It Wasn't The Wind

It wasn’t the wind
that made the day glorious.
Who among us hasn’t witnessed the gallop
of dust and debris—hair swept
silly, lashing into the eye; who has not
walked headfirst into a force so great
it grows
sideways across the earth; it
lifts the arms and then throws
them up and then throws them
back.

It wasn’t the wind that startled us all
into a liberating stance.
It was the leaves.
Thousands of them—millions—tumbling
over one another, bursting
out of the shadows, quickly buried
unburied,
free, the leaves like a ridiculous
autumn blizzard making the streets,
the sidewalks,
even the foliage yet to fall,
glorious.

On any other day,
in any other season,
there would have only been the wind,
a black and white cloud,
life—
I would have
closed my eyes
to the lashing, the repeated
sting, the pile of gold
building steady at my feet.

I would have forgotten.

Peru and the Salkantay Trek June '09

If I couldn't feel the sun, I would surely be done

playing like a child, laughing like a toothless old man

obliviously happy, all the suffering of my middle years

beyond me.

If I couldn't feel the immensity of these mountains I would

be cold to the touch, aching to the bone with longing

for something that much greater (that much more)

that much stronger than myself.

But the sun grows weary of holding up the

weight of each day and if I cannot afford the

calm tranquilo that darkness bestows, I am

broken - like an expanding mountain range that

pulls itself apart to feed the earth below.

La montanita - a little mountain,

that sustains itself through sacrifice, self-preservation

and an ever present blissful exposure to all

that is real, or imaginary, or hard, or

this.

Friends,

Nine women, from America, Canada and England finished the 5-day Salkantay Trek last evening after spending a very fullfilling day at Machu Picchu. Salkantay means ¨wild mountain´¨ in Quechua, one of the native languages of the Andes and it was a perfect backdrop to a thus far very unforgettable journey. I cannot tell you how spoiled I have been! Walking into camp, our tents were already up, a dinner table set (complete with fresh wildflowers and candles) and our 6am wake up call even came with coffee in the tent! Our cook was amazing. Amazing! How will I ever backpack in Colorado without such amenities?

Mt Salkantay is nearly 19000 feet tall and the Salkantay Pass rose to 15200 feet which means I successfully broke the 14000 foot barrier! Of course, now I just want to climb something higher. All in all the trek was roughly 30 miles, very steep and undulating (our guides would insist the trail was plano, flat, but then we´d be huffing up hundreds of meters of steep. Dios Mio!) The last two days found me scrambling up optional peaks (including Machu Picchu Mountain where I had a small ceremony for several of you along with my grandfather - who made this trip possible). I have been feeling stronger than I have in a long time and so open to the love and spiritual energy emanating from these mountains and people.

I have to say, it was amazing to pass through these very poor villages, including La Playa, where the children run from the fields begging for sweets - so "poor", to the material eye - yet they often seem SO HAPPY. I think much of it has to do with family - the Incas believed strongly in family and it was always the strongest bond. I imagine my life back home, how complicated we sometimes allow ourselves to make our own lives, and I want to remember those children running, giggling and looking at me with the sweetest eyes. I am excited for this next phase of my life and to pursue medicine and hopefully lead a life of service towards others.

The small piece I wrote above i just plucked from my journal while I was resting on top of Machu Picchu Mountain looking at the ruins. Stunning. As a writer I love the somewhat game of trying to describe everything, but some things, my friends, are simply indescribable. The Andean people believe the mountains are like great protected mothers - the glaciers feeding the valleys and the people below. There is so much that is beautiful and unexpected but when you get right down to it, these people worship the mountains - a phenomenon I more than feel kindred with.

Today we are in Cusco exploring the vast temples and churches. Tomorrow we leave on a night bus for Lake Titicaca and from there I think Bolivia. I am lucky in that 3 of my traveling companions speak fluent Spanish so I can hack my way through some choice phrases and pick up what I need to get by. Fake it til you make it, baby!

Prey

The fox, a soft tail tucked over
broken bones,
knows
how to lose himself.
Awash in the tall grasses
he waits
for everything to heal
just enough.

The luxury of time
(when we are healthy). And
(when we are not)
how every breath
ticks by – an immeasurable second,
an ache in our fragile, somewhat
forced chemistry.
A match of wits
begins, the most valuable
neurons, that need no rebuilding, that
(predator) prey
stalk, hide--
Love
is like this, hunted
down
as if
it is the only thing
capable
of feeding
a soul.

The fox remains
in the tall blades, sunlight tricking that
red fur to green, into
shades of browns, yellows.
And even the most valiant beast
among us knows enough
to lie down, be patient
and wait
for the glaring eye
of the moon
to rise; a
gale force wind to decimate
every last scent
of desire, a drumming rain to
wash the pain to just
below
the surface,

so we can run.

Caterpillars

This is what I remember:
Caterpillars
rolling
into a massive configuration
the size of a fist,
precariously tipping in the wind
the branch

bends.

Monarchs
she tells me
but I think differently
tiny kings
queens
with white
wings I say, imagining
the beautiful flutter
lifting
into the sunlight
against a backdrop
of black.

The thunder
builds into the afternoon, the hail
will sting
but my skin is waterproof, my father's voice
echoes truths, forgotten.
Is not every day outside
beautiful?

A fidgeting body
ascends.

The caterpillars
crush themselves
into the white fur
of one another
flush
against bark
writhing a
cocoon, something
bold enough to contain
all the beauty

to come.

Comprehensive List of Things to Bring

The list
(sticks, a knife, sunscreen, tape)
written, for a lifetime of ailments
one might expect to find. In the
wilderness we need
protection
from the cold, wind, heat,
starvation; from animals, insects,
each other; from the sacred
solitude, the one
where God finds us sometimes; where
unhappiness often resides like a
plague.

Peel back the layers
of gauze and betadine, the callus
covering the palm, the soft plastic shielding our eyes
from the sun, and one might find
a human
exposed, with
a bewildered stare, skin supple
as wet rock.

To listen carefully is to
hear a hammering
in the distance, structures going up, walls
coming down.
Nothing lasts and even if it does
it needs attention and
support and
blood
mixed with the paint.

How much glue, then,
how many nails and rolls
of duct tape to get through a life?
How many lists created, and forgotten,
endlessly tipping, like cartwheels
in the wind; how many sticks that simply
snap under the weight of our own
breath?