Community & Fitting In

I've been in San Antonio, TX now for nearly three weeks and my plan is to stick around for another week or so. My hosts and friends here have shown me a degree of hospitality that gives new meaning to the word. My experiences here have been closely connected with Christians in both the Mennonite and Catholic faiths and I've attended services with both congregations. While I feel much more at home with the Mennonites, I'm so glad to have experienced the ACTS Catholic Mens' Retreat last weekend.

I had a hard time connecting to some of the Catholic ritual and tradition. The reciting of the Our Father and Hail Mary prayers, for example, stirred no deep, spiritual feelings in me. The experience of Confession, one of the seven Holy Sacraments, was very powerful for me. I was able to share some heavy burdens with a wonderful priest who helped me achieve a greater degree of forgiveness and self-acceptance than I imagined was possible. The men I met opened up to one another and became vulnerable in a very real and beautiful way. I was honored to witness and experience small pieces of their lives as they shared their stories and struggles. I also found them to be extremely supportive of my spiritual journey.

After returning to the home of Paul and Katherine Hess, my generous hosts who invited me to participate in the ACTS retreat, I received an invitation from Hannah Eash and her community in SE San Antonio to spend some time living with them. I took them up on the offer and the experience has been outstanding. The Mennonite Church they attend just finished a three week series of sermons, discussions, and intentional prayer time based on Henri Nouwen's book, "Reaching Out." I flew through the book in order to take part in some of the discussions and learn what Nouwen had to say about the three movements of the spiritual life: from loneliness to solitude, from hostility to hospitality, and from illusion to prayer. These are all ideas that I've spent much time contemplating and Nouwen's reflections offered me much more focused and refined food for thought. I want to look at the latter two movements.

First, moving from hostility to hospitality is something that I am currently experiencing in the "Vine House" community that has been hosting me for the last week. Nouwen's call is for community to be a place that invites in a stranger, not to be changed by or to conform to the way of the community, but to have space to find a more authentic way of being. That is exactly what I've found here. This colorful, comfortable house has been opened up to me as the three residents, Phillip, Hannah, and Michelle all go to work during the day. I am free to come and go as I please, to take part in meals or not, to be engaged or not. However, I also feel very welcomed and wanted here and there is a profound level of mutual respect and care for and between everyone in the community.

Now I'm comparing this new sense of community with some of the teachings I learned in Australia on the Divine Love Path. I just read a new blog by Mary, one of the teachers of Divine Love, all about our need to fit in and how this aching feeling pushes and pulls us all over as we seek to find "our place" and "our people." These are terms I've used often in the last few weeks as I try to explain to people what it is that I'm looking for. I want to find my place. And what does that mean? I want to fit in. And what does that mean? I don't want to feel the painful emotion of not belonging. I feel queasy as I write this because I really don't know what to do with these emotions. In the last few days I've been feeling more confident about eventually returning to Indiana, working on a community garden project, and then going out to Gould Farm to do some work. But when I spend some time reading and listening to Divine Love teachings, I realize just how deeply my motivations come from fear. The fear of not being accepted by friends and family. The fear of not belonging to a place. The fear of not having enough food or money or safety or support. The fear of feeling my emotions.

Nouwen points to God and the movement from illusion to prayer. I hold on to some hope that I can be part of normal society, maybe be part of the Mennonite Church and carve out a little life for myself somewhere like San Antonio. But God is not really at the center of these plans and desires. I say that I want to know my God and experience her love, and yet my actions prove otherwise. I have been using cookies and other foods to numb out the painful feelings and I have such minimal desires to really examine myself, my motivations, and my true emotions. I am doing better today and I want to move forward with stronger, purer intentions to rely on my Divine Mother's Love instead for comfort and healing. Nouwen suggests that prayer is something that cannot be separated from community life; that in order to move from illusion to prayer we must engage in this Divine Communion privately and always within the context of a supportive, prayerful community. I love this idea and it makes some sense to me. It doesn't necessarily contradict the Divine Love teachings either.

My future plans are to move to the home of Lisa and Clinton on Wednesday and to stay there for at least another week. I don't have any definite plans for the future, but I would still like to see the Grand Canyon and possibly visit some other friends and folks in Colorado. I have some fear about going west and out into the cold desert. Is my sleeping bag warm enough? Will I have enough food and water? These will be good tests of my faith and I pray that I continue to walk with God. I'll end with this Hesychast Prayer that Nouwen suggests, "Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy upon me." Although the language is not something I'm accustomed to, I have found it powerful and humbling.

Divine Signs? Changing Plans.

With a heart that is both light and surrendered, I have decided not to go to Mexico. This decision has been difficult and painful to make, but I feel confident that it was the right choice. I have been in San Antonio now for nearly one week and it's been full of gifts and lessons that I'm determined to accept.

On the night I wrote my last post, I was invited to the home of some young Mennonite folks who were playing a board game. There I met a handful of wonderful, energetic, and authentic people who welcomed me in, fed me delicious popcorn made with an air-popper, and taught me to play a fun strategy board game. I also met Hannah Eash, a woman with who I share much in common. She grew up just down the street from my grandmother and about 3 miles from my own childhood home. She and I rode the same bus together to elementary school and her family once purchased a horse from mine. She and I both graduated from college in 2007 with degrees in Peace Studies and Spanish (she went to Goshen) and she studied for a semester in Quito, Ecuador where I did my study abroad. The final great coincidence appeared as I was talking to her at the San Antonio Mennonite Church potluck and noticed something peculiar about her jewelry. "You're not going to believe this," I said, "but my mom made your earrings."

That morning I also attended Sunday School and enjoyed a great conversation about the difference between and transition from "Loneliness to Solitude" from Henri Nouwen's book "'Reaching Out." I had a lot to say and afterward I enjoyed talking with Lisa and Clinton Graham, a young couple who recently moved to Texas from Kentucky. Lisa said that they had an empty, efficiency apartment behind their house that I would be welcome to stay in if I ever wanted to. I had just been listening to a Divine Love teaching on being open to the gifts God is offering us, and I couldn't very well ignore this one. I took them up on it.

Between the transition from Jim's to the Grahams' home on a Tuesday afternoon, I spent some time at the Catholic Worker House where Jim, my host, met Marilyn, my college roommate, 8 years ago and where Dorothy Day's granddaughter, Martha, gave a talk on MLK day. I was inspired by Day's commitment to the poor, to living a life of service and simplicity, and her belief in Holy Anarchism. Although one of her first political acts was to fight for womens' suffrage in Washington DC, an action for which she was arrested, humiliated, and abused, she never once voted in an election. I was challenged by some of the guests at the CWH and felt simultaneous desires to run away from and ignore their suffering and to move toward them, to live with them and try to understand their suffering in order to know greater depths of love. Between the volunteers and the guests I noticed a division that is probably inevitable: there are the givers and the takers, those in need and those who feel abundant. I still don't can't be sure on which side of that line I fall. As a dumpster diver, an eater in soup kitchens, one who prefers to stay out of hotels and restaurants, I gather my sense of abundance from what is given freely. Are these gifts from God I'm collecting? The pecans I gathered from beneath a tree yesterday surely felt like Divine Providence. I suppose I am both. I am broken and in need of healing, but I also have some ability and desire to offer strength, refuge, and help to others. I'm not good at it. But I want to know this generous side of love. During Martha's talk at the CWH I met Katherine Hess. She respected that I had studied peace and that I was on a spiritual journey, and she also invited me to stay in her home, about 15 miles north of San Antonio.

I decided to stay with the Grahams for a day while I tried to make a decision about Mexico. I wandered around the Alamo and, in addition to taking in some history, I met two men who were to be my next sign. The first was a professional photographer who approached me because I was carrying my big pack and taking a photo of the Alamo. He was kind, respectable, and curious about my travels. His advice was to stay away from Mexico and to go to the most beautiful place in the USA: Havasu Falls, AZ. I thanked him for his advice, although I wasn't convinced. I hopped on the bus and there I met a man who was a professional chef, also very friendly and interested in my travels. Without knowing anything about my conversation 15 minutes earlier, he said, "Stay out of Mexico. You ought to go to this place near the Grand Canyon called Havasu Falls. It changed my life." OK. I'm listening.

Because Lisa and Clinton had already promised the apartment to Clinton's parents for this week, I was only able to stay with them for a day. Fortunately, Katherine Hess from the CWH said that I could stay with her and her family for a few days. I spent yesterday wandering around San Antonio's beautiful, winding River Walk and listened to a guided tour of the Alamo's history. I have more respect for Texas now and I'm glad to be a bit more informed about the state's rich and colorful history. I'd also like to learn more about David Crockett, a national hero and volunteer at the unfortunate battle of the Alamo. I remember watching a black and white tv series about him as a child, and that I had a coon-skin cap I loved to wear.

As I walked to meet Paul Hess at a bus stop near downtown, I saw a long-distance Mexican bus company with destinations all over Mexico and the US. My heart jumped. I realized that I could make the decision right then and there to hop on a $95 bus to Guadalajara and still make the gathering in Mexico. I asked the clerk about prices and times and then sat there in the terminal for a long time, thinking, writing, and seeking clarity. Finally, I knew that it would be better to stay in Texas. I want to get to know Hannah and folks from the Mennonite Church and the CWH and I have a feeling that San Antonio has much to teach me. Also, cilantro is really cheap here and the ground is littered with pecans in some places. I'm enjoying the sunshine too.

I looked forward to the gathering in Mexico as a time for intense spiritual reflection and development and missing that was one of my regrets in choosing not to go. However, I've been reading Thomas Merton's Autobiography, "Seven Story Mountain" and gaining a whole new respect for the Catholic Church and Christianity. The Hess's are a liberal Catholic family and I've enjoyed getting to know them through their stories of family and faith. Last night they invited me to a three day Catholic mens' retreat that begins this evening and ends with a Mass on Sunday. I'm excited to learn more about Catholic Faith as I spend these days focusing on God and exploring my spirituality. In addition to inviting me to the retreat, they offered me a scholarship to waive the $150 registration fee. I feel blessed.

Wandering South Again

On the 26th anniversary of my birth I set out for Paoli, Indiana as a passenger in my younger brother

Andrew's car, along with his girlfriend, Jackie and his dog Greta. He took me to the home of my Aunt Becky, Uncle Bill, and cousins Kyle, Lily, and Erin, and family pets Peaches the dog and Chumly the cat in southern Indiana. I stayed there for a couple days before continuing my journey down toward New Orleans. I feel such a strong connection to their family and I want to return to Paoli's hills and simple, quiet lifestyle, but not quite yet.When David Young drove down from North Manchester to pick me up, he let me know that our route didn't have to

be direct to New Orleans and that I could make suggestions for any place I'd like to stop along the way. I knew right away that I wanted to go to Gethsemani, the monasetery in Trappist, Kentucky where Thomas Merton spent much of his life. Merton, a Catholic Trappist monk, is one of my favorite writers and although we arrived just after dark, I was humbled and awed by the massive, simple sanctuary, the robed monks, and the deep silence of a place created solely for humans to connect more intimately with the Divine. As David and I sat in the back of of the long sanctuary with towering, vaulted ceilings, a single hooded monk walked slowly into view near the alter, knelt in reverence, and began walking slowly toward us. I began to cry and my quiet sobs echoed and mingled with the organ music he practiced a song, apparently just for us. As we walked back out into the chilly night, I noticed that all visitors had to walk through a small graveyard that serves not only as the entrance to the monastery, but as a stark reminder of our true nature and fate. Death is the destiny of these fleshy vessels. May I remember that and maintain my focus on what is eternal.

I took over driving and after a couple hundred miles I had to work hard to ignore a very distressing sound. When I could no longer ignore the sound and I saw smoke rolling out from behind the explorer, I decided to pull over. The left tire of the utility trailer we were pulling had long ago disappeared and I had ground the rim down almost all the way to the hub. Fortunately, we were very close to an exit, so we drove to the nearest gas station at around 10:30 at night. Even more fortunate for us, there was a mechanic open right there and he fixed us up with a spare tire in under 30 minutes. About 15 miles down the road, our good fortune gave way along with the new tire and David had to drive on the rim to the next gas station where we would stay for the night. The next morning we got back on the road and the rest of the trip to New Orleans was pleasantly uneventful.

I had considered the Big Easy as a place where I might spend a few months or more working, volunteering, or soul searching. I did some of those things while I was there, but I didn't feel a strong connection to the place. It's a fascinating, colorful city full of history and life. There is still a lot of wreckage from the hurricane and neighborhoods that were once bustling centers of activity are now full of vacant lots that are grown up to jungle height and density with weeds and trees. New Orleans is a watery, wet place with lots of rain and rivers and canals running everywhere. In the two weeks I spent there I did see some nice weather, but winter is clearly not the best time to visit. I spent some time volunteering to hang drywall and do some mudding at a housing project in St. Bernard Parish, just outside the city of New Orleans. I enjoyed parts of the work and wouldn't mind doing more of it, but I knew that I was being called to something else.

In moments of clarity, humility, and connection to God, I felt that Mexico was calling me. I felt a desire to go and teach both English and Spanish mixed with some of the Divine Truth I have learned in the last year. I want to be a force for good in the world and I know that I love to teach language. I'm sure that I can combine these things and I think that Sayulita might be a good place to try it out. I decided that I would try to make it to the 7777 Ajna gathering near Tepic, Nayarit on the 23rd of January, and I began to look for rides to Texas.

I caught a Craigslist ride to Austin with Jessie, a woman from Maine who is an activist, cheesemaker, farmer, and who slaughters of own animals for meat and is learning to use horses for logging. We also picked up Bo Champagne, a man from Baton Rouge who is a renowned racquetball player and coach. Bo was going to Austin to see one of his ex-students and there I was invited to stay in the very comfortable home of a man who is a lobbyist for the tobacco companies. He used to be a gun lobbyist for the NRA, but tobacco companies pay better. It was interesting to hear his perspective on the work he does and his belief is that he is defending freedom. He admits that he's defending the peoples' freedom to make a very stupid decision, but it is freedom nonetheless. I really can't disagree, although I would find the work pretty distasteful.

Yesterday I walked around Austin with my backpack and without much of a plan, except that I might either go watch a racquetball tournament where Bo would be a referee or that I might start hitching down to San Antonio. I was walking along singing "Streets of Laredo" when I ran into a guy walking around and playing his guitar and singing. Together we sang that old favorite country standard as he read the chords off his i-phone, and a homeless man sat down next to us as we finished the song. The guitar player and I listened to his sad story as I took in the image of this man with awful red sores on his face, snot perpetually running down his long mustache and over to his dirty beard. I stayed and listened long after the guitar player walked away, and I began to cry as I asked Andy if I could pray with him. He said yes, and after I finished the prayer my tears poured out on the sidewalk. Why is the world so cruel? Why can't Andy stop drinking and get his life together? Why do I have so much privilege? Why am I so afraid of suffering? I sat and cried alone on 6th street for awhile after Andy walked away.

Eventually I made my way to the Interstate 35 overpass with a handmade sign for San Antonio and stuck out my thumb. I only had to wait about 20 minutes before an F350 stopped long enough for me to run up, throw my pack in the bed, and climb in. I had a great 2 hour conversation with three Mexican guys, all illegal immigrants, and all happy that I spoke Spanish. Our talk ranged from family to the injustice and unfairness of world history and my white American privilege to a fun and engaging lesson in English language that reminded me how much I love to teach. After a quick fix of a leaky roof in a San Antonio suburb, they dropped me off at the home of Jim Grossnickle-Batterton, from where I'm currently blogging.

Jim is a friend of my best friend Marilyn and he and I are both quiet spiritual seekers. He's 10 years older than me and has a composed, calm, self-assured nature that I hope to achieve in my life. I'll probably stay here until Monday or Tuesday and then I'm headed down to cross the border at Laredo.

Some of my persistent, nagging thoughts of late are about the right and wrong of leaving Elkhart when I did. I felt so overwhelmed there and I wonder if I'm just running away from my problems, or if I really needed to get out of there to continue soul searching and getting to know myself. I do feel a lot lighter now that I'm back on the road. My diet has improved and moved closer to being all raw and I'm excited to get into a climate with a greater abundance of tropical fruits. Papaya! I also wonder about the Divine Love Path and the experiences I had in Australia. To what and to whom is my allegiance? I'd like to say that it is to God, but I'm not writing this for God. I'm writing it for me and for you. I think about whether to return to Indiana and finish the garden project I started, or to move toward something that feels better for me. I'm not too worried at the moment. I've got a warm place to stay, food to eat, and a destination in mind.

Recently my grandfather, Jim Simons, rode his Harley Davidson to Laredo, Texas simply because he loves this song. As a lover of the song, I'm excited and honored that I'll be walking those streets and singing it very soon.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tSzfWLlvlAE

As I walked out on the streets of Laredo.
As I walked out on Laredo one day,
I spied a poor cowboy wrapped in white linen,
Wrapped in white linen as cold as the clay.

"I can see by your outfit that you are a cowboy."
These words he did say as I boldly walked by.
"Come an' sit down beside me an' hear my sad story.
"I'm shot in the breast an' I know I must die."

"It was once in the saddle, I used to go dashing.
"Once in the saddle, I used to go gay.
"First to the card-house and then down to Rose's.
"But I'm shot in the breast and I'm dying today."

"Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin.
"Six dance-hall maidens to bear up my pall.
"Throw bunches of roses all over my coffin.
"Roses to deaden the clods as they fall."

"Then beat the drum slowly, play the Fife lowly.
"Play the dead march as you carry me along.
"Take me to the green valley, lay the sod o'er me,
"I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong."

"Then go write a letter to my grey-haired mother,
"An' tell her the cowboy that she loved has gone.
"But please not one word of the man who had killed me.
"Don't mention his name and his name will pass on."

When thus he had spoken, the hot sun was setting.
The streets of Laredo grew cold as the clay.
We took the young cowboy down to the green valley,
And there stands his marker, we made, to this day.

We beat the drum slowly and played the Fife lowly,
Played the dead march as we carried him along.
Down in the green valley, laid the sod o'er him.
He was a young cowboy and he said he'd done wrong.

Creature Comfort

Today I went across the street to explore a swamp where I used to play in my childhood. The dry bed of the swamp, usually home to about a foot of murky water, was testimony to the low rainfall of recent months. I walked over the spongy, black humus, never sinking more than an inch or two into the damp ground. Clear afternoon sunlight poured into the dry swamp, lighting up old, fallen trees and the earliest autumn leaves turning subtly from green to yellow and orange.



I was wondering about the creatures that occupied this wetland when it was full of water and what they might be doing now that it had dried up. Then I heard what that sounded like thousands of wet tadpoles writhing in the mud, gasping for water. And that's what I found. It was fascinating and heartbreaking to watch them suffering, and I felt an urgent need to do something, to help them. I picked up a handful of those that were still wiggling and rushed them back home to put them in a bucket of water. They furiously swam about and then died because the water was way too cold for them. Does that make me a murderer? Disheartened, I took a break and wondered what to do.



Plan B: I would transport them from the swamp across the road to the swamp down below our house and hope they wouldn't mind a drop in elevation of about 100 feet. I found that some in my earlier bucket of dead tadpoles had miraculously been revived, and I immediately set off into the lower wetland. Before long I was traipsing through a similarly dry swamp, but this time through dense brush, small trees, and any number of stinging, poisonous plants. The tadpoles weren't looking good after being sloshed around for 30 minutes as I sought out a watery shelter for them. I finally found a place, released them, and felt a mix of satisfaction at having done something great and regret that I couldn't have been more gentle. I was plagued by the immensity of the problem as I realized that I would need many buckets and many difficult trips walking through forest and mud to save the remaining tadpoles.

I sat down in the yard behind my parents' house to pick burs out of my clothes and I saw a red-bellied woodpecker sitting inside our fence. When I walked out of the house it was startled and gave a small bark, whereupon I suspected it would fly away. But it didn't. It just sat there, just like an injured bird. Again, I immediately went into savior mode and stepped toward the bird to administer first aid. But then I stopped. I decided to just pick burs and watch the bird. As I picked and watched, it occasionally called out to other red-bellies in the surrounding trees, and they called back. I felt sorry for it.



Then I noticed a small yellow spider crawling on my right hand. I had never seen one that looked quite like it, so I leaned in for a closer look. It had four legs on its left side and only one front leg on the right. How bizarre, I thought. It must have lost the other three in a gruesome battle. Then I aided the little spider in its descent to the grass, took a peak at the bird that hadn't moved, and pulled out a few more burs. The bird suddenly flew up into the air, into the forest, out of the trees, all the way around our house, and then back into the forest. I could hear it celebrating with friends and family.

The spider came back. It was unmistakably the same spider. Four legs on the left and one on the right. It crawled all the way up the chair, up my shirt, and back onto my right hand. OK. What are you trying to tell me? I strongly believe in the Law of Attraction: every moment of every day I will attract into my life the people, creatures, and situations that I need to help me heal, grow, and learn more about Divine truth and love and about myself. And that is what I want more than just about anything. What can I possibly do for these animals? What can I do for a tadpole, a woodpecker or a 5 legged spider? The spider had moved to my left hand, attached a small strand of web to my finger, and began to dangle in the wind. Before I could stop it, the spider released himself and flew away, out into the yard.

I began to cry. The grief was unrelated to the animals. It was about pain that I've been carrying with me since childhood. It was the feeling that there was no trust and no love in my family. Mixed into that pain was the realization that nearly everyone in this world, probably everyone on my street, and in the communities around me, everyone I know is suffering. And what can I do but cry? The sun had found a new, lower position in the afternoon sky when I finally felt that I had let go of some small part of this grief. I felt a new peace with my suffering and with the suffering of the world. It's not my job to save anyone or any creature. I saw that the lives of the animals crossed my path today in order to teach me a couple of lessons. The first was from the suffering tadpoles writhing and gasping in the drying mud: we are the same. You are suffering just like us. Why do you think you can save us? My desire to save is rooted in my discomfort with suffering. I don't want to allow suffering and I have been so arrogant as to believe that I could do something to stop it. The truth is, I believe, that I cannot heal anyone or anything else until I've healed myself.

To believe that I can save someone is to perpetuate the disempowering belief that they need to be saved. To put the bird or the spider in a box would be to limit their opportunities to experience life. Clearly, both were entirely capable of taking care of themselves and of teaching me a valuable lesson. I don't know what will happen to the tadpoles, but I've observed that life has a way of balancing itself out. I pray that I can continue to observe it with enough patience that I might eventually be able to achieve some balance in my own life.

PS: I didn't take the bird photo. I just took it from somebody's website. Thank you somebody.

Two August Tenths

Dictionary.com says that august means, "inspiring reverence or admiration; of supreme dignity or grandeur; majestic" I've recently come to believe in god, and I think august is an appropriate word to describe a little bit of what god must be. But this isn't a post about divine fractions.

I'm at Brigham Young University in Hawaii. Yesterday, after an amazing flight from Melbourne, Australia, to Sydney, and then to Honolulu, I arrived in my country's only island state. I left early in the morning on August 10th and I arrived early in the morning on August 10th. That's not a typo; it's just what happens when you cross the international date line. I'd never done that before, and the experience was a mixed bag.

My first 10th was extraordinary. I woke up early on a rainy Melbourne morning, packed my bags, had a big raw breakfast of grated and chopped apples, sliced bananas, cinnamon, and soaked chia seeds all over a big bed of green lettuce and celery. That's what I've been eating just about every morning. Then I went to the train station to do some busking. Here's what Dictionary.com says about busking:
1.Chiefly British . to entertain by dancing, singing, or reciting on the street or in a public place.
2. Canadian . to make a showy or noisy appeal.

I was doing the British version with my flute. On the way to the train station I knew that I would walk by a special house in the suburban neighborhood of Caulfield. The house was special because right out in the front yard there was a little orange tree that was dripping with beautiful, ripe oranges. The grass in the small front yard was long and there wasn't a path from the house to the tree, indicating to me that no one was taking advantage of this fruity bounty. I had been wanting some of those oranges for two full days, on and off. I stopped in the drizzling rain, looked at the oranges, contemplated hopping over the knee high brick fence and grabbing a few. But that brought up some moral questions. It would be stealing. I believe that stealing is wrong.

What was stopping me from going up to the door, knocking, and asking if the owner minded if I picked a few off the tree? Nothing but a small fear of a word that has taken on an unnatural importance in my mind: NO. I didn't want to hear that word. But, the truth is, the owner of that tree had every right to tell me no and I would have no right to be upset with him if he did. Once I had that worked out, I rang the doorbell, asked the grumpy old man who answered if I could pick a few oranges, and he said...."Yeah, OK." Haha! Victory! Honestly acquired, fresh, nutritious vegan pirate treasure. Lately, I've been going mad for fruit and vegetables. I hesitate to eat anything else.

Anyway, busking. I walked into the train pedestrian tunnel, opened my green cotton satchel up in a way that would, I hoped, invite many gold coins to be tossed in it, and placed the oranges artistically around its corduroy perimeter. Then I began playing a mix of Nepali folk tunes and a few little devotional ditties that I've created myself, and I smiled with my eyes at the commuters, students, and other folks who walked through that music filled tunnel. The fact that it was cold and raining usually seems to deter people from sharing their hard-earned money with vagabond flute players, but some kind of magic was happening in the Caulfield Train Station's Pedestrian Tunnel on the morning of August 10th (the first August 10th).

Forty five minutes later, when my fingers were aching with cold, I decided to close up shop (my bag) and hopped on the train to Southern Cross Station with an extra $16. Not bad for a quick day's work. From there, the bounty of August 10th continued to increase geometrically as I received love, food, friends, and veritable "get out of jail free cards" at every turn. I could do no wrong and every person, place, and thing in the universe was conspiring not only to make my life easy, but to make it downright joyful.

That was, of course, until I flew into my second August 10th.

My second August 10th landed me in Honolulu International Airport. I felt strange, sleep deprived, too hot in the humid, tropical air, and confused about what to do and where to go.

Goals, Pyush, and Trees

Of the four classes on my schedule this semester at Kathmandu University, two of them seem very interesting, so I have agreed with my program director that I will take only these courses, and spend the rest of my time being a better Ambassador of Goodwill. The two interesting courses are: "Public Policy" and "Population, Development, and Natural Resource Linkages." Both courses have already filled my head with new thoughts and ideas.

A few days ago my friend Safal invited me to his home to spend a few hours and visit with his mother who was in town from Pokhara. The visit was very pleasant and I was even offered home grown tea and popcorn from the Ghimire home in Pokhara. Safal handed me a book called, "You Can Win," and, though generally I find such books distasteful, I decided to flip to the section on goals. I'm sorry if I misrepresent the words and ideas of the author, Shiv Khera, but I'll try my best to summarize his ideas and my responses. He says that if we have no goals then we will never accomplish anything or go anywhere. I'm not completely convinced that this is true, but I decided to keep reading. Khera then said that, in order to define our goals, we must first define what success means to us.

My definition of success includes happiness, health, meaningful relationships, financial security, and maintaining a positive attitude. Many of these indicators of success seem to be maintained through my practice of meditation. However, I realized that if I identify a few skills that I could acquire, both for income and for pleasure, that could contribute to me achieving a greater level of success, then I would be more likely to achieve my goals. So I made a list of smaller goals that seem achievable. Here they are:
* Serving & Volunteering
* Creating art, playing music, learning the banjo
* Building bread ovens and biogas systems
* Vehicle repair and maintenance
* Storytelling & Listening
* Cooking
* Learning/Teaching Yoga and Meditation
* Singing & Dancing
* Sustainable Agriculture

Also floating around in my mind are thoughts of long-term goals that I might like to pursue. Paul and I have been talking about starting a farm on some property that his family owns in central California. We would make a point to employ young people who are being emancipated from the state after going through residential treatment facilities. Paul is really excited about the idea and it is something we will continue talking about about planning during this year. I've also been thinking about getting into counseling or therapy.

In order to achieve my goals of spending more time in service and volunteering, this week I spent a day planting trees in the town of Banepa. I also spent a day packaging Pyush, a chlorine solution, which will be sent to Western Nepal for a Cholera epidemic that broke out about a month and half back. A Nepali friend of mine got together with his friends and decided that the town of Banepa needed more trees. So they organized, petitioned people, got some support, and started planning. I called my friends and went with a crew of 7 to shovel, pick, and carry for the day. Despite the rain, we all had a great time and I look forward to going back to help plant the rest of the 700 trees intended for the main highway. Check out the pictures in the new album under the "Links from Nepal" box.

The Pyush project was also very interesting. Cholera had disappeared from Nepal 10 years ago, and now it has come back with a force. This organization has already sent at least 5,000 little bottles of the solution, each of which can clean about 600 liters of water. They are in the process of packaging thousands more, but they need a lot of people power to do all the packaging. This week I plan to help plant more trees and package more Pyush. I am also talking with my home Rotary Club to see if they can offer some financial assistance to ENPHO, the organization that is heading up the Pyush project.

That's all for now. Thanks for reading!

Nagarkot and Shantaram

This weekend a small Manchester College reunion took place in the village of Nagarkot, about two hours outside Kathmandu. Paul Sparks, Dawa Sherpa, Kashish Das Shrestha and I, along with a few other Nepali friends, spent a night in a comfortable hotel perched on the side of the mountain that Nagarkot clings to. The destination was clearly a spot for wealthier Nepalis to escape the insanity of Kathmandu, and for trekking tourists who want to enjoy a few Western comforts.

I have discussed the benefits and perils of societies and economies that have become totally dependent upon tourism. There exists a giant paradox in this dilemma: tourists bring lots of money and business, but they slowly (or very quickly) begin to change local culture, customs, and values. The general sense that I feel when I am in a town that has completely dedicated itself to serving the economic and consumer interests of travelers is that the town has no soul. Places that were described 30 years ago as friendly, rural, honest towns have been transformed into streets filled with pimps, pushers, and touts who aggressively try to convince you that you are in desperate need of their "sexy girls, hashish, and very cheapest hotel rooms."

I don't think we can implicate anyone as the certain creator of these cut throat worlds of greed and disrespect, but few of those involved are left unvictimized. The sudden introduction of foreigners with loads of money they are willing to spend quite freely inevitably creates gross inequalities within these communities. The additional demand for drugs, sex, and all things Western brings with it myriad other violent changes to these societies. Not the least of these changes is the abrupt transition from being always focused on the needs of family and friends before one's self to the very Western tendency to worry excessively about "I, me, and mine."

There are also benefits that can be identified from the advent of tourism in previously "undiscovered" places. The introduction of expanded educational facilities, increased access to drinking water, health and sanitation, and access to internet and other multimedia facilities are a few of the advantages that tourists often bring to developing places. The crux of the problem lies in weighing the costs and the benefits. I don't envy the person who has that job.

In other news, after many favorable recommendations, I have begun reading the book, "Shantaram." It's a long book, but after just 150 pages I absolutely love it. I would highly recommend it to anyone who is interested in learning more about real Indian culture or who is just looking for an amazing and enjoyable book.