Passage O soul to India!

Passage O soul to India!

Passage, immediate passage! The blood burns in my veins!

Away O soul! Hoist instantly the anchor!

Cut the hawsers—haul out—shake out every sail!

Have we not stood here like trees in the ground long enough?

Have we not grovel’d here long enough, eating and drinking like mere brutes?

Have we not darken’d and dazed ourselves with books long enough?

Sail forth—steer for the deep waters only,

Reckless O soul, exploring, I with thee, and thou with me,

For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared to go,

And we will risk the ship, ourselves and all.

O my brave soul!

O farther farther sail!

O daring joy, but safe! Are they not all the seas of God?

O farther, farther, farther sail!

--Walt Whitman

“Passage to India”

As fate would have it, I am called back to India. The place where my deepest transformations germinate. It’s not easy quitting a job in your field—with generous PTO, benefits, and a livable schedule—what the hell was I thinking? In this economy? With this much student-loan debt? It would be so much easier to play it safe. Oh but how security eats at my soul! Give me transformative challenge! Give me ecstasy and defeat that break my understanding of self on its backside—shedding another layer of ego and getting closer to the center. If I were to write a letter to my future generations, I would tell them to choose paths that feel right, even if they don’t make sense, even if you don’t have a back-up plan. We have to let go in order for the universe to send us something new. Whenever I feel stuck, it is up to me to break free—with choices, intention. There is a lot of deep work that still needs to be done. But Hopefully I am getting closer. There is no end point though. I have no plan.

Illusory Cheddar

Flying over the Missoula valley, its golden belly punctured by the frosted Bitterroot mountains, a hum of familiarity rose up within me. After over 30 hours of jumping from airport to airport, paroosing the same magazine stalls and munching the same bland breakfast burritos—from Mumbai to Newark to Denver to Montucky— I was officially home.

            Upon exiting the plane, I was enveloped with that ever-familiar brisk mountain air. It filled my lungs harshly, as if the atmosphere could foreshadow the social adjustment to come. I waiting at baggage claim, in Chacos with mehndied toes and a tribal throw from the Nilgiris bundled across my shoulders, praying that my backpack caught all of its legs from the journey. Pack and mangled goat-leather carry-on in hand, I slowly exited the airport, half-expecting my girlfriends to run up to me, shrieking and giddy, champagne in hand. Instead I watched a young family greet their father, a rogue college student hail a cab, and an elderly couple cart suitcases towards their Subaru. I shivered and passed back through the automatic doors, finding a seat inside next to a Big Horn Sheep, fresh from taxidermy. 

            I will admit, it was an anti-climactic arrival home. I patiently waited, observing my surroundings with foreign eyes, overwhelmed with the recurring thought, “this is it. I am home. India is over.” It didn’t stick; it felt like a dream. I am sure most people can attest to this— the feeling of emptiness after you pour yourself into a grand plan, quiet and mounting as falling snow. For months prior to my journey, all that was on my mind was graduation and India. Quite frankly, given the tasks at hand that accompany graduating college a year early, and traveling around to a developing country for 6 months, if I did plan beyond that, I wouldn’t have made it. Self-imposed myopia was my saving grace.

I have been conditioned my whole life to plan, plan, plan. Because whatever cultural script running in our young brains tells us that to have a plan is to have success. We should always be yearning for that higher branch, the better bite, the most impressive lens. Like ropes these expectations constrict themselves around our psyche— from the moment we understand the concept of the self, we are already envisioning how we can morph it to fit into societal ideas of ‘the good.’

As kids, we devour any and every cultural message we can get our hands on, internalizing Manichean representations of the world: good and evil, fat and skinny, liberal and conservative, smart and dumb, right and wrong. In turn, we start to categorize ourselves in relation to this ‘Hollywood’ milieu; the sad thing is that our culture grossly promotes unachievable ideals, which children and young adults will never be able to live up to. And so an entire generation checks themselves into the box that says, ‘I will never be enough.’

            And so we make plans, we set goals, we bite, bite, bite for that illusory cheddar, programming ourselves out of today in search of a glamorous tomorrow. Perhaps we don’t bite our nails; we run five miles at 6am every day; we don’t have that 4^th gin and tonic and have sloppy sex with a stranger; we drive an Audi and decline cheese products with ease. Whatever your platter of insecurities, in this vision of tomorrow you are a better, more desirable person—a worthy person.

            I believe this doctrine of insufficiency to be the nascence of quotidian neurosis in my country. In India, I had to lie to rest this optimal version of ‘Kendall’ and rewire my brain to be content with and also appreciate my present. In surrendering, it was as if two decades of pressure released from my mental shoulders. I became more loving and patient with myself and with others. I recognized the blessing and opportunity in every encounter, however frustrating and menial. Most of all, I learned to listen to myself—to conjure the silence in my soul and open the space for self-exploration and growth.

            “Kenny Strauts!” Katie yelled from her dilapidated red sedan, dubbed ‘Diane.’ Jess jumped out of the passenger seat with pastel balloons as I hobbled with baggage across the street to meet them. We embraced with the ease of friends who’ve abandoned disclaimers in the wake of college drinking antics and went straight to shooting the shit.   

            “So, Jesus Christ girl,” Katie remarked as she manually rolled down her window and lit a cigarette, “you’re back.”

            “I know,” I smirked and nodded, “it’s fuckin nuts.”

            And that is the feeling I had all evening as we shared stories over box-chardonnay and bowls, lamenting over how much we missed each other. I retraced my steps, my belongings—where I left my life 6 months ago, neatly packed in soccer bags and hat boxes. I ceremoniously donned a familiar pair of tights with a statement necklace and hopped on the bus downtown. It was as if I had never left.

            We strolled into our usual watering hole, sat down at our usual table, and ordered our usual drinks. I made a toast to reuniting with my two favorite ladies; they repeatedly welcomed me back. I was truly grateful to be in their presence again. It is funny, how you long for something while you are alone and abroad. At times, there was nothing I wanted more than to just spit-silly-profane-nonsense with these girls over whiskey drinks in a crowded bar—where we pretend the door to the smoking lounge is a veritable catwalk fit for judging other ladies’ attire and/or possible men to bone.

They bear witness to my 20s-hot-mess state and ask no questions. This support network, however flawed and filled with too many substances, is what I craved when I was at my depths in India. Because it is the ultimate comfort— to be out with your friends who will have your back no matter what ill-thought-out rabbit hole you choose to plunge down. So this is was the solidarity I envisioned coming home to.

            “Kendall, you’ve really gotta stop fucking around,” Katie interrupted my welling nostalgia as she clicked a selfie whilst sipping a cucumber marg, “and get snap-chat already.”

            I rolled my eyes in the stench of déjà vu and irony. We had done this merry-go-round many times— her enthusiasm always met with my adamancy to never join another social media cult. My relationship to the twittersphere is the usual love-hate-mesmerized-obsession as my 20-something contemporaries.

I feel like it is an essential part of operating in society in this day and age, while at the same time I lament its alluring velvet vortex—where responding to an email can turn into ‘gypsy-blog-envy’ spirals or morally condemning every female which shows up on your ex’s ‘new friend’ FB scroll. Before I left for India, I had a (in the words of my father) ‘come to Jesus’ moment in which I concluded that Facebook is nothing but a source of negative energy and therefore, vehemently deleted it (Malbec in hand).

            It literally felt like mental shackles had been lifted from my brain; I had unplugged from the matrix. Creating that space made me realize what a toxic crutch facebook is for me—that I have to ‘upkeep’ this Internet version of myself. And in doing so, either radically boost my self-esteem via ‘likes’ or condemn my being due to a wrongly filtered photo without a ‘skinny arm’ pose. I am recognizing ever more how social media fragments my existence and my understanding of myself in the world.  

Back at the ever-lively Tamarac Brewing Company, I was glowing, thankful to be in a setting where I could merely blend in, the music, the language, the clothing, the whole vibe—I was certainly no longer an outsider. But in the strangest sense, I felt like a new anthropologist on assignment. I was observing my surroundings with keen eyes, highlighting cultural nuances with my Indian programmed psyche. Overwhelmed with the social dynamics of a place where most individuals present were born with every luxury, it was hard to reconcile the fact that two, so completely different social biomes could exist on the same planet. And I checked my watch, imagining what my dear friends Devi, or Rishi, or Selma were doing at this very moment and how they would react to this alien realm of privilege and facade.

It was at that moment, in my spliced cultural state, that I realized how tuned out my companions were. After the initial cheers and ‘OMG, I miiiisssed you!’s, everyone unlocked their iphones and plugged into the matrix with feverish intensity, as if every second they were missing an opportunity to document a faux pas of extraordinary proportion.

No one was present at the table; they were plugged in. My mind wandered to bonding with my Indian girlfriends, whom were all ears and eyes and handholding when we were together. When I sat silently at a train stop waiting for the ‘Loco to Chennai Central,’ I did just that—sat silently and waiting. I didn’t fill the space with music, or photo streams, or digital scrabble.

That night at the Tamarac felt anything but genuine compared to my interactions with friends in a (developing, mind you) country unpolluted by selfies and statuses and check-ins’s— Oh My! I can’t help but wonder what this constant buzz, this unremitting influx of advertising, relationship critiquing, and societal messaging is doing for our psyche. What kind of illusory connectivity are these ‘networks’ building? Was I witnessing the truth of Western solidarity in friendships—expressed through snapchats, and FB likes, and tags instead of face-to-face investment?

After a month or so in India, I reactivated my Facebook, obviously to spy on my friends and family whom I missed so much. But there, it wasn’t so much of a problem because there were a limited number of times when I had access to internet or Wi-Fi. When I could, I scrolled, typed, liked, tweeted, grammed to my heart’s desires, but then I would leave the internet café and be done with it. My realm of real-life and social media were kept separate, with the virtual world encompassing a miniscule part of my day-to-day thought patterns and interactions. This was manageable for me, and I enjoyed it.

The difference of being back here is the extent of connectivity. Literally everywhere you go, you can be plugged in. With Wi-Fi practically being a rudiment to any thriving public (and private) space, why wouldn’t you want the latest updates? It seems the line between real and simulated social interaction is blurred immensely; many of my generation are so consumed with their online avatars that they literally end up viewing their lives through the filters on their instagrams instead of experiencing some truly awesome memories in their raw, coherent state.

It is clear that a new age has dawned with a whole generation growing up on iphones and macbooks. I am extremely curious as to how psychological research is responding to such societal changes. Whether you call it a smartphone addiction, social media angst, FOMO (fear of missing out), mobophobia, the like thereof—we have to admit there is something seriously going on. Allow me to spit off some stats.

According to Psychology Today, on average Americans check their smartphones for messages 150 times a day—that’s about once every six and a half minutes. Based on Digital Insights data, Facebook has 1.15 billion registered users— mind you that is over 1/7^th the population on the entire planet— with 23% of that 1.15 billion who check their account at least 5 times per day.

Daniel Sarewitz, in an op-ed from The Oregonian, gives some riveting opinions,

“So what if your attention span has been fragmented into nanoseconds, if you measure your social life by Facebook friends, your professional worth by Google hits, and the worst words you can imagine are “airplane mode”? We are all one-marshmallow OCD narcissists, granted by our devices the magic of comprehensive instant gratification, of self-reinforcing worldviews, of control over the daily minutia of our fates and fortunes. To not be irrevocably addicted to our smartphones would be senseless.”

Okay so we admit it, we are all logged in all the time. Why—because we can! But how does this affect us psychologically? A 2012 study published in the journal Cyberpsychology, Behavior, and Social Networking, for example, found that the longer people spent on Facebook each week, the more they agreed that everyone else was happier and had better lives. Clinical Psychologist Craig Malkin described similar observations in an interview with NPR, commenting that the incessant consumption of projected and idealized images from social media results in rampant envy, social distress, hinders self-understanding and forecloses real-life intimacy.

It is well known that social media provides us with is a false sense of community. Even Abraham Maslow included ‘belongingness’ in his (ever-holy) hierarchy of needs, among the instinct for food, shelter, and self-actualization. Pre-google-circles, we satisfied this need through kin-networks—close friends and family in our immediate existence whom we would get personal acceptance feedback from in everyday life. The Internet has expanded this realm of feedback to infinite bounds, such that our brain feels the need to retain acceptance in the same style of Hollywood stars and highschool classmates who you never liked but ‘made it big.’ If you don’t have their sprawl of following and attention splattered across your feed, the message is, once again, ‘you are worthless.’

Theodore Roosevelt once said: “comparison is the thief of joy.” I couldn’t agree more that what is most damaging about social media is in fact its very purpose: to peek in on others’ lives. While the intention may be ‘staying in touch,’ one can’t help but internalize those images of perfection or perhaps a lack of ‘following’, even if underneath we know that no one is unblemished and airwave fanbases are superficial. 

Elliot Panek, of the Universit of Michigan, says of Facebook, "It's about curating your own image, how you are seen, and also checking on how others respond to this image. Middle-aged adults usually have already formed their social selves,” while the y-generation looks to this media for answers about ‘who we’re supposed to be.’ Perhaps my generation is more vulnerable to the dark side of social media, seeing as we are not fully formed humans.

Carl Rogers is one of my favorite psychologists—a humanist who believed that a fully functioning being had to have a coherent sense of self. He believed that all suffering and neurosis was a result of the gap between our actual selves, flaws and all, and the ‘self’ we wish we were, our perceived self. The key to content and fulfillment in life, according to Rogers, is addressing the whole landscape— thorns and all— and showering what you encounter with radical self-acceptance.

Personally, I have found this technique of, what I call, ‘loving your uglies,’ to be extremely transformative. But the catch here, is that you need the gift of age and hindsight to fully explore the dimensions of these multiple self-concepts we brew up. I fear that social media engenders the creation of selves beyond Mr. Roger’s dichotomy, which is tough enough to navigate alone.

Back to Panek’s comments: "social networking in general allows the user a great deal of control over how he or she is presented to and perceived by peers and other users,” ever-widening the gap between the real and perceived self. Malkin also argued that young individuals who get into the habit of always ‘touching-up’ their image, hiding their flaws, may develop a reticence towards intimate relationships with others and themselves. If we are constantly refraining from acknowledging our vulnerabilities, our humanness, how can we ever grow into a flourishing, whole human?

I was very quiet the first few weeks home. My internal dialogue-cogs were incessantly grinding as I observed those around me— the way they approached life, problems, desires, needs. I have been wrestling with multiple selves for a long time. During my self-exploration in India, there were delicate layers of my Americanness that I shed, which I wasn’t made aware of until I came home and had the urge to put those covers on again. So with each day I confront engrained neurosis, at times feeling like a conditioned rat pulling the lever in response to the pressures of society. And so it is my task to unburden each reflex through that every-god-damn-day self-awareness I always talk about. Starting with monitoring (and stopping) my interaction with the social media realm.

As of now, the jury is still out on whether or not my reunion with my beloved Mac is a blessing or a curse for my spiritual wellbeing. The most I can do is acknowledge this presence and, as with everything, it will be enmeshed in my lifelong sojourn to find that alluring notion of balance.

One of my favorite quotes from Mr. Emerson goes something like this: ne te quaesiveris extra—translation— do not seek yourself outside yourself. When I look to others for approval, or for comparison on how I should be living, I will only recreate an inauthentic vision of what my life ‘should’ be instead of simply glorifying what it ‘is.’ 

Photo-cred--Dust lookbook

                      

Be Ourselves

I must first say, however American and idiosyncratic this sounds, that it feels amazing to be back on my laptop, my generation's source of identity--where we filter the abstract influx of media messaging with our tabs and bookmark bars. That said, I am once again excited to share a post from one of my favorite sites, Brain Pickings, talking about 20-year-old Hunter S. Thompson's advice on living an authentic life and basically, not giving a fuck. Enjoy.

To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles…”
And indeed, that IS the question: whether to float with the tide, or to swim for a goal. It is a choice we must all make consciously or unconsciously at one time in our lives. So few people understand this! Think of any decision you’ve ever made which had a bearing on your future: I may be wrong, but I don’t see how it could have been anything but a choice however indirect — between the two things I’ve mentioned: the floating or the swimming.

The answer — and, in a sense, the tragedy of life — is that we seek to understand the goal and not the man. We set up a goal which demands of us certain things: and we do these things. We adjust to the demands of a concept which CANNOT be valid. When you were young, let us say that you wanted to be a fireman. I feel reasonably safe in saying that you no longer want to be a fireman. Why? Because your perspective has changed. It’s not the fireman who has changed, but you.

Every man is the sum total of his reactions to experience. As your experiences differ and multiply, you become a different man, and hence your perspective changes. This goes on and on. Every reaction is a learning process; every significant experience alters your perspective.

So it would seem foolish, would it not, to adjust our lives to the demands of a goal we see from a different angle every day? How could we ever hope to accomplish anything other than galloping neurosis?

The answer, then, must not deal with goals at all, or not with tangible goals, anyway. It would take reams of paper to develop this subject to fulfillment. God only knows how many books have been written on “the meaning of man” and that sort of thing, and god only knows how many people have pondered the subject. (I use the term “god only knows” purely as an expression.)* There’s very little sense in my trying to give it up to you in the proverbial nutshell, because I’m the first to admit my absolute lack of qualifications for reducing the meaning of life to one or two paragraphs.

To put our faith in tangible goals would seem to be, at best, unwise. So we do not strive to be firemen, we do not strive to be bankers, nor policemen, nor doctors. WE STRIVE TO BE OURSELVES.

But don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean that we can’t BE firemen, bankers, or doctors—but that we must make the goal conform to the individual, rather than make the individual conform to the goal. In every man, heredity and environment have combined to produce a creature of certain abilities and desires—including a deeply ingrained need to function in such a way that his life will be MEANINGFUL. A man has to BE something; he has to matter.

As I see it then, the formula runs something like this: a man must choose a path which will let his ABILITIES function at maximum efficiency toward the gratification of his DESIRES. In doing this, he is fulfilling a need (giving himself identity by functioning in a set pattern toward a set goal) he avoids frustrating his potential (choosing a path which puts no limit on his self-development), and he avoids the terror of seeing his goal wilt or lose its charm as he draws closer to it (rather than bending himself to meet the demands of that which he seeks, he has bent his goal to conform to his own abilities and desires).

In short, he has not dedicated his life to reaching a pre-defined goal, but he has rather chosen a way of life he KNOWS he will enjoy. The goal is absolutely secondary: it is the functioning toward the goal which is important. And it seems almost ridiculous to say that a man MUST function in a pattern of his own choosing; for to let another man define your own goals is to give up one of the most meaningful aspects of life — the definitive act of will which makes a man an individual.

A man who procrastinates in his CHOOSING will inevitably have his choice made for him by circumstance. So if you now number yourself among the disenchanted, then you have no choice but to accept things as they are, or to seriously seek something else. But beware of looking for goals: look for a way of life. Decide how you want to live and then see what you can do to make a living WITHIN that way of life. But you say, “I don’t know where to look; I don’t know what to look for.”

And there’s the crux. Is it worth giving up what I have to look for something better? I don’t know—is it? Who can make that decision but you? But even by DECIDING TO LOOK, you go a long way toward making the choice.

I’m not trying to send you out “on the road” in search of Valhalla, but merely pointing out that it is not necessary to accept the choices handed down to you by life as you know it. There is more to it than that — no one HAS to do something he doesn’t want to do for the rest of his life. 

-----Hunter S. Thompson

A Reflection:

            Why is it that us creative types feel so much more inspired when we are in the midst of turmoil or ‘newness’? Coming home I am faced with ‘the OTHER EYE’ and all its buzzing questions grounded in our societies’ idea that plans equal wellbeing.

The only hard part is that I spent all of my time in India denying plan making, surrendering to the wave of life before me—and it worked. So the part of me that found peace in not knowing and simply living is being marched to the guillotine by those American scripts, “What will you do next? What is your plan? School or work or boyfriends or babies?”

 I feel like this urge to ‘have our shit together,’ makes people negate the space for confusion and the unknown in our lives. No wonder artists drink. I welcome this space as a transition, but also as a progression. I believe that unknown is powerful, surrendering to it opens yourself up to the possibilities of unexpected beauties. While in India this perspective was respected by my fellow comrades and travelers, in America people just think I am smoking too much weed.

            Before I got on the plane from Mumbai, a friend of mine quelled my worries, “Kendall, you are going home, there should be nothing scary about it. Everyone has to at some point, its good for the soul. If you don’t go home, you’d be running away from how you’ve changed.”

            And I realized, without going home, the baseline of living, how else would I be able to measure and appreciate the growth?

            Amidst all of this readjustment, I can’t help but wonder, ‘are we so preoccupied with ‘who’ we will become that we forget to BE OURSELVES?’

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.  

The Farm

It's a balancing act

Jergu and Verakka

Distributing compost to newly planted trees, baby on the hip

Gettin ready for the day! 

Selma and her son, Rehan

We plant trees (about 4,000 in the first week), harvest crops, weed, pluck caterpillars off plants, haul compost, process grains, sit in the shade chewing tambac, and do it all over again. It has been incredible to get my hands in the dirt. I have become aware of my lifelong amnesia with regards to food processes--how and where I get my life's energy. I have learned to recognize fruits, veggies, grains, legumes, spices, and herbs, which I have been consuming my whole life but could only envision the aisle they occupy in the local grocery store: cashew, black peppercorn, pomegranate, eucalyptus, cilantro, eggplant, tomato, millet, peanuts, spinach, cauliflower, cucumber, allspice, tumeric, bay leaves, curry plants, et al.

After the first few weeks, once my body woke up from its city-induced stupor, my days at the farm began to blend into a harmonious waltz of working and eating, working and eating, working and more eating--and isn't that just the bare-bones essence of life? 

I feel as if a certain meditative effect occurs with this type of existence, being so involved in the production and consumption processes of mere bodily functioning. When I sit down to a meal I can envision the patch of ground from which this vegetable grew; I can feel the aching muscles in my back and the blisters on my hand regaining the energy they expended to produce this meal; I have made a family with the women whose hands grew, harvested, and cooked this energy. I can fully understand now why organic produce costs so much--the human costs it takes to successfully and carefully grow these plants and get them to market is incredible. Luckily, the people here get more than a livable wage and are very well-off for farmhands. 

During the day when my back hurts and the mosquitos are eating me alive and the greenhouse feels like a sauna, I can't help but think of all those people who are slaving away to run the food industry who have to work in much harsher conditions for insufficient wages. I swear if anyone came and spent one week here at this farm they would never again bitch about the cost of food, once they realize that wholesome food is not something that just appears out of thin air. 

Do you ever once, while you are pushing your cart down the aisles of your local Safeway, contemplate the hands that watered and plucked those spinach leaves? We take our food for granted, because we don't even have a connection to this essential life energy in the way that nature intended. Food takes the backseat to money and pilates and WalMart and advertising. 

What if we actually cultivated or personally cooked everything we consumed? I know, it sounds a little "animal, vegetable, miracle," and somewhat insane given our culture. But being in a place where that is the norm. Everyone in this village grows their own crops, have cows for dairy and raise livestock if they eat meat. Things they buy from town consist of bulk oil, wheat flour, rice, sugar, and random spices.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

This is what a day in the life of the women I work with looks like: 

You wake-up before dawn, when the rooster makes its first movements--, make multiple trips to the well, filling up buckets of water for the day. Milk the goat, or cow, or both. come back to the house, start a fire with wood you gathered last night on the floor in the corner of your one bedroom shack; the stove is a pyramid of rocks above the small fire upon which pots and pans can be heated. Breastfeed your rousing babies. Walk to the allspice trees to gather leaves for tea. Pour some water,milk, and chopped tea leaves in a pot, make chai for your husband. Warm some water for your loved ones to bathe with in the bushes. Put some rice on the fire. Walk back into the forest to gather vegetables for breakfast and lunch--green beans, tomato, eggplant, onion, cilantro, coconut, lime, passionfruit, greens, green chillies, okra, curry leaves, mustard seeds (this could take up to an hour to find the right fruiting plants in a permaculture plot). 

Come back, start to make breakfast-- chappati: take a bunch of wheat flour, water, salt, and roll out dough ball pancakes. Set aside. Make whatever subje you had planned. Chop up all your veggies, simmer them in a curry broth with onion, garlic, green chillies. Feed your crying babies. Feed your husband--another round of chai for him. Clean up the dishes by hand with a bucket of water outside your house with crushed soap leaves you gathered last week. Get your older kids washed and dressed for school. Walk them to the bus. Come back. Eat whatever food is left over for yourself. Take the rice for lunch off the fire. Make some tambac to chew--betel nut and leaf, with a dab of tobacco. Take the goats and cows to the fields to graze, let the chickens out with the baby on your hip. Come back. Check to see if the electricity is on at its assigned hour--from 8-9. It is. Fight with the neighbors for the community plug to charge your family mobile. 

At 9am, it is time for work. Labor all day in the fields, gardens, and greenhouses. Planting, hoeing, sowing, harvesting, plucking, stripping, digging, all with your baby on the hip or suckling the breast while you crouch to weed. At 2pm you head back to the house and prepare lunch. Chop. Simmer. Roll. Beat. Serve. Wash. Repeat. You always eat last, usually around 2:45 after everyone around you is good and fed. Sit for 15min, chatting with the neighbors or chewing betel nut, making sure your husbands chai cup is full. At 3pm, work starts again. So its babies and bosoms and blossoms and bounty for another three hours, till 6pm, when you will head home again to begin your slew of chores.

 Refill water buckets if you do washing or sweep the dirt floors of your home, clean the ash piles out of your makeshift kitchen, make chai. Before it gets dark you head to the pasture to retrieve the animals, sometimes your little kiddos will help shepherd with you, the young calves are the hardest to guide. On the way you will gather veggies, fruits, and spices from the jungle or gardens, depending on what catches your eye. 

Around 7:30 or 8, you begin to make dinner. By this time your babies are grumpy and are most definitely vying for a spot in your lap, they will suckle you while you crouch over the fire or shave fresh coconut for a chutney. After your baby is drugged with breast milk you place them in a dupatta you hung from the rafters to sleep--a makeshift crib. Anytime between 9 or 10 you will have dinner ready. If there are guests you would have already served them a cornucopia of fried snacks, biscuits, and sweet tea while they sit crisscrossed on your floor, sharing pains and gains and gossip. You serve the guests first, heaping mounds of food which they have to finish. You will force a second serving on them and offer a third. 

Amidst the chitchat you try to calm your children down and get them to sleep despite the constant racket that is communal living. You clear all the dishes, sweep the floor, and wait for your husband, who is watching TV two shacks over or who is drinking at the village Tasmac. He'll come home for food around 10 or 11, after serving him chai you will be permitted to eat the leftovers. At this point you will make any preparations for the morning and prepare to sleep. You have already rolled out mats on the floor for your children and husband. After washing yourself with cold water outside, you lay down in your nightie next to your husband, placing your hand on your pregnant belly and fall into dreams of Bollywood stars only to be snapped back to reality in 5 hours start all over again. 

I now challenge you to imagine the kind of life you would live if you had to grow all of your own food-- think about that while you contemplate spending the extra dollar or two on your fair-trade, local, and/or organic foodstuffs. 

Nuggets of West Bengal

Some pics from the last few days in the intoxicatingly exotic post capital of the British Raj---Kolkata, in West Bengal. After a 35 hour jam-packed train ride up the eastern coast of India--through rural Andhra Pradesh and Odisha, I arrived here with colleagues from MCCSS to help reintegrate a woman who had been trafficked with her family, whom she hadn't seen for 9 years. These images capture the dizzying alleyways, spicy Bengali cuisine, vibrant markets, and crumbling edifices of British reign.

Rice paddy fields in Odissa--views from the train

Channa masala and yummy train snacks

A trafficking survivor and her family after reintegration

Fruit markets in Kolkata

Queen Victoria Memorial--Kolkata

Yummy Bengali thalhi

Street wanderin--Kolkata

New Market Square--Kolkata

Queen Victoria's gate

Waitin for the train

Alleyways upon alleyways

College St. second-hand book market

books for days

More Bengali food!!!!!--dhal bhat n' subje allllllday

street capture

check-out the cabs