Soul talks in Carcassonne

''Ça cogne dans les neuronnes comme un boulet dans les murs de Carcassonne''
-Loco Locass

I've spent the last two nights in the small city of Carcassonne, not too far from Toulouse where I am heading in a few hours.  I came here because I remembered how my brother had been impressed when he came through, many years ago.  Carcassonne is famous for its impressive Medieval Cité.  It was founded around the fifth century, changed hands several times throughout history, and was restored in the mid-19th century so that it still stands seemingly whole, entirely fortified, castle and all.  Today, it is inscribed on the list of the UNESCO's World Heritage Sites.

There is not much than that here, however.  And I have visited enough castles by now that I've sort of become a bit immune to the feelings of awe that initially ran through me as I held these historical monuments in contemplation.

So I found out that I didn't come to Carcassonne to witness its famous Cité.  It turns out, that I came here to meet and exchange with a man that would validate and enrich my experience of life on Earth.

Y. picked me up from the train station on Monday afternoon, after he finished his day of teaching electronics at the Lycée.  On his couchsurfing profile, he'd listed 'meditation' as one of his interests, so I had asked if he'd host me, and ''perhaps we could have a little sangha going on'' while I'd be there.  He is sixty-something and lives by himself in a little apartment at the outskirt of town, surrounded by vineyards stretching far into the horizon.  I was pleased he'd accepted to host me, for I thought I'd be a good transition back from Torri.



Upon walking into his place I noticed a certificate of 'master in alternative medicine' hanged on the wall.  I put my bags down in a corner, accepted the cup of tea he offered; quickly and directly, I then asked, ''Do you do a combo of acupuncture and herbs and everything, or what is this?''
''Non,'' he said, ''it's meditation''.  I looked a him with a inquisitive smile, and he added: ''You know about the chakra system?''

(A really good book about the chakra system and developmental psychology is: Eastern Body Western Mind, by Anodea Judith, Ph.D.)

Morning walk along "Le canal du midi"

Within five minutes, Y. and I were talking about consciousness and subtle energies, and about the habits and dangers of so-called logic (i.e. our so-called democracy is based on a perpetuation of the belief that we are reasonable/rational creatures, even though it has been demonstrated, with the advent of psychology - thanks Sigmund - that it's the unconscious that generally drives human beings.)

We talked about the difference between reflecting and thinking... (Note: the conversation was in French, so the words and nuances were actually somewhat different.)
''Thoughts just come in, and our job is to stay open to seeing them without grasping.''
''Oh,'' I said, ''do you mean like when I feel that the words write me, or come through me, instead of me writing them sometimes.''
''Oui, it's kind of like that,'' he acquiesced.
''And reflections are the type that bounce back and forth in your head without leading anywhere, right?''
''That's it.''

And so we chatted, energetically, about energy and the challenges of integrating the lower animal parts of us with the higher spiritual ones.  "Our job is to help the lower energy centers (first three chakras), and to get help from the three upper ones."

I asked about the method he uses to meditate.  He explained that focussing on the third eye (or rather, the place where the pineal and the pituitary glands ''connect'') brings a level of concentration that can be used to synthesize with others.  As long as one remains centered into one's self and one's own energetic field, such a transfer of energy has the potential to help others find their own center as well.  It brings harmonization... and healing.
(I am paraphrasing a longer and more complex conversation, but I think it's fairly accurate.)

''But what about the heart?'' I said.  ''I thought that integration, and thus healing, happened at the heart center?''
He paused to think a bit.
''Yes, the heart is the center.  But perhaps most of us are not evolved enough to reside in that place yet.''
We both fell silent for a moment.  It was good.

I spent two days at his house, sharing meals and conversations.  We talked more, about travels and languages.  About the relationship between etymologies and metaphysics, between metaphysics and political systems, about work, the human condition, and the dual nature of evolution-devolution.  We talked about the [needed interplay] of globalization and decentralization, and about the hidden reality of a very few individuals actually holding the strings, behind our governments, behind the media, behind mainstream culture.

I remembered I want to create a play inspired by Plato's allegory of the cave.

How I love this Life!  Bless!

Other directions

Say what?

where-topia?

I am feeling very inspired by this experience I've been having at Torri Superiore.  I've loved working with and for other people.  I've loved sharing meals with everyone.  I've loved going for long walks in the mountain or down to the river.  I've loved discussing the hopes and challenges associated with sustainable living.  I've loved meeting people of all ages and cultures, who have made this radical commitment and actually made it happen. Oh, and I've loved not even seeing money over the past 4 days or so.

Of course, this place isn't perfect.  Consensus is a slow and sometimes frustrating process, organic agriculture comes with a load of natural challenges, regulations at the regional level often impede desired innovations; and money is scarce, which means that certain things must get prioritized over others.  The food supplies, for instance, come partly from a regular grocery store, so everything served here isn't actually organic.  It's a shame and a blatant contradiction.  It's a compromise this community have decided to make.

I wonder how an ecovillage would work in Québec.  I wonder what designs are best suited for our harsh winters.  I'm excited about doing research on the subject.
I wonder how much land costs, how open-minded and supportive governments might be.  I wonder who wants to manifest a project like this with me.
I wonder where I'd want to root down into this.  In Beauce?  Near Montréal?  Or just somewhere without such long and cold winters?  Which bioregion do I want to work with?




I wonder if I'd easily move on from a life of such mobility to a more localized lifestyle.  Because that's what sustainability calls for.  (Planes are the worst!)
And that's what community calls for too.

Yesterday my "job" was:
1) Hanging clothes in the sun
2) Cutting vegetables to feed 30 people (while listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers and sipping champagne.)

Today my "job" consisted in hiking up (about 20 minutes)
to the donkey patch and retrieving the battery of the fence
to bring it back so they could recharge it.

This is everything I have come to believe in:  egalitarianism, community, process, ecology, anti-consummerism, education, simplicity, and a true embodied, integrated lifestyle.

Yes, I am extremely inspired.  I can't wait to meet people from the permaculture guild in Montreal.  I can't wait to visit my friend Valerie and see what kind of eco-house she has built for herself in New Richmond, Gaspésie.  I can't wait to find those radically (radical= roots) minded folks, who are emancipating themselves from the modern capitalist and individualist mindset and taking their power back by learning how to take care of themselves, their community, and their environment.





I just don't know if I can survive the winters.

"How long are you staying?"

Torri Superiore, day three.

I got here on Wednesday, in the late afternoon, after a long and pleasant day of tribulations.  I had come from Marseille and got dropped off in Nice for a quick swim in the Mediterranean Sea (it's the Cote d'Azur; who needs a bathing suit?!), followed by a bit of impromptu slacklining with some local people I met on my walk to the train station. 

Swimming in the Mediterranean:
Check!

I bought a baguette and some cheese, and caught the train that would cross the border into Ventimiglia, Italy.

I arrived in Torri a bit later than I had expected, which meant that I wouldn't get to do my share of work-exchange before spending my first night here.

I was told that there were no other guests at the moments, and that there might also not be much work for me to do.  "I can walk the dog" I said while immediately realizing how stupid the comment was.  "No, I'm sure we'll find something for you," said Simmons, "Let me find Nina, she must be around somewhere."  And he left me in the office for a little bit.  

I browsed through the library and found a small section of books in English.  There were a few titles I was interested in: "It's the End of the World as We Know it, and I could use a Drink," "The Transition Handbook: from Oil Dependency to Local Resilience," or perhaps one of the many titles on the topics of Ecovillages or permaculture.... but in the end I decided to borrow a book  about the works and legacies of the great Sufi mystic, Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi.  It looked like a small and powerful book, and I thought it would draw a nice thread to my recent sojourn in Istanbul.  I hadn't known this before Ezgi told me, but Rumi spent a lot of his life (between 1228 and 1241) in the Anatolian city of Konya, where he is now buried.

I met Nina, Korean-born, adopted by German parents and she showed me through to stone labyrinth to my room.

Torri Superiore is home to about 25 permanent dwellers.  Most are Italians and Germans; and the common language is Italian.  The kids all speak both Italian and German, plus a bit of English! 

There are more people involved and living here temporarily.  Some are here as seasonal workers, like Adrien (from France), who came specifically for olive harvest, or Ido (from Germany) who came to visit his brother and gather gallons of olive oil to go sell in Switzerland.  Others seem to have a more "long-time noncommittal relationship" with the community, like Simmons, who is originally from Australia (but spent many years in British Columbia and Vermont) and who contributes with his expertise in organic farming.  Dusan is a young Serbian man who's been working here for the past couple months while looking into buying some land in the area.  Peter says he comes here four times per year, to take a vacation from Berlin, and to spend some time with his son Daniel, who is the initiator of this marvelous experience.  

Adrien enjoys a glass of wine during lunchtime
taking a break from picking olives all morning.

In the early stages of the project, it was all about restoration of this historical building.  The building was in ruins, and it took a couple of years of extremely hard work to fix it, before Daniel and Nina could move in.

"It was all about bringing life back," he tells me, "Bringing life back to the place... and to our self."

"And what does one need to know in order to do this?" I asked longingly. "Plumbing and electricity and stuff?  How to build things? Right?"

"You learn by doing it.  That's what we did."

Today, Torri Superiore is a marvelous little village onto itself, a veritable hamlet; with its many living quarters, its kitchen and two-level dining room (big enough to accommodate up to eighty workshoppers/tourists during the high season), its carpentry room, yoga room, playroom, rooftop spaces, etc.  Everything is beautiful, and highly functional!  

There are as many different models of ecovillages as there are communities.  I'm told that what makes this one special is the historical building, and the fact that it is located in a touristic area.  This allows for Torri Superiore to generate the greater fraction of its income through organizing classes and workshops, and hosting tourists from all over Europe.

This money belongs to the cultural association and can be reinvested in the ecovillage.  But what we have here is a mixed economy system, (i.e. living quarters are owned privately) which means that each person is also responsible for their own finances..

An Italo-German picnic = a feast!
(yes, we ate for over an hour)

Community living tends to be cheaper than "mainstream living", because it allows for the sharing of many skills and resources.  

Unfortunately, the steepness and quality of the land here brings many agricultural challenges, so a lot of the food has to be bought from the city.   Moreover, Torri Superiore has to abide by county and regional development regulations and all, so they have yet to be granted the permits they need in order to install more solar panels and become more energetically self-sufficient.  In the meantime, they also get their electricity, and the aqueduct system (and the internet, of course) from the "outside world".

  

As far as leadership goes, they have explained to me that important decisions are made through consensus, and that minor ones are generally decided by whomever deems them important enough to show up to the meeting.

They've been meeting weekly for twenty years.

There are three main subgroups to address different issues in specific areas: the guest house, farming, and the building.  

However, everyone takes turn doing certain tasks, and all must volunteers in other areas.  

My understanding is that these groupings have occurred somewhat organically, as each person gravitated towards their area of interest.

Picking olives involves hitting branches in order to make the fruits fall down,
and gathering them in big nets.

  

Which brings me back to one of my initial observations upon arriving here.
I wandered around the building, familiarizing myself with the silence of the valley and trying to figure out my way up and down and around.  So I encountered and greeted a few people ("Ciao!"), and what I found noticeable was how they all, without exception, asked me the same exact question after the initial "where are you from?".  They all asked: "How long are you going to stay?"

This, to me, points to the core of an experience like this.  It's all about time; it's all about commitment.  

I am finding/feeling some clarity since I've been here.  It's certainly easier without the distractions of the city; without grocery stores and shopping malls, without street lights, and without locks on the doors.  It's easier to feel good, centered.  

And perhaps it also helps that I have actually been working quite hard.  Harvesting olives in the mountains, working physically, concretely, climbing trees like I never imagined I could climb trees before... focussing on keeping a stable foothold, staying focussed and in the moment, with nature, amongst trees pregnant with yet another miracle of life.  No time to see my mind run astray into the future.

  

And so for now I must go to sleep.

Though there is much more to share...

Fruits of our labor

going to work in Utopia

I am leaving Marseille in a few hour.  I'm getting a ride to Nice, with Olivier from covoiturage.fr .  From Nice, I'll get a train to Ventimiglia, which is on the boarder of Italy.  Then, I will catch a local bus that will bring me closer to where I am to stay for the next six days: Torri Supperiore.
Torri Superiore is a small ecovillage that is home to twenty permanent resident and open to non-resident to come and learn about different aspects of sustainable living, i.e. permaculture, bio-fuels, green buildings, consensus leadership, etc.

Dating from the 13th century, the village consists of three main buildings with over 160 vaulted rooms, all linked by an intricate labyrinth of stairways and terraces. Its complex and fascinating structure has been compared to a labyrinth or fortress, built on the side of the mountain.

I am so excited!  Yes, I get to experience utopia for a week.  But most of all, I am impatient to... work!  I've been roaming the continent for two months like this, working almost exclusively from my brains, writing several hours a day.  But I haven't sweated so much, I haven't done much physical work, I haven't seen the fruits of my labor and how it is useful, in a concrete, material way.
So there I go...

I'll be in touch :)

Promenades sur Mars

Maintenant sur la Côte d'Azur!

Côte effectivement azure!

Ô Marseille! Que tu es belle!
À la sortie de l'avion, hier après-midi, j'ai senti un relâchement, une détente de tout mon être.  Le temps était doux, confortable... presque chaud.  Mais il n'y avait pas que cela.  Il y avait surtout ce sentiment d'être  revenue à la maison: ma langue.

J'ai ainsi trimballé mes bagages, d'une navette à une autre, de l'aéroport jusqu'à la gare St-Charles, épuisée par une journée d'attentes de file en file, d'aéroport en aéroport, mais néanmoins portée par une douce joie, un sourire au visage...
Arrivée à la gare, toujours incrédule malgré l'évidence: tout le monde parle français! Je trouve le bureau d'information, déniche une carte de la ville, et poursuis ma route en direction de l'adresse de mon hôte 'couchsurfing', boulevard Longchamps.

Pardon? D'accord.

Je sonne à la porte, on me répond. Pauline et Louise m'accueillent avec enthousiasme; elles m'offrent le thé. Comme elles l'avaient déjà établi dans nos correspondances, elles réitèrent qu'elles sont désolées: elles travaillent présentement sur un gros projet théâtral (elles font toutes deux l'école nationale) et n'auront malheureusement pas de temps à m'accorder. 'C'est tout bon' je leur réponds. ''Je voyage seule, j'ai l'habitude... je suis indépendante.''
''Moi je n'serais pas capable'' rétorque Pauline.
Ah? J'oublie souvent qu'il n'est pas si commun de faire ce genre de truc. Et je trouve cela fascinant de voir combien de personnalités différentes il peut y avoir dans ce monde!

Louise étudie son texte pendant un temps.  Je prends une bonne douche chaude, me lave les rastas.  Pour le souper, mon hôte propose de faire une quiche  ''chèvre et épinards''.  Couète et croissant!?  Que je suis reconnaissante! En anglais, on dit ''I am gratefull.''  Je suis extrêmement gratefull!  J'insiste pour l'aider à la préparation.  On discute de bouffe, de théâtre, de musique.  Elle retourne à ses études après le souper.  Je retrouve mon écran.

Ce matin je suis partie me promener.  Le centre-ville, le port, et tous les endroits qu'on m'a recommandés de visiter se trouvent dans un rayon de quelques centaines de mètres.  Le temps est bon. Il y a des bouffées d'air salée.  On parle français autours de moi!  Une effluve de narguilé; je repense à Istanbul...

Je grimpe la colline et atteints la célèbre Basilique Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde, celle que les Marseillais appellent affectueusement La Bonne Mère.  La montée est ardue, mais j'aime.  Après tout, n'est-ce pas partie intégrale du pèlerinage?

La Bonne Mère se dresse, dorée et bienveillante,
sur le site d'un ancien fort marin. 

Le site est marquant. La Vierge Marie monte effectivement la garde, surmontant la mer et la ville.  À l'intérieur, une très belle murale au plafond, duquel sont suspendues des douzaines de bateaux.  Marie protège les marins, Elle protège les Marseillais.

Je m'assieds en silence.  Je médite longtemps.

Château d'If

célèbre grâce au roman d'Alexandre Dumas

'Le comte de Monte-Cristo'

D'une religion à une autre.

Je redescends, un peu au hasard.
La journée est douce.  Je marche, j'observe, j'écoute.  J'essaie de m'impreigner de tout et de rien, d'être présente et ouverte.  Or mon esprit se projète infatiguablement vers le futur; mon futur, mon privilège, mon karma et mon désir de redonner à la vie autant qu'elle m'apporte...
Il est temps de me procurer un roman!  Cela m'aidera à sortir de la spirale.
Je déambule vers le quartier Belsunce, fredonnant l'intro de la chanson de Bouga intitulée ''Belsunce Breakdown''.  Le rap Marseillais - et plus particulièrement celui de I AM, Akhénaton, Shurik'n, et toute cette école [celle du micro d'argent], c'est la trame sonore de mon adolescence.  C'est pratiquement la raison pour laquelle j'ai choisie de visiter Marseille!
J'aboutie tout d'un coup dans une série de petites ruelles bien étroites et remplies de marchands.  Ce doit être le marché arabe dont on m'avait parlé!  Olives, fruits, pâtisseries, pizzas, viandes, épices, thés, tout y est.  Le coin est bondé de passants - dont la plupart sont immigrants d'anciennes colonies - et le sol est recouvert d'eau, de déchets.  J'aime bien. Pour un Euro, je goûte à une galette de pommes de terre aux épices.



Après le lunch, je continue ma balade vers l'autre rive du port, à l'affût d'une librairie et d'un quartier qui porte le nom Le Panier.  Si je me souviens bien, c'est le quartier Italien de Marseille.

Bingo!  Après quelques détours perdus dans quelques ruelles bien mignonnes, je tombe finalement sur l'endroit idéal: une terrasse de ''maison de thé & librairie''!  Je souris, m'avance.  Le temps semble s'être arrêté. Là, je suis vraiment à la maison!

Cup of Tea pour un bel après-midi!

Je salue le proprio, commande un café, et m'approche de section livre.  Surprise!  Ils ont pleins de romans québécois!
''Oh oui!'' déclare le proprio avec un grand sourire sympathique, ''Jacques Poulin, c'est mon auteur favoris!''  Je suis émue.  ''J'adore le Québec,'' ajoute-t-il, ''et mon meilleur ami habite là-bas.  Il est marié avec une Gaspésienne.''
On discute.  Je cherche un livre mais il y en a trop, alors je lui demande de me conseiller.  Il me suggère trois titres; deux sont des histoires se déroulant aux États-Unis.  J'hésite.  Un roman de Michel Tremblay, ça pourrait être drôle.  Ça pourrait me préparer à la grande transition.  Mais cette édition coûte un peu cher, alors j'opte finalement pour quelque chose d'autre.  Un histoire de père de famille, de souvenirs, et de shamans Hopi.

Le proprio me raconte un peu Marseille.  ''C'est une ville de rebelles.  C'est ici qu'Arthur Rimbaud a choisi de mourir.  On ne le dit pas assez, dans les écoles; mais c'est un fait important.''

J'aime bien ce type.  Et quelle belle vie!  Sa femme qui travaille à ses côtés, des amis qui passent, quelques touristes explorant le Panier, du bon thé, deux ou trois étagères de livres, de la bonne musique, une ambiance chaleureuse.

Je reste là pendant une heure ou deux, à lire, à écrire, à rire...

Ma langue! Comme je t'aime!   

Est-ce vrai alors?  Nous nous retrouverons bientôt pour vivre ensembles, comme jadis?   

Ma langue!  Je me sens si fébrile à l'idée de te redécouvrir, de te faire la cours encore une fois et pour toujours, avec humilité, et avec piété.  De t'apprivoiser.

Je veux parcourir tes nuances et tes humeurs.  Et qu'importe si je m'isole à te côtoyer!  Ton élégance en vaut le coût.

Comme je suis impatiente!  Et je prie, pour l'émancipation de mon esprit, afin de toujours savoir te rendre hommage, ma muse, ma belle langue!  J'aimerais qu'ensembles nous puissions créer de belles histoires, pour la postérité, au nom des mystères que sont les femmes, les hommes, et leurs idées.   

Avec toi, valser comme dans un grand bal, dans la cours du silence.  Le temps d'une chanson.  Le temps de ma vie.

Jeanne D'Arc,

Église des Réformés

Palais Longchamps.

Soft Revelations

A few shots form my day trip on the Bosphorus...

Finally... the sun shines!

The ruins of Yoros Castle mark the confluence
of the Bosphorus and the Black Sea.

It was built BCE and used by the Phoenician and the Greeks,
later occupied by the Byzantines, the Genoeses, and the Ottomans...

That, my friends, is called history.

I don't understand how the architecture is so modern!
I heard of a "Great Fire"... maybe they rebuilt everything at some point.

I read somewhere that the difference between the traveller and the tourist is that the latter seeks comfort, while the former seeks discovery.

What have I been seeking here in Istanbul?

I've had the comfort of staying with a friend who is a native and thus speaks the language.  I've slept on a brand new pull-out couch in brand new colorful sheets.  I've experienced the efficiency of Istanbul's public transportation, its modern everything, and a relatively easy access to the internet.  The food is especially delicious (although not cheap), and I happen to love tea.

Have I not really stepped outside of my comfort zone?  Is that what this lingering sense of disquiet is about?

I've been saying that I don't find Istanbul to be different enough.  I guess I was hoping that there would be more of a culture shock, since I'm so far from the new continent.  I was hoping I'd be confronted... and I've been bitching about tourism - in general - for a week now, unable to move past my frustration.  I worry that my writing has been redundant.  What can I say?  This is evidence that I've been working hard at processing somethings I couldn't quite put into focus.  
As always, I humbly hope that my blog can make room for others to go through similar processes.  We all have them, on all kinds of angles.


In this case, I now see how I've been standing in my own way. 

For my defense...

Istanbul is an expensive city.( And I have a lot of fears when it comes to money.)   It is particularly frustrating that I am regularly asked to pay more, just because I am a foreigner.  I want to tell them, "Wait! Just 'cause I'm visiting doesn't mean I have tons of money!  I'm not a tourist, I'm a traveller! Can't you see me, me, and not just some English-speaking wallet?!"

But I don't speak their language, so I can't argue.  

I am vulnerable.

It's tough, and humbling.  

I long to be seen as an equal, but I am different.  It's true on some level; I don't know what it's been like... I haven't worked amongst them, for the greater good of the region and its people.  Everything is give and take.  This is a basic natural law.  If I come here to take in the culture, I must give something back.  But it's been difficult.  I haven't come here to consume them.  All I want is to wonder, talk with people about differences and similarities, share a narguile perhaps.

Sometimes, I can almost believe that it makes sense for foreigners to pay more.  It's like a form of protectionism or something; "If you don't work with us, then you gotta bring something else."  But how much of this "protectionism" is based in fear, in xenophobia, in what I've come to term "reactive" nationalism?

When i talk about the realities of being a wanderer, that's what I mean.  Wherever I go, I wonder if people think just that: "If you don't work with us…"  So please note, I am not only talking about Istanbul.

As a joker, I work for all of mankind.  I work for the Divine (Not that my job description is clearly stated, but it does include the daily surrender of my ego.  Of course, I'm still very much of an apprentice.) How do I explain that, in Turkish?  Or in Czech?

So the truth is: I have been more uncomfortable than I've admitted to myself.  I've been more afraid than I like to think.  I've projected all kinds of feelings unto these people!

This is a modern secular country, but a muslim one nevertheless.  The Q'ran suggests that women cover their head; my hairdo is the opposite of modest, of "proper".  My appearance is screaming "other", at least, that's what the voice in my head has been saying.

Well... so be it.  I am fool of love still.  It is up to me to share my love.

So I took my juggling clubs this morning and I went to the park down the street from Ezgi's... right on the water.  And I stretched a bit, and I juggled for the Sun and the Water... and guess what?  I made more eye contact, shared more smiles, and said more "Mehraba!" than I might have in a week. :)

So what if my hair is different?  We all bleed the same red blood.. We all shiver and smile sometimes when music reaches straight to the heart...

Turkish band Alatav has refused to sell out to recording companies...
they make an offering of their soulful music in Taksim.

Random trivia:

There are no sidewalks in Istanbul.  (Well... there are, but people just don't use them.)  Cars, motorcycles, pedestrians, stray cats and dogs just dance a crazy dance all together.  One gets to walk in the middle of the streets, but one's gotta be alert.

Yes, one's gotta be alert...

Priceless

---

Books about Istanbul !

Adding ads.

You might have noticed a new feature on this blog.  Yes, I have enabled advertisements.  After much inner debate I have decided to give it a try.
I'd like to sustain myself while being somewhat mobile, and since writing is a passion I would love to make it into "a trade".  I've been looking into it for a few weeks now, and I've decided to give it a shot.
I will be monitoring the ads that come up, and I'll see what percentage of them I feel comfortable with.  I think that there are some ethical businesses and organizations out there, and I hope the content of my blog will attract those.
We'll see.

Humming with Allah

The sun came out today!! The sun came out!!
I mean, I finally saw Istanbul in the sun!

It's been an interesting time here.  I've been having mixed feelings and I notice that it's been easier to write about the rougher parts, i.e. the politics, the sociological, the economy, the loneliness (wait, I didn't really write about that did I?)... Yet, I know that, if these things are bothering me it's because they reflect some shadows in my consciousness... but I'm not going to go there right now :)


I do want to say, that it's been good: this fullness of feeling, this getting lost (I walked for over an hour in Kadikoy by myself last night, nonchalantly but so very lost!!), this facing the reality and implications of my place in a foreign society as a nomad and as a stranger.


But I have also had powerful moments of being with/in All-ah.  I did end up visiting the Blue Mosque yesterday.  It was a powerful experience.


Funny how I've grown to seek out and enjoy churches.  I never thought I'd feel this way when I was a teenager, and into my early twenties.  I do remember the first time I let myself be touched.  It was in Cuba, in the church of La Caridad del Cobre (the santeria goddess Ochun in Cuban syncretism).  Since then, I've had my own personal relationship with "houses of God".  I could focus on the wrong-doings of many religious institutions, but I'd rather see those temples as places where people gather to remember, to celebrate, to reinforce the connection between them and what's greater than us.




I had that feeling in the Blue Mosque.
It was a different set up: no benches, no tabernacle, no crucifix, no high standing priest!  Instead, there was only a huge carpeted floor space (we didn't have to do ablutions, but everyone had their shoes off) underneath a dazzling dome.  Visitors were not allowed in the center of the mosque where muslim men go to pray.  (Muslim women have their own section, which is on the side.  I'm not sure how I feel about that part but I'll let it go for now.)



I walked slowly, my eyes fixed on the exquisite calligraphy on the high vaulted ceiling.  I listened to the sound of space, the silence of awe, and the laughter of a few young children who ran around.  Then I sat on the ground and closed my eyes for a while.  I breathed, I smiled... I imagined a large group of muslims answering the call for prayer and gathering in that glorious temple, kneeling down shoulder to shoulder, reciting the Q'ran in unison... And suddenly a song grew inside my body.  I was humming, feeling the likeness of my body and this mosque... sound, vibration... spirit vibrating inside matter.
My body is a temple.