Prayer to the Mountain

You don't need to be prayed to
I pray to you for me
I pray to your strength, courage,
and steadfast love
I pray to your beauty
and boundless surprises

As for your wisdom, I am humbled
And too, by the changes,
always rolling with the punches
I honor you, oh mountain,
full of life and death,
container of my dreams
Oh beacon, I will follow your way!
Through valleys and peaks and streams,
I vow to follow your way

From The American Poet

"Who troubles himself about his ornaments or fluency is lost. This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body..." Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, 1855

Becoming Talitha

Talitha was my great-grandmother. She was born in 1878 and died in 1960, and lived in Missouri and Oklahoma. She married a 60 year old man at age 17, and had 8 children with him. Mysteriously, one day she just left the family, without a trace for 30 years, returning at the end of her life (to make amends?). Why did she leave? Why did she return? Who was this woman? What did she long for?

Known as a "half-breed" in her time because of her Cherokee parentage, I wonder what she was able to make of her own identity. Did she have words for it? Did she love the Ozark mountains where she was born the way I love the mountains where I live? Was she driven mad by the shrill of children, longing for silence and stillness?

Upon learning about her story recently through some family history research, she has come to occupy my soul. Thus, I am beginning a novel about her life. As I humbly place one foot in front of the other on this ambitious journey, I will come to know her, at least as a fictionalized character. I will also come to know my grandmother, father, and all those other hillbilly/outlaw/alcoholics that are my family. The spirits of these cowboys and indians who drank, fought, and stole will visit, whispering secrets in my ear about the one true thing we all long for - knowledge of self.

The time is right

What can I say that hasn't already been said about the history that was made last Tuesday? In my academic work I dabble in social movement studies and so it is through that lens (and others) that I find Barack Obama's election particularly hopeful. What researchers have discerned is that change or reform happens when the political opportunity structures are present. So that, it is not just about how community organizers do the work that they do, it is the case that the external political realities matter a lot. People elected to office, people trying to stay in office, disasters, scandals, and other current events of the day play a significant role in whether the efforts of organizers will be successful or not. Some of the activists of the 60s were successful not just because of their organizing tactics but because there was democratic leadership in office that left the door open for change.

The time is right for organizers to step forward; the political opportunities are there. But, success will only happen if organizers do what they do. And new activists must also be born. The frustration of the last 8 years can be replaced with hope and renewed commitments. Electoral politics has its limits. Some of the most important change will happen not because of something that the politicians we elect initiate; it will happen because citizens define the agenda, push for change, and don't relent.

Despair/Disparity

A man throws up while walking this afternoon in the French Quarter. He didn't miss a step, just let it out and he was on his way. What resilience.

Hotel and restaurant workers (Caribbean, Latin American, African American) sit or stand outside on the streets, taking a cigarette break, waiting for the bus, stealing a nap.

A big Starbuck's convention is in town now. Thousands of people roaming the streets with their badges and swag - enviably cool black canvas tote bags with silver metal water bottles for all.

A man at the Faulkner House Book Store talks to the owner about buying an early edition of Go Down, Moses for more than the price of a modest home.

I'm reading a book now called Sickness and Wealth: The Corporate Assault on Global Health. The book explains that the worst health problems exist in countries where wealth disparities are greatest. The globalization of corporatism (i.e. greed) and the social and economic policies that condone it opens the door for more and more "free" markets for people to get richer. (As my husband says, how about a maximum wage?) And the poor provide the back-breaking, mind-numbing labor in the context of the same social and economic policies that actively reduce important supports (e.g. health care and social services).

This disparity seems so apparent in New Orleans. I guess that's why I've always felt so radicalized/awakend here; and thus uncomfortable and disturbed. Not much is different after Katrina. We thought it could be; a few new good policies and initiatives, a few not so good. But, the subtext is completely the same.

New Orleans - A Flood of Memories

Back in NOLA for the first time since moving from here; it's been about 5 months. This is one of the most beautiful times of year. Highs in the mid and upper 70s and lows in the mid-50s. I've been wondering what I would feel coming back here. Impressions are triggering a complicated flood of memories (no pun intended) - like the joys of Abita Restoration Ale and the agonies of Friday afternoon traffic on I-10.

Affected by the slight time change and a bit too much to drink last night, I was awake at 5:30 a.m. Feeling the oppression of staying in a downtown hotel and the inevitably bad air quality of such places, I walked outside for some fresh air. I looked toward the Mississippi river; the sunrise, with smatterings of pinks and oranges, was complemented by just a sliver of a fading moon. This meal of the senses was rounded out by the smell of alcohol in the street. All of this taking place through the twin realities of people making their way home after a long night out on the town and those workers that have to go in on a Saturday morning.

The Japanese have a term called wabi-sabi, which means something like the beauty that emanates from the run-down and worn-out. Indeed, this precisely describes New Orleans.

This weekend is the Voodoo Festival, a music festival of big-name alternative and New Orleans bands. I probably won't make it there, but it does remind me of when I was able to go 3 years ago, right after the flood. The tickets were free for everyone that year and it had been relocated from City Park, which had experienced massive flooding, to the riverfront park uptown. It was the first time I really got what New Orleans was about, having an actual experience of spiritual transcendence at a Kermit Ruffins performance. It was more than the music; I could never have felt it listening to a CD at home. It can only happen within a community of people. I would have other such experiences in New Orleans.

But, it's not just NOLA, of course. The beauty of people coming together to hear music and celebrate is global. A Grateful Dead concert in Mountain View, California, a Phish concert in Koblenz, Germany, a jam band in a Kansas tavern - these have been defining moments, of what's really meaningful to me in this life. The experience is mysterious, powerful and seems important. It's an ego release that throws off the shackles of this life's Race (see below).

The Race

The race
that can’t be won
that makes us angry and bewildered
that has us begging for mercy
is really a fable gone awry

The rules of the race
were not made up by me

The race
has us spinning our wheels
and dreaming of winning
and dreaming of running away

This race is not my idea of the good life

The finish line is just around the corner
but then another one appears just as you are crossing it
and it goes on infinitely
like the nightmare where you’re running down a hallway that never ends

To be the fastest racer
the star of the show
makes for a cold climate

Chill out,
It's only a game

Zero Visibility

Awake at 6 a.m., and trudging back to the bedroom from a bathroom trip, I looked out the front window and couldn't see a thing. And this was not because of night darkness, but due to a thick, omnipresent fog. On most days, we see Windham high peak out our window. On the overcast days the mountain is obscured. But, between our house and that distant mountain there is always plenty of natural beauty to take in - the open field and pond in front, woods on either side, many trees and hills in the nearer distances. But, this morning it was zero visiblity out that window. Just a foggy, cloudy dream. As the morning progresses, the fog is gradually disappearing and the backdrop is incrementally revealed.

Fortunately I don't have to drive anywhere. There is something slightly scary but kind of thrilling about not being able to see anything. It creates a climate conducive to introspection; it forces the question. It also ignites the imagination. Just what is out there exactly? Thoughts of Sherlock Holmes in London or the Legend of Sleepy Hollow surface. This situation also de-centers one's sense of sight. Awareness of sounds and smells can deepen. But, it also cuts right to the heart too. It awakens the intuitive loving Self.

During the last few years of my brother's life, he had become legally blind. His condition was that some days were better than others in terms of what he was actually able to see. I know that not being able to see his children play sports (his deepest passion) was an incredible disappointment. But, I also believe that something deepened in him too, as he lost his sight. He had to connect with people in other ways.

Can blindness, paradoxically, enhance clarity? Probably so. Of course, I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Interestingly, yesterday I engaged in a conscious computer fast, i.e. no internet. It felt like this morning that I had done something kind to myself by refraining from mindless searching and intensive visual stimulation. I feel more free to take in some new visuals...As the fog clears, I can see the faint yellows and reds of the early fall leaves making themselves known.

Police State at the RNC or Why Fascism Sucks

Okay, the title sounds a bit reactionary, probably alarmist. But, what has happened at the Republican National Convention to protesters and specifically to Democracy Now journalists should make every citizen pause for a moment.

Pre-emptive raids were conducted before the convention even started by armed police in the Twin Cities targeting activists who were planning to protest the convention. Journalists, such as Democracy Now's Amy Goodman, who was arrested on trumped up charges, are clearly being targeted. Even someone from the New York Post (a Republican newspaper!) was arrested. These journalists were arrested while they were covering the protests. When our media is silenced, what happens next? I'm not a paranoid person, but one has to wonder, who is behind this? Clearly, these armed gunmen who are supposed to "protect and serve" have been given orders by somebody to engage in such systematic actions. Just who gave the orders and why? But, maybe those aren't even the most productive questions to ask here.

Why isn't the mainstream media covering the protests and the undemocratic responses of the police? When the media fails to report on acts of resistance, we witness a practice of a fascist state, not a supposedly free society such as ours. Is this failure to report meant to actively silence the discourse of protest and resistance and dissuade people from such activity? Or, is it that the free market really does reign supreme and what sells television advertising is stories of Sarah Palin's teen daughter's pregnancy? I think both answers to these two questions could be yes.

I tend to think that it is irresponsible to rant and rave about something as I have here without at least offering some solution-focused ideas. So, what can we do to effect this situation? Well, at some level, probably not much. Better to go charge something on a credit card or drink a beer or watch Weeds (I like doing all these things). Being an activist doesn't necessarily mean that you work for an NGO or you lobby your legislators or that you get arrested for direct actions. It means not being quiet about disturbing things like police harassment and unethical journalism. I do believe that talking about these issues, forwarding e-mails and taking unpopular stands are important. For social change to happen, it must occur in both the realm of ideas and action. And so, the ways in which we choose, or don't choose, to talk about subjects that make people uncomfortable, may be the most central practice of an activist.

View from a Hammock

Lounging, relaxing, kicking back, laying around, doing nothin', just being, chillin' - as they sang it in The Sound of Music, these are a few of my favorite things. It seems that we're not very good at this in our caffeinated, hyperactive society. When we do break away from our obsessions/obligations with working, making money, and taking care of others, we still seem to think we have to be "doing" something. Unfortunately, this often means watching tv, surfing the internet or playing video games. When we do get the chance to just sit around and do nothing, sometimes we feel that we've done something shameful and are reticent to share it with others. A culture of relaxation and peace is silenced and thus, elusive.

I've recently put up a hammock in my yard and I'm pretty sure it's the most wonderful invention in human history. The colorful hand-made gift from Costa Rica is suspended in the midst of a small grove of pine trees whose shade creates an ambiance of sanctuary and reverie. I admit to bringing a book with me often (part of the compulsion to feel like I must be doing something), but sometimes, and somehow, the circumstances compel me to drop the book in the dust below and just be. Looking up at the mysterious patterns of branches against the backdrop of the sky above, I sway slightly, feeling a bit like a swaddled baby being rocked to sleep.

The still dance
of quiet joy
I am a cloud
Floating
Dreaming

To transform this world and unleash the creative harmonies that exist within and betweeen us, the view from a hammock just might offer an important perspective. Letting go of personal agendas and future outcomes, the view from a hammock can help us to re-train ourselves. We can begin to remember what it is like to glide, free of the hindrances of self-doubt and aggression.

Meditation on coffee and kayaking

I trekked up to Vermont last weekend to a meditation retreat in Waterbury, choosing to camp the night before at a nearby reservoir in the Green Mountains. I brought my kayak with me giving me a chance to paddle the evening before the retreat. As I am discovering the joys of paddling, I am learning that sitting so low in the kayak allows one to be connected to the water in a unique way - like sitting in a short, dry, floating bathtub. As the paddle crawls through the water, the splashing sound becomes a compelling and centering mantra. Though I had the urge to curse the occassional speed boat and puddle jumper airplane that was on this lake, the waters were generally quiet. By the time I got back to my campsite that evening, it was looking like rain. So, I went straight to my tent and listened to the music of the downpour safely and dryly inside throughout the night.

The next day, I arrived at the Green Mountain Coffee Roasters administrative offices, where the retreat was being held. A strange place for a meditation retreat to be held? Maybe so, but it worked. And like all retreats - sitting silently, settling down, paying attention - it delivered the goods.

What was unique about this retreat was that we had access to the break room of the coffee company, which had mass quantities of coffee and tea available, all in individual packets for use in a Keurig coffee pot. Most retreats usually have a little tea available but generally tend to echo the ascetic roots of spiritual practice and shun such indulgences as heavy doses of drugs like caffeine. Though, the teacher reminded us that tea was brought to China by monks who used it as a way to stay awake through the night to meditate. As retreatants entered the break room, in search of something to distract them from their mind wars they had been fighting on the cushion, they discovered the shangri-la of coffee - every flavor, roast, degree of caffeination one could imagine. As people opened the cabinet doors where the cute little packages from heaven were kept, gasps of "wow," and "oh my God" along with waves of excitement over the possibilities were heard and felt. Having this bounty available to us, we did what all Americans would do - consume it because it is there and good and cheap (in this case, free!).

Hero Worship and its Discontents

We live in a society that worships heroes - athletes, movie stars, politicians. Many of us also get spiritually ga-ga over social activists like Che Guevera and Cesar Chavez and religious all-stars like Mother Theresa and the Dalai Lama. [Once during a psychology class in high school, the teacher asked everyone to write down on a piece of paper the name of a person they idolized and turn it in. The teacher wrote everyone's idol down on the chalkboard (mine was John Lennon). She asked if anybody noticed what all of these heroes had in common. Nobody could figure it out and she finally told us what it was - they were all men! I guess my feminist consciousness meter was dreadfully low at age 16.]

This practice of hero worship seems to be common in old patriarchal cultures like ours with roots in Greek and Roman civilizations. It's also commensurate with our culture's emphasis on individual over communal development. It's the American way - we reify a myth that great people achieve great things all by themselves. They use their wits, their fearlessness and strength to do what the rest of us dim, scared, weak people can't.

This obvious fallacy overlooks the fact that extraordinary people are nested in a web of connections to people and processes. These great men have wives and secretaries. These social activists have rank and file members doing the organizing grunt work. Religious leaders have their own mentors as well as congregants who support their spiritual practice. Michael Jordan would not be a basketball hero if nobody had watched his games. Rich people get rich because there are poor people to help them get rich (that's Marxism 101). Unfortunately, this hero worship can be frustrating and destructive as we struggle and wonder why we can't do it alone. It distracts us from how things really operate in the world.

But, we are drawn to people with special, charismatic energy and their stories. These stories can obviously be fulfilling and inspiring in some way. One of my favorite literary genres has always been autobiography/memoir. I love to read about exceptional things that people do, the challenges they face and the victories they achieve in spite of them. I crave the words that speak of the wisdom they attain along the way. But inevitably, writ deeply in these memoirs, is the insight that they didn't do it alone, that so many other people really made it happen. They always thank their mother and father.

Follow your bliss

It had been raining for a couple of days without a break. And when the sun was shining yesterday morning, it seemed pretty clear that it was time to go on a hike. The next one marked in my Day Hikes in the Catskills book had silently and patiently been waiting its turn. I was a bit concerned that it might be too muddy. Though there was a small pool at the beginning of the trail and a few stretches of the trail higher up that had become a stream, for the most part, the trail was fine.

We climbed Windham High Peak which is just slightly over 3500 feet with 1700 feet of incline over the course of the ascent. (The picture here is from near the top where you can see the Blackhead Range.) It took us about 3 hours to ascend and 2 hours on the return. And about a half hour break for cheese and cucumber sandwiches and morning glory muffins I threw together that morning before our departure.

My husband asked me at some point on the hike why I thought people wanted to do things like climb Mt. Everest and such. There are times when I might have answered something about human egos and the desire to achieve greatness or complete a challenge or something to that effect. But, my answer was, "because they love it." They love to climb and be present with the earth in a way, with impeccable attention, that our everyday lives do not seemingly allow. I think that's right. I'm sure there is a lot of macho weirdness that goes on and those people that do such things are a bit crazy, doubtless. But, just doing something out of pure joy and being driven by that pure joy is such a rare gift. Most of what we do in life seems to come out of a sense of duty and shoulds. "I should get up and go to work and make my lunch and work on this report and call this person and buy groceries and..."

I think it was almost 20 years ago when I first encountered Joseph Campbell's work. He opened my eyes to a new way of thinking about religion, myth and meaning making in this world. His most famous phrase, "follow your bliss," is priceless. Everyone knows what it means and appreciates it, but it's rare when we can feel it in our bones. I'm finally beginning to understand what he meant. There are unusual people who seem to know how to follow their bliss when they come into the world. I guess it has taken me so long because my bliss has been obscured by so many clouds of confusion. I can say that quieting down and surrounding myself with the right people and right geography has helped me to learn that following my bliss is much different than chasing a dream.

Common Sense

"We are afraid to admit
that we could be building bridges
right now...
it is time to remember what I already know
it is time to gather the tools I already have
time to walk forward naked in the direction
where my heart's voice tells me to go
confident that my tools and my knowledge
will be at hand when I need them...
I vow to build a bridge
over this gulf of imagination
that pretends to separate
my awareness of my own needs
from my awareness of the needs of the planet"
Excerpted from "Common Sense" by Paul Williams

This poem, written in 1986 comes from a pamphlet published by THYB which stands for "tai hei yo bashi," Japanese for "the bridge over the great ocean." I love the fact that this poem is called "Common Sense." This common sense, or intution, is perpetually masked by our neurotic behaviors, obsessions with the dialectic of success and failure, and fears of standing still and listening. We already have everything we need. We already have everything we need. (Yeah, had to say it twice). Look around. Look within. Quiet down and just do it. Build a bridge over your opinions. Your opinions have never helped you or anyone else. Your wisdom, or common sense, wants to break free of the confines we impose on it. Let it out of jail. Free.

Life in the Garden of Eden

This modest little trailer sits outside Windham, NY next to a restaurant called the Garden of Eden Cafe, a place where construction workers, hikers, locals, and people with second homes in the area go for good coffee, curry chicken wraps, homemade chili, and baked goods. As we were leaving the cafe this afternoon, I noticed this humble entrepreneurial venture selling ice cream and it struck me as quite noble.

Before lunch, we had hiked in the Huntersfield State Forest on Mount Pisgah in the Northern Catskills. The trail is part of the Long Path, which was conceived some 75 years ago with the intention of creating a foot trail from New York City to the Adirondacks (right now though it only goes between some place in New Jersey and Albany). The trail was so named in honor of a Walt Whitman line, "the long brown path that leads wherever I choose." It was about a 6 mile trek with over 1000 feet of incline taking about 3 hours total. It was a nice little jaunt for a Thursday morning.

We were completely alone on the trail, always a necessary condition for a good hike, in my mind. The trail is not often hiked, rendering the terrain a bit rugged - lots of overgrown vegetation which makes the footing a challenge. That's what I love about hiking though the most - the footing. Foot to earth, earth to foot. When you're really present with it, the mountain is hiking you, the energy and momentum is coming from someplace in the earth. It feels like you could never fall and hurt yourself, you know right where to step and your feet and the rocks are like magnets on metal.

Searching for the Source

The creek that runs through our property, Eight Mile Creek, is a beautiful and mysterious part of our new reality. It's always a bit of a trek to get there because it sits in the ravine and you must walk through the woods and somewhat precariously down the side of the hill. When you arrive, though, a whole new world opens up - the smooth rocks, the islands that form when the creek forks, the trees that jut out from the side of the banks...I am always most intrigued by the sounds of the rushing water.

Recently, our adventurous house guests decided that we should "find the source" of this creek and just start walking. There's a bit of a hesitation, of course, because this will necessitate walking on someone else's land. Regardless, we took off on Saturday morning and started exploring. Unlike on our property, at many parts of the creek there are flatlands along one side of the bank (with a steep embankment on the other side). Thus, we had to cross the creek a few different times to get to the side with the flatlands for some easier walking. Crossing over was always a challenge, trying to find the right rocks/footing without falling in.

We discovered many amazing things along the way, both natural and "man made." Mushrooms always drew the group together to check them out (orange ones, red ones, white ones, gray ones), followed by some commentary about the seemingly alien nature of mushrooms. A favorite of one person in our party was a mysterious white, 5 gallon bucket that washed up against an old primitive bridge. She had to open the bucket and inside, to her utter amazement, it was full of corn, some of which was rotten, but mostly not. And we discovered a camp/fire pit that had been set up along the way, a spot that seemed perfect for an all-night vision quest or just hanging out and drinking a few beers. Nearby, we came across a downed tree with a hunter's tree stand still attached to it.

We did some serious bushwhacking on this journey and finally ended up at a pond on which a couple of houses sat (along with a shiny yellow kayak that looked like a lot of fun). It wasn't the source of the creek. According to the map, we probably had another mile to go but it felt like enough for us. So, we turned around and marveled that it took an hour and a half to get there but only about 20 minutes to get back.

Water is the basic substance that connects us in this world. This water on "our" land runs through the land of our neighbors, the land of the deers and turkeys. It flows to Catskill Creek which flows into the Hudson River, which goes to the center of the universe, New York City, and then right into the ocean. As another river in this country is flooding as I write this, it is all too clear that what happens upstream is so intimately connected to what happens downstream.

Living and Dying

This existence of ours is as transient as autumn clouds.
To watch the birth and death of beings is like looking at the movements of a dance.
A lifetime is like a flash of lightning in the sky,
Rushing by, like a torrent down a steep mountain.
-The Buddha

One of the great books of all time is Sogyal Rinpoche's Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. Living and dying are the sole jobs of humans on this earth. You would think we would be pretty good at them since this is all we have to do. Yet, we often make them into a struggle. Nonetheless, it does seem that when somebody dies, people know what to do on a very deep level; it is so fundamental to human existence that it is as if it is genetically encoded as to what to do. Ancient cultural and familial traditions also dictate how to respond. When my brother, Jay, aged 42, died last week from complications due to diabetes, including kidney failure, it seemed that a whole community knew just what to do. People offered their support and food and spiritual direction. They came to a service to honor his life not only because they cared about Jay and the family but because this is the way that communities have always taken care of each other.

When somebody dies, we face grief, an experience that all humans share. As I grieve, I have the sense that I am dipping into a vast universal grief that is beyond my own self. It can be so scary because it feels like you are drowning in an ocean without even a raft to support you. I think of Jay's beautiful, smiling face, and his voice that was so often filled with loving words. It seems impossible that the world could even be without him in it. But, the sadness we all feel about it is actually a beautifully human thing that connects us. This grieving is a part of living and one can only try to do this kind of living well, in the same way that Jay practiced the art of dying.

The Path

Transitioning from living in a Southern post-disaster urban environment below sea level to a Northern rural environment in the hills is disorienting even to the most adaptable person. I compare the sense impressions I used to take in to the ones I take in now. I'll use the Buddhist epistemological framework (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body and mind) for this demonstration...

Eyes - Old = a moldy, boarded-up house across the street that continued to sit empty more than 2 years after the flood; New = a bucolic field with a small pond and a tree-filled mountain in the distance
Ears - Old = The sounds of construction (power tools, workers and stressed out homeowners yelling at each other); New = birds singing, bullfrogs groaning, and lots of quiet
Nose = Old = the indescribable New Orleans funk that takes on new dimensions as the temperature, humidity and wind levels change; New = the smell of the forest
Tongue = Old = fattening fried food; New = vegetarian restaurants with local organic ingredients (I've got to drive a few miles to get to these places)
Body - Old = Sweaty, sweaty, sweaty; New = Doesn't take much to get my heart rate up, just walk down the hill and back to the mailbox
Mind - Old = Pissed off (no parking spots, bad government, pot holes destroying my car) New = Serenity

Okay, it's not really quite so clear cut (good and bad) like that. In reality, the jasmine in the springtime in New Orleans softly wafts across the city while the azaleas knock you out with their beauty. As for here, driving in the wintertime will not be much fun and one of the most highly taxed states (NY) can't balance its budget. At any rate, the photograph here is of a hiking trail in the woods about 5 minutes from my house...

The path before you
Is the same path you just came from
Turn around and you will see yourself
Look ahead and you can glimpse your real soul
Stand still and the whole universe is one

Strawberry Lane Forever

We arrived last week at our new home on Strawberry Lane. We sold our house in New Orleans, traveled 1400 miles with a dog and 2 cats, had a blundered house closing that forced us to stay a couple of extra nights in a motel with the four-legged gang and then a delayed furniture delivery that has meant 7 days in the new house without our stuff. (Some side notes: 1) motels that allow pets are not nice places to stay; 2) my lanky, European body was not designed to sleep or sit on the floor as a matter of daily living; and 3) not having cell phone coverage can move one from a state of extreme distress to pure liberation). But, it has indeed all come together. My mantra throughout this journey has been - everything is unfolding.

It has been quite wonderful to get to know our new surroundings - walks in our woods, getting the garden planted, building a fire pit for pagan rituals, finding the good stores (and the good micro-brews), and for my husband of German origins, cleaning out old junk left around by the previous owner and taking it to the dump (In his words, "I mean a free dump, what could be better than that?").

We've also been on somewhat of a media fast, which has been soul cleansing. I am now filling my consciousness with images of trees, wild turkeys, deer, the Catskills mountains, the creek in the woods, etc. It's way better than my previous and curious penchant for reality TV.

Swamp Tour in the Bayou

The Pearl River begins upstate in Mississippi and empties directly into the Gulf of Mexico. The bayous (definition = small river) and swamps (definition = flooded forest) that surround it are full of an incredible amount of biodiversity including alligators, crawfish, blue heron, snakes, oysters, and catfish. It includes trees such as cypress and gum, and flowers such as blue irises and spider lilies. All this vegetation offers so much oxygen and thus fresh, clean air to breathe.

This picture depicts a 500-year old Lousiana cypress tree. These trees are in the same family as the sequoias and redwoods with trunks that can get as wide as a pick-up truck. This one is not that big and indeed any that are this old are very rare because so many of the cypress have actually been logged over the years as the wood is very strong and known to last virtually forever. This particular tree was spared because it is hollow inside and thus not particularly useful to humans. Many trees in the swamp are hollow providing safe homes for many critters.

Isolated and peaceful, the bayous were a haven for 18th century pirates seeking a hideout after ship-raiding escapades in the Gulf and generations of families who were able to subsist on the food that is so plentiful. Today, ramshackle camps are interspersed with fancy homes along the river. It's all about the water here - though it provides sustenance, the rains and hurricanes inevitably inundate homes that sit right on the water or on very slight ridges. In South Lousiana, water giveth and water taketh away. As our boat driver said more than once, as he explained the cycles of nature in the swamp to us, "it's just that simple, folks."

Play it again, Grandma

My Grandma, Maxine Weeks, passed away last week, at the age of 93, living with Alzheimer's during her final years. She was married to my Grandpa, Richard, who died 3 years ago. They were married some 70 years having met each other as neighbors living on the same block as teenagers in Rochester, Minnesota.

Maxie was an accomplished musician traveling around the Midwest for most of her life playing piano and organ in a variety of venues. She had perfect pitch and became known as "the lady with a thousand songs" (or something like that) because she could play just about anything you requested, at the lounges where she headlined. She was based in Minneapolis-St.Paul, had her own radio program and was the first female member of the Rotary Club.

Though this lifestyle meant being away from her family quite a bit, she was certainly unique for her time as a woman with a musical career. She also taught piano and organ, designed and sewed her own clothes, and cooked and baked obsessively for people. I always remember her having a beautiful, long-haired cat around when I would visit her; Fuzzy was my favorite and my brother adopted her last cat, Dali, before she went into the nursing home. Dali was so named because she thought it was a female originally (Dolly), but upon learning of the blundered gender changed the spelling to Dali, after the artist, Salvador.

She always tried to hide this publicity photo of hers from back in the day because she didn't think it was appropriate for her grandchildren to see her cleavage. Though my Mom certainly has a different story to tell about her, this is the one I like for me, as her grandaughter - she was a beautiful, talented diva who wrote her own script.

"I'm sorry, there's nothing that can be done"

"I'm sorry, there's nothing that can be done." These final, definitive words spoken by a tired-looking Indian man in a dusty old computer repair shop in Metairie, the second one I had been to yesterday. His words expressed the tragic poignancy of the wisdom that comes from realizing that something is lost and can never be regained. A bad travel drive; they only have a little chip in them, so if they quit working, you will never be able to get to a couple of days worth of seriously good writing.

So here is a zen koan - a young professor wrote her book every day and saved it on her travel drive. One day the travel drive quit working. Where did her writing go? AARRGHH!!! As the computer repair sage said, there is in fact nothing to be done. Nothing, except to take a deep breath, buy a portable external hard drive, and try to re-create what was. Move forward. Try to pay better attention to how you take care of what you have (like constantly back up your files).

This mysterious human lesson. This cycle of appearing and disappearing is fairly subtle and the meaning is generally lost on us most days. Sometimes it's less subtle; like a 2 by 4 upside the head. Like my friend who woke up one day last year to find her life partner had died in his sleep. We, along with tens of thousands of our closest neighbors, learned it with our house and personal belongings (books, pictures, more writings, and socks and shoes and dog toys) - lost to the Gulf of Mexico, returned to the swamp land. The first yoga book bought by my husband in the 1960s became a perfect place for a fungus to grow, a make-shift lilly pad for a resourceful frog.

But the new now becomes completely sacred. And so here is a shot of the same corner of our house a couple of years later. Nice, eh?

This is what failed democracy looks like

Here is a picture of my living room on approximately September 30, 2005 about a month after the federal levee system failure, an event which is sometimes more conveniently referred to as Hurricane Katrina. This failure of such vital public infrastructure resulted in about 6 feet of water in my neighborhood and much more in some other New Orleans neighborhoods.



This is what happens when a group of people have more or less fallen asleep at the wheel. By this I am not necessarily referring to the government, for they seem to be quite awake as to what has been happening, at least in some sense of the word 'awake.' The retrenchment of public services (both physical infrastructure and social welfare) has been a proactive political agenda in the U.S. for many years beginning in the 1970s. Some people hoped for a moment that the Katrina levee failure might be a tipping point in American history, swinging the pendulum back to a time where public support of constituent needs would be valued. Instead, barely a word about the levee failure has been mentioned in the current presidential election rhetoric. The democratic candidates rejected New Orleans as the site of a political debate.

I show a film to my students called "This is What Democracy Looks Like." It is a documentary of the Seattle WTO protests of 1999. This historic event occurred due to the efforts of a broad based coalition of environmental activists, labor organizers, and other global justice advocates from around the world who came together to protest the neo-liberal globalization policies of the World Trade Organization. The WTO gives loans and subsidies to the governments of developing countries that essentially support global corporations and are contingent on the retrenchment of public infrastructure and social welfare supports to the people of the country. The results are often the loss of indigenous land, weakened worker protections and environmental devastation. These are the same policies that the U.S. uses against its own people.

And we, the hyper-consumers, continually distracted by our desires, seeminlgy forever weakened by new desires created by corporations, are indeed failing in our job to build our communities and hold our government accountable for their part. Many, like the Seattle activists, are resisting, but it certainly isn't enough. Our sham of a democracy, like the black mold that thrived in my house, can make a person gag on its foulness. When you open the door for the first time, and get a real look at it, and feel it in your bones, it can make you call up your partner on the phone and say, "It's far worse than we could ever have imagined."

On going to the French Quarter and buying a hat

I have a thick, curly head of hair and while this can mean some stunningly beautiful hair days (if I dare say so myself), it also means an unfortunate pattern of really bad hair days. It's just the way it is; these extreme hair states depend on each other for their existence. And so I've found that having a good hat for such sad occassions can be very helpful for my self-esteem as well as my sense of aesthetic expression in the world. I've been needing to buy a hat so I went to the French Quarter where there are most obviously good hats to be had.

I had the perfect hat that came up missing after Mardi Gras this year. I've learned that it is quite common for people to lose hats during Mardi Gras. Now, I don't understand what happens exactly, but somehow, you go to Mardi Gras with a hat on and when you come home you don't have it anymore. I don't know where the hat goes. But mine was clearly gone and I've been wanting a new one and so I drove to the French Quarter to get one. And it's a crisp, spring day and there are lots of people there - groups of church volunteers in matching t-shirts, newly minted drinking age couples who carry their open containers of alcohol around giddily and a 5-piece band on the sidewalk with a fiddle player taking the lead on a Tracy Chapman song. And a person painted solid gold and an alcoholic from Charleston, South Carolina who came to New Orleans 30 years ago and fell in love and can never, ever leave and a tarot card reader named Velvet. (Velvet read my cards, said everything was going to be okay and gave me a red stone and told me to burn a red or pink candle tonight.)

So, I go to the place I bought my last hat and within about 10 minutes I've found a pretty good hat. You see, a good hat is not hard to find in the French Quarter. Buying a hat did remind me of a few things I know but had forgotten:

1) My head is much larger than the average head
2) Hats are made in China
3) Hat = itchy, scratchy head

It's the end of the world...and I have writer's block

For about 2 months now, I have been saying that I am 90% finished with my first book which will be published late this year. That is, it will be published if I can friggin' finish it already! I have been working on this book for just under 2 years now. I am endlessly distracted. At first, it was the weight of post-Katrina community life. The words of social activist and Catholic worker Dorothy Day captured some of my internal conflicts during this time: “The sustained effort of writing, of putting pen to paper so many hours a day when there are human beings around who need me, when there is sickness, and hunger, and sorrow, is a harrowingly painful job. I feel that I have done nothing well. But I have done what I could." This certainly has a romantic nobility to it.

Other more mundane distractions also appear, mainly in the form of sensual pleasure (food, drink, sex), mindless and not-so-mindless entertainment (internet, tv, reading, ubiquitous New Orleans festivals), but mostly just spacing out (daydreaming of a non-existent future, worrying about deadlines long passed, wondering about the suffering of friends and family). None of these distractions is inherently bad. I like a lot of them. And even the ones I don't like (e.g. the worrying) are kind of gratifying in a twisted sort of way. All of this is just part of human life. While incessantly de-railed, one somehow keeps trying in spite of it. We humans seem to excel at this trying. It's a mysterious ability and it's one of the things that makes us beautiful.

Another poetic-like offering:

Suspended.
In the no (wo)man's land that is neither
ecstasy nor devastation
I shuffle along,
Always at home in my own dream world

It's balmy in New Orleans

I'm back in New Orleans after trips to New York and Kansas City. It was snowy and 9 degrees when I left Albany, crazy winds a brewin' in Kansas City with 60's yesterday and about 25 degrees this morning and 70s and humid here in New Orleans. What a tour with visits that ran a gamut as wide as the weather - meetings with deans and administration in Albany, a real estate agent in New York who's going to help us find our dream house, sitting in the hospital with a family member in Kansas City who is very ill, and some quality time with friends and family...

I offer something like a poem-

As I step out into a brave new world
Love surrounds me
Gently, like a Gulf breeze

The Disneyfication of New Orleans

This weekend the NBA All-Star game was hosted in New Orleans. It was a big deal from an economic development perspective - lots of people in town spending money on New Orleans "culture." The opening ceremony for the game last night involved a constructed facade of a French Quarter balcony with staged revelers dancing and having a good time (sans the drunken people falling over), while local artists Trombone Shorty and Kermit Ruffins sang and played their instruments. Something about the whole thing made me squeamish.

According to wikipedia (please pardon my sloppy research methods), the term disneyfication is a neologism that is generally "pejorative, and implies theming, de-differentiation of consumption, merchandising, and emotional labor. It can be used more broadly to describe the processes of stripping a real place or event of its original character and repackaging it in a sanitized format. References to anything negative are removed, and the facts are watered down with the intent of making the subject more pleasant and easily grasped."

I couldn't help but think when watching this spectacle last night that New Orleans has become disneyfied in this way. Many others have noted this about New Orleans culture, observing that it has been happening for about the last 20 years as it has become a more popular tourist destination. It has been the fear of many that the post-Katrina survival of New Orleans would indeed depend on such disneyfication.

Watching Kermit last night made me very sad; his performance was a strange replica of his performances at Vaughan's in the Bywater, a grungy old bar where he is often seen outside making red beans or barbecue before the show. Now, the question I have is this - Is the Kermit on Thursday nights in the Bywater the real New Orleans culture and what was on t.v. the fake, disney version? Not exactly, I suppose. I was happy for Kermit because hopefully he was making some serious money from the NBA gig.

But, one of my issues with the New Orleans "cultcha" generally is that musicians, cooks, etc., the people who contribute so much to what everyone loves about the funky vibe is that they are basically living in poverty. The musicians, in particular, may have a lot of cultural capital and are held in high social esteem, but they can't afford health insurance or to buy a house. And of course, this is all very racialized too. And so many of us contribute to this dynamic. I've only met a couple of people since I've been here who seem to have a problem with any of this; and they're not from New Orleans.

Once when I was watching some Mardi Gras Indian music at the Maple Leaf I had this feeling of voyeurism, of peering into a culture and taking something away that was private. Now, one can argue that those musicians wanted to share their culture, and furthermore they were getting paid for it (what, a $10 cover charge?). Maybe if we paid a lot more for it, it would make more sense; or, maybe culture and the exchange of money shouldn't mix at all. I'm not sure how to resist this exploitation, in this case. For, it appears that supporting the local music scene by going to shows or buying a $15 cd really is the only thing that will save the culture.

So much of our lives is commodofied and it's impossible to fully escape this fact of our existence. But, couldn't our society opt to support these local musicians so that they can have a fair, living wage where they can afford health and comfort? It seems reasonable that there could be a world where culture was valued, supported and subsidized but not commodified.

Tai Chi I Remember

My husband and I have been taking a tai chi class together on Saturday mornings. It is interestingly the first spiritual practice, or frankly any kind of regular organized activity, that we have done together during our time in New Orleans where we both seem to be in agreement on its absolute wonderfulness. Right before we're leaving town, of course.

I practiced tai chi for about a year and a half pretty seriously around 2003-04. My teacher was a Chinese immigrant and graduate student (in what? biochemistry? computer science? economics? I can't remember). He gave me private lessons in exchange for private English lessons. His English was fine but he wanted to refine his pronunciation. He taught me chen-style tai chi which is not commonly taught in the West and is a little less accessible than the more commonly taught yang-style. He and his teacher had been very successful in regional competitions in China. These competitions were called "pushing hands," i.e. simulating the gentle combat of the martial art of tai chi. Drawing from his own cultural tradition, he worked me very hard during those sessions, progressing at a rapid pace with lots of repetition, sweat and difficulty. We met early in the mornings 2 or 3 days a week, practicing on a basketball court at some fraternity house on Tennessee Street in Lawrence, down the hill from the University of Kansas. When we were done we trekked up Mount Oread to my graduate student office digs (my thighs quivering) and we practiced speaking English using a workbook that he had. I'm pretty sure that he wouldn't describe those English sessions as rigorous or difficult as I had described the tai chi lessons.

I can't say I loved doing tai chi at that time though I continued to do it because I always loved how I felt, i.e. as if I was floating on air. This was a good way for a graduate student (well, for anyone) to feel. And then one day, I just didn't show up anymore. I always hoped he thought of my final inconsiderate behavior as some American cultural problem (lazy, selfish, rude, issues with closure) rather than something personal about me.

Our class now is held above Fair Grinds coffeehouse (and across the street at the park on nice days). My previous teacher never explained anything; I just followed what he did and repeated it over and over. Our teacher here is amazing, to say the least. I appreciate her explanations and her gentle, meditative approach. It is so much fun and a joy to be there with other people, especially my partner.

I feel like the memories of my tai chi days of yore are in my body. I also have a similar sense when I do sitting meditation and haven't done it in a while, being able to tap into the "letting go" muscle. (I used to flex this muscle on a more regular basis during my more serious zen practice days.) At any rate, doing tai chi as serious meditative practice seems to have some interesting transformative possibilities.

Poem - I Dreamed of a Tsunami

Last night I dreamed of a huge wave
Preceded by visits from my mother and Barack Obama
In a parking garage where I had stood in line for jury duty
Still cleaning up the old flood waters with a broom and hose
The candidate checking on my neighborhood's progress

When I saw it coming, everyone had gone and I was all alone
Its huge inevitability was shocking but not surprising

As it came towards me, it picked me up
Oh, How a tiny kitten must feel when lifted by a 6 foot man!
As I swiftly rose into the air, everything stopped
(And the roof of the parking garage just got higher and higher
or else no longer existed)

I knew what would happen next if I didn't wake up -
Crashing to my death on the concrete ocean floor

Calas at the Old Coffee Pot

Today I had breakfast at the Old Coffee Pot in the French Quarter, a little hole in the wall restaurant on St. Peter that I had passed by before but never knew what it was about. I met my book editor there who was in town for a conference. Because New Orleans is not a big breakfast town, I had to do a little research to figure out a unique place to take him in that part of the city. The service was unsurprisingly odd - we stood in the entryway about 10-15 minutes after they were scheduled to open and were told they weren't ready for us yet; they never quite internalized the idea that I wanted to drink decaf coffee; after the meal was over, they had our credit card for about 30 minutes (doing some internet shopping in the backroom?), citing machine problems, and we eventually had to get up and go pay in cash.

But, that's just one of those New Orleans things that we all get used to. Today, for example, we had no water at our house for most of the day. I looked down the street and there was massive amounts of water gushing out of the fire hydrant. There had been a small lake down in that direction for the last week or two; standing, fetid water is one of the great joys of New Orleans living (how come they don't mention that in the glossy New Orleans magazine that showcases the fancy uptown homes?). A year or so ago it was determined that there were so many leaks in the pipes in the New Orleans water system infrastructure that it was leaking the same amount of water as was actually getting to people. Anyway, we have water again, and one doesn't tend to inquire further into such injustices.

So, back to the restaurant and my inspiration for this post - calas rice cakes! I didn't know they even existed. But, they date back to the nineteenth century and they used to be sold by African American women in the streets of the French Quarter. Creole women were known to shout: "Belles calas, toutes chaudes!" (Calas, nice and hot!) This sweet creole dish is a deep-fried fritter made of rice, flour, sugar, spices and pecans. Mine were served with powdered sugar; they were incredibly rich and I couldn't finish them. Eating them was kind of an otherworldly experience. I hesitate to go here, but I must say that they put beignets to shame!

Calas rice cakes at the Old Coffee Pot - a jewel in the lotus.

Tomorrow morning - jury duty at the Orleans Parish Criminal Court! Tales to come...

Mardi Gras, the Muses, and Desire

Friday night I attended the best parade of the entire carnival season - Muses. Scheduled to run its uptown route the previous night, but postponed due to rain, Muses was the last krewe of the night, and it was well worth the wait. The Muses krewe is all-female and is named after the Greek goddesses, who inspired artists, philosophers, poets and musicians. The nine muses, incidentally, are also the inspiration for corresponding street names in the city - Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, and Urania. Friday night, the krewe of Muses parade had beautiful lighted butterflies, roller derby girls, and Elvises on scooters.

The first thing I notice when arriving on the neutral ground searching for a place in the crowd is that I immediately find my mind in a state of wanting. I want those throws. I jump in front of others to get them; I feel jealous of people who get the really good throws (in Muses, it's the coveted glitter shoes). I immediately realized that I have an incredible opportunity to pay attention to this state, one that is not unfamiliar to me. In this case, an entire space, indeed the entire Carnival season, is set aside to experience constant desire (and to act on it). "Throw me something, mister," is the phrase said by many an adult and child alike throughout Mardi Gras (in the case of Muses, it's "throw me something, sister!"). People leave these parades with bags full of beads, lighted trinkets, stuffed animals, and plastic cups. This American version of Mardi Gras, a holiday tradition that dates back to Medieval times (some attribute a pre-Christian version of it to 5000 years ago to the ancient Greeks), emphasizes what seems to be something basically human - greed, gluttony, revelry, bacchanalian celebration. It's food, drink, and fun.

Just to completely experience this state with full attention is clarifying. I notice how I don't want good and pleasurable experiences to stop. I want more! Spiritual teachers have tended to emphasize the use of painful experiences and the accompanying suffering as a departure point for learning about the human mind. But, pleasure, desire, or any state, can be a powerful opening.

I think it's pretty easy to be critical of the indulgence of Mardi Gras, from the perspective of a Protestant upbringing, or pick any ideology that tends to denigrate gratification of the flesh and self-indulgence (and there is also the racist/classist/sexist element of Mardi Gras to be critiqued, which I also hope to write about soon).

But, what follows Mardi Gras? The Lenten season, of course. The Lenten season is a time for reflection and temperence, the other side of the pendulum. Unfortunately, I think many people miss this point, but nonetheless the opportunity is there to understand this great dynamic of existence - winter and spring, life and death. It's all okay; to everything there is a season.

The Beginning of the End

I have now learned that our long-held desire to leave New Orleans is being fulfilled. I've accepted a position in upstate New York and will be moving early this summer. We have an amazing opportunity and believe that this will be a place to put down roots and pursue our deepest wishes.

And yet, it's so sad to think about leaving. Such grief comes as no surprise. What I didn't see coming though was the guilt. This is probably a reflection of tremendous self-absorption and the harboring of a false belief that my being here has really mattered. It's not an uncommon post-katrina sentiment that I have heard so many people struggle with for 2 1/2 years - stay or go; get on board or get off the boat; do I belong here or somewhere else? Does my work and my life contribute to the transformation of this city? Imagine an entire community wrestling with such big questions; it's been an existential crisis of a fairly grand scale. And now mine is finally resolved.

Can you love someone and hate someone at the same time? Is this a sign of a relationship that is probably not very healthy? It seems perfectly natural to personify New Orleans as an old lover. S/he is a loving and caring person full of great beauty, creativity and laughter. But, s/he has also been neglected and battered and is full of grief. S/he has seen too much. Because of this, s/he sometimes treats people around her very poorly. I'm sorry we have to end this; I hope we can try to be friends.

From Adrienne Rich

While doing some research this afternoon, I ran across this powerful passage from feminst poet, Adrienne Rich. It comes from her book Of Woman Born. It was a reminder to me of how important the contributions of radical feminism are to issues of personal and social transformation. What she is getting at - owning our selves and actualizing our interconnected relationships with everything in the world - seems relevant for anyone.

“I know of no woman – virgin, mother, lesbian, married, celibate – whether she earns her keep as a housewife, a cocktail waitress, or a scanner of brain waves – for whom the body is not a fundamental problem: its clouded meanings, its fertility, its desire, its so-called frigidity, its bloody speech, its silences, its changes and mutilations, its rapes and ripenings. There is for the first time today a possibility of converting our physicality into both knowledge and power…We need to imagine a world in which every woman is the presiding genius of her own body. In such a world, women will truly create life, bring forth not only children (if we choose) but the visions, and the thinking necessary to sustain, console, and alter human existence – a new relationship to the universe. Sexuality, politics, intelligence, power, motherhood, work, community, intimacy, will develop new meanings; thinking itself will be transformed. This is where we have to begin”

A New Year

Recently, somebody mentioned that the passing of the new year was just another day to her. She's right, of course; it's a day like any other. And, it is an arbitrary day at that; the Chinese New Year is in February after all, but our society has determined it to be Jan. 1. And yet, the time of the new year has special significance because this is a time when people resolve to do something in their lives differently. Even people who don't make formal new year's resolutions, I suspect, secretly try for a new direction in their lives. This new direction is always positive - doing something healthier for themselves, being more compassionate to their partners, recycling more, whatever it is. I've never heard of anybody having a New Year's resolution to do something destructive to people or engage in activity that would be unhealthy, like, "This year, I hope to smoke 2 packs a day rather than 1."

What I see is that the new year is a call to mindfulness; people are willing to give attention to something that they may usually be mindless about. We are able to see some of our delusions and have some awareness of our direction. Breathing deeply, we vow to try. Even if our new awareness and attention are only fleeting and we've already lost our direction by Mardi Gras, we had a moment of awareness. And that's really lucky.

Outside Santiago, Chile

In the summer of 2006, I found myself trying to drive in the city of Santiago, Chile, on the other side of the equator. Somehow renting a car by myself in a country where I had only basic language skills seemed like a big deal. I had a driving map of the city/region (barely comprehensible) and tried to find a road that would get me out of town. I found myself driving in circles trying to fit in with local drivers by weaving in and out of traffic maniacally. I could not seem to find the road that would get me to the outskirts of town where I could head to what I knew would be the promised land of mountains, streams, flowers and trees. After stopping to ask for directions I was more confused than ever. I felt trapped in this sprawling urban hell (a recent theme for me) and was on the verge of tears. After close to 2 hours of pure persistence, I found a way out; I was free.

Unlike in the city of Santiago, in the country, one can actually see the mountains, being free of the thick smog that envelops the city on most days. Wandering around the windy roads among the infrequent, nestled mountain homes, I found myself quite unexpectedly at the Cascadas de las Animas, a rustic "resort" with cabins, hiking, waterfalls, and a lovely little restaurant on site. Realizing that I had read about this place previously, I quickly decided that this was my heaven on earth I had been seeking. There seemed to be few, if any, other guests and I would have the place virtually to myself.

It was the kind of experience that one would hope would last forever. Though it was winter there, flowers were blooming. My cabin had a kitchen and fireplace and I set out out immediately to start a fire to warm things up. I went to the local store and bought some food - rice, vegetables, eggs and a bottle of Chilean red wine. I took my first hike and I marveled at the quiet. All the hiking trails seemed to lead to the waterfalls so I found myself heading towards them. The power of the water rushing down from the snowy mountain was intense and loud; and yet, infinitely quiet. I explored the grounds photographing flowers, and making friends with some of the country cats. I ate some memorable soup at the multi-windowed restaurant that included Tibetan prayer flags flapping in the mountain wind.

Later that weekend I would sit, and chant, looking toward what I took to be the most inspiring of the mountain peaks. And that's when it seemed like that mountain really spoke to me, like I was being called. The mountains would heal and teach me, it seemed to be saying. I don't think it was the wine speaking. Since my return, I've been working to heed the call; I'm trying to find my way to the mountain. It's a literal and figurative journey for me. I think I'm closing in. More to come on this front.

Bayona

Bayona is a New Orleans restaurant in the French Quarter in a 200-year old Creole Cottage on Dauphine Street (the name of the street when the Spanish controlled Louisiana was Bayona; hence the name). Last night we had a sublime dining experience there - beautiful scallops, quail in a molasses sauce, mango-coconut flounder, banana-chocolate torte, mango-lime ice cream. There are no words, of course, for what we experienced, as we shared our dishes with each other and were transported to different places with each new flavor. Living in New Orleans has truly awakened in me a deep love for food; the possibilities of transforming the earth's gifts into something that can bring joy, satisfaction, health and enlightenment to people is exhilirating. Our dining experience was humbling, uplifting, and fostered a kind of intimacy that few other things could have.

The award-winning chef of Bayona, Susan Spicer, who has a new cookbook out, was in the lobby last night. As I watched her, with her apron and headband on, signing one of her cookbooks, looking like a real iron chef, I thought that she must be truly gifted and incredibly hard-working. Thanks for a memorable night.