Day 673: Tears and all of That

I have nearly cried or actually cried three times today and yesterday, more times than I could put a single finger on, and yet I feel grounded. I've also laughed a huge old heap of laughing, walked in sun and air and mountain bliss and had good, rich time with people who nourish me.

Yesterday, I cried for a difficult situation with a friend which feels pretty important. I felt sad. i wanted to talk about it but I couldn't do it with full integrity. I wanted to stay open to my perception of things not being true, but by talking, I'm putting my slant on things. So I tried not to, and ached with it, or did and fretted. And I rode my bike and sang and gave thanks for those things too, and for the silence that lets what feels genuine rise up like coffee froth.

I left before I cried when I saw tears in a man-friend's eyes. Man acquaintance friend, not yet fully friend, or I'd have been in there. I was protecting myself. I was so close to tears and I didn't want to break. Today, it was for another man-friend's sadness. His almost tears brought mine to life. I didn't protect either of us this time. And a little for the sadness, but the froth is thicker now... not immovable, but it's pretty clear what's watery and what's not, so sadness can sit beside a little more sureness, and a little more need for quiet. 

And I cried again for joy and being moved by my beautiful friend Lilley's testament to her husband, praising him for his fatherhood of their fabulous daughter. I cried (and am crying again now, actually - notch up another one on the headboard of tears) not only because she took the time and effort to name the things he does so well, but that there are men like Daniel in the world and one, That One, found my friend Lilley and that together, they made Tulsi and that they are doing, both of them, such an incredible job of parenting her. And that she will be a child, as Lilley says, who will have high hopes of men, who will know what a loving, clever, creative father does, and who knows what it is to be loved to the very roots of her by a mother who would do anything it takes for her, who delights in her, who makes her life a positive, healthy, happy place. I cried with joy for all the children who know that they are loved, for the world they are already creating through this love.

I laughed like a beast last night with my lovely visitor. and his massively stoned face. My face, I'd like to add, was not stoned. His was. Every time I looked, it was still funny. I laughed many times this morning, walking up the mountain that's right by where I live, taking photos, lots of very stupid selfies (I much prefer the term 'long-arm' for them). I laughed with my sweetest of sisters, Kath Jones and with relative strangers. And I stroked a skinny, happy, writhey cat, petted the nose of a teddybear dog, eyeballed the lanky one that tried to do friendly biting last night, but would only peel back his eyes a bit today. 'We know each other', I say to him. 'Nos conocemos'. He doesn't always admit it, but he hasn't chased me in a while. 


And here's the thing. Right, wrong, happy, sad, laughing, crying, meandering, sighing or steaming on ahead, I am grateful. I am where I need to be and a situation that dTgs around in me and makes me hurt a bit can sit next to tears of laughter, love and delight and still be both valid and okay.  

And who can stick only with the sad bits when there are mountains to be climbed up, when everywhere I turn, there is beauty to be drunk like nectar? Who can ignore the friends who are already 'for life', although they aren't yet long in my world? Who can turn up a nose at friendship, technology that lets me talk to those I love for almost nothing without a hitch, or with hitches that make the smooth bits feel like the gifts they are. I mean fuck, I can SEE Kath Jones! For free!

So thank you, spirits who love us whether or not we love the moment that we're living. Thank you, moments. May I remember to love you whether or not I'm enjoying you. Thank you, Viber, Skype, WhatsApp and Facebook, for letting me have the best of many worlds. You rock.

Day 672: Noses, Teeth and Moons

Me and Eduardo, who runs where I live

So much rich bliss in this time. Yesterday's blood moon full eclipse bonanza of beauty and wonder was a sweet culmination of a week full of magic. Seven of us sat by the old maloka kitchen in the gardens of my beautiful temporary home with a fire, guitars, soup and songs. There were beloved people from Peru, Chile, Mexico, England, and the USA. We laughed a lot and sang a lot and cooed a lot at the incredible red-white-black moon, the shimmering stars, the fickle clouds and the fullness of the beauty.

A wonderful ceremony, which included my first ever (but hopefully not my last) luchadora-masked, dancing shaman, gave me back the gift of gratitude more than ever before. Long or short, this needs to become a daily practice again. There is so very much to give thanks for, from the taste of broccoli and green bean soup (I cannot help but think of you, Kath Jones) to the fact that I can see my sweet soul-sister's face for a flit of a second as she walks through Easton and I sit in my mountain-shouldered garden to the simple nourishment of that. 

Thank you, thank you, thank you, for the ground I get to walk on and the people who dance across my path, while we love each other richly and when we struggle too. Thank you for the wisdom and generosity of my friends, and for the guidance that they offer. And thank you, love and gratitude itself. 

Day 671: Payday

Thank you, thank you, thank you, people who pay me! And people who give me work. I love you and I am full, full, full of gratitude. Without you, I'd be hungry. Without you being so timely, I'd be worried. Without you popping up right when I need you the most, I'd be frettish. 

Thank you Domingo, with your beautiful clear green eyes made of souls of aeons, and Wilco, with your brown ones the same. Thank you beautiful Argentinian angel-voiced one, whose name is wriggling from my grasp like an eel. Your clear, gentle tones are still drifting through my mind, kissing me gently on the insidest insides of my ears. Thank you Ian and Aga for sharing the experience with me, for Azul (curly little girl dog with a penchant for belly loving) and Rayo (retriever/setter cross boy, 5 months old, like Azul, with gentle ginger lashes and hair like a girl's). Thank you OttoXXXX (it's not Ottolenghi, but near enough) and Diana, for looking after us so well and feeding us a hearty soup.

Thank you, my beloved sister Kath Jones, for your constant support, wisdom, joy and laughter. It's a little bit frightening how much I love and appreciate you. Thank you, beloved Tiny Pikey Beectoreea, for making today start with love and joy and eenapropreeayness and more wisdom. Thank you, internet, for making my connection with these beautiful women (and many more, including wise Ruth Blake) so easy and so instant. 

Thank you Lawrence for your brilliant help. Massively appreciated, with bells on.

And thank you, Ian, for a good day and good conversations and a visit to a new town to richen up my stay. So much more to thank for (oh, you mountains, with your little morning cloud hats, oh, you reliable wind, popping up at 3 like clockwork, oh, you brilliant friends with your beautiful faces and your ideas and your conversation). And thank you for the supper that will soon be mine. Better go. 

Love, coming at you all, right in your lovely faces. 
xx

Day 670: Follow

Oh, what days this country is giving me. Oh, what days. 

A day or two ago, the day Venus threw in her backwards towel, in fact, I got out of town for a change. I made a plan to go to Urubamba and take a tourist taxi to Maras y Moray and Salineras - archeological sites and salt pans respectively. Impressive. Moray (I think) is round. It looks exciting. Behind the rush was the fact that I had a ticket for all sorts of sites. It covers 17 and lasts ten days. I'd done a handful, plus Pisaq ruins, where they didn't check the ticket, and I felt the need to see sights. 

I was going to get a collectivo - a bus, basically - to Urubamba and seek out a taxi and some tourists to share it with from there. Luckily, though, I spoke to my sweet soul sister and beloved friend Kath Jones on the phone just before. We gave each other mantras. Mine, I'll share, given to me by her. It was 'follow, follow, follow, follow'. So I did. Thank you, Kath Jones. You made this:

A taxi stopped, as they do, and offered me a ride. Oh, what days this I said no, but as I stood there, the owner of the hostel I'd just booked into grabbed it and climbed in. He was going part of the way, and with him and his son in the taxi, the fare to Urubamba was totally doable, so in I got. They got out at Calca and I climbed in the front. While chatting, I found out he was off to Ollantaytambo, a very picturesque little place. He lives there. Follow, follow, follow, follow. I stayed on in and went there instead. A taximan called Fernando approached me and chatted for ages. His taxi price for me alone to go to M&M was way too high, so I thought I'd maybe find some others. I failed delightfully, and headed to the ruins in that town. They were ACE. I liked them better than all the others that I've seen so far (I'm saving Machu Picchu for the right 'date' to go with - I don't want to go alone unless I'm bigly in the mood).

Once in, I found my way to the top, where there was a door. I stepped through it. It was all a bit Mr Benn. On the other side was a mountain path. I took it. It led me up and up and up. I passed a couple. Further up, I bumped into a fabulous young Chilean man called Nahual - translator, writer, lovely thing - who told me about a place in Pisaq I could stay and his work and life and loves a little bit. Then up and off I went. There was an extra bit of ruin at the 'top', but I could see more mountain, so I carried on. Paths were questionable, as was safety, to some extent. I enjoyed it very much. I met bugs and many cactus plants. I carried on till I was on the top of something again and then I stopped. 

The views were beyond my dreamiest mountain imagingings. The light was crisp and the sun unforgiving hot. I scrabbled down, finished the ruins (very nice), made off into the artesanal market (significant feather tools abounded) and then cocked around the pretty town eating theoretically unwise things from stands in the street until it was time to make my way home. I am all humbled with the flow of it. It rocked. 

Since then, my time has been full of friends and nice experiences. Thank to Fabian (the nice looking boy on the Pisaq rocks), I was alerted to the presence of a clown in this little place. Said clown turns out to have moved in with my friend Ash, from Pucallpa, and to be a druid too. I have been a happy parasite at their place for a few nights. The first was full of sweet potato mash and garlicky omelette, healings, nurture and hearthy fires; the second rich with ginger-soy broccoli treats laid on by Ash. Both evenings were full of lovely conversation and playful general joy. 

Today, Ash went on an adventure and the clever clown and I (his name is Ian and I like him very much) planned to play.  We planned more than played, but had a lovely time, ate street food sitting in the market with the trader women from the mountain villages nearby and hatched plots of games and workshops and all kinds of magical things to do. He bought balloons, the fingery ones, to make some hats from. He went to a school and I visited potential new places to live. The likely trump is a community with cats, guitars, children, flowers, an essential oils laboratory and an organic farm nearby. Eeep!

Later, I did a yoga class at Nidra Wasi, a retreat where I shall do a try-out tomorrow to be on their books as a massage therapist. The yoga was lovely. It's been FAR too long since I did a class. I was about to leave and check out a third home option, but the guests there, all about to eat, enticed me to stay and order something. They said the food was great. I had met one of them before, but not the rest. I stayed. The food was beautiful in every way - brightly coloured, beautifully combined, tasty, healthy and all organic-fresh. I had my own and the leftovers of one person who'd ordered three dinners by mistake and was supposed to be fasting. I went to pay, and one of these strangers who'd encouraged me to stay said her husband had sorted out my bill - they'd put it on the tab. Just so. 

How sweet, how generous. What gifts! Not just the dinner(s), but the eagerness to have me stay, the ease, the heartfelt conversations and the laughter. Of course the dinner(s) too. And to top it all, I caved and agreed to get a taxi when my walking plans were putting fear into people, but the owner, who was just about to go to bed, insisted on giving me a lift instead. What? How did I get to be this lucky and this blessed? Such easy giving and such happy, honoured receiving. How can I not be wallowing in the riches of these days? I am.

Day 669: Venus Did WHAT?

I fucking missed fucking Venus in fucking Retrograde

Fuck. I missed Venus in Retrograde. Shiiiiiiiiiiiit. No firey romance or sudden soulmate for me, then. No feet-sweeping or deep-connection-can't-believe-it-could-ever-be-so-right kind of click. Do I have to wait for the next one? I say again: fuck!  

There's still a part of me that holds out hope for that – that sudden knowing, that sense of ease, that 'this one's different' that I've seen so often happen to my friends. Or even just that 'and then at some point, it just seemed to make sense'. It doesn't always happen with a bang.
 

I'm stuck on the pouring chemistry lab cup (can't remember what they're called). Maybe all these years have been a gentle tipping, a settling of silt, a slow build and when the liquid scales the lip, the meniscus breaks and the force flows forth, it's on – there's no going back. There's no way to sense it from the bone-dry other side, where the wait is interminable and you just have to get on with something else.

Love shows itself in many different ways

And for all of those magical stories, there are those that aren't, or that were and are no longer, or that are just a kind of 'oh well, we're kind of in it now, so...'. 

Or kids. Are they a reason? Well, of course they are. There are so many romantic ideals out there that get in the way of sensing when love is present.

Always the cat in a veil, never the bride

And I forget that when I think that I'm in love (though so far, I've been wrong), it still feels heady, giddy, all a twitter with excitement and with possibility. It feels like playing does (and there's the thing... let's play, let's yes, let's create something together – when that's happening, the yearning for romantic love can wait; the well is filled and creativity, joy and co-creation take the yearning's place).

Current widsom, whatever that might mean, says to open and accept that it won't happen, and to make life make its sense without that kind of soulmate intimacy. 

Some say (Elizabeth Gilbert wrote an article) that soulmates are soulmates and lovers, husbands, wives don't need to be the same. And I have soulmates in my life, and that's no little thing – that fact, those people give me so much active joy I'm very grateful for. And children. There are so many, so many in need of love and nurture, so many being born in every second. There's no real need for more.

Would you like to go for a drink with me?

And still, with all the joy and all the gratitude, I'm bummed I've missed out on Venus. Sweetheart, I wish you'd knocked. I wish you'd given me a nudge and said 'come on, girl, get yourself on point, I'm all a flitter with my fire: I have a gift for you. Just come and get it'. Still, she's a goddess, that Venus. She doesn't do errands, especially not when she's in retrograde (firey, moody, fickle as they come). I'll keep them peeled next time. I'll put my alarm on LOUD.

Or perhaps I won't, and things will take their course. The cup will overflow, or then it won't. The mountains will still rise up and touch the sky. The hummingbirds will still plunge into flowers. Ripples will still ripple and dogs will still bark. And monsters will open up their hearts to warriors with swords, whatever may come of it. 

Day 668: Mountains

Actually not fake. Real.

The rain is here, shrouding the mountains in soft clouds and filling the air. The flowers in the botanical garden next to me are lifting up their faces. The cactus plants are taking shelter. There are tastes of blue in the sky, and swathes of grey. I feel the cold, but I love this weather too. It makes a change. I haven’t dug myself out of town to go sightseeing today. I did a massage this morning, and was planning to travel, but I may just hang out and do a little work (what brilliantness, I have work to do too).

Mountains. Sky. Breathe.

The trees are full of birds. Ther are pigeon-likes, only gentler in their shape. There are little flitty things, too fast to see. Yesterday, a condor, and yes, majestic. They just are. They’re so big and strong and calm in their flight. Two plucky sparrowhawks or kestrels were defending their territory, dive-bombing the condor as she soared. She wound up and up in her spiral. They chased her. The game went on, and they did not let up, not did she care. She’s ten times their size at least..

My friend Fabian the Swisser

We watched this from a perch on the edge of the Pisaq ruins. We being me and Fabian, the smiling Swisser. now departed for Cusco and Machu Picchu. We walked and marvelled at the size of the stones, the work it took just to walk up with water and a few bananas, let alone hunks of granite bigger than a chicken hut and heavier than a car. We snuck up from the back, not to avoid paying (I have already paid), but because it was beautiful, and involved crossing a stream on bouncing logs and finding our way rather than following painted arrows

I have explored a new place to live, down by the river instead of up in the hills. My heart lives in the hills, and my independence thrives on being able to walk to where I live at any time, without fear and without worrying that the last of the motokars will have packed up and gone home, leaving me with a dark and windy walk up a long, long hill. 

I walked down a good part of it today, as rides into town were unforthcoming. Eventually, I found one. The place has served its purpose, in a way, allowing me to have peace and a room to myself for a happy price, and to wake up with mountains right next to me, flowers, quiet, water. The compromise in town is noise. Safety and independence are the benefits. There'll be a way that this will work. 

I am blown away by the landscapes here. If it's possible to believe, it becomes 'normal', but look at it: it's beautiful. This is what I get to see just by lifting my head. This is the quality of the colour all around me. This is nature, huge and present, just doing its being wherever you turn. Magic! 

Pisac ruins from the bottom(ish)

Day 667: Oh, Peru

 

Too many things. Of course there are, and they pale into the distance the longer it takes me to write.

Where to start? ~With the pregnant cat who gave us such pleasure in Santa Clara, with her skinny frame and her enormous belly, her softness, her constant presence. What about the 'us' she gave pleasure to? The beautiful, funny, complexly bound Argentinian sisters Sandra and Adri, who made my experience there so much richer when I moved to share their little house with them that I stayed almost an extra week, paying to change my flight to the mountains I'd yearned for. How about Raphael, savvy, clever, understated, very funny, multilingual and really fucking patient. He enriched my time there too. How about macrame fiend Antoine, 23 and all Frenchness and laughter, a rapay fiend too (not my preferred spelling, but without easy accentage on the 'e' I've substituted with 'ay', I'd be painting him in a pretty grim light). And Sebastian, Eric and Claire, travelling in different shapes in time and with varied purposes, all thrown together.

How about shaman Jose (Josay?), blessed with gentleness, integrity and patience, and his 'reina' and beloved wife, Juana, strong, tranquil, beautiful. How about Shaman sister Maria, 72 and still carrying water buckets I'd struggle with, up at dawn (5.30) to work all day, as were they all. How about Nicole and Chico, 6 and 5 respectively, both bickering and laughing almost constantly, playing with anything and nothing. Chico built us some seating outside our casita with wooden planks the heaved from underneath the house.

How about the five kittens said pregnant cat (named gatita (little girl cat), michi (kitty), Sweet Girl and latterly, by Armando, Yarina) did on Eric's bed one night as he slept, by his head, so he woke up to find placenta and three sticky kittens right next to his face. The next day in the morning, she pushed out another two, still on his bed, all healthy, and lay exhausted with them scrabbling to latch on and feed. She has more nipples than kittens, but still they push each other out of the way.

How about a lovely visit from Armando, Roger and Maycol from my time at Amelia’s house, Armando for whom I feel a great warmth and curiosity, as he is all the right way as far as what matters goes; outrageously model-boy handsome (and 22-year-old) Roger, already a father, blessed with a sweetness of soul and some calm wisdom and very affectionate; and Maycol, a practising rapper and easy giggler, a really lovely boy (17, I think). They drove all the way from Pucallpa in a motokar and rocked up just like that.

We all (them, Sandra, Antoine, Rapha, a bunch of kids and Toby, the ginger-eyed black dog who revelled in the whole outing and came along of his own accord, loving the water and the attention. Watching Sandra and Rapha dance and swim in the water was one of my favourite things ever; river water that swung from hot to cold in inexplicable ways. That day felt idyllic, and indeed it was, ending in a strong ceremony and some even deeper bonding with Sandra and Rapha. Beautiful.

Followed by Fin, beautiful soul and Fine Young Man and his parents, here to visit him in Peru. I love them all and I’ve loved hanging out with them for the last four or five days. It’s been mint. They are mint. Fin has energy and easy joy. He moves a lot, whether it be to dance, to try brave handstands or to wrestle with dogs. Fiona has a gentleness about her that I like very much, and such warmth. Paul is big and funny and has smile lines like eagles’ feet, not crows’. He is generous and honest and easily teasy.

What about constantly smile-ridden Fabian from Switzerland, smiling with his eyes first; a loping young boy-dog called Rocco who bites and plays at the most inconvenient of times, rejoicing in waiting until smaller, older Toffee is asleep to pounce and bite his legs; patient Hanu (Hanuman), big, blond, scruffy, whose house has been invaded by these other strays; and the ridiculously named Beyonce, the only girl dog in the pack, sweet-smelling and delightful. Their owners Paul and Sue care as well for them as they do for the people who visit them, if not more (and they care for us very, very well indeed).
I have been blessed by abundant hummingbirds, sparrow-hawks and flitting, nameless birds. I have watched stars appear and moons change size and shape and colour. I have gazed at mountains in awe and yearning,there are landscapes and skies and shooting stars, motokars that flow in a river of weavy traffic and taxis packed with ten people (three in the boot with luggage) navigating muddy/dusty roads full of holes and puddles. 

There are sunsets to die for and misty sunrises to revel in; there are nights of unbearable heat and now some that are cold like a British winter night, despite hot and skin-burny days that descend into wind buffets by 3pm, blowing the endless market merchandise from the stalls. There is beauty everywhere, poverty too, dirt and humbling displays of nature, but above all that, it’s the people who make this trip come alive, who give all this wonder context.
Bouncing around in the boot of a taxi could have felt like a chore alone, but with Sandra, it was an adventure. Driving through Pucallpa in motokar is neither here nor there, but sitting in one with Seb and weaving in and out of getting ahead of or behind them was great fun. Failing to find a boat to Yarina would piss me off alone, but in a friendly pack, it’s just another experience to be enjoyed.
Thank you, people flowing in and out of where I am. Thank you for making this an experience to be grateful for. All the less than easy experiences that have also helped shape this trip have been more fathomable, interesting and wisdom-inducing thanks to you people. I give my gratitude freely, to you and to the forces that brought us all together. Thanks, all.I feel beautifully blessed. 
PS - sorry for all the gaps. Very hard to navigate getting photos in the right place on this computer.