After months back in the US having spent wonderfully lazy and warm summer days with my quirky, boisterous and diverse family in rural Winthrop, Minnesota, along with the grand opportunities to soak in the spaces and faces of my other familyfriends in Chicago, Madison, New Prague, Gibbon, Minneapolis, St. Paul, Crosby and soon, Boise, I turn eagerly toward this changing weather. And this weather turns me toward my upcoming move out west to Seattle, for my next chapter.

In the midst of this summer “back home,” after months of travel, I am newly proud. I am proud of both my homes, and my Homes. My homes that live in location, soil, numerical location, history, and hold the wear and tear of a family of 8, grandparents whom have lived a block away my whole life, and a tree in our backyard with my brother’s name carved in it’s bark. And the Homes that exist far beyond a fixed point or address; residing in me, in my stories, in my very muscles, fibers and bones, in my eclectic journey.

My father Dana, a Winthrop, MN native, has spent his life as a voice and tireless advocate for affordable housing and rural preservation/development, with a long history in rural journalism. Recording, sharing, channeling, celebrating and advocating the stories of those throughout Minnesota, in unlikely places, spaces and roles, has been his passion and has taught me lots about what it means to be and honor home. In high school, he introduced me to the late Paul Gruchow, a writer, farm owner and rural issues/literature advocate himself who has written about the heart of rural America, the power of our connection with nature and the land and the importance of residing in a home of not just place, but also time and history.

During these summer months, as I’ve unpacked my travel bags, dived into boxes from long ago and re-acquanited myself with the pace and life of my family, but also Winthrop, I’ve found myself immersed in my home exploration.  I came across one of Gruchow’s books, Grassroots: The Universe of Home, which has served as a bit of textbook, a partner in this summer back in my rural Minnesota birthplace. Though I’ve read its pages before, it was in these last few months that I felt like I was newly discovering it’s relevance to my life and especially, my own wrestle with the antsy, seemingly never satisfied journeying I had undertaken, and what this journeying meant to my sense of home, of belonging, of rooting.

Gruchow writes,

            “A home, like a garden, exists as much in time as in space. A home is the place in the present where one’s past and one’s future come together, the crossroads       between history and heaven.”

It is with this expanded, breathing, kinetic and holistic concept of home that I have found comfort. It is here I can reside and belong. And it is in this larger Home space, that it feels possible to continue honoring and celebrating the tango between my rural past,  traveling and transient present and west coast, urban, creative therapy dreaming future.

And so I discovered…

I am proud of India.

Anything is possible in India. Everything happens in India. Beauty abounds, life crumbles, spirit prevails, hunger commands, humanity rises.

Great, courageous leaders like Nehru, Gandhiji, David Selveraj, Mercy Kappan, Ambedkar, the women of the Devadasi movement and the Dalai Lama all challenge me to ask more, look further and work with more drive, determination, compassion and passion.

I am proud of the US, rural and urban.

I am proud of those whom have made my feminist education possible, the tireless efforts of advocates, educators, leaders and health workers towards holistic sex education and queer/glbta visibility.

I am proud of the ability I have to fully and creatively express myself, my views and my kinetic body, as a woman, citizen and human.

I am proud of momentum surrounding needed political change and the excitement brewing via Midwestern brewed leaders like Barack Obama and the late Senator Paul Wellstone. 

I am proud to feel and become re-acquainted with my roots in rural America, in the very grassroots of its land, its fruit, its food, its fuel, its culture and its hardworking values. 

I am proud to watch my brothers play rural town-team baseball in small fields across southern Minnesota.

And I am proud to be on a journey that will bring me to new locations, hit me with unknown challenges and ask me to learn anew what it means to be an engaged, aware, open and present member in this wide world, with endless stories to share, big dreams to seek, but essentially much to continue learning. This is a home I can sink my heels, hips and heart into, as Gruchow reminds us “there is nothing in the wide universe so vast as our own ignorance. Knowing that is our real hope.”

Reiki Protection 

 There Bethany and I were, squished together side-by-side, intimately sharing a “double sleeper” compartment (1/2 the size of a twin bed), on the upper deck of an unsteady, jam packed bus creaking down the switchbacks of the Himalayas. The mountains were biding farewell; disappearing with our decent. Slowly but surely, development skewed our views. The sun set and darkness filled the bus. A moment of  punctuated fear as the road beneath our bus disappeared, opening up to the vast mountainside, followed by a quick decision to utilize my newly retrained Reiki skills to protect ourselves, the jolting bus and all who waved goodbye to the peace of the Himalayas.

Impress Me Taj

After our first trip everyone always asked “Did you see the Taj Mahal..!?” to which I answered, “Well, no. But we did get to…” and proceeded forth with the monologue explaining the great work we were able to witness via our NGO visits, the families with whom we connected, the bond of our group of 13. But to be honest, it stung a bit that we had missed it. Ok, maybe it actually throbbed. And thus, Bethany and I dug our heels in and made Agra, the site of the one, the only, Taj Mahal-one of the 8 Wonders of the World and undying architecturally embodied devotion of love, designed by Mughal emperor Shah Jahan for his wife- a priority stop. For better, or worse. And so, I stubbornly thought, bring it on Taj; impress me already.

Discoveries:

            Agra is known for its schemes to poison tourists and thus, scam them out of insurance money and any sense of health/safety/wellbeing.

            The Taj trail has stripped the area around its grand gates of life; earthly, economic, social, spiritual. This discrepancy hung heavy and sick in the air.

            Heat certainly can shut a body, psyche and spirit down. I hadn’t ever experienced such a fear of this reality, until our first night in the 150Rs ($3.50) room we found. Power outages stopped our fan. Toxins visibly soaked from our head and skin into our sheets.

             The Taj Mahal is utterly magnificent. It just is. (I hate to be proven wrong.)

To step upon its grounds and become sucked into a sea of smartly financed tourists with articulate guides, grungy, sleep deprived backpackers, Indian families on holiday, barefoot hunched Indian men and women covered with sun protecting saris and turbans, small pitter-pattering children and more….was immense. An immense wave of life, history, grandeur and human ambition; surrounded by the cruelty of having not. And thus is India.

The Delhi Vortex: Take Two, Take Three

“Sir…we’re looking for train…”

“Canceled.”

“What?”

“Canceled. Next.”

Three cancelled tickets, due to rioting and protests from local tribal population fighting to gain scheduled caste status and thus, welfare rights along the eastern portion of Rajasthan. Long lines. Unanswered questions. Hopes to be let back into the Indian Social Institute for the night without reservations.

Perhaps, we’ll never get out of Delhi.

A morning race across the city to secure the last seats on the Rajasthani Express straight to Mumbai (close to 32 hours). 2^nd Class AC Sleeper, hello. This time, we’re

taking care of ourselves. No if, ands or butts. We shall succumb and say a prayer for Rajasthan, the rioting, the lives of all involved and for Justice. But we shall also sleep.

How immensely different the India we had come to know and travel alongside—heavily heated, body soaked air, hands grabbing into the windows, while sweat rolls and the world churns— now looked, from inside our thickly sealed 2^nd class AC train

windows. Inside this train we are handed a shiny, clean pillow and sheet, complimentary bottled water, and free newspapers, and also find ourselves quite engaged with a polite, respectful man who is interested in talking politics, life philosophy, and family in a reciprocal way. Interesting how quickly and drastically our vantage point could change…

And then came the Monsoons…

It didn’t matter that our decrepit accommodations were falling apart around us (quite literally) and we had to share a bathroom with the entire floor. It didn’t matter that I lost my rain jacket on the streets and we were without umbrellas during the daily, down-pouring monsoons. It also didn’t matter one bit to me that we had to pass up the possibility of staring in Bollywood film dance scenes because of our short timeline.

By god, we had made it to Mumbai. The last leg of our journey. The cosmopolitan, westernized, liberal, world city that pumps out Bollywood films, Bollywood star gossip and Bollywood style drama and fashion. Its lush greenery, diverse crowds and grand remnants of British rule scooped our weary, heat worn bodies into the palm of its sashaying hand.

Yet, as we sliced through circling traffic, sardine packed crowds and sheets of monsoon; we were certainly still in India.  Our withering Salvation Army was slumped just across the street from the grand Taj Regency hotel, one of the top 5 star hotels in the world, sporting Louis Vuitton, a private pool and a seaside view lounge with prices that made my body hurt. North of the city, the largest slum in the area, covered in blue tarps to pretend to shield the rain, encircled the Mumbai International Airport, nestled side-by-side, their discrepancy unabashed.

In this way, Mumbai swirled up India, it’s bold, beautiful, broken and wildly brave (along with a Chatty-Cathy taxi driver at the wee hours of our last Indian morning, full of Ganesha stories), and bid us a timely farewell.

It’s a concept that I’ve fully believed in for a while now and many times, hear myself going on long monolgues in support of; sometimes a girl needs a get-a-way from her already in progress, indian travel adventure Get-A-Way.  Ain’t it the Truth. 

In this fashion, Bethany and I have been nestled into the warm, nurturing, health concious, educational, Bob Marley playing, cool climated, Dalai Lama/Tibetans in exile peace lovin bosom of the Himalayas, and more specifically, the impressive community of Dharamasala/McCloudganj.

This past week and a 1/2 in the mountains have allowed us to nurse our traveling wounds, actually unpack our dense packs, hang up pictures, explore neighboring villages via foot, become re-trained in Reiki 1 and newly trained in Reiki 2 (Natural Healing, that is), revisit our philosophy towards the fellow “hippie backpacker, better educate ourselves about the Tibetan community in exile and the momentum around the boycott of the upcoming Olympics in Beijing and in general, Take Off Our Coats and Stay Awhile.

In this way, I have certainly found myself reminded of the importance of sitting still a bit, even when there seems still so much to see. Settling into a great wicker chair, perched on a humble little veranda, gazing out at the sun framing the  mountain peaks, whilst nursing a honey, ginger, mint tea (all fresh). For. a. couple. hours. Wandering through bookshops filled with Buddhist philosophy, enjoying an ashtanga yoga class with students from all over the world, chatting with our dreadlocked, dog loving, Belgium neighbor, sipping Japanese Miso soup via candlelight, listening to a rendition of Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” sung at an Open Mic. Enjoying the nighttime chanting drifting from the monestaries.

Dharamasala is certainly a sought after haven. A respite for folks looking for their definition of Respite. Spiritual direction. Enlightenment. People searching, indeed. You name it, the streets are lined with posters advertising courses in it: Yoga Training. Crystal and Chakra Cleansing. Zen Meditation. Thangka Painting. Conversation Partners. Universal Tibetan Massage. Open Jam Nights. Documentaries featuring Tibetan Political Prisoners. New Zealand Hair Artistry (Bethany and I finally got rid of our shabbyshaggs, thank goddess.) Interesting to join in the search, find some answers and still, look on down the road in anticipation and also look on down the calendar, towards those we love at home, plans a’brewin. And here, we find meaning as well.

And thus, after a brief day or two of considerations to spend the entire rest of our trip in this diverse, calm, nuturting bosom, we realized…India was calling again. And we’ve rested up for this call. It might be the Chakra Cleansing of our Reiki courses or the new studly hip belt I bargained for at one of the street shops. Perhaps the yummy Tibetan bread, momos and plethora of herbal teas enjoyed on rooftops. Maybe the visit to the residence of His Holiness the Dalai Lama and our rounds through the prayer wheels of the area Devi temples. Maybe our undying love for India, in all it’s swings. 

In any case, we’ve found our respite and through it’s tempting to want to remain…we’re on the India upswing and our bus down the mountain and back to the uneven, smelly, but fruitful India pavement leaves this evening.

Our last Indian week sees us in 5 cities (Delhi, Agra (hey, hey Taj Mahal), Udaipur, Ahmnebad, and Mumbai), on 1 bus, 6 different train trips and no doubt countless rickshaws and taxis before jetsetting to Paris. No wonder this upcoming week feels more like another month…

And so, thank you Dharamasala/McCloudganj. Thank you HH Dalai Lama (and keep up the good work). Thank you Khana Nirvana brown rice, peanut sauce and fresh herbal teas. Thanks Yugesh for the attunement and Chakra knowledge. Thank you kind Tibetan women who sold me the comforting shawls, sassy earrings and exemplified such strength in community. And Thank you mountains for your Respite, for reminding me of the on-going respite search and for affirming that respite comes from the adventure of what is new and exciting, as well as that which is old, comforting and feels a bit like home.