Anjali to Integrated Volunteers

In a moment of pure consciousness, images flooded back to me from Ghana: the other teachers and me sitting at desks under swaying neem branches; the few students who arrived spontaneously to help me paint the new library window frames; my mother ritualizing over her fire in a smoke-filled kitchen; a SHS girl shedding culturally-forbidden tears, touched by the bonds she made at STARS (Students Taking Action Reaching for Success conference); the angelic Nadia nursing malaria-ridden campers back to health.

 

So much has passed.

 

The service of a Peace Corps Volunteer is the greatest gift and the heaviest burden. It lives in the heart so steadily that memory and heartbeat become one. It makes talking about one’s service feel cheap: desecrating: inaccurate at best. For how can words ever truly do it justice? It is sacred.

 

The service of an integrated volunteer does not just benefit those (s)he serves. The host community does not merely benefit the volunteer. Not even the global perspective gained by host countries and the Unites States can be called Peace Corp’s finest achievement… The “Three Goals” of Peace Corps pale in comparison to its’ ultimate impact: a shift in Cosmic Consciousness: a Unity of humanity that lives in the relationships forged: the Infinite vibration of Love shared.

 

To all volunteers and their hosts, who are the most sacred form of healers: thank you for your service to the Unknown: to the Cosmos: to God: to Unity: to Love.

 

Anjali (Devanagari : अञ्जली; अंजली) is a Sanskrit word that means “divine offering”. It is the name given to me by my guru, Yogi Sivadas. This last post is my divine offering, Anjali, to all volunteers who devote themselves to integration in a new community, and so devote themselves infinitely to the healing of the universe through Love. Bloom where you are planted.                                                                                        Namaste ❤

 

 

 

 

 

The Universe is Full of Colour

7-22-16 (8:03 pm)

Today I visited “Hell’s Gate” and it smelled like “really bad eggs.” I was continually reminded of Jack Sparrow at the World’s End. Flatness spread across the horizon, followed by smooth rocks that I was sure would sprout legs and crawl at any moment. But they didn’t, and the flatness finally led to a multi-mud-coloured mound. We alighted from our cars and Aki lead us up and onto the mound. The rocs were porous: smooth and often hollow. Reds turned to yellows, followed by off-white. The rock’s turned to strange fungi forms made of salt and sulphur. We journeyed onto the colourful pools of acid in the Danakil Depression. The smell of sulphur; the sight of burgundy, yellow, white, turquois, and green; the gurgling sounds of chemical reactions overwhelmed the senses. The Earth was so alive, and yet, never quite as dead. Nothing could survive the 49° C midday scientific laboratory of God. Yet, everything remained in a constant state of change. “Hell’s Gate,” as the Afar call it, was a place of dichotomy. It bared the elements of Nature, yet obscured their purpose in the Universe.

As we walked back to the cars, the stifling heat followed, but the smell died away. We left and stopped at Dallol: the salt mountains. There, one can see how water has formed towers by their layers. This place was a mere 15 km from Eritrea and a soldier stood guard as we wandered. We left for our last stop: hot springs that bubbled from the Earth’s heat: it’s “heart fire.” The water was oily. One of the tour guides collected a bottle of the yellow liquid and smeared it on my arm, telling me it’s good for my skin. I put some in my desert-dry hair.

Finally we left for lunch and now I am back at a guesthouse: bathed and ready for a volcano adventure tomorrow.

7-25-16 (10:18 am)

I missed writing yesterday due to exhaustion from ascending a volcano for 4 hours. We woke at the guesthouse, ate a phenomenal breakfast, and then drove for hours. We drove through the gorgeous Ethiopian mountains again and came to a town, where we waited for a permit and an accompaniment of 7 armed soldiers. We then continued through the mountains until they flattened out and were replaced with irregular-shaped black hills of volcanic rock. This led to about an hour of off-roading through the desert. It was thrilling. After passing 7 ostriches in the mystical sand-foggy distance and several camels and donkeys, we reached more volcanic rock. This led to a military camp of stone huts. We rested here for about two hours, beginning our hike at 6 pm. It lasted about 4 hours, over uneven volcanic terrain, with periodic rest stops. Finally we reached our camp, with a distant view of the glowing lava lake of Erta Ale. After a rest, we walked to the crater. As we got closer the footing became Styrofoam-like: cracking under our weight and sending waves of heat up our bodies. At one point a tripod caught on fire! We stayed for an hour, gawking at the explosions at each end of the crater and the melting together of the lava in-between. The heat felt nice after the long hike. Finally we left to eat dinner and sleep in our stone-wall “pens,” beneath the dark sky with its gentle lava glow to my right. Waking up at 4 am this morning, we walked down to the crater again. This time we saw more than the 3-month-old lava Styrofoam nearest the crater. We saw all of the hardened lava sculptures of the one-time larger crater we had walked through: surreal.

We finally hiked back down, following our two pack-camels. At the bottom we ate breakfast and left. We stopped only for lunch on our way back to Mekele: dropping off our Eritrea-border-aware military troop.

In Mekele, I caught Dorota and Marta, my two new Polish friends, and asked to tag along to their budget hotel. Thank goodness! It’s perfectly adequate! We got dinner together. Marta is an architect living in Norway and Dorota is an orthodontist living in Poland. Both are very interesting and kind. We got along well.

Erta Ale Volcano

7-27-16 (9:17 pm)

Today’s “taxi” (tro) ride through the mountains between Weldya and Lalibela was a breathtaking dance with death on the edge of life.

After a few hours spent learning all aspects of the coffee ceremony from Germanesh and Asqual in Mekele, I attended a last dinner with my two Polish friends: Dorota and Marta. We had some heavy conversation about careers, student loans, Isis, etc… Finally we left. We hugged goodbye in the hallway and I went in to pack. After a few short hours of sleep I was up at 4:45 to practice yoga and head out to my bus to Weldya. Once in Weldya, some 6 hours later, I almost thought I would have to find a guesthouse there. All drivers backed out for fear of the bad muddy road and subsequent dangerous ride. I prayed a lot today.

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7-30-16 (6:00 pm)

The past few days have been somehow aimless wanderings through a drizzly labyrinth known as Lalibela. In the north of Ethiopia, west of Mekele, Lalibela rests as an ancient testament to human stubbornness and it’s potential creative genius. Some 900 years ago, King Lalibela set out to build several orthodox churches that would stand the test of time: churches carved straight out of the stone resolve of the Earth to remain static and unchanged. And there they sit today: drawing the wages of tourists… for the wages of prosperity is Firenji (foreigner) price.

Anyhow, I worked the system and came out relatively unscathed by the prejudice set against my skin colour.

As I arranged my travel back to Addis Ababa with Bisrat from ETT and a travel agent I met in Lalibela (Tibaba), I ran into a French friend from the Danakil tour. We went out with our new friends to drink the renowned honey-wine out of chemical lab flasks. It went down smooth.

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If I look down I can still see the beautiful Ethiopian mountains far below. It’s as if the entire country has become a braille map. I fell in love with this place, despite its challenges. Oh, how I miss Ethiopia already! I feel as if I am not finished with it.

When I think of India and my plans to come, my stomach lurches to my spine and up each vertebra to my gag reflex. It’s not that I’m not excited. I am. I feel that I’ve put so much pressure on my plans for India, as they’ve been in the making for 2 years. But I love Yoga. No one will judge me based on whether I am “good enough.” I am the Universe. And the Universe is Good Enough.

Salt of the Earth: Infinite Blessings

Today was every kind of strange and beautiful, simultaneously. I met many new people, saw breathtaking views, felt new textures beneath my bare feet, and tasted the salt of the Earth. Among my new acquaintances, I count a Korean, a Japanese man, a Netherlands man, an Australian, a French man, a Canadian, some Polish girls, and several Ethiopian tour guides. The Danakil tour is international, beautiful, and fascinating. As I watched the well-travelled French man interact perhaps a bit too boldly with some Afar children, I contemplated the effect this tour has on local children. They are regularly introduced to every culture this world has to offer without ever leaving their stick-hut village. To live such a life, with a deflated soccer ball, constantly passed-by by the strange people with flashing Canons… such a thing must be beyond confusing. It felt much easier to deny the cry for “things” when it came from my neighbors of two years. But is it really different now? Was I ever right in doing so, or was I just denying my materialistic lust for a first-world?

These questions run deep through my intestines, longing to be digested and lost at last. That is the curse of my two years in Ghana.

As for the other aspects of today, I am blessed to claim them as my own experiences. Today, we drove through the most beautiful desertous mountains for a few hours. I was lost in wonder. Finally, we came to a village where we ate lunch. The kids swarmed and brought flashbacks of Ghana in my heart. Soon we departed for Hamedela, where the Afar people live near the border of Eritrea. Here, we rested in the heat of the scorching sun for an hour. While many complained, I remained silent: used to the heat from my previous home. Finally, our driver Barhac, who had gone back for a broken-down car, arrived at Hamedela. We left in our car-caravan for the salt lake.

The ground that rolled by under our wheels was ever-changing: from mud; to volcanic rock; to crystallized mud geometry; to a dusting; to a coating; to splashing. Finally, we stopped. As we got out, we were instructed to put on flip-flops. The white-coated ground beckoned. A tour guide told me to remove my shoes. Barefoot, I felt the sharp fractals of crystal under me: pure salt: the salt of the Earth. It was covered in a layer of warm water: water leading to the Red Sea. We stood on Lake Assal.

We had passed a large pipe on our way out. Aki, our tour guide, told me that it was new as of 5-6 months ago. It’s construction is somehow sad, as it may eventually do away with the came caravan culture of this people group. They make a 7 day trek, on foot with camels, into the hottest place on Earth to mine salt in Lake Assal. In a few years, this may no longer happen. While sad, perhaps the pipe will draw enough 45% salt water to increase Ethiopia’s salt exports and boost their economy. The project has been funded through the taxes of supporting Ethiopians, so I hope it helps them in the end.

As the awe dissipated, our guides brought out the white (amber) Ethiopian wine and Ouza. As a large group of 20, we sat, drank, talked, felt the warm salt-water between our toes, and watched the sun set. Now we lay on grass-weaved cots beneath the stars. And I count my blessings, then stop… because there are too many.

Down the Winding Road: Ethiopia

The road to Mekelle is long and tightly wound around each topographic point of the land; rising and falling with each shift in elevation, so that one feels she is on a child’s jerky train-car roller coaster, even when on a large Salem bus (the coach buses that run throughout Ethiopia).

As we pass through the town of Dessie, I take a deep breath of relief that we are not currently hugging the side of a cliff… or… I was… until we just hit something.

By their reactions, it must have been a car and not a person. We are driving again. Dessie seems fairly developed. As I write, we drive through several 5-story gray apartment buildings, sporting satellite disks. And then we pass a man leading two loaded donkeys. Back to the cliffs. I am learning to pray for my life as I watch clips of the beauty in the valley below pass through the open sliver of window.

All my Love: Goodbye Ghana.

I am now on my plane to Nairobi, Kenya.

We are slowly rolling towards the take-off strip. As I look out the window, I watch another plane do precisely what we are about to do…

Take off: Leave: Move on.

Ghana, through its frustration-inducing moments, has been beautiful in so many ways. This journey has been long, but somehow, now it is finished.

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I move on from static comfort to dynamic openness.

We are moving fast.

I see the lights go by.

We lift.

I’m weightless.

Accra sparkles.

Then it ends; falls into a deep dark abyss… the Ocean? … or the bush?

I will need to keep a very open mind and heart through the months ahead of me. Goodbye Ghana. I love you.

Finding Love

I used to think that “finding love” meant finding someone to spend the rest of your life with. Now I know that “finding love” means finding unity in the universe.

It is a constant adventure to chase love where it may lead you and it is a tragedy to remain in any place without it.

I John 4:8 says, “Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.”

Yoga was first brought to the west as Kriya Yoga, which is the scientific technique of God-realization. While I may be studying forms of yoga other than Kriya, I will seek God-realization all the same. Since Love is my God, I will forever seek Love.

Perhaps it took a day of reflection on the roots of hatred in order for me to make this connection. Senseless shootings, like those committed in the US in the past few days, remind me that I must continually search for Love. I must forgive grudges. I must love my enemies. I must have the patience to love those who don’t believe in Love. Above all, I must find the capacity to love infinitely, even when the concept of infinity is beyond my own understanding.

Moving On to Practice Peace

06-09-16 (8:39 pm)

As I lean my head towards the open window, I take in the drizzly and Ghana-night show. I smell Nature’s dank rot and decay: it’s underbrush given, then taken away. I fiercely empathize with Baroness Karen Van-Blicken. I will miss the pungent smells of Africa. Enjoyment of them took time to acquire. Now they will always trigger so many memories.

This morning I sat and I prayed to the Sea:

a Yogi’s prayer: a chant for Peace.

But it was not only She who heard my “Shanti.”

 

A man interrupted to say “Hello,”

and afterward waited until I should go.

I wished to respond with grace and tact,

but failed, once more, to put on an act.

 

I spat at him, “Please, leave me alone!”

as I tiptoed across the big jetty stone.

I told him, “It’s rude to be staring at me,”

then left, broken like sand that the waves had beat.

 

I think of the Muslims praying so much each day.

No by-passer dares to get in their way.

If in a tro, like clockwork it’s curbed,

so men can join prayer mats and not be disturbed.

 

When I seek solitude, on the coast at dawn,

all over me, Ghanaian men fawn.

It seems so absurd, like a double standard.

It suffocates me: a caged, soul-deep free-bird.

 

Yet my third eye saw the need to teach

this man who disturbed my Peace at the beach.

He was curious, no doubt, about what I do.

The prayer he saw was not one he knew.

 

I could have explained my morning routine,

but I was burnt out. My response was mean.

It seems that these days, my practice is gone.

To find it again, I must now move on.

 

 

Much to Miss. Nothing to Lose.

05-07-16 (9:50 am)

I am on a tro to Wa. We’ve stopped in Babile. We were just passed by the screaming goat tro and a man sits next to me, dangling a guinea fowl by it’s feet between his knees, while he uses his left hand to make a phone call. I will miss these things.

I will miss driving through the dense green valleys of the south. I will miss the palm trees in the foreground and the crowded vegetation of the mountains in the background. I will miss the Rice Ballaz. I will miss Angie and Robyn.

As we sit tro-ing to Ho for a visit to Likpe Caves after COS (Close of Service) conference, I breathe in a new emotion. Trying to identify it, I notice the pictures that roll through my third eye and the sounds that resonate in my heart chakra. I see my girls practicing half moon pose; I hear them chanting “Om;” I see them laying peacefully in savasana; I see the picture Bekah Alviani took of me baring my soul to Upper Wli waterfall; I hear the water beating the still pond; I see the ripples dissipating as they spread into cold glass.

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Tears come to my eyes, sparsely and happily. I am becoming who I want to be. Nothing in the world could be more fulfilling.

Contemplation for Contentedness

I began my service in wide-eyed wonderment. Now I close it with gentle-eyed contemplation.

I was looking for a bubbly-excited happiness, but what I’ve found is a deep-calmed acceptance.

I’ve seen a lot in these two years: grieving; celebrating; transporting; surviving; haggling; conversing; sitting. I’ve seen life across the sea and it’s different, yet the same at its core. People live according to the circumstances they find when they open their eyes each morning. And it is up to each of us to live well.

We each have a choice to take what we find belonging to us, and to be satisfied or to be unsatisfied. The mind is more powerful than we often lend credit to.

I am learning to let frustration, hurt, and loss roll off me like rain off a zinc roof. I am in charge of my happiness. So I’m going to start living well by investing in it. In the years to come, I’ll know who I am, and I’ll know how I got there, and I’ll say:

I did what was right for me. I invested where it mattered, and now I am happy.

Nomadic Tribe: L(i/ea/o)ve

I fall in Love again and again.

Each place that I go, I make my friends,

but just a few become part of my Tribe.

My heart beats for them, what words won’t describe.

 

Yet on we part ways to Live and be bold

and on we will go until we grow old.

To me, that’s the beauty of tribes here and there,

but often I struggle to show that I care.

 

Some say I’ve lost touch.

We don’t converse much.

But to me of few words,

The Love’s less among herds.

 

There, mentality’s grouped

and all time has been couped:

shut off at the start

like a life without Heart.

 

But not all subscribe

to my personal Tribe,

and I feel great regret

for a need that’s not met:

 

My need for their souls to reside close to mine;

Their need for my presence to give them a sign.

So on I will Live with no offered bribe,

to those far and few who belong in my Tribe.