Alchemy

Strange occurrences unfold at night. On Easter or as I prefer, Ishtar, dreams of a fertile womb. A sign this heart is evolving and I am aligning with the seeds of spring. How beautiful to feel so connected and in love.

The very next evening, trickery, the universe wants to play. Peacefully, in the small hours, eyes flutter open. There’s a figure standing at the edge of the bed. Still as the night, their face glows in the darkness. Overcome with fear and panic, I cry out. Suddenly, synapses connect and I realize, it’s Kincy. I share a room with her at my cousin’s house (or as everyone properly refers to as the Doctor’s headquarters); she’s back from spring break. Her eyes barely move from the glowing screen of her phone. In unison, knowing laughter escapes us, but it is much too late to give a hearty effort. I roll back to sleep.

Later, as if to reconcile prankster terrors of the night, I wake myself up laughing aloud from a dream. Curious night, you present me with surprises.

The air is ionized. Every evening the sky strikes up in lightning. Palm trees outlined in yellow and purple brilliance. Shutting my eyes, I breath electrified air. Dreams are infiltrated by a galvanized atmosphere. Alchemy.

I walk up a spiral staircase, but suddenly I’m holding on by my hands and arms, as if the world has turned upside down. There is no fear of falling, no questioning of this trick of gravity, and no knowledge as to where this Escher-like staircase leads. There is only determination.

Under another evening’s sleeping spell, I live in a world of concrete- stories stacked on stories, escalators, elevators, vendors, and back alley apartments. There’s a frantic element to the air, this world is on the verge of collapse, and I sense it is biological.

I venture down. Down, down, down to the underground. I know I’m not supposed to be there, but I wander freely, unnoticed. Glass rooms where scientists work, hallways filled with people, steam emanating from rooms of science. I know the answer is there. I go back up and tell everyone, “Go down, underground, you’ll find safety there.”

Morning. Eyes open. I rise. Walk down the hall.

“Yadra, Fay.”

“Yadra, Yadra.” Good morning, good morning.

I write, I read, I stretch. Breathing in the smell of wet earth that only constant rain can bring- this weather that keeps me inside, and in turn, inward.

Within my creative process dreams merge with walking life, alchemically the symbols breath themselves into knowing. The path becomes discernible: inward, go inside to see.

The journey from night into day, darkness to light, dream and waking life, I wander the trails of this existence and feel the singular bond between my blood and ancestral grounds. It is here I am meant to connect the outer and the inner worlds and fuse my own alchemy, the magic of this life.

Self Truth

Got to Lima two days ago.  Wrote on the rooftop of my hostel for a bit.  Alone. Peaceful.  I’ve been feeling quite lonely these past few days.  From Cusco to Lima it’s been so grey, the dullness of the sky seems to weigh on my spirit.

Strange to believe tonight I will be on a plane back to the states.  It’s really been 2.5 months.  Costa Rica (the beginning of my trip) feels so long ago.  And Nicaragua…I had all these fears of seeing someone I’m sort of in love with (there is no label but I fondly describe him as my ‘seasonal partner’), and it ended up being a beautiful time in my life.  Although peppered with some strange aquaitances, I learned how to own my confidence with grace.  When grace failed me, I learned to laugh. And when my laughter faltered, I learned to let things go.

Anicca, the Buddhist term for impermanence.  My friend, Uri from Isreal taught me that word.  It was the first night I’d be thrown into the arms of Mother Ayahuasca.  Just me and Uri in the jungles of Perú.  I noticed it tattooed on his forearm and asked him of its meaning.  I couldn’t help but chuckle and reply, “Ironic.”

He joined in with me and said it hadn’t occurred to him until afterwards.  He gets that response all the time.  But really, why bother getting attached to anything?  In the end it doesn’t matter, we all die.  Nothing is permanent.

I nodded in understanding,  but really the thought of this made me feel empty, almost pointless.  I think I’d rather get attached and suffer.  Maybe that’s why I write.  Suffering is so crucial to writing.  The next morning, after Ayahuasca and much weeping, Uri, who was Buddha beside me all night, commented he wanted to suffer as I had that night.

The other day, I messaged a friend I made in Portland while living there last year.  So simply she asked, “Are you happy?”

Wow.  So powerful.  A ‘How are you,’ is such a robotic nicety these days, it doesn’t really mean anything.  I took a moment to respond.

“Grateful is a better adjective.”

I’m seeing the world like I always said I would, and I’m proud of myself for that.  But some days, I really feel the challenges of my solo quests.  Because of this, I always remind myself how good it feels to be in a loved ones company, to hold hands, to connect with a stranger, even for a day; they stay that much sweeter in my memory.

I sit here alone, writing on a couch in a long hall of a big, Victorian hostel.  Everything is white.  I wonder how many people before me have sat down with their thoughts, much like mine.  What were they searching for?  What were they remembering?

IMG_0135.JPG

I just met a man named Falk from Germany.  He’s been riding his bicycle around South America for 6 months and has another year or so to go.  He must be in his 40’s.  I wonder if he’s happy.  I wonder if he is like Uri and lives in a state of Anicca.  I wonder if he is like me.

I met a girl in Tarapoto.  Her name escapes me but she is from Switzerland.  We talked about how we liked to travel.  By how, I mean she didn’t bother doing anything touristy.  Only walking around, looking, observing, even cafés were in a sense for tourists, but sometimes she was thirsty.

She told me she enjoyed doing nothing.  Her friend had told her she was the only person she knew that actually meant it when she said she wasn’t doing anything.  Only sitting and thinking.  I found her quite lonely, but rather I think she valued her loneness more so.  Something I could relate to.

Soon I’ll be in familiar surroundings again.  Back with friends.  Back to the mountains.  Cali sunshine.  I’m sure some things will have changed, if ever so slightly.

I’m thinking of what these 2.5 months have been to me.  A step closer to something else.  Most people travel to get away, but I think I travel to get closer.  Picking up pieces of myself along the way. Each new place allows me to learn something new about myself.  I’m grateful for this- to discover, revealing the truth, even if it is my own.  Yes, there is more work to be done.  One more step, and another…

Tears to Heal: Ayahuasca

It’s 4am and I’m wondering.  I woke up from an alarming dream and tell myself, I will always be a work in progress.  To always have sweet dreams is like only having happy thoughts.  That is not the world, that is not me, and I accept.

To accept myself, I realized under a jungle canopy of twinkling stars, is part of finding myself.  The Ayahuasca was strong in my blood.  I held myself, looking up at the night like a child, I thanked the gods for the beautiful woman they created.  I thanked the universe for this love inside me which I wrapped myself in.  I cried for all the beautiful thoughts that ran like a river, flowing, meandering, weaving through my mind.  My eyes a great canyon for which these thoughts escaped as tears.  So many that the salt seemed to dwindle, to my lips I could barley taste the sea, they were now fresh water.  Water for growing.

And yet, how could love feel so sweetly sorrowful?  The sacrifices of my parents, even before my existence. The torments of those I loved.  The struggles of those and of which I know not.  Heroes. The love I’ve been afraid of.  All of it, I felt.  All of it I released back into the darkness and sent sweetly to the ones I love.  If you wondered was it you?  It was.

That night, I was blessed with the remembrance of my first memory.  In the womb.  I was apart of my mother- The Goddess and my own mother. Protected in a brilliant light of red and orange.  I cried for us, the mothers.  And as the healing song reverberated in my ear in a way that spoke to my spirit, it was then I knew, with more certainty than I’ve ever imagined, one day I will be a mother.

Gracias, Gracias, Gracias.