luminescent green paddy fields and technicolor towns. 

I took in deep exhales of this newness--on my way to a whole new setting, new people, new language, new city. My time at MCCSS and the dusty hordes of Chennai had came to an end and I would soon be taking my place among villagers in similar fields that the train catapulted past in its capsuled wealth. The interesting thing about being a fairly well-off person from the West (yes, even us scraping college students are immensely rich for this country), is that you can experience many different faces of India. Like doors in a magic hallway, you can step into caste-defined realms with amazingly discrepant understandings of comfort, satisfaction, happiness, and ideas of 'The Good Life.'

You can stay at hotels where you are likely to run into Indian government officials (all for about $80 bucks a night)  or, if you open your heart, you can wind your way through slum veins slithering in the city, behind major streets away from the public eye to witness the faces behind numbers in UN pamphlets on poverty. The very blood, sweat, and toil that makes this country run is forced to exist as an unknowable entity. This phenomenon applies to both the micro and macro realms--it is also culturally blind. Think about your society, your workplace, your very own family--the ones who make the whole thing tick are the very least appreciated and recognized, if not ostracized. People in power can only stay in power insofar as they make an 'other' out of those whom they depend on most. And this is exactly what makes India tick, that and star-crossed lover Bollywood hits. And with these thoughts, quiet tears slid down my cheeks in the direction of the train's trajectory for all those gracious humans who carry the social cosmos on their backs. 

From Bangalore station, I caught a rickshaw through the shining streets of this boomin IT metropolis, the Silicon Valley of India they call it, to an eco-hotel called The Green Path. The building looked like any other middle to upper-class Indian apartment complex, these structures filling the void for village solidarity, except there seemed to be a makeshift forest growing out of the walls. The plants weren't presented in the neatly manicured way of regular hotels, but in the wild chaotic style of true jungle drapery. It was like someone took the forest floor and laid it like a carpet on all surfaces of the structure, and yet, somehow, this neo-modern sea-green canopy motif really worked. I waddled with my backpack under the creeper laden verandah and immediately felt relieved  in the midst of so much photosynthesis, like when you walk into a cave when its dead summer and the skin on your scalp relaxes. The plant crowding technique on the interior echoed that of the facade, bursting out of every nook and cranny with a cornucopia of fruits and flowers and insects. At the entrance I noticed a marble waterfall, with water cascading upon the meditating head of a bonze buddha, perched in a thicket of succulents, and I thought, 'These are my kind of people.'

Upon my arrival, I was promptly given pulpy papaya juice and told to wait for 'Sir,' whom I took to mean Jayaram, the founder and head of this organization. He shuffled through the lobby with that hurried gait of men who have people to instruct. He shook my hand, sat down for kala chaiya, black tea, and got right to business.

"Yeah, yeah yeah, welcome and all of that," He took a sip of his chai, holding my gaze. "So, tell me," diverting his eyes to his smartphone, grinning, "what are you all about?" His words and countenance revealed to me that he enjoyed testing people, and that he had a keen intellect, which he wore like his Sperry top-siders and organic cotton kurta.

And what a question! What am I all about? I felt myself fumbling for words, like an out-of-shape quarterback who spent the entire summer reading Tolstoy instead of lifting. I have been so much inside my own head these past months, and with people who speak marginal English, that I have remained somewhat hidden from quotidian verbal expression or pressing questions from authority figures. I gave an awkward explanation as to my involvements these past few months in India, ending with an emphasis on my interest in organic farming and the environment in general. My speech was spliced with memos from hotel staff and passersby whom Jayaram recognized. I quieted down while he perused project proposals and thought, 'so this is an upper-echelon Indian male in his natural habitat, with humans obsequiously scurrying to smooth stones from his path.'

"Puah," he tossed embossed loose-leafed papers on the wicker coffee table, "let's go to the farm, shall we?" He laughed and headed for the exit, followed by waves of 'namaste sir, yes sir, thank you sir, right away sir.' 

The Green Path is an organization aimed at promoting worldwide eco-consciousness through awareness and by example of sustainable business models for homes, farms, tourism, and the like. In the words of Jayaram himself, "Nature already knows the best way to do things, we simply just have to intuitively copy her with the best of our ability, and  all else will come into place." He seeks to forge a new path of eco-friendly business, one that will revolutionize a wounded capitalist market in which the consumer is so disconnected from the producer. The Green Path has an eco-hotel, with closed circuit waste and energy systems, through solar power, compost, and gardening on site. The Green Path also has an organic grocery store, stocked with produce from the farm from where I write this. The grocery store is equipped with a 'mobile market'--a van with the essential bulk foods and fresh produce which brings the product to the whole city, selling goods in the streets, bringing the good-food to the people's doorsteps themselves. Another eco-retreat has recently be set-up in Coorg, in the Western Ghat region of Karnataka where many trekkers and tourists venture for natural solitude.

The tiny Japanese diesel zoomed under metro-columns and away from the shiny cityscape, until the lego-land habitats and tea-cart stalls became sparse, replaced by natural vistas, a sea of fields caressing the undulating plateau, punctured by giant boulders and palm groves. We drove up the auburn dirt road under the shade of young Neem trees, dancing with the afternoon breeze. Drowning out Jayaram's speech on the 'Celebration of Life,' I leaned out the window expecting neatly patch-worked crops, but saw only forest. What at first looked like random, wild vegetation I came to recognize as permaculture style farming, where many different crops, trees, herbs, and local plants are grown in one big area, the idea being that diversity is the essence of health, metaphorically and physically. 

"We're here," Jayaram's face glowed, "let's celebrate!" He shouted as he unbuckled and popped out of the vehicle. I took in the scene. A slab-strewn courtyard circumvented an island of tropical trees whose branches drew your eye to the Italian villa style cottage, with a wide wrap-around porch with hanging potted succulents, bamboo standing guard at the steps and passion fruit trees creeping up the columns. All around us was Jayaram's meticulously crafted eden, his escape from the city, his vision enabled by the fresh air and clouds juxtaposed against a thousand shades of green. In the distance, far down the bare-foot trodden paths I saw women in bright nighties and silk headscarfs balancing overflowing baskets on their heads-- they sashed off the main path into a patch of shaded shrubbery. A few wide eyed, wiry men wandered into the courtyard to greet 'Sir,' their mouths stuffed with the village pastime, tambac they call it--basically the raw form of chew. They nodded at him and spit, eyes squinted with the brightness. 

Without intros, Jayaram motioned for me to follow as they took 'Sir' on his rounds throughout the property. They spoke Kannada, the language of Karnataka state. They pointed and shouted and nodded in agreement, all aggressively trying to talk over one another, a method of conversing I have become accustomed to witnessing. We walked past greenhouses and tree nurseries and peacock dens and even a man-made lake complete with fruit tree island. As we were walking, I became overwhelmed at the remoteness of this location, and the more I observed those who worked the land, the more I was filled with nervous doubt.

"Wait, so does no one here speak English?" I asked on the way back to the main house.

"No," Jayaram waved away my question with a smirk and a one sentence reply, "you'll be fine."

"So what if I need something from the store or what if I can't communicate something important?"

"We can get you anything you need. Don't worry! Celebrate!" He said enthusiastically as he got into the car, "You just call if there is an issue." And with that, I was left to my devices in this farm on foreign soil, with foreign people, and foreign labor. The dust kicked up from his vivacity punctuated the closing remarks with wallowing discontent.

Walking back into the drafty old house, I had to force myself to breath and a comforting thought quieted my deep-seated unrest, 'Hell, you can adapt to any situation at this point and make the best of it. Remember Kendall, this is what you asked for. You wanted to work on a farm; here you are.'

While I unpacked my things into a cupboard that smelled of mothballs and honey, a plump lady in a floral blue saree with peacock tattoos on her forearms appeared at the door. 

"Oh, hello," I smiled, "me re naam Kendall hai, aur aap?" Stating my name and inquiring hers, assuming she spoke Hindi. 

She wagged her head and her finger in unison, "Hindi No," and started sputtering off in Kannada. I caught that her name was Lakshmama, or something of that tune. She pushed me aside, hastily sweeping my room, changing the sheets--then continued to rummage through my luggage, found my toiletries and ushered me towards the bathroom. 

"Wash, wash!" She demanded, "8o'clock oota. Come." She motioned towards her mouth in that universal Indian sign for food. 

'Got it,' I thought, 'oota means food.' She glanced back as she exited the house, giving me an unforgettable grin, her lips were crimson, as if smeared in pomegranate juice, her teeth similarly stained, with ochre betel nut lodged in between the gums. 

The next morning, I was roused by roosters and hymns for Lord Ganesha blaring from the local temple. Since it was dawn, I took the opportunity to get in some yoga before we got to work. I clambered up a steep staircase to the terrace, unbolted the door and a rush of dawn atmosphere flooded my senses. The forest was waking up; fresh-rain steam rose from dank soil, hovering like breath in winter beneath a canopy of dancing trees; peacocks wailed in tune with a plethora of songbirds that would make Julie Andrews glow; babies laughed and cried while smoke rose from the village houses--women readying daily life. I took a breath and began my practice, pushing myself with vigor I could never muster in the murky cages of India's cities. 

With the days, I began to fall into a rejuvenating routine, practicing yoga, reading poetry, making allspice tea with leaves from trees in the courtyard--all the while slowly wedging myself a social sphere within the complicated stratum of rural Indian families. Three families live on the farm, with a few floating souls who walk here every day for work. My main companions are a quatro of ladies--Lakshmama, Selma, Rasakka, Verdakka-- along with Selma's adorable baby boy, Rehan. The most difficult thing about being on the farm is the isolation one feels without language communication. I had to get to know and be known through gestures, behavior--the ineffable expression of an open heart. With time and numerous awkward miscommunications, I came to surrender to these women's demonstrations of affection. 

Before each mealtime, one or two of them would barge into my room, demanding, "Oota! Oota!" They ushered me to their cottages, laid out embroidered blankets, lit incense, said prayers, and made a sport out of feeding me. My familiarity with handling pushy Indian hospitality was rookie compared to the vehemence with which I had to politely orchestrate adamant offerings thrown my way--a truly good Indian hostess never lets her guest say no. 

"Kao, Kao," the ladies would insist in Hindi, "chota kao--eat, eat, eat a little bit more." They're husbands would nod, supporting the forceful piling of rice, chappati, subje, sambar, barfi---the works--on my plate, feeding me like a growing teenage boy. Sometimes the men would mutter, "Khana kao-- eat your food," with eyes on a Kannada soap opera playing from a scratchy, 50's style TV set. The background sound of these 'serials' they watched became an ingrained soundtrack to which I associate these people's home-atmosphere, with songs like The Mummy Returns (yes the one with Brenden Fraiser, what can I say? I wanted to be an archaeologist as a kid) and all the aspects of a porno, dramatic lighting, heavy breathing, zoom-ins, and poor plots, but without so much as a baring of a shoulder.

"Ye bas hai, bas! Me bhookee naheen, me re chota pet," I would reply, "This is enough! I am not hungry, I have a small stomach." But all of these polite protests fell on deaf ears. Mealtimes have evolved into a kind of sporting event--where I have to mentally prep myself for the amount of food I am about to stuff into an organ that is no bigger than my closed fist. 

One morning, as I was making coffee and listening to a Stuff You Should Know podcast, I heard Josh and Chuck comment that rice expands to twice its size once inside your belly. I couldn't help but giggle as I thought of my struggling, swollen digestive tract. At first, I would literally have to take naps after meals, like after Thanksgiving when you can't even move. Now, with a combination of pride and terror layered within this recognition, I can withstand the bombardment of daily food-love bestowed on me. 

Apparently the stomach does expand, along with the heart when humbled by these cultural exposures. What I first resisted, I had to give into, because I came to realize that this feeding behavior is an expression of these women's love for me. And I will admit, the longer I stayed there, the more they thankfully started to listen to my 'naheen, naheen, naheen, bas, bas, bas!', 'no, no, no, enough, enough, enough!'

Similarly, a deep-founded respect and admiration has bourgeoned in me for people who, at first, I felt alienated from and judged by. They have patiently showed me their way of life, let me love on their babies and help make roti for dinner. I have been inspired by the vivacity of these women, who work literally all day--running households, raising children and crops in unison. These mothers can't just plug their kids into a nintendo or a baby einstein video; they have to be present all day, every day. I will repeat it again and again: these women are fucking tough. They have taught me incredible lessons without so much as having a conversation by virtue of example in the simple, yet genuinely contented way they live their lives. 

This distillation of existence and subsistence has also proved to be a challenge, seeing as I have spent my whole life numbed by the artificial scaffolding of modern society. When you take away substances, social media, pop culture, electronic entertainment, and telecommunication at the tips of your fingers, you have no choice but to enter in the ravines of your own self. Books and cigarettes and biscuits can only keep you on the surface for so long until you have to take a moment and say, 'Alright, whats really bothering me? What is the source of this angst-- this pain--this need to distract my mind with baneful scripts enabling safe habits of the mind--emotional escapism.' 

All of my scapegoats have been removed here: food (well, lets be honest the food here is fucking incredible; but what is delicious sits heavier in the mind than on the hips), regular exercise (another one of my go-to habitual routines that make me feel better and more in control), alcohol, drugs, sex and boys (although lord knows they've been on my mind), netflix, among other media addictions. I have been pulled out of the media spiral, the neurotic American health and fitness spiral, and the everyday schedule spiral which conjures self-importance. And a sort of identity crisis has catapulted my being at times. Questions surrounding my understanding of 'the self' arise: without my go-to cultural accessories, this unending list of 'understandings,' which comprise answers formulated these past 21 years of social conditioning, how do I address that incessant question peculiar to our culture-- "Who am I?" 

The truth becomes quite simple once one is stripped of all of these societal distractions-- that we must simply exist, and rejoice in that existence. This life is such a beautiful thing, if we only just slow down enough to observe, soak it in. 

What is plentiful at the farm is time: time to watch a caterpillar munch its way through a leaf, or observe dew forming on guava fruits, or notice the nuanced shades of the twilight and dawn, stand witness to the constellations gliding their nightly arcs, recognize the time when the different insects have their operas throughout the day. I have time to feel small, to contemplate my existence in sync with that of the ecosystem--and it becomes even more apparent how interwoven all matter in this universe is. At this very moment a tiny spider is making a home out of my iPad stand. Isn't it amazing how, despite the perceived astronomical change in our 'human world,' nature just goes on doing its same dance, same web weaving and cyclical flow.

I feel alive in a way i don't think i could have ever cultivated in the states because of all of the numbing that goes on-- normative, cultural numbing. We are all so blind to the processes of our minds and hearts; rarely do we open ourselves up enough to channel genuine connection, with other humans, nature, ourselves. 

Look around you; look at the people around you--all with incomprehensible stories and lessons and ways of solving this puzzle of life. Feel the wind on your cheek. Look at the sky, the ever-shifting, enigmatic sky--too often do we go about our day without acknowledging its fleeting uniqueness. Take the time to get to know people; get out of your element--share with them and they will share back. Be genuine; have the courage to let go of what you hold most dear, but also to open up to that which scares you. Places, as well as the people who occupy them, come in and out of your life for the very right reasons--reasons we will only recognize with wisdom of hindsight-- a wisdom revealed to us when we open ourselves up to the universe, wholeheartedly.

I am coming to recognize that happiness is a state of being, not a destination--it is a choice. We have to cognitively reframe our situations when things seem dull or we are itching to leave. In reality, we will always find something to gripe about no matter how 'ideal' our next move may be. No where is going to cultivate peace for you, this is in internal attribute you have to muster yourself, regardless of the environment you are in.

And so I have surrendered to eating all the mounds of rice, drinking all the cups of tea, breathing all the fragrances of life, kissing all the babies, following all of the detours, and smiling at all the little ironies as much as I can for the rest of my time here. In the words of poet and novelist, Susan Griffin, in her poem titled Happiness, "Life, I have finally begun to realize/ is real," and we should celebrate it.  

Adieu

Saying goodbye is an inevitable part of the journey. This is not without reason. Goodbyes are so hard--you don't know how much emotion to show, what to say in those last moments. You are torn between navigating grey emotional area and honoring the present. Sometimes goodbyes are silent cognitive tips of the hat to one another. Sometimes they are curt and rushed because of a welling tear. Sometimes they aren't realized until you remember the last time you saw their face when you casually waved goodbye. Sometimes they are full of tears, and deep belly giggles; the kind when you have to get out of the car multiple times and run into their arms, squeezing and soaking up each others energy. 

I have said many goodbyes these past weeks. I bid farewell to my family, to college-life, my apartment, the rolling Missoula belly-trails I trampled life-miles on, silly thirsty-thursdays, lenient schedules full of yoga-workshops, infinite intriguing reading assignments and hour long runs. Today, I said goodbye to my two dear friends. And I've recognized how much I have changed even in the time of my knowing them; also, how my relationships have facilitated a 'settling' into myself. And although I am anxious as to what the future holds, I must remember that the good ones never get away. 

It feels like a whole life is ending and in reality that is true--because you never come back the same person after the world shakes up your soul-bones. I've found that anticipating that deep change is like a drug; it heightens your senses to the blessings around you. And I've learned to not fear change or goodbyes because the ones who really matter morph right along with you, flourishing in themselves. And when you meet again as Whole Beings, you can reflect on the progress and celebrate how life always rings round. The night before I left for NZ as a 16 year old, I went to the movies with Mom and my sisters--there is a quote from that movie, Benjamin Button that has always stuck with me, 

"We have to lose the ones that we love--how else would we know how important they are to us?"

And it is poetic in that all endings sprout new beginnings. We can't hold on forever, but have to adapt--transform our relationships and keep on growing. Holding on engenders pain. We must surrender to the flux of change embrace the new while honoring the necessity of the old. Slowly building blocks, priming for a celebration of the glorious present self. Change is scary, but stagnation is scarier. 

Inspirational 12's

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I have been facilitating support groups for survivors of domestic violence at the YWCA for over a year now. Yet after ever group, I come home buzzing with inspiration—I get high off the women's resilience and gentle wisdom. 

Tonight we were talking about happiness as a general topic and they came up with some salient insights. We started off by making a list of ‘commandments’ that we would like to live by in order to increase our happiness/satisfaction in life. Here are some tidbits,

1.     show up

2.     be grateful

3.     be authentic

4.     relish the moments

5.     don’t be afraid to be a few minutes early

6.     walk away before trying to change others or change yourself for others

7.     enjoy the process

8.     identify the problem

9.     let it go

10.  do what ought to be done

11.  act the way you want to feel

12.  love,love,love yourself

A moment of hope I experienced when reading through these and hearing the women talk about their ‘commandments,’ was how happiness unearthed itself to me as a matter of choice. As a group we reconciled with the fact that we have the power to rewrite our energies into something beautiful or destructive—it is a matter of choosing the light.

A second list we began to generate were some ‘secrets to adulthood;’ in other words, what would you tell yourself as an 80year old woman that you wish 20year old you would have known? This is what came up:

1.     its okay to ask for help-it doesn’t have to be a crisis. One woman said, “Asking for help is a gift to your friends—it lets them know that you value their support.”

2.     Bring a sweater—always be prepared and streamline your ‘tools’ for coping with a situation so as to shortcut any unnecessary stress.

3.     People don’t notice your mistakes as much as you think

4.     Do your research—shop around before you make a big decision. Be it with tattoos, relationships, schools, shoes, cars, big trips. Take your time and be patient with your choices.

5.     Read the directions

6.     Embrace your inner child

7.     Keep some chocolate nearby

8.     Recognize the glory of inaction

9.     Learn the value of failure. Failure instigates growth—if we aren’t struggling to grow, we are merely surviving. You have to push those boundaries and be willing to fail.

10.  Own your successes—allow yourself to have goals even if you’re scared you can’t reach them. 

11.  Ask questions before you make assumptions—COMMUNICATE your needs and valuable perspective

12.  “What is the big deal? You can always paint over it with another color,”—one woman reflected after contemplating the stress of painting her new house and reveling in the malleability of life’s hues.

These phenomenal women inspire me to live a more authentic life. And to end with a celebration of that fact, this is the reading I closed group with:

Live

As long as you’re alive, why not live? Live life to the fullest. Live it up. Live in the moment. Live as though you had only twenty-four hours to live. Live the life you’ve always wanted. Live for yourself—not for others, alive or dead. Live on the edge a bit; it’s the only place from which you can take a leap. Live the life that is yours alone. Live wherever you want, with whomever you want, however you want, but live! Don’t just get a life—create one. Don’t just step into someone else’s life—design your own. Don’t confuse real life with what you see on TV or at the movies. Live free or die (even if you are not from New Hampshire). Live so that when you’re dead, people will remark less on what you did in life—and more on how you lived.

On that note, I shall depart from the inter-web in an effort to live by these lists of 12.

Adjust My Sails

Sometimes it is so difficult for me to be grateful for the space I inhabit in the moment. If it's not school today it's work tomorrow--why do we always need a scapegoat for the discontent? 

I only have 5 weeks left of college. That statement incites terror and elation in one deep breath. The closer I get to the end, the more menial the tasks seem. I am itching for the future--the unremitting gaze towards a place beyond the present could be the source of much angst. 

I must learn to bask in gratitude for the tasks at hand because what lies ahead will come with a-whole-nother goodie bag of challenges. The reality is we have to do things we don’t want to in life. 

We have to fight apathy every day when all we want to do is play. Yet it is about flourishing in both acts--finding the way to make your rock your thing, like Sisyphus. 

Merely by a shift of cognition can we somersault the negative resistance. Right now my studies feel like a current I arduously paddle against, if merely I adjust my sails I can gain some mileage from this peculiar vessel we call ‘higher education.’ 

I still have so much to learn, I must practice patience--life's greatest lesson. Everything has a lesson, a purpose. Don’t rush it. Time is not as we see time, not in minutes lived but in lessons learned. I must rejoice in the lesson for today.