blur

Written November 25th, halfway through the 11 week trip.

Part I is from a fiesta-colored, sweaty dreambus on the way to a town with no name. Part II is from that village destination, written in a hammock swinging over leaves the size of platters.

***

I.

Having a hard time keeping up here... Everything blurs together in time, and before I have a moment to catch my breath and hold still for a moment, we're off again. The lull in Kuala Lumpur--for those brief days of being a guest, rather than a vagabond--were beautiful. But holding still allowed me the insight of just how exhausted I am. I'm okay with being exhausted; it's a result of soaking in everything that I possibly can, which takes a lot of energy--but I only say it because I feel like it would be dishonest to not admit it: traveling has made me tired.

Our first real day of relaxation in Kuala Lumpur was going to see Twilight, stocked up with Malaysian coconut treats, a couple bottles of wine, and a whole lot of build-up that surprisingly did not disappoint. It was an epic Thanksgiving.

And now I'm in Thailand, where the world shifts once again and the newness of this space and of the scents and colors and smiles and the curly-cue language I could never hope to read...

We began with a 48-hour stint in Bangkok (planning to return in a week or two), which consisted of a heavenly spa day, meltinyourmouth fish, roasted (and deep fried) bananas--

Our bus driver just pulled over, emergency lights on, so he could go buy himself a stick (a broomstick?), and apparently I'm just as ADD as he is, and it looks like the bargaining is done, he's on his way back now, that was hilarious--

and there are so many smiling faces. The people here--kind--are also always aiming to get something out of you. Even the nicest, it's just part of the experience. White, western, money... But the few times we've been taken (only considering the times I'm aware of) have been so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. 40 baht too much? Okay, so that's a little over a dollar... To think how much I take for granted... But it starts to get to you too... 'Can I trust you?' My questioning eyes are always met with assurances of 'Yes, of course,' but when I've caught the smile disappearing as soon as it appears and then I'm at the "only ticket office for bus tickets in the whole city," refusing to pay but, Fine, yes I'll go in for a whole of two seconds so you can collect your commission for bringing a westerner to their door, and then I'm on alert with every helpful gesture, with every quoted price--now that is exhausting--and I'm thrown by the kind souls who want absolutely nothing for helping me to find the right bus to board...Ahhh it's all a game I don't know how to win (am I even playing to win?) but at least I'm getting by--

And now I'm looking out the window at the most precious little altar. Brick red, Thai temple dollhouse with yellow trim turning up at the edges, tea cups in front and flowers tucked into corners...the celebration of life, love, Buddha, humanity, color--it's everywhere. I must be dreaming. Or maybe I'm just widely, shatteringly, painfully, deliciously awake for the longest stretch I've time I've ever been and that is precisely why I am so utterly drained.
And invigorated.
And turned on and numb and everything all at once, a great bramble of contradictions, loosening threads all over the tropics--

I've been reading Rumi, The Book of Love cover to cover... I'm past "Grief" and onto "Tavern Madness" and, as is often the case when I feel drawn to a particular book at a particular time, the poems I am reading now (as well as the commentary from the insightful Coleman Barks) speak to me like my own inner-dialogue.

Pale sunlight,
pale the wall.

Love moves away.
The light changes.

I need more grace
than I thought.

I do, I do.
There is a word in Arabic, faraji, it means "ripped open," or "happiness," or "one who brings the joy of being opened," and I feel like as if it could be embossed on my heart. There is a kaleidascopal universe twisting different shades of green, blue, gold, rain, smoke, and flame before me and the air I'm breathing is just so thick with the saturation of it all, in moments of madness I shut my lips and my eyes for a visit back home. I see the same slides flicker through my vision:

California coast and the gray foaming edges of waves kissing the shore where my feet pad soft etch-a-sketch prints on evening runs; all the fixings of my own kitchen and the simplicity of salad on a ceramic plate and both made by my hands in a true organic food experience; the friends and family and social fun of familiarity; certain smiles that I miss sweetly and certain embraces that I miss fiercely and -- ah, but it's all so familiar that I can imagine it in vivid detail with the very reoccurance of these memories in reinvented, technicolored fantasy -- what about THIS? This unimagined, unremembered, all brand new. Be here now.

II.

My toes are threaded through the holes of a hammock. I'm swinging to the music of insectual buzz flowing through the air like water; birds of all instrumental persuasions--trumpets and saxaphones and flutes and windchimes--join the melody in rounds.

I feel like a blanket of dust has been peeled off me and I'm new again.

This world--this being human--is at times (most times?) confounding. One moment I'm fighting my body: scratching the bites that cover my skin like a map of conquered territories, islands set on flame; the illnesses of various origins I've tested within just a month and a half; bruises, blood--and then Bliss. I find myself in a state of ecstatic union with my earth form and I'm assuaged with aromas and flavors and serenity, thrown back into a bed of woven cotton or buoyant in a salty ocean bath.

Our last day in Langkawi, Emily and I dove under soft little waves off a sandy empty shore, when it started to rain. The drops were heavy like marbles, bubbling all over the surface of the water. We floated, soaking in a warm sea and the chilled drops rained on our faces. Beautiful boundless bliss. We left only because we had to--the constant motion of this trip, it takes my breath away.

And then today, just as I began to lose grip of my edges, I'm saved, washed ashore, this time on a hill. A cottage close to the clouds, far from the confusion of cities and the deafening dance music roaring from backpackers' bars and I'm with soulful companions and

Silence.

Who looks out with my eyes? What is

the soul? I cannot stop asking.

If I could taste one sip of an answer,

I could break out of this prison for drunks.

I didn't come here of my own accord,

And I can't leave that way.

Whoever brought my here will have to take me home.

This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.

I don't plan it.

When I'm outside the saying of it,

I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

...and then...

We have a huge barrel of wine,

                                       but no cups.

That's fine with us. Every morning

we glow and in the evening we glow again.

They say there's no future for us.

                                      They're right.

Which is fine with us.



still

Imagine thirty-eight American Jews riding camels through the Israeli desert. Our Bedouin guides unabashedly laughed at us while they led the despairing creatures along in a haphazard line through the sandy terrain. Our steeds angrily nipped at legs, howled with frustration, and provoked howls of laughter from all of us with their determined acts of rebellion against the injustice of the situation. Fortunately for them (and for anyone whose legs were subject to the nipping), our group made a quick U-turn only 10 minutes into the trek. Back we trudged through the camel poop and towards the touristy Bedouin campsite awaiting us. Equal parts ridiculous and hilarious.

Photo credit: Casey Kaminsky

Emily and I took a camel that will heretofore be known as Gabe. Em rode shot gun while I rode in the back and felt up-close camel breath on my shoulder for much of the walk. No concept of personal space, that guy.

With this kind of slapstick introduction to the desert, it was difficult to anticipate how profound the rest of our time there would be. Spending the night in Negev was my favorite part of the Israel Experience, coming near the very end of a whirlwind tour. It was a climax of spiritual awareness, camaraderie, and self-reflection blooming silently in the darkness of a warm windy night.

The tour officially ended yesterday, and it was so crammed with activities and memories that it would be hard to compile into a concise little blog post. I barely had time to sleep, let alone write, but I am now on the other side of the journey and resting at "home." Home, in this case, is an apartment in Tel Aviv where Emily and I have settled in for a few days. We're staying with an Israeli guy named Shaked, who we met through couch surfing. He is a very kind host to accommodate us, especially since I am also very sick and sniffly (too little sleep and too much hookah). Today I made an expensive trip to a local vitamin shop and stocked up on homeopathic meds with labels I cannot read. My favorite remedy at the moment is the cough syrup because it tastes like honey...I've been doubling the doses recommended to me by the cashier.

So here I am, a total degenerate in my comfy clothes while Emily and Shaked are out shopping for groceries. Our host claims to make awesome schnitzel, so I believe that is what we'll be having for dinner. While I trust his abilities with chicken, he has also confided in me that he hates cucumbers and Indian food, thus decreasing my overall faith in his culinary preferences. Stay tuned for word on the schnitzel.

Really, though, it's amazing to have this kind of hospitality from a total stranger...couch surfing is a life saver (or at least a huge money saver). Instead of a hostel or an expensive hotel, I'm staying at a local's apartment. I'm listening to the voices and traffic from Rabin Square through wide open windows, and enjoying a moment of stillness and solitude. It's the perfect atmosphere for reflecting on the hustle of Birthright and the past week since I last wrote.

It's hard to put into words exactly what Israel has meant to me, but I think that what is most important for me to share is my experience in the desert. That part of the tour basically concluded the entire trip (although the real conclusion was a drunken night of debauchery that peaked with a 1:30AM dip in the ocean and ended at 4:00AM, with a tearful send-off to some of the best people I have ever known). But back to the Bedouins and the magical desert....

After we kicked off with the camel ride, our little traveling Kibbutz cleaned up and reconvened in the dining tent. We sat on floor cushions, around communal plates of vegetables and meat as the sky darkened. The Bedouin hosts plied us with tea, pitas, and fruit, and we feasted hand-to-mouth style until we were full. But the carefully planned schedule ended there, and our Birthright family transformed into a freeform state of group activities and smaller gatherings. Our interactions flowed into an easy sort of rhythm that was different than anything we had yet experienced.

I was a part of the larger group that walked out into the desert away from the lights of the campsite. We wanted to see the stars. At first we blinded ourselves with flashlights as we aimed to sidestep the camel debris and whatever rocks were lurking in the dark, but as soon as we realized our mistake in using bulbs to see, our eyes adjusted to the moonlight. It was a world of blues and purples and shadows. The bushes glowed like tropical sea coral and I could see the rocks from a distance before my feet were close. Emily and I hopped between the rocks like rabbits, trying to get a momentum going as we dodged the unseen obstacles. But as our eyes adjusted and the sand sloped down, we slowed our pace and walked until the entire group settled into a flat area surrounded by sweeping hills. We all laid down with our backs on the desert floor and looked up at the stars.

It took a minute or two for them to become visible to us...bright lights still stained our eyes and the moon was glowing more than anything from the campsite, but as we lay there on the rocks and the dust, the sky opened up to us. We were staring at the universe.

In a group like ours, with each person presenting a distinct personality and with a short amount of time to spend with so many new friends, conversations were always going. Even in down times when we were all exhausted, there was always at least one voice that could be heard. So when our tour guide Yoav requested our silence there on the desert floor, it was especially poignant that we did experience total quiet. It was the first moment of stillness that I can remember from the trip, and it was beautiful. I hadn't realized how much I needed a moment of peace.

As much as I loved being a part of a group of people to share the big moments, whether we were walking through Yad Vashem or welcoming Shabbat at the Wailing Wall, it was really special to connect with what was going on inside myself for a small moment and to realize how big that actually was. 

The desert changed the pace of Israel for me. I came back to the campsite on my own when I was ready, with a new appreciation for the community we had created. On one side of our space there was a big bonfire with most of our Birthright family sitting in a close circle, singing and playing instruments for each other. It looked like a really nice time, but I was still feeling the silence and solitude...I made my way to the other side of the camp. 

In a small little group that shifted a few of its members periodically, we sat around a table under a tree that dropped pink petals shaped like ginkgo leaves. We had our own music, a volunteer DJ who provided us with mellow songs that fit perfectly with the atmosphere. We smoked hookah, we drank tea, we shared stories, and we sat quietly listening to the sounds around us. It was such a perfect, comfortable silence. There was something freshly intimate about that circle of friends that made me feel like I was home. 

After about four hours of sleep, I (struggled to) wake up and wandered out of the sleeping tent to find a sky full of stars that rivaled anything we had seen on our desert walk. They were so clear. We all packed up and headed to Masada so that we could hike to the top in time for sunrise. The stars had all but faded by the time we got to the base of the cliffs.

After a short, steep hike and in a delirious state, our group settled on the ruins with a view of the Dead Sea stretched out below. The sun rose over the Eastern wall, peaking through a shield of clouds with the brightest shade of pink. Emily and I met the new day in our own way, stepping aside from the group for our personal version of prayer. In quiet unison, we did a short series of sun salutations and bowed yogi-style to the dawn.

There's a morning where presence comes over you,
and you sing like a rooster in your earth-colored shape.

Your heart hears and, no longer frantic, begins 
to dance. At that moment soul 
reaches total emptiness. Your heart becomes Mary,

miraculously pregnant, and body, like a two-day-old
Jesus says wisdom words. Now the heart 
turns to light, and the body picks up the tempo.

Where Shamsi Tabriz walks, the footprints
are musical notes and holes you fall through into space.

--Rumi