We're all waiting for something.
But what?
What is that something we grapple with as we sit in the silence that has been offered up and that which we grapple with has already been liberated.
Because the now is that something that we wait for.
The now is what we grapple with while we search for permission to allow ourselves to accept this moment, this now just as it is.
Because we are all waiting for something to happen. For life to start once things get sorted.
Life is in the sorting,
Life is the waiting.
Life is the grappling.
And while you may not come up for a breath of fresh air soon enough, know that life is all happening. It's here in the now.
And while we grapple, and wait, wish and control, life watches us withhold permission to give to ourselves to live. Here. In the now. Fully.
And so we wait. We wait for those moments when we can just be.
We wait for those quiet seconds to sit alone with ourselves, where we will finally understand ourselves.
We wait for that "oh so sought after me time," but when we finally get it, we don't even know what to do with it. We run away as fast as we can. We allow out minds to steer the ship. We allow our fidgeting to cease the stillness.
We are offered these opportunities and couldn't be the wiser of how to learn to be with them. In presence. I watch this play out, dripping of agony and misery as I guide my yoga class through meditation, a treacherous tight rope to walk, as expectation doesn't match reality.
Because we are all waiting for something else to happen. Rather than what is.
Therefore, do we even know what is happening when we are never there to man our ship as the presence greets us, life passing us by as we stare into the past and into the future and everywhere but right where we are. Because this, is all there is.
Saturday, August 27, 2016
Monday, July 25, 2016
Mrs. Huffington's Grand Piano
Green for miles was the first thing that your eyes took in. The perfectly sculpt shrubbery framing the Huffington Mansion was lit up by a five tiered water-fall like fountain, serenading the approaching ears. When you strode into the party, the click-clacking of dress shoes filled your ears, followed by the laughter and chatter of excited voice. You were lost in the mix of Italian waiters, all you saw was red, but then there was black. Was it a grand piano you ask yourself, but right then four handsome middle aged men waltzed past with their beautiful sweethearts, like a pair of figure skaters on freshly shaven ice. In a frazzle, you take a right, light driving on a busy intersection, in hopes to conquer this obstacle of a house. As if the time stood still, the waves of people parted at the center, creating a walkway for a mysterious guest, your head spins, what was happening? Emerging out of the center of the crowd was the lovely Miss Anita, the queen of the house, which also happened to be the apple of your eye.
It was the summer of 1957 in late June when the ladies and gentlemen of the town had one thing in common: they were all counting down the days until the masquerade ball was to take place in the exquisite Huffington mansion. It was the perfect spot to have a party because it was tucked away in the ritzy area that bordered the shoreline of the glistening lake. Everything about this place was ideal, from the grass, to the flawlessly white swans quack-quacking down the rippling water into the never ending sunset. It was surely a sight to take in. The Huffingtons were known for their wealth and extravagant estate that everyone envied. The Huffingtons had precisely planned every minuet detail, knowing that this was their time to shine. Since they lived in a very comfortable fashion, their servants were put to work as soon as possible.
Purple, red, white. Purple, red, white. All around you were servants buzzing around like busy bees flying in and out of the mansion with fresh grapes from the vineyards. The squish squashing of the grapes along the thick, granite counters stained the bare hands of the arduous working servants. Thoughts encircled you as you floated like a stray balloon into the kitchen from the vineyard, like taking a trip to the toy workshop of Santa's little elves, the one wish you could never dream enough about. The aromas of the finest wines were swept into your nose the minute you strode in through the mammoth-like doors that led from the fantasy land that would have been a plain Jane's backyard.
The richness of the music strummed through the room, your heart was in your ears, the thump thumping putting you at peace with the vibrant surroundings. If you wouldn't have taken a second glance at the pianist, you would have thought that Mozart was gracefully pouring his music over the piano, creating those magical works he was so eminent for. Was that Anita? The piano was showing off your dear Anita who was perched atop of it, like a proud finch incubating her sacred, speckled eggs. You could smell the perfume she was wearing from a mile away, almost like it was tracking you down. It didn't waste time engulfing you, hugging you like a warm blanket on a snowy winter day. You felt all warm and fuzzy inside, not wanting to move like an intricately carved sculpture of a Greek God looking out upon his surroundings with no worries in the world.
There was much work for the servants to do not only was this going to be a party that was to take place inside, but many people were bound to drift outside for the weather was predicted to be dazzling. Out went the servants to begin their work, past the ceiling to floor windows that let the sun pour through them, warming your body like a hot shower, and out through the towering oak doors that led to where all the magic of the outdoors took place. Rows and rows of stunning poppies lined the smooth marble walkway. The poppies were an irritated artist's last attempt to get his paints the right color, splattering the pinks, yellows, and oranges haphazardly about the landscape.
Walking, walking down to the lake, so many things to stop and look at, where to turn, where to turn? There, here, over there. Feeling as if you were trapped inside a fish bowl, the silky, warm water bounced you up and down, exaggerating the whereabouts of the other guests that swam past you, you watched the brilliant colors, like a kite in the wind mixing and falling into one another like whipping the ingredients of a cake. You're out, and you dry off, enough swimming for one day, you think to yourself, but wait, were you even swimming?
Lying before you is a Kentucky Derby's worth of soft grass, some strands lost from the rest, and others holding onto the bottom of your shoes just for the ride. You take your just shined black shoes off, and tuck your best dress socks into your shoes, hiding them safely inside from the world outside. Your warm, naked feet welcome the grass from all around, sending a crisp, but refreshing feeling through your toes, up through your veins, to the tip top of your head, awakening the almost forgotten memories of your childhood, running barefoot on the grass with no intention of ever stopping. Suddenly startled, you snap back from your mind's chicanery. your top hat which was seated upon your head was stolen by the crisp summer breeze as your feet led you to the whispering willows that were settled aside the crystal clear lake. You plopped down next to a dancing willow, eavesdropping on the wind sharing all kinds of wild secrets with the tree. Wondering how they could be telling secrets with the hustle and bustle of the party, you submerge your feet into the lake, letting it cleanse you like a pouring rain, hoping to become incognito with the landscape that unpleasantly scratched your underside. As the breeze played games with your flowing hair, your sun kissed face radiated out into the distance.
Clink, clank, went Anita's fine china as the guests intermingled through the river of poufy dresses, and fine suits that occupied any open space like liquid in a sponge. Glittering jewels reflected upon the walls like gems in a mine, making the onlooker curious as to what precious stones the wall was hiding inside of it. Everyone looked perfect, not a single strand of hair lay out of place, for it hugged the guest's scalps as if they were in line at the barber shop for their few-month-too-late hair cut. you thought your eyes were busy, but your nose was about to retire, until the smell of garlic and butter crept through the thick cloud of perfumes and colognes that hung in the air like bats, too stubborn to move. The extravagant feast of warm pasta towered miles high on the decorative table settings that lined the king's table, next to loaves of garlic bread, and freshly picked lettuce that was waiting to be devoured. Smiles, old friends, new friends, clink, clank.
The party went on until all hours of the night when miss Anita Huffington strolled out onto the moonlit marble path. She was greeted by twinkling white stars smiling at her from the jet black sky. The gentle summer breeze led her to the gates of her mansion. Staring down the drive, she waved guests goodbye, and dreamt of the man who saw her on the piano.
It was the summer of 1957 in late June when the ladies and gentlemen of the town had one thing in common: they were all counting down the days until the masquerade ball was to take place in the exquisite Huffington mansion. It was the perfect spot to have a party because it was tucked away in the ritzy area that bordered the shoreline of the glistening lake. Everything about this place was ideal, from the grass, to the flawlessly white swans quack-quacking down the rippling water into the never ending sunset. It was surely a sight to take in. The Huffingtons were known for their wealth and extravagant estate that everyone envied. The Huffingtons had precisely planned every minuet detail, knowing that this was their time to shine. Since they lived in a very comfortable fashion, their servants were put to work as soon as possible.
Purple, red, white. Purple, red, white. All around you were servants buzzing around like busy bees flying in and out of the mansion with fresh grapes from the vineyards. The squish squashing of the grapes along the thick, granite counters stained the bare hands of the arduous working servants. Thoughts encircled you as you floated like a stray balloon into the kitchen from the vineyard, like taking a trip to the toy workshop of Santa's little elves, the one wish you could never dream enough about. The aromas of the finest wines were swept into your nose the minute you strode in through the mammoth-like doors that led from the fantasy land that would have been a plain Jane's backyard.
The richness of the music strummed through the room, your heart was in your ears, the thump thumping putting you at peace with the vibrant surroundings. If you wouldn't have taken a second glance at the pianist, you would have thought that Mozart was gracefully pouring his music over the piano, creating those magical works he was so eminent for. Was that Anita? The piano was showing off your dear Anita who was perched atop of it, like a proud finch incubating her sacred, speckled eggs. You could smell the perfume she was wearing from a mile away, almost like it was tracking you down. It didn't waste time engulfing you, hugging you like a warm blanket on a snowy winter day. You felt all warm and fuzzy inside, not wanting to move like an intricately carved sculpture of a Greek God looking out upon his surroundings with no worries in the world.
There was much work for the servants to do not only was this going to be a party that was to take place inside, but many people were bound to drift outside for the weather was predicted to be dazzling. Out went the servants to begin their work, past the ceiling to floor windows that let the sun pour through them, warming your body like a hot shower, and out through the towering oak doors that led to where all the magic of the outdoors took place. Rows and rows of stunning poppies lined the smooth marble walkway. The poppies were an irritated artist's last attempt to get his paints the right color, splattering the pinks, yellows, and oranges haphazardly about the landscape.
Walking, walking down to the lake, so many things to stop and look at, where to turn, where to turn? There, here, over there. Feeling as if you were trapped inside a fish bowl, the silky, warm water bounced you up and down, exaggerating the whereabouts of the other guests that swam past you, you watched the brilliant colors, like a kite in the wind mixing and falling into one another like whipping the ingredients of a cake. You're out, and you dry off, enough swimming for one day, you think to yourself, but wait, were you even swimming?
Lying before you is a Kentucky Derby's worth of soft grass, some strands lost from the rest, and others holding onto the bottom of your shoes just for the ride. You take your just shined black shoes off, and tuck your best dress socks into your shoes, hiding them safely inside from the world outside. Your warm, naked feet welcome the grass from all around, sending a crisp, but refreshing feeling through your toes, up through your veins, to the tip top of your head, awakening the almost forgotten memories of your childhood, running barefoot on the grass with no intention of ever stopping. Suddenly startled, you snap back from your mind's chicanery. your top hat which was seated upon your head was stolen by the crisp summer breeze as your feet led you to the whispering willows that were settled aside the crystal clear lake. You plopped down next to a dancing willow, eavesdropping on the wind sharing all kinds of wild secrets with the tree. Wondering how they could be telling secrets with the hustle and bustle of the party, you submerge your feet into the lake, letting it cleanse you like a pouring rain, hoping to become incognito with the landscape that unpleasantly scratched your underside. As the breeze played games with your flowing hair, your sun kissed face radiated out into the distance.
Clink, clank, went Anita's fine china as the guests intermingled through the river of poufy dresses, and fine suits that occupied any open space like liquid in a sponge. Glittering jewels reflected upon the walls like gems in a mine, making the onlooker curious as to what precious stones the wall was hiding inside of it. Everyone looked perfect, not a single strand of hair lay out of place, for it hugged the guest's scalps as if they were in line at the barber shop for their few-month-too-late hair cut. you thought your eyes were busy, but your nose was about to retire, until the smell of garlic and butter crept through the thick cloud of perfumes and colognes that hung in the air like bats, too stubborn to move. The extravagant feast of warm pasta towered miles high on the decorative table settings that lined the king's table, next to loaves of garlic bread, and freshly picked lettuce that was waiting to be devoured. Smiles, old friends, new friends, clink, clank.
The party went on until all hours of the night when miss Anita Huffington strolled out onto the moonlit marble path. She was greeted by twinkling white stars smiling at her from the jet black sky. The gentle summer breeze led her to the gates of her mansion. Staring down the drive, she waved guests goodbye, and dreamt of the man who saw her on the piano.
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
because im scared too
I want you when you don't want you
I want your flaws and your imperfections
I want your shortcomings and your fears
I want your anxieties, your fears and your pain
I want you when you don't want you anymore, when you don't know what to do
I want you in the sunshine and in the fog
When you can't see straight and don't know where to take your next step
I want you in the violent turbulence of the waking of your soul
I want you in rest, in tranquil peace and surrendered trust
I want you in melodic beating of hearts as your breath merges into one with mine
I want you when it's cold and your teeth are chattering and your heart grows cold
I want you to find your warmth within me
I want you when you're broken and torn in the the debris of your own tapestry
I want to patch you up with the twinkling pieces of my heart and soul, creating a mosaic of us
I want you when you're alone and unsure where to turn, as the world beats you up and makes you feel small and worthless
I want to take you in my arms and dissipate your hurting, transforming into gold, into the strength and love that which you are, but you just forgot
I want to forever remind you of your greatness, when you don't want to see it, when you forget where you've placed it
I want you when you don't want me in muck of mental chaos tearing you away from your hearts true desire
I want you when you want me back, when sweet sea breeze unveils that illusions that hold you down, forced compliance in the name of fear
I want you, all of you as you navigate the icy precipice of your existence, like rubix cube drifting in the ocean of your beingness, anxiety flooding the base of your inner temple as you try to figure out this life
I want to unravel the mystery and miracles this life serves up, inviting the chaos, the pain the anxiety with open arms and a heart, gaping open like blue whale feeding on plankton, open to receiving all of you, all of this journey
In unity. Together.
In a delicate game of tug and war, balancing each other out, whisking together the ingredients of our individuality. Taking a risk into the unknown, trusting in blind faith in the flow of what is, sinking deeper into confidence and safety with each passing breath tickling our souls reminding us this is exactly where we should be, gentle reassurance.
To keep going. Full of fear. Risks abounding. And to continue to trust, to feel, to move forward in all the beautiful chaos. Because, we don't have to figure it all out right now. Or ever.
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
the onion of the soul
where does the trigger hit? when chord is struck what is the first thing to feel? the heart? the mind? the soul? things untapped?
is it a call to help, or a soft reminder to look up? to remember that you are not your thoughts, your feelings, your actions, to remain present in the BODY. Of this, I am not certain. The further I delve into the peeling of my own ostensible epidermis, astounds me. the layer that protects serves in tandem as the first layer of vulnerability, waiting in utmost desire for penetration of soul experience. touch. contact. sensations.
the malleability of form, the depth within, crying, sharp knife meeting it's delicate exterior, separating protection from absorption. hiding from being seen. to hold space for the unraveling of the whole, slow dancing between fear and excitement, known and unknown. knowing the uncertainty of the now all that holds true for the single breath of this moment is all that which we are guaranteed.
the triggers serving as a starting point, knife kissing skin, words exchanged in a felt sense, words not meaning words in the way that we think as the body knows no such language thereof. what comes next is none of the certain, pain, strife, integration, chapter opening to next layer.
surrender protection. cease knight's charging vigil. eyes open to the nudity of what is to arise, knife whispering soft riddles, triggering what is yet to come, in this moment, this time.
the malleability of form, the depth within, crying, sharp knife meeting it's delicate exterior, separating protection from absorption. hiding from being seen. to hold space for the unraveling of the whole, slow dancing between fear and excitement, known and unknown. knowing the uncertainty of the now all that holds true for the single breath of this moment is all that which we are guaranteed.
the triggers serving as a starting point, knife kissing skin, words exchanged in a felt sense, words not meaning words in the way that we think as the body knows no such language thereof. what comes next is none of the certain, pain, strife, integration, chapter opening to next layer.
surrender protection. cease knight's charging vigil. eyes open to the nudity of what is to arise, knife whispering soft riddles, triggering what is yet to come, in this moment, this time.
Tuesday, June 21, 2016
the lion & the sea horse
The things that have been going through my mind as of late: power, and the fickle balance between the masculine and the feminine. We give away our power right and left. I find that I've been doing it for the greater part of my life.
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Constantly ripping myself apart only to piece it back together, walking away with a better understanding of how I'm all patched together.
Flowing in and out of the feminine and the masculine. The feeler and the aggressor. Tenderness vs. strength. Responding and reacting. Unsure which should take the drivers seat. Had one wrongly driven when the other as asleep under shady tree cover, lion in the jungle?
Judging myself for not sticking to one side of the coin, embodied in the feminine, it should be a natural state of self. Not knowing where to place my own self; how to contain this slippery soul. Malleable beyond any form. In the blink of an eye, no warning signs.
Solid.
Liquid.
Gas.
Flowing through the cracks in communication, the cracks of the humans, the cracks in nature. Unsure where to place myself. What form to encapsulate? How to contain myself in a form, as it flitters away like sea horse into glistening deep sea.
Colors painting the sky. Changeable. A watercolor smeared above, hands dunked into a plethora of paints, brushing them from one end of the universe to the other.
Mutating. Through experience, moments. Sight. Through life.
With one interaction shattering the known universe, cracking the ground that which i walk. The ripple effect unceasing, reaching a fraction of infinity. Feet sinking into salty wet sand, in attempts to find solid footing.
Keeping head above the incoming tide, masculinity taking the front seat, fighting the incoming wake, aggression in full force, as hooves dig into the ground, bucking and snorting in exhausted effort. Breath coming short. The feminine feeling each ripple, gently tickling my toes, my feet, my legs, and splashing against my belly button, inviting me to sink deeper. Inviting me to play.
To learn to ride the wave, proving to be the most challenging undertaking. The blending of both energies, as they naturally eb and flow in perfect proportions, preprogrammed without calibrated thought, nor effort. The dance, a seemingly simple undertaking.
Solid, Liquid, gas, flowing elusively in natural trajectory to the situations, conversations and moments lived. Malleable beyond any capturable form. The wet salty sand tugging me deeper and deeper into the ground that which I find balance upon. Calmly falling into it's grace, peacefully pulling guiding one foot out the sinking floor that lies beneath, finding a foothold in the earth's changing form.Allowing the incoming surf to tickle body, mind and soul, present in opposing force, as they flow in and out, withdrawing into a fraction of infinity that is unseen, but is experienced and trusted by all that live.
Allowing the self to receive the incoming flow. Trusting. Meeting it in required form. Matching the energy. Breathing it in, in uncalibrated thought or effort, lion asleep under tree cover, flittering sea horse into glistening deep sea, hooves digging deep in search of solid ground.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Constantly ripping myself apart only to piece it back together, walking away with a better understanding of how I'm all patched together.
Flowing in and out of the feminine and the masculine. The feeler and the aggressor. Tenderness vs. strength. Responding and reacting. Unsure which should take the drivers seat. Had one wrongly driven when the other as asleep under shady tree cover, lion in the jungle?
Judging myself for not sticking to one side of the coin, embodied in the feminine, it should be a natural state of self. Not knowing where to place my own self; how to contain this slippery soul. Malleable beyond any form. In the blink of an eye, no warning signs.
Solid.
Liquid.
Gas.
Flowing through the cracks in communication, the cracks of the humans, the cracks in nature. Unsure where to place myself. What form to encapsulate? How to contain myself in a form, as it flitters away like sea horse into glistening deep sea.
Colors painting the sky. Changeable. A watercolor smeared above, hands dunked into a plethora of paints, brushing them from one end of the universe to the other.
Mutating. Through experience, moments. Sight. Through life.
With one interaction shattering the known universe, cracking the ground that which i walk. The ripple effect unceasing, reaching a fraction of infinity. Feet sinking into salty wet sand, in attempts to find solid footing.
Keeping head above the incoming tide, masculinity taking the front seat, fighting the incoming wake, aggression in full force, as hooves dig into the ground, bucking and snorting in exhausted effort. Breath coming short. The feminine feeling each ripple, gently tickling my toes, my feet, my legs, and splashing against my belly button, inviting me to sink deeper. Inviting me to play.
To learn to ride the wave, proving to be the most challenging undertaking. The blending of both energies, as they naturally eb and flow in perfect proportions, preprogrammed without calibrated thought, nor effort. The dance, a seemingly simple undertaking.
Solid, Liquid, gas, flowing elusively in natural trajectory to the situations, conversations and moments lived. Malleable beyond any capturable form. The wet salty sand tugging me deeper and deeper into the ground that which I find balance upon. Calmly falling into it's grace, peacefully pulling guiding one foot out the sinking floor that lies beneath, finding a foothold in the earth's changing form.Allowing the incoming surf to tickle body, mind and soul, present in opposing force, as they flow in and out, withdrawing into a fraction of infinity that is unseen, but is experienced and trusted by all that live.
Allowing the self to receive the incoming flow. Trusting. Meeting it in required form. Matching the energy. Breathing it in, in uncalibrated thought or effort, lion asleep under tree cover, flittering sea horse into glistening deep sea, hooves digging deep in search of solid ground.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
to push or not to push, that is the question...
The relentless, masochistic part of myself has always had a louder voice, the one that would rather handle a couple rounds of sludge hammer smashes to the head instead of doing the eyeball rolling, big kid stuff that requires constant attention and responsibility, ie. the other voice. Over the years, I've done an exceptional job rationalizing the ataraxia of a beating versus the latter.
Right...
Bloody, and defeated, I then take a step back and analyze the preemptive situation that led me to the sludge attack. It's never as scary, or hard as I pegged it to be. Latest example: work on website. What actually occurs? I go for a thirteen and a half miles "run"...
Faultless logic.
So what gives? The juxtaposition been the subtleties of a push versus a pull, between the mental and physical drive, where one shuts off and the other switches on, this piques me. What motivations lie behind each modality? At what point does the push know to give into the pull and vice versa? They are inextricably linked, this much can not be proven false.
Moving forward, I've always had a thing for conducting longitudinal studies on myself, things such as "wearing glasses while serving increases overall tip percentage," as people irrationally draw a correlation between spectacles and intelligence (obviously true in my case, but nonsensical in regard to general public association), and "being conscious of what you eat makes you a hippie," obviously. As these longitudinal studies have aged, they've now found themselves in the laboratory de la gym.Why? Because it's seemingly the one place I will show up and PUSH the envelope: leg missing, bleeding out, shirtless- whatever it takes, I'm there ready to bring it. The latest research per the subject matter of pushing versus pulling has proved engrossing data, with variables and constants as outlined:
Constant: Show up to gym, pumped up on coffee stronger than jet fuel, ready to kick my ass (cue healthy competition mode unbeknownst to all other humans), with a touch of irritation (it's always too early to be awake at this point) laced with austerity. This combination invariably the best mental cocktail to get me in the fight zone.
Yesterday, I arrive. Cashed. Feeling in a state somewhere between skin suit zombie and meditative Buddha, unsure what reserves I was going to tap into for this training, wanting nothing more than to be in a horizontal coma. Alas, time to lace up the kicks, and surrender to whatever's going to happen. The competition is looking of par, the few men in the room providing my main source of challenge. It's go time.
Variable: The specific exercises and my ranking in class- which typically teeter totters between second and third. The workouts are structured on a consistant frame work of thirty minutes of cardio (intervals/hills/sprints), and thirty minutes of hydro rowing intervals mixed with weight training.
I dive into the rowing and weights for part one. I need to get warmed up for the forth coming madness.
By the second half of class, I've released all self-induced mental pressure, the PUSH, throwing in the white flag if you will, as the sap to my source of 'fight,' is in high dwindle. I'm runnin on fumes. This is the push I'm speaking of, the one that is mind induced, telling you to show up. Tell you to finish first. Telling you to do better than the day before, and shit, why not do better than everyone else in the room? The mental script was no where to be found, and so, I let my body fall into itself, I let go into the physical state of my being, a state of autopilot where the PULL happens by default.
11.3 miles per hour hit.
Whattttt the fuck?
I giggle to myself not knowing where this came from. Frankly, it seemed too easy. I wasn't ready to knock anyone out, I didn't need to swear at the treadmill for being hard as fuck to scale. Nada. Just a chilled ass lack of attempted attempt. At the consummation of class, I reviewed the board displaying our personal training stats. I've nailed first place.
How the fuck?
With no added pressure, self-coaching, motivation, really nothing more than showing up in my skin suit, I was able to, almost effortlessly, rank number one. My mind was clear, I didn't push myself so hard that I inevitably ended up RESISTING my own coaching, riling myself up so hard that myself defeated my own self.
ALAS! At what point does the ego take over, mucking up our primal push/pull compass, playing devil and angel in our self talk? Ironically, this ensues in resistance, as you can never have one state without its opposite, to what you've set out to accomplish?
And where should the line in the sand be drawn that allows us to bring it just enough to let go and allow the body to show up and do the work it knows how to do?
Pause. I gotta go train.Mental procrastination setting in and physical body winning Time to get more information for this study.
11.7 miles per hour hit.
New personal record. Whoa baby.
Because this push and pull paradigm was brought to the forefront of my mind, I drew acute awareness to the build up- the climactic moment in the training where I knew I was going to empty out my tank for all I had. In the leading moments prior to sprinting my ass off, I paid attention to what my body felt like, was my self talk negative or positive, my motivations. Was I pissed off? Excited?
This is a riveting concept to me, as I feel like all things that we DO can be drawn to this parallel. Where one person pushes, the other may pull. One person's procrastination device, another's bread and butter. It's nuts when you actually think about it.
I'm not certain I've come to a definite conclusion to this study, as I am slowing beginning to see how it fits into almost every facet of life OUTSIDE OF THE GYM, but what I have come to find out thus far, is that it's a slight dance in the game of balance, as with all things. The take away as of this moment is that you need to know WHEN to shut off the mind, and let the body do it's thing. You need to know WHEN you're getting in the way of your self. WHEN you need a little more authentic PUSH and a little less PULL.
In conclusion, the words of Newton, "...an object at rest will stay at rest unless acted on by by an unbalanced force. An object in motion continues in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force..." ring true, inside and outside of the laboratory. So if you're like me and think a beating is a bit easier that PUSHING yourself to stay in your damn chair and finish annoying shit, roll up your sleeves, and get dirty in some experimentation. Let the PULL come afterward as a reward for things ticked off the adulting to-do list off your list- a pull to go for that run, take a nap, eat a burger, buy a boat, whatever tickles your fancy. I guarantee you'll see proof in the truth of this law everywhere you look.
Right...
Bloody, and defeated, I then take a step back and analyze the preemptive situation that led me to the sludge attack. It's never as scary, or hard as I pegged it to be. Latest example: work on website. What actually occurs? I go for a thirteen and a half miles "run"...
Faultless logic.
So what gives? The juxtaposition been the subtleties of a push versus a pull, between the mental and physical drive, where one shuts off and the other switches on, this piques me. What motivations lie behind each modality? At what point does the push know to give into the pull and vice versa? They are inextricably linked, this much can not be proven false.
Moving forward, I've always had a thing for conducting longitudinal studies on myself, things such as "wearing glasses while serving increases overall tip percentage," as people irrationally draw a correlation between spectacles and intelligence (obviously true in my case, but nonsensical in regard to general public association), and "being conscious of what you eat makes you a hippie," obviously. As these longitudinal studies have aged, they've now found themselves in the laboratory de la gym.Why? Because it's seemingly the one place I will show up and PUSH the envelope: leg missing, bleeding out, shirtless- whatever it takes, I'm there ready to bring it. The latest research per the subject matter of pushing versus pulling has proved engrossing data, with variables and constants as outlined:
Constant: Show up to gym, pumped up on coffee stronger than jet fuel, ready to kick my ass (cue healthy competition mode unbeknownst to all other humans), with a touch of irritation (it's always too early to be awake at this point) laced with austerity. This combination invariably the best mental cocktail to get me in the fight zone.
Yesterday, I arrive. Cashed. Feeling in a state somewhere between skin suit zombie and meditative Buddha, unsure what reserves I was going to tap into for this training, wanting nothing more than to be in a horizontal coma. Alas, time to lace up the kicks, and surrender to whatever's going to happen. The competition is looking of par, the few men in the room providing my main source of challenge. It's go time.
Variable: The specific exercises and my ranking in class- which typically teeter totters between second and third. The workouts are structured on a consistant frame work of thirty minutes of cardio (intervals/hills/sprints), and thirty minutes of hydro rowing intervals mixed with weight training.
I dive into the rowing and weights for part one. I need to get warmed up for the forth coming madness.
By the second half of class, I've released all self-induced mental pressure, the PUSH, throwing in the white flag if you will, as the sap to my source of 'fight,' is in high dwindle. I'm runnin on fumes. This is the push I'm speaking of, the one that is mind induced, telling you to show up. Tell you to finish first. Telling you to do better than the day before, and shit, why not do better than everyone else in the room? The mental script was no where to be found, and so, I let my body fall into itself, I let go into the physical state of my being, a state of autopilot where the PULL happens by default.
11.3 miles per hour hit.
Whattttt the fuck?
I giggle to myself not knowing where this came from. Frankly, it seemed too easy. I wasn't ready to knock anyone out, I didn't need to swear at the treadmill for being hard as fuck to scale. Nada. Just a chilled ass lack of attempted attempt. At the consummation of class, I reviewed the board displaying our personal training stats. I've nailed first place.
How the fuck?
With no added pressure, self-coaching, motivation, really nothing more than showing up in my skin suit, I was able to, almost effortlessly, rank number one. My mind was clear, I didn't push myself so hard that I inevitably ended up RESISTING my own coaching, riling myself up so hard that myself defeated my own self.
ALAS! At what point does the ego take over, mucking up our primal push/pull compass, playing devil and angel in our self talk? Ironically, this ensues in resistance, as you can never have one state without its opposite, to what you've set out to accomplish?
And where should the line in the sand be drawn that allows us to bring it just enough to let go and allow the body to show up and do the work it knows how to do?
Pause. I gotta go train.
11.7 miles per hour hit.
New personal record. Whoa baby.
Because this push and pull paradigm was brought to the forefront of my mind, I drew acute awareness to the build up- the climactic moment in the training where I knew I was going to empty out my tank for all I had. In the leading moments prior to sprinting my ass off, I paid attention to what my body felt like, was my self talk negative or positive, my motivations. Was I pissed off? Excited?
This is a riveting concept to me, as I feel like all things that we DO can be drawn to this parallel. Where one person pushes, the other may pull. One person's procrastination device, another's bread and butter. It's nuts when you actually think about it.
I'm not certain I've come to a definite conclusion to this study, as I am slowing beginning to see how it fits into almost every facet of life OUTSIDE OF THE GYM, but what I have come to find out thus far, is that it's a slight dance in the game of balance, as with all things. The take away as of this moment is that you need to know WHEN to shut off the mind, and let the body do it's thing. You need to know WHEN you're getting in the way of your self. WHEN you need a little more authentic PUSH and a little less PULL.
In conclusion, the words of Newton, "...an object at rest will stay at rest unless acted on by by an unbalanced force. An object in motion continues in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force..." ring true, inside and outside of the laboratory. So if you're like me and think a beating is a bit easier that PUSHING yourself to stay in your damn chair and finish annoying shit, roll up your sleeves, and get dirty in some experimentation. Let the PULL come afterward as a reward for things ticked off the adulting to-do list off your list- a pull to go for that run, take a nap, eat a burger, buy a boat, whatever tickles your fancy. I guarantee you'll see proof in the truth of this law everywhere you look.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
that one time i got kicked out of a country
Once upon a time there was a girl named Morghan. She was a fly by the seat of her pants, the " I'll figure it out when I get there," kinda gal.
So the story goes:
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I arrived home from Australia, a year and a half later, totting two suitcases that encompassed the entirety of my being. Confused, and tired, suffering that reverse culture shock thing you read about in High School Psychology class-shits real-, happening all at once. I dumped my belongings haphazardly around my bedroom, as I made a half-assed attempt to re-pack for my next ensuing adventure-a one way to South America, a mere ten days later. Based on my remarkable planning abilities, as seen throughout history, I tactically allotted myself a whopping seven days, prior to "forever departure from Wisconsin," part dos, to catch up with everyone I cared about. "The everyone" I hadn't seen in over a year and a half. As I sat thinking this through, gazing at the walls in my childhood bedroom, fully furnished with the twin sized bed, the one whose sheets I grew up wetting, I laid on the floor, trying to wrap my head around all that was happening in life, and HOW THE FUCK I actually got back to America- for real though. It all did my head in. In a solid attempt to meditate, a fresh new skill I picked up from a trusty Aussie mate, I laid on my bedroom floor, and fell asleep. Good thing timing has a keen sense of humor.
Life looked bleak.
Let's fast forward to the goods...over the course of the next five days, Mom tries her damnedest to talk me out of going to South America. Aside from the obvious reasons- being sold into sex slavery, drug trafficking, kidnapping and inevitable murder and rape during, after, or before any of the aforementioned scenarios panned out, the icing on the cake came when she said, "you could always come to Germany with me?!"
Really.
She continues "and I'll cover your flight losses." That was one dirty deal to lay on the table, and if it weren't for my jet legged vulnerability laden skepticism, I may have said OK. Outside of that, there was an inner pull, drawing me to South America, one that was stronger than all the bribes and potential life ending outcomes. I had no choice but to continue my hustle.
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I arrive at the airport scared shitless as to what I've actually signed myself up for and how the hell I'm going to make it with the seven hundred dollars I currently have to my name. Alas, I'll figure it out when I get there. While standing in line, I overhear one of the airline associates asking the woman behind me to show proof of her onward journey. The fuck is an onward journey? Whomever says street smarts are over rated, they're lying. Channeling my inner thug, I put two and two together and began story crafting as I never knew this was a thing. She asks if a bus pass out of Costa Rica will do. The man gives her wave and she passes on. I'm next. "Ma'ma, onward journey?"
"Funny story, sir. I don't have one." The man sternly replied "you won't be flying today." Panic drowns my existence. Conveniently still using my Australian phone service, I have no choice but to access the shoddy free internet, the connect-free-for-one-thousand-dollars-and-we-will-give-you-two-minutes-free-after-this-quick-two-minute-online-survey-you'll-need-to-complete-prior-to-access. That kind of wifi. There was no way time was going to allow for this degree of dicking around, so I got up and ran for help.
There was no sugary coating dripping off my tongue as I approached the stern man pleading for help. The man reiterated his earlier statement. After laying the vulnerability on thick,that I only had seven hundred dollars to make this happen and my dire need to get on this plane, something changed in his demeanor. "Follow me," he said. We snaked around to the back office as he pulled up a chair for me to sit. We scoured the internet to find the most affordable flights or bus tickets providing the most uncomplicated country entrance.
As the mouse hovered over a bus ticket for a fifty-two hour bus trip from Lima, Peru to Santiago, Chile, I give him the green light to click purchase. Jesus. Needless to say, I'll figure it out when I get there. Finally, I board the flight, onward journey in tow.
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Arid, hot and bustling, the Peruvian night greets me. I'm overdressed and ready to take on this taxi ride, feeling quite confident in my Spanish speaking skills. Things are looking up.
As the taxi man shuts the door behind me, what I think is Spanish comes gushing out of his mouth. All the years of Spanish failing me in two seconds. I dig deep, suck up all my pride, and let it rip. Sounding something like a five year old, all proper grammar thrown out the window into the fresh night's breeze, I weave my way through a diverse conversation, complete with facts of the dangerous areas, the ones where I will certainly be sold into sex slavery or taken. Have you seen the movie?
Hostel found, cats everywhere, culture shock ensues. Here we go.
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Travels, mountains hiked, Macchu Pichu scaled, Quechua overheard, international mates met, peculiar foods consumed- I'm finally alive!
And so the day comes, the one I deleted from my memory. I pack my bags- food made and all (health freak plus bus food don't click) - and wait patiently to board my bus. As we file onto the double-decker, I feel a new adventure coming to a head. I scan my fellow passengers, studying my compadres, whom will inexorably be family after this exodus. I'm clearly the adopted Gringa.
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ONE DAY LATER
I can't feel my ass. I have watched more Spanish films than I know what to do with. Everyone either thinks I'm lost, confused, or famous on this bus- because why else would a young white girl be on a bus like this? I've moved no further than two inches in every direction, and have woken up to the chiquitita next to me, staring, at least four times now. She seals the deal at the end of the night and hands me a homemade bracelet that says "I LOVE YOU." At least I've got an admirer.
TWO DAYS LATER
I still can't feel my ass. It's probably flat. I may have forgotten how to walk. Is that a real thing? I smell like bus, sweaty humans and chica. I'm not sure when I showered last. Brushed my teeth? This is gross.
We arrive at some Mama and Papa owned restaurant. We're given an hour to stretch the legs, get some real food and....shower? As I follow the cue of ladies into the loo, I can't help but notice the normalcy of showering in the sink. Literally submersing all available parts of one's body into the sink for the scrubbin. Brilliant. My gaze settles upon a massive barrel of water, sitting at the entrance with a pale in it. "This should be interesting...," I think to myself. Lo and behold, self flushing methodology parte uno. Good thing I'm closer to the back of the line. I can take the token Gringa card, but a dumb Gringa? No thank you. I take note....
Grab pale.
Fill with water.
Walk to sussed out toilet.
Pour water contents of pale into toilet of choice.
Walk back to massive barrel.
Refill with water.
Place pale of water on ground.
Do your thing.
Pull up pants.
Grab pale.
Empty water contents into toilet.
Flush while pouring water into toilet.
Fool proof. I got this.
After I kill the toilet situation, I'm feelin pretty capable and slightly badass. I decide it's time for an adventure. This restaurant "bus stop" is set up like a compound, concrete walls enveloping; bizarre. I push the button for the doors to open, figuring, there's gotta be a button on the other end to open to let me back in. We've still got a good thirty minutes of recess. I'm not worried.
I stroll down the sidewalk, knowing I'm somewhere between Wisconsin and Chile, and not much more. The air is fresh as my strides resemble something like a newly birthed doe, as the muscle memory in my legs attempts to wake up. Good news, I can feel my ass again. We are onto something good here. Daydreaming and soaking in the early morning rays of sunshine as I take in the foreign surroundings, thirty minutes unknowingly passes. I scramble back to the compound, trying to root myself in phlegmatic state after this shocking realization.
I get back to the door.
No button.
Fuck.
I begin to feel like Michael Scofield in Prision Break, trying to think fast at how I'm going to either scale this wall, or...scale this wall. Option b: sit outside this wall and wait for the bus to leave. Option b looks promising if I don't get run over in the process. I think I'll climb.
Ten fraught minutes pass, surely the bus should have tried to leave by now. Then I remember I'm in South America time now. As I began staking out the best spot to spiderman this wall, all of a sudden, the gate opens. I shit my pants. I'm saved. Thank you Jesus.
Homie opens the door like he never noticed the white girl went missing.
He lets me on the bus.
I play it cool, and blend right in.
DAY TWO POINT FIVE
Actually kill me.
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Chile.
Somewhere between the five check points of proving I'm not a drug dealer or pack mule (or am I), I'm handed a rectangular piece of translucent paper, smaller than a post-it. I'm told nothing about it. My gum is looking like it's going to have a nice home momentarily. New bestie from the
Tour-De-South-America hands offers me a fresh piece of gum. I ablige. Old gum, new home. Weird paper safe.
Frankly, what they don't tell you is that this paper is your life line, needed for everything. Hostel stay? Needed paper. Take money out of ATM? Need paper. It was au fond, my visa to be in the Country. Small print anyone?
NEXT BRILLIANT IDEA
Go to Brazil.
As irony would have it, I met the Barista Trainer of my old boss in Australia, as I scoured Santiago for specialty coffee shops. One coffee nerding out session later, all the jobs are handed to me on a silver platter.
Then not a single one of them come through.
Surely, Brazil was the next Country calling my soul into its open arms.
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NEW PLAN
Wait ten days for Clara to arrive from Argentina to Chile- where I'm currently residing at her sister's place, and Carnival, reunion with Brazilian-Aussie mates, and all the Bahias have got our names written all over em!
This time, I make sure to cross all my T's and dot all my I's. Starting with all the embassies: US, Brazilian, Ethiopian, Chinese, and so forth, I am diligent about gathering all the facts - onward journeys, visas, and so forth. I come to find no visa is necessary to enter Brazil.
Fantastic.
Clara arrives to Chile.
Clara departs for Brazil. I wish her bon voyage as I'll be seeing her in a few shy hours.
THE NEXT DAY
I arrive to the airport, early, stoked. When I finally get to the front of the line, I'm asked to see my visa. You've got to be fucking kidding me. I inform her- in my sternest Spanish - that I was told no visa was required, and to let me board already. With sense of urgency exploding from her being, she goes and has a chat with some work mates, goes and takes a phone call a few desks down, gets a compliment on her nails, eventually making her way back to me, only to sit down and carry on another chat with new work mates. About ten minutes and four phone calls later, her newly done nails pop my travel bubble and again, the words "you will not be traveling today," hit me like a semi, because this time, I needed a visa. I sprinted like a cheetah from one side of the airport to the other in search of a computer. Again, Australian cell phone service serving no purpose.
I find a 1914 Dell Computer, the size of France, and google travel visas for Brazil. I buy the first 'visa' that pops up. Four hundred dollars later, uncertain what I've just purchased, I'm sprinting back to miss thang with some arbitrary file printed off- essentially the next steps I needed to complete acquire a proper visa. Looks like it was time to pull out the dumb Gringa card, because after all, I had already earned it, from the beginning.
"You missed your flight," she whistles. Naturally. I listen as she directs me to two gents that will be able to drum up solutions for my current situation. "Repurchase your connecting flights, it's that easy," they sing. Since I'm already on a spending spree, I concur. But first, I coerce them to review my Visa to ensure, this time, I'll be able to board my flight. They assure me I've got it right this time, and they send me on my way.
I hail a cab only to be returning eight hours later. Stress oozes out of me, the thought of punching someone in the face, tickling my prefrontal cortex. Luckily, I don't. En-route back to my mate's house, all I can do is pray that the keys I attempted to jimmy under the door, are still there. Alelujah! They greet me with shiny silver smiles. Note to self, you should never become a robber. Cue overindulging in the stress related consumption of chocolate, dulce de leche by the spoon full and a substantial amount of wine into the body. That should do the trick.
EIGHT HOURS LATER
It's three am. I'm sick as a dog, hungover on chocolate, wine and dulce from the previous bad decision of hours apassed. Not to mention, I've slept two hours, and that's rounding up. I hail a cab. I want to die. Old mate taxi is sketchy. For the first time, I think I may actually die, as my new found familiarity with the house to airport route rings no recognition. I bid farewell to my life.
Looks like it's not my time to knock off just yet. I arrive at the airport and pass my first check point sans hassle. All excitement contained, as I still have a ways to go.
I plop down, heavy and sleepy at my gate, anxiously waiting to board my flight to Sao Paulo. I watch as a flight attendant makes her rounds, as a ticket pre-check. My eyes follow her, transfixed, and she determinedly winds through the rows of consecutive passengers, approaching each for said document. She stands before me. "Visa?" she requests. I carefully dig out my veiled Visa and present it to her. Her gruff tone, heavy with skepticism, as she questions the legitimacy of my document. I gave her the footnotes of yesterdays interaction with the gents of the airline, assuring her everything was OK. Clearly it was just as much "too early," as it was for me, as it was for her, as she turned on her heel, grumbling under her breath. I board the plane. My translucent paper extracted from my possession.
FOUR HOURS LATER
I'm feelin fancy, as we roll up onto the tarmac in Sao Paulo. I've got THE water bottle and everything. All the hustle thoroughly worth it in this moment of triumph.
Portuguese floats through the air as the organized chaos of customs attempts to assemble us into single file lines. Breast puffed, cocky as a peacock in heat, I cue up. The customs homem (man) greets me, extending his hand for collection of my documents. I audaciously hand them over. His brow furrows as he stares a bit too long at my "visa." "Wait here," he says, "I don't speak much English." Outwardly keeping my cool, I a wave of dismay cloaks my body.
A few moments later, the man returns, directing me to wait outside what looks like a holding room. I hold my breath as two police men approach me from inside the holding room. They have my documents. They ask no questions. A third man walks up. He motions for me to follow him. The panic that had a strong hold on my earlier, slowly trickled away, as I was escorted through the Airport. For a moment, I thought to myself, that perhaps, this is how things rolled in Brazil, escorting you to connecting flights? My escortee's shout pulled me out of my daydream. I couldn't sift through the Portuguese quick enough to understand what he was saying. Clearly, this was no escort service.
We arrived to a gate. I looked up. "SANTIAGO, CHILE," read the board. He pointed at a seat. I took his instruction and sat. A gorda (pleasantly plump) middle aged woman walked up. She had a warm disposition about her and a smile in her eyes. I was beyond defeated at this point, and seeing an inviting face such as hers was a hug to my soul. I melted further into the chair, as my tenacious goal slipped further and further away, like losing something underwater, elusively close, and yet, unattainable. Finally, she spoke to me, "do you know what is going on?" "I'm catchin on quick," I thought to myself, and what came out was a giant "no." Miss Gorda was the last line of defense. It was over. I was to be sent back to Santiago because to enter Brazil, even momentarily, a visa was required, and a visa that was completely processed, unlike mine.
I had no words.
I shed one tear, a tear of defeat, as she led me down the aisle of the airplane, seat picked out and all. I settled in, knowing in a span of ten hours, I successfully made half of my destination, and even more successfully managed to find my way back to Chile. Then it occurred to me, I didn't have my translucent visa for Chile any longer....
Too soon. I passed out.
CHILE ROUND TWO
I wake up to the shuffling of passengers collecting their overhead luggage, as a rubbed the grogginess out of my eyes. Crazy to think it was only 11 AM and I'd already gotten kicked out of one Country, and well on my way to returning to another. I grab my backpack and lug it onto my back. Like clockwork, I take my place in the customs cue, with no energy left to ad-lib any story. "Hola. Papeles?" says the kind man behind the desk. At this point, my fluency is back, all humility gone, I tell him I've been kicked out of Brazil, and I was just in Chile this morning. They took my paper when I left. We play word hacky-sack for quite some time, as Spanish turns to Spaniglish, and language turns to laughter and whaddya know, I'm brought back to the cops outside another holding office.
Two cops exit and ask me what's going on- "que paso?" After I inform them I was kicked out Brazil and there's no choice but to let me back into Chile-because I was just here- they send me back to the chipper customs officer. He must not have caught on to the severity, or even half of what I told him just occurred, as when I came forth again to rehash the same story, his eyes bulged straight out of his head, like a deer in the headlights, followed by a deep belly laugh. Actually, I think there was a repeated offense of laughter. Yeah, that sounds more like it. I didn't even have the energy to cry, so I joined him in laughter. Why not? I guess I had a good story at this point, and I still had my water bottle, proof that I was indeed in Brazil. It had to count for something. After he shot the shit at me for a few minutes, throwing out some cheeky lines, informing me of how much that would suck (you think?), how I'm trouble, and so on, he ended up letting me back into the country.
But he never gave me the translucent slip.
I realize this two days later as I'm checking into a hostel after another fatal attempt to get to Brazil.
Oh, you want that story too?
TRAIN STATION
This itch won't go away, I've got to get to Brazil. Clara is on day number two Carnival time, keeping me well informed of all that I should be a part of: dancing in the streets with locals, bright feathers and meticulously ornate masks adorning bronzed bodies, decorated in bold costumes, flaunting bare skin.
Somehow, I arrvied at the train station. I was bound and determined to find the Brazilian Embassy and get my visa sorted. Not having a relevant mobile with wifi made things quite difficult. It was time to get creative, yet again. I drew the parallel in my mind that I should be scouting for the oldest looking human in my midst. Why? Because they would obviously be the most knowledgeable- they've been around the longest. I b line towards the most elderly candidate I can find. I ask him where the embassy is located, even providing him the name of the town. He stares blankly. I repeat my question, jumbling the order of the words this time, thinking maybe it'll hit home. Blank stares. A woman approaches me and asks what I'm looking for, as I may have just found the most elderly deaf man in the room.
I repeat. She tells me to tag along with her, we are headed in the same direction. About ten minutes into our journey, she tells me she thought I was Latin, and fluent, but now that we've had more time to converse, she hears the nuances that tell her just the opposite. Perhaps that's why old man withers didn't know a lick of what I was saying. We arrive at the Embassy, having gotten lost twice in the process, to the front desk man informing us the Embassy is closed for the public for the day. Marta, my new amiga, gives them the story, her Chileano origins giving us a big one up in this pickle. Finally.
They let us through. The next lady in charge listens intently as we explain what happened, and what we need. She takes us aside at the conclusion of the story, as Marta whispers clandestinely "what can you do to help us?" The woman says that if we arrive back tomorrow with newly purchased tickets (that would be six total tickets purchased to Brazil), and a proper photo, we would be able to get me there in ten days, fingers crossed. Mind you, Clara, and the rest of our mates would be leaving four days after I would arrive, based off of our original plans. At this rate, I didn't even know if I had any money left, after buying all these wasted tickets. We part ways until tomorrow. Maybe.
Marta and I make our way back to my mate's place, as I had to get my things and suss out a new arrangement as they were headed out of town. I was planning to stay at a hostel when Marta offered her place to me. I agreed. We hustled back to pack my things, and took two cabs and a bus to lord knows where. In the midst of this transition, her daughter ended up joining forces with us. As we headed back to Marta's for dinner, she looked at my broken down soul and made a swift left. Liquor store. She was kind AND wise. Wine and beer hugged to our chests, we pushed on to get home. We talked and laughed over my travel stories as Marta finally got the entire tale. I drank the bottle of wine.
As dinner came to a close, I was cashed. My brain was fried from translating Spanish to English and speaking Spanish all day, not to mention the impromptu adventures of the last two days. I rang Clara. We talked things over and I decided I was going to have to pull out. It was a sad moment, and quite frankly, I had to take a logical stance on the matter and factor in my lack of funds, which now would have gotten me no further than a day in Brazil. It was also becoming quite clear that the Universe was trying to tell me it wasn't the right time to go-it only took three failed attempts to get this through my thick and stubborn skull.
URUGUAY
Marta and Valentina pack me up and take me to my hostel. I decided I will spend a few days actually enjoying my time here in Chile. It's been well deserved. While out on a run, I decide I will give my friend Martin a call and see if he would like to go on an adventure, as he just recently returned to his home of Uruguay from Australia. Martin is keen. I take a look at dates, and flights, and realize this is a stupid idea. I don't even think I have checked my bank account up to this point, because I know that once I see the facts, my fun is over and it's time to head back to....America...Wisconsin at that.
I check my funds-truly, I don't even know if I do- but after another run, I think to myself, maybe it's time to start back from square one. I call Mom. She tells me to come home but doesn't believe I will come back. She finally understands how I roll. I tell her I will be coming home, but I need a few more days to play before purchasing a ticket.
Then I tell her I may stop in Uruguay first, moreso for reaction sake. I think she punched me in the face via the telephone. It hurt.
And so.
Two days later, drinks had, explorations dabbled in, limbs danced off, mates met, sleep lost, I packed my things, and boarded yet another flight, back, to, America....
To be continued....
So the story goes:
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I arrived home from Australia, a year and a half later, totting two suitcases that encompassed the entirety of my being. Confused, and tired, suffering that reverse culture shock thing you read about in High School Psychology class-shits real-, happening all at once. I dumped my belongings haphazardly around my bedroom, as I made a half-assed attempt to re-pack for my next ensuing adventure-a one way to South America, a mere ten days later. Based on my remarkable planning abilities, as seen throughout history, I tactically allotted myself a whopping seven days, prior to "forever departure from Wisconsin," part dos, to catch up with everyone I cared about. "The everyone" I hadn't seen in over a year and a half. As I sat thinking this through, gazing at the walls in my childhood bedroom, fully furnished with the twin sized bed, the one whose sheets I grew up wetting, I laid on the floor, trying to wrap my head around all that was happening in life, and HOW THE FUCK I actually got back to America- for real though. It all did my head in. In a solid attempt to meditate, a fresh new skill I picked up from a trusty Aussie mate, I laid on my bedroom floor, and fell asleep. Good thing timing has a keen sense of humor.
Life looked bleak.
Let's fast forward to the goods...over the course of the next five days, Mom tries her damnedest to talk me out of going to South America. Aside from the obvious reasons- being sold into sex slavery, drug trafficking, kidnapping and inevitable murder and rape during, after, or before any of the aforementioned scenarios panned out, the icing on the cake came when she said, "you could always come to Germany with me?!"
Really.
She continues "and I'll cover your flight losses." That was one dirty deal to lay on the table, and if it weren't for my jet legged vulnerability laden skepticism, I may have said OK. Outside of that, there was an inner pull, drawing me to South America, one that was stronger than all the bribes and potential life ending outcomes. I had no choice but to continue my hustle.
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I arrive at the airport scared shitless as to what I've actually signed myself up for and how the hell I'm going to make it with the seven hundred dollars I currently have to my name. Alas, I'll figure it out when I get there. While standing in line, I overhear one of the airline associates asking the woman behind me to show proof of her onward journey. The fuck is an onward journey? Whomever says street smarts are over rated, they're lying. Channeling my inner thug, I put two and two together and began story crafting as I never knew this was a thing. She asks if a bus pass out of Costa Rica will do. The man gives her wave and she passes on. I'm next. "Ma'ma, onward journey?"
"Funny story, sir. I don't have one." The man sternly replied "you won't be flying today." Panic drowns my existence. Conveniently still using my Australian phone service, I have no choice but to access the shoddy free internet, the connect-free-for-one-thousand-dollars-and-we-will-give-you-two-minutes-free-after-this-quick-two-minute-online-survey-you'll-need-to-complete-prior-to-access. That kind of wifi. There was no way time was going to allow for this degree of dicking around, so I got up and ran for help.
There was no sugary coating dripping off my tongue as I approached the stern man pleading for help. The man reiterated his earlier statement. After laying the vulnerability on thick,that I only had seven hundred dollars to make this happen and my dire need to get on this plane, something changed in his demeanor. "Follow me," he said. We snaked around to the back office as he pulled up a chair for me to sit. We scoured the internet to find the most affordable flights or bus tickets providing the most uncomplicated country entrance.
As the mouse hovered over a bus ticket for a fifty-two hour bus trip from Lima, Peru to Santiago, Chile, I give him the green light to click purchase. Jesus. Needless to say, I'll figure it out when I get there. Finally, I board the flight, onward journey in tow.
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Arid, hot and bustling, the Peruvian night greets me. I'm overdressed and ready to take on this taxi ride, feeling quite confident in my Spanish speaking skills. Things are looking up.
As the taxi man shuts the door behind me, what I think is Spanish comes gushing out of his mouth. All the years of Spanish failing me in two seconds. I dig deep, suck up all my pride, and let it rip. Sounding something like a five year old, all proper grammar thrown out the window into the fresh night's breeze, I weave my way through a diverse conversation, complete with facts of the dangerous areas, the ones where I will certainly be sold into sex slavery or taken. Have you seen the movie?
Hostel found, cats everywhere, culture shock ensues. Here we go.
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Travels, mountains hiked, Macchu Pichu scaled, Quechua overheard, international mates met, peculiar foods consumed- I'm finally alive!
And so the day comes, the one I deleted from my memory. I pack my bags- food made and all (health freak plus bus food don't click) - and wait patiently to board my bus. As we file onto the double-decker, I feel a new adventure coming to a head. I scan my fellow passengers, studying my compadres, whom will inexorably be family after this exodus. I'm clearly the adopted Gringa.
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ONE DAY LATER
I can't feel my ass. I have watched more Spanish films than I know what to do with. Everyone either thinks I'm lost, confused, or famous on this bus- because why else would a young white girl be on a bus like this? I've moved no further than two inches in every direction, and have woken up to the chiquitita next to me, staring, at least four times now. She seals the deal at the end of the night and hands me a homemade bracelet that says "I LOVE YOU." At least I've got an admirer.
TWO DAYS LATER
I still can't feel my ass. It's probably flat. I may have forgotten how to walk. Is that a real thing? I smell like bus, sweaty humans and chica. I'm not sure when I showered last. Brushed my teeth? This is gross.
We arrive at some Mama and Papa owned restaurant. We're given an hour to stretch the legs, get some real food and....shower? As I follow the cue of ladies into the loo, I can't help but notice the normalcy of showering in the sink. Literally submersing all available parts of one's body into the sink for the scrubbin. Brilliant. My gaze settles upon a massive barrel of water, sitting at the entrance with a pale in it. "This should be interesting...," I think to myself. Lo and behold, self flushing methodology parte uno. Good thing I'm closer to the back of the line. I can take the token Gringa card, but a dumb Gringa? No thank you. I take note....
Grab pale.
Fill with water.
Walk to sussed out toilet.
Pour water contents of pale into toilet of choice.
Walk back to massive barrel.
Refill with water.
Place pale of water on ground.
Do your thing.
Pull up pants.
Grab pale.
Empty water contents into toilet.
Flush while pouring water into toilet.
Fool proof. I got this.
After I kill the toilet situation, I'm feelin pretty capable and slightly badass. I decide it's time for an adventure. This restaurant "bus stop" is set up like a compound, concrete walls enveloping; bizarre. I push the button for the doors to open, figuring, there's gotta be a button on the other end to open to let me back in. We've still got a good thirty minutes of recess. I'm not worried.
I stroll down the sidewalk, knowing I'm somewhere between Wisconsin and Chile, and not much more. The air is fresh as my strides resemble something like a newly birthed doe, as the muscle memory in my legs attempts to wake up. Good news, I can feel my ass again. We are onto something good here. Daydreaming and soaking in the early morning rays of sunshine as I take in the foreign surroundings, thirty minutes unknowingly passes. I scramble back to the compound, trying to root myself in phlegmatic state after this shocking realization.
I get back to the door.
No button.
Fuck.
I begin to feel like Michael Scofield in Prision Break, trying to think fast at how I'm going to either scale this wall, or...scale this wall. Option b: sit outside this wall and wait for the bus to leave. Option b looks promising if I don't get run over in the process. I think I'll climb.
Ten fraught minutes pass, surely the bus should have tried to leave by now. Then I remember I'm in South America time now. As I began staking out the best spot to spiderman this wall, all of a sudden, the gate opens. I shit my pants. I'm saved. Thank you Jesus.
Homie opens the door like he never noticed the white girl went missing.
He lets me on the bus.
I play it cool, and blend right in.
DAY TWO POINT FIVE
Actually kill me.
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Chile.
Somewhere between the five check points of proving I'm not a drug dealer or pack mule (or am I), I'm handed a rectangular piece of translucent paper, smaller than a post-it. I'm told nothing about it. My gum is looking like it's going to have a nice home momentarily. New bestie from the
Tour-De-South-America hands offers me a fresh piece of gum. I ablige. Old gum, new home. Weird paper safe.
Frankly, what they don't tell you is that this paper is your life line, needed for everything. Hostel stay? Needed paper. Take money out of ATM? Need paper. It was au fond, my visa to be in the Country. Small print anyone?
NEXT BRILLIANT IDEA
Go to Brazil.
As irony would have it, I met the Barista Trainer of my old boss in Australia, as I scoured Santiago for specialty coffee shops. One coffee nerding out session later, all the jobs are handed to me on a silver platter.
Then not a single one of them come through.
Surely, Brazil was the next Country calling my soul into its open arms.
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NEW PLAN
Wait ten days for Clara to arrive from Argentina to Chile- where I'm currently residing at her sister's place, and Carnival, reunion with Brazilian-Aussie mates, and all the Bahias have got our names written all over em!
This time, I make sure to cross all my T's and dot all my I's. Starting with all the embassies: US, Brazilian, Ethiopian, Chinese, and so forth, I am diligent about gathering all the facts - onward journeys, visas, and so forth. I come to find no visa is necessary to enter Brazil.
Fantastic.
Clara arrives to Chile.
Clara departs for Brazil. I wish her bon voyage as I'll be seeing her in a few shy hours.
THE NEXT DAY
I arrive to the airport, early, stoked. When I finally get to the front of the line, I'm asked to see my visa. You've got to be fucking kidding me. I inform her- in my sternest Spanish - that I was told no visa was required, and to let me board already. With sense of urgency exploding from her being, she goes and has a chat with some work mates, goes and takes a phone call a few desks down, gets a compliment on her nails, eventually making her way back to me, only to sit down and carry on another chat with new work mates. About ten minutes and four phone calls later, her newly done nails pop my travel bubble and again, the words "you will not be traveling today," hit me like a semi, because this time, I needed a visa. I sprinted like a cheetah from one side of the airport to the other in search of a computer. Again, Australian cell phone service serving no purpose.
I find a 1914 Dell Computer, the size of France, and google travel visas for Brazil. I buy the first 'visa' that pops up. Four hundred dollars later, uncertain what I've just purchased, I'm sprinting back to miss thang with some arbitrary file printed off- essentially the next steps I needed to complete acquire a proper visa. Looks like it was time to pull out the dumb Gringa card, because after all, I had already earned it, from the beginning.
"You missed your flight," she whistles. Naturally. I listen as she directs me to two gents that will be able to drum up solutions for my current situation. "Repurchase your connecting flights, it's that easy," they sing. Since I'm already on a spending spree, I concur. But first, I coerce them to review my Visa to ensure, this time, I'll be able to board my flight. They assure me I've got it right this time, and they send me on my way.
I hail a cab only to be returning eight hours later. Stress oozes out of me, the thought of punching someone in the face, tickling my prefrontal cortex. Luckily, I don't. En-route back to my mate's house, all I can do is pray that the keys I attempted to jimmy under the door, are still there. Alelujah! They greet me with shiny silver smiles. Note to self, you should never become a robber. Cue overindulging in the stress related consumption of chocolate, dulce de leche by the spoon full and a substantial amount of wine into the body. That should do the trick.
EIGHT HOURS LATER
It's three am. I'm sick as a dog, hungover on chocolate, wine and dulce from the previous bad decision of hours apassed. Not to mention, I've slept two hours, and that's rounding up. I hail a cab. I want to die. Old mate taxi is sketchy. For the first time, I think I may actually die, as my new found familiarity with the house to airport route rings no recognition. I bid farewell to my life.
Looks like it's not my time to knock off just yet. I arrive at the airport and pass my first check point sans hassle. All excitement contained, as I still have a ways to go.
I plop down, heavy and sleepy at my gate, anxiously waiting to board my flight to Sao Paulo. I watch as a flight attendant makes her rounds, as a ticket pre-check. My eyes follow her, transfixed, and she determinedly winds through the rows of consecutive passengers, approaching each for said document. She stands before me. "Visa?" she requests. I carefully dig out my veiled Visa and present it to her. Her gruff tone, heavy with skepticism, as she questions the legitimacy of my document. I gave her the footnotes of yesterdays interaction with the gents of the airline, assuring her everything was OK. Clearly it was just as much "too early," as it was for me, as it was for her, as she turned on her heel, grumbling under her breath. I board the plane. My translucent paper extracted from my possession.
FOUR HOURS LATER
I'm feelin fancy, as we roll up onto the tarmac in Sao Paulo. I've got THE water bottle and everything. All the hustle thoroughly worth it in this moment of triumph.
Portuguese floats through the air as the organized chaos of customs attempts to assemble us into single file lines. Breast puffed, cocky as a peacock in heat, I cue up. The customs homem (man) greets me, extending his hand for collection of my documents. I audaciously hand them over. His brow furrows as he stares a bit too long at my "visa." "Wait here," he says, "I don't speak much English." Outwardly keeping my cool, I a wave of dismay cloaks my body.
A few moments later, the man returns, directing me to wait outside what looks like a holding room. I hold my breath as two police men approach me from inside the holding room. They have my documents. They ask no questions. A third man walks up. He motions for me to follow him. The panic that had a strong hold on my earlier, slowly trickled away, as I was escorted through the Airport. For a moment, I thought to myself, that perhaps, this is how things rolled in Brazil, escorting you to connecting flights? My escortee's shout pulled me out of my daydream. I couldn't sift through the Portuguese quick enough to understand what he was saying. Clearly, this was no escort service.
We arrived to a gate. I looked up. "SANTIAGO, CHILE," read the board. He pointed at a seat. I took his instruction and sat. A gorda (pleasantly plump) middle aged woman walked up. She had a warm disposition about her and a smile in her eyes. I was beyond defeated at this point, and seeing an inviting face such as hers was a hug to my soul. I melted further into the chair, as my tenacious goal slipped further and further away, like losing something underwater, elusively close, and yet, unattainable. Finally, she spoke to me, "do you know what is going on?" "I'm catchin on quick," I thought to myself, and what came out was a giant "no." Miss Gorda was the last line of defense. It was over. I was to be sent back to Santiago because to enter Brazil, even momentarily, a visa was required, and a visa that was completely processed, unlike mine.
I had no words.
I shed one tear, a tear of defeat, as she led me down the aisle of the airplane, seat picked out and all. I settled in, knowing in a span of ten hours, I successfully made half of my destination, and even more successfully managed to find my way back to Chile. Then it occurred to me, I didn't have my translucent visa for Chile any longer....
Too soon. I passed out.
CHILE ROUND TWO
I wake up to the shuffling of passengers collecting their overhead luggage, as a rubbed the grogginess out of my eyes. Crazy to think it was only 11 AM and I'd already gotten kicked out of one Country, and well on my way to returning to another. I grab my backpack and lug it onto my back. Like clockwork, I take my place in the customs cue, with no energy left to ad-lib any story. "Hola. Papeles?" says the kind man behind the desk. At this point, my fluency is back, all humility gone, I tell him I've been kicked out of Brazil, and I was just in Chile this morning. They took my paper when I left. We play word hacky-sack for quite some time, as Spanish turns to Spaniglish, and language turns to laughter and whaddya know, I'm brought back to the cops outside another holding office.
Two cops exit and ask me what's going on- "que paso?" After I inform them I was kicked out Brazil and there's no choice but to let me back into Chile-because I was just here- they send me back to the chipper customs officer. He must not have caught on to the severity, or even half of what I told him just occurred, as when I came forth again to rehash the same story, his eyes bulged straight out of his head, like a deer in the headlights, followed by a deep belly laugh. Actually, I think there was a repeated offense of laughter. Yeah, that sounds more like it. I didn't even have the energy to cry, so I joined him in laughter. Why not? I guess I had a good story at this point, and I still had my water bottle, proof that I was indeed in Brazil. It had to count for something. After he shot the shit at me for a few minutes, throwing out some cheeky lines, informing me of how much that would suck (you think?), how I'm trouble, and so on, he ended up letting me back into the country.
But he never gave me the translucent slip.
I realize this two days later as I'm checking into a hostel after another fatal attempt to get to Brazil.
Oh, you want that story too?
TRAIN STATION
This itch won't go away, I've got to get to Brazil. Clara is on day number two Carnival time, keeping me well informed of all that I should be a part of: dancing in the streets with locals, bright feathers and meticulously ornate masks adorning bronzed bodies, decorated in bold costumes, flaunting bare skin.
Somehow, I arrvied at the train station. I was bound and determined to find the Brazilian Embassy and get my visa sorted. Not having a relevant mobile with wifi made things quite difficult. It was time to get creative, yet again. I drew the parallel in my mind that I should be scouting for the oldest looking human in my midst. Why? Because they would obviously be the most knowledgeable- they've been around the longest. I b line towards the most elderly candidate I can find. I ask him where the embassy is located, even providing him the name of the town. He stares blankly. I repeat my question, jumbling the order of the words this time, thinking maybe it'll hit home. Blank stares. A woman approaches me and asks what I'm looking for, as I may have just found the most elderly deaf man in the room.
I repeat. She tells me to tag along with her, we are headed in the same direction. About ten minutes into our journey, she tells me she thought I was Latin, and fluent, but now that we've had more time to converse, she hears the nuances that tell her just the opposite. Perhaps that's why old man withers didn't know a lick of what I was saying. We arrive at the Embassy, having gotten lost twice in the process, to the front desk man informing us the Embassy is closed for the public for the day. Marta, my new amiga, gives them the story, her Chileano origins giving us a big one up in this pickle. Finally.
They let us through. The next lady in charge listens intently as we explain what happened, and what we need. She takes us aside at the conclusion of the story, as Marta whispers clandestinely "what can you do to help us?" The woman says that if we arrive back tomorrow with newly purchased tickets (that would be six total tickets purchased to Brazil), and a proper photo, we would be able to get me there in ten days, fingers crossed. Mind you, Clara, and the rest of our mates would be leaving four days after I would arrive, based off of our original plans. At this rate, I didn't even know if I had any money left, after buying all these wasted tickets. We part ways until tomorrow. Maybe.
Marta and I make our way back to my mate's place, as I had to get my things and suss out a new arrangement as they were headed out of town. I was planning to stay at a hostel when Marta offered her place to me. I agreed. We hustled back to pack my things, and took two cabs and a bus to lord knows where. In the midst of this transition, her daughter ended up joining forces with us. As we headed back to Marta's for dinner, she looked at my broken down soul and made a swift left. Liquor store. She was kind AND wise. Wine and beer hugged to our chests, we pushed on to get home. We talked and laughed over my travel stories as Marta finally got the entire tale. I drank the bottle of wine.
As dinner came to a close, I was cashed. My brain was fried from translating Spanish to English and speaking Spanish all day, not to mention the impromptu adventures of the last two days. I rang Clara. We talked things over and I decided I was going to have to pull out. It was a sad moment, and quite frankly, I had to take a logical stance on the matter and factor in my lack of funds, which now would have gotten me no further than a day in Brazil. It was also becoming quite clear that the Universe was trying to tell me it wasn't the right time to go-it only took three failed attempts to get this through my thick and stubborn skull.
URUGUAY
Marta and Valentina pack me up and take me to my hostel. I decided I will spend a few days actually enjoying my time here in Chile. It's been well deserved. While out on a run, I decide I will give my friend Martin a call and see if he would like to go on an adventure, as he just recently returned to his home of Uruguay from Australia. Martin is keen. I take a look at dates, and flights, and realize this is a stupid idea. I don't even think I have checked my bank account up to this point, because I know that once I see the facts, my fun is over and it's time to head back to....America...Wisconsin at that.
I check my funds-truly, I don't even know if I do- but after another run, I think to myself, maybe it's time to start back from square one. I call Mom. She tells me to come home but doesn't believe I will come back. She finally understands how I roll. I tell her I will be coming home, but I need a few more days to play before purchasing a ticket.
Then I tell her I may stop in Uruguay first, moreso for reaction sake. I think she punched me in the face via the telephone. It hurt.
And so.
Two days later, drinks had, explorations dabbled in, limbs danced off, mates met, sleep lost, I packed my things, and boarded yet another flight, back, to, America....
To be continued....
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