The Modern Savage

The Modern Savage (written in May)

Chomping on an organic Jonagold apple,
Perched on a wooden post, reeking of sweat,
Dressed in a plastic bag skirt,
And watching the vultures soar over the Pacific,
I am the Modern Savage.

When not even a caffeine boost
And the widest Granny Gear you ever did see
Could help me,
I watched my leather sandals
Do-si-do beneath me as my wheels turned
In smooth revolutions
And I crept up the highway beside civilized motor-mobiles.

At the top, Wild Radish flowers bloom a vibrant yellow
Deeper and richer than the sun
And dance to the music of icy waves
Lashing at jagged rocks.

When I look into them,
It is impossible
Impossible
To feel anything less
Than unconditional love and compassion for every being on this planet.

The bees, too, understand,
And the seagulls
And the tall grass.

We are all savages
On this inconceivably precious land.

Homeless as the Wind

Written in mid-May

It's 4:20 PM in the tiny coastal town of Mendocino and I'm high- so very, very high- on life.

I am seated on a wooden bench overlooking the Pacific on which lovers have carved their forevers together with knives. J + A? B + R?

I left my mark on the bench not by blade, by dropping a few Birthday Brownie crumbs here (although I'll probably sweep them off before I leave; my mother taught me well.)
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The ocean has kept me company all day, sending magic and a cool breeze through my lopsided hair and gloved fingers, and Salsa's slow-spinning wheels as I rode from my new home at Oz Farm in Point Arena (ozfarm.com), to Mendocino for an overnight bike camping trip on my birthday weekend.

I sang out loud (loudly, no less) and swung my sandaled feet off the pedals jubilantly as I coasted down the hills of the sometimes smooth and shouldered, sometimes shockingly narrow and winding Highway 1. Then would come the bottom of the hill, and the subsequent heavy, meditative breathing, the concentration, the quick glances into my helmet mirror, the clicking of my gears, and the steady increase in heart rate for the ascent.
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This weekend's trip is a birthday present from me to me.

I treated myself to exercise and fresh air, to reflective "me time", to the delicious sights and smells of springtime, and a few tasty treats along the way. I even got a new locally-crafted hemp and huckleberry wood necklace from a homeless man in Mendocino who, along with his companions, would barely let me leave lest I miss one of their many long stories.

I shouldn't call them "homeless", really. Most so-called "homeless" people I've met seem to reject the word as offensive, with its connotations of filfth and poverty, and of no place to go.

But the travelers and the houseless and the nomadic people I've met in my own journeys have been anything but poor; they are always rich in character, in stories, in friends, in skills, in creativity, and many are artists and musicians. They find ways to get by without a permanent residency, and often do it with style (one houseless man I met in Arcata built a bicycle-pulled covered wagon living structure, and was running for City Council when I met him).

And filfth? I cannot deny that some travelers have limited access to showers, but I can attest to the clear minds of the majority I have met. They are not all muttering old fools, but people with diverse backgrounds who often take to the streets by choice. Sometimes this is because they are fed up with society, or with an economic system that makes it almost impossible for anyone to be both financially and spiritually wealthy, or they just couldn't deal with a torrential downpour of unfortunate circumstances. I try not to assume anymore. People just are.
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I sometimes feel like a sneaky anthropologist unrightfully winning trust and access to knowledge of an ancient people who are all but invisible to the mainstream culture. I guess I don't have a house or a car or a "real" job either, but when I pull up on a bicycle laden with panniers and sleeping gear, I sure look the part of someone who jumped off the radar screen ages ago.

But still, I feel a little dishonest about where I come from.

I can slip into conversation with the bums on the sidewalk, and then turn around, sit up a little straighter, and chat with a dentist or business owner (although this is becoming more and more unnatural a transition). I've lived both worlds. I've been coddled and doted upon with material things, and tasted olives on a silver spoon. I've been surrounded by people more interested in the stock market than the fate of the natural world, and by those who care more about how their hair and makeup look than how petrochemicals are affecting their local watershed.
Then I renounced an old way of being, took up everything from dumpster-diving to renting a canvas tent in a backyard for 9 months, and declared my independence.

Am I an imposter dressed in thrift store clothes that smell like sweat and biodegradable peppermint soap, or am I an admirable amphibian simply choosing land over water?
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Tomorrow I will bike South, back through fields of cows and elegant wildflowers, back home to Oz Farm, a certified organic CSA and farmers' market production farm where I'll be an apprentice at for the next three months until I return to school in the Fall.

Then it's back to the depressing grind of a failing and restrictive academic system, devoid of all life and value...

(Just kidding. I'll make the grind radical- you'll see.)

Peace.
-Moss

Hard Work and Hard Dirt

(written in March)

I swung the pick-axe a second time, and a third, a fourth.

I tried the pointed tip of the shovel again. Similar results.

I looked around me at the community garden where Common Vision's volunteer crew and a few Long Beach community members were tirelessly working to plant a "fruit tree library" in the middle of the city.

As I glanced around I noticed that some in our work party were pulling slabs of concrete from the holes, others gravel or unidentifiable industrial left-overs. I saw colors and textures in the dirt that no earthworm would choose to live in if given the choice.

I returned my focus back to the hole below me, and the hard black debris I was trying to cut through.

This isn't soil, I thought. This isn't even dirt.

But we pressed on, and at the end of the day left an orchard in our wake.

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Just about everything we do on Fruit Tree Tour is a test of patience and a test of dedication.

Our days are long with our daily morning circle around 8AM, our performances around 10AM, three half-hour to hour-long sessions with groups of school children either planting fruit trees or painting inspirational signs, and landscaping and mulching until as late as 4 in the afternoon. After we return to our basecamp (currently an intentional artist community in LA), we often have chores to complete, choreography to rehearse, props to fix, or personal business to attend to.

Often the volunteers can be found napping wherever they fall, trying to meditate and yoga the muscle cramps away, or participating in long massage trains after a long day in the sun.
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But at the end of the day, tired as I am, I can't really complain. I may be exhausted and say so, but I have no regrets in being part of this endeavor.

Nearly every day for the past 3 weeks I have been part of a beautiful community of 18 remarkable individuals whose talents range from music to art to performance to healing, and all are passionate about helping children reconnect with the Earth.

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Some days are easier than others.

Some days I have more energy than others.

Some children want nothing to do with you, or are so excited to be out of the classroom that they won't sit still or pay attention. Some will prod and tease each other, or bring up topics like guns or drugs. Others just don't want to get their hands in the dirt or participate at all (although I seem to have a knack for converting the ones who don't like dirt).

And then there are the kids whose light shines so bright you can almost see it, feel it. They talk about the Earth as if they really do care about what happens to species other than their own, and about pollution and waste. They care about growing their own food, about having clean air to play in and about using fewer resources.

And when I meet those kids, no matter how tired I was before, it doesn't matter.
I could stay there all day, talking about what I know and feel, and asking them what they know and they feel. Because really, nobody wants to feel inferior; everyone wants to shine.

I sometimes feel very sorry for the kids we meet, because I see that they are held in a system that herds and numbers them like cattle and teaches them to obey, conform and live within a short range of what is acceptable. I don't have enough time with any of my groups to convey all the messages I wish I could. I want to tell them they can do anything they want to, that they don't have to be afraid, that they don't have to settle for the bare minimum. I want to tell them they can find all the answers in Nature and in themselves and in their elders. I want to tell them anything, anything is possible.

But there isn't enough time. All I can be is an example, and use the time as best as I can.

And I can wait for the sparks, and add a handful of dry leaves.

Peace.

Child of the Earth

Written on the bus leaving Chico for the meeting place of Common Vision's 8th annual Fruit Tree Tour (commonvision.org)

I am a child of the Earth.
I skip lightly, swiftly
Through her dazzling pastures
In vivid greens and sparkling
Dewdrops.

I play with the insects
That hop and buzz and shine
And frolic with me
As I hop and buzz and shine
In the long, tall grass.

I spread my arms
And look to the sky
To see a flock of geese
Do the same.
The breeze catches my hair
And I know we fly
Together.

The blue-gray hills in the distance
Beckon.
I know when I am being called
To move.
And I must.

It is only right
Just, fair
To move when called
When you have received so much
Love,
Abundance,
Warmth,
That it fills you to the brim
And then some.

My cup is full.
Overflowing
With goodness.
The yellow flowers,
The birds, the trees,
The hills
Shout loud and clear:

Be heard!
Do it now!

And I will.
I must.

I am a child,
And a caretaker
Of the Earth.

Childhood Dream Realized: Chapter One Begins

When I was five years old, I vividly remember the day my kindergarten teacher asked us to write down what we wanted to do when we grew up.

I never forgot my answer-- that I wanted to write and illustrate books-- but it never made as much sense in the past 21 years I've been in this body than it did a couple months ago when I decided what I want to do with my life.
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In September I met someone on my bike tour who had been to Guatemala and recommended I visit the site of the NGO Long Way Home's project of building a school out of tires, bottles, cob and trash (longwayhomeinc.org).

Long Way Home's name rested quietly in the back of my mind for my first 2 months of my stay in Guatemala while I worked at Maya Pedal, but I didn't schedule a visit until less than a week before my flight back to California.

Finally, on my way back from an adventure-filled week and a half around San Pedro La Laguna during which my good friend Meagan and I visited a couple of women's natural dye and weaving cooperatives, a commune, an amazing permaculture farm (www.permacultura.org/guatemala.html), and volunteered with the project Paint My Future (paintmyfuture.org) which teaches art classes for kids and helps support poor families, I made it to the tire school in Comalapa.
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The organization's vision for the school, their passion for the cause, and the construction as it now stands are all impressive and beautiful.

But the high I got from the place wasn't so much due to the things they are doing there (lately I've surrounded myself with equally incredible people and visions, and have raised my standards for normal existence), but because of a conversation I had with the director, Matt.

During this conversation, I learned that Long Way Home is looking for an artist to write and illustrate books for the children that will attend its school on topics like green construction, waste and recycling, and inspirational revolutionaries.
Also during this conversation, I realized that part of my purpose in life is to create conscious children's books for organizations like this one.
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A blur of words, wisdom and warnings about intentions, following through, hard work, regrets, what I should expect if I happen to be that person they are looking for to make a book series and live awhile in Comalapa, and the lifestyle and dedication of the ninja-jedi warrior followed, and not long later I was sitting alone in a corn field and asking for answers.
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I watched the dry, brittle leaves of the corn stalks flutter in the breeze, felt the crumbling crust of the Earth I sat upon, and waited for a response.
A corn leaf broke off its stalk and floated for a moment in the air, spiraling in the direction of the tire buildings behind me.

I thought about my uncertain future and the challenges that may come from deciding to be my own boss and making a career from scratch.

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I can see a slide show in my head of directions my path may lead me, the places I might go, people I might meet. What if Long Way Home provides my first real job? What if after my work with them is done, I write books in Nepal for Nepalese children? Then Ghana? Then China?

What if it works out that I am able to do something that meets my needs while helping to enlighten and direct some of the world's future leaders?

I've known for as long as I can recall that I need art in my life. For the last few years it's been clear that I also won't be happy unless I am using my gifts to create positive change.

This is where I've landed.

This is where my values, my passions, and my gifts meet, and where the kind of person I want to be, and the kind of person I could be, align.
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I recently finished a first draft of my first book (about an 8-year-old Guatemalan girl's discovery of where tires come from, where they go, and what she can do with her new found knowledge) and am in communication with the organization to see what can become of our visions for a series.

But if this isn't my "big break" , so be it. There are more amazing projects out there than I can count, more opportunities than I can imagine, and the world just keeps getting smaller.

I've got the tools, I have the vision.

Now I put my intentions into the universe, and watch the rest of my journey unfold magnificently.

On Fuego

I squinted through the hair whipping my face and the dust blowing in my eyes and watched my companions as they disappeared from view in a swirl of high-elevation debris. This was the last, steep, barren stretch of the path to the peak of the active volcano Volcan Fuego in Southern Guatemala, and I couldn't go any further.

As I sat clutching the sand and loose gravel so as not to lose my balance on the incline, I took a moment to view my expansive peripheral. I looked up at Fuego, often puffing small clouds of volcanic smoke, and down at the path I had traveled to get there. I tried to see where we had come from when the three of us--Bruce, Will and I-- got off the chicken bus at 7:30 the night before, and hiked through the night with headlamps and backpacks. I looked East and West and everywhere in between, scanning with my eyes the mountains and distant cities below that had twinkled brightly like broken glow sticks the night before.

I thought about the 10 hours of hiking we had already done, through rough sandy banks and slippery mud, the hiking stick I relied on to lift my body, and the branches and roots I gratefully grasped to keep my worn-down sneakers from sliding me backwards. I thought about the deep emotional journey of such a demanding trek, and whether my body would hold up during the rest of it, despite the physical strain and lack of rest.

I thought about the last leg of trip to the main destination point where we cooked tostadas on a found machete on a camp fire while we watched the sunrise. I thought about the exhaustion that had accompanied this last slope, and how I would collapse after five steps, get up, and do it all over again. I thought about how much I wanted to just get there, and to sleep, and then realize that the only person who could carry me to the top was myself.

And still, I sat on that windy, isolated gravel mountainside, already having completed "the hike" to Fuego, and felt weak for not being able to make it to the absolute highest point possible. Why can't I take just a few more steps, and a few more after that? Why can't I just muster up a little more energy, and prove I am as strong as the men I am traveling with? Why can't I...?

I took a deep breath and tried to remember what my college yoga professor had taught me. I tried to feel grounded. And then I had a thought:

This mentality-- that in which the Earth is an object to be conquered, that mountains can be bought and sold, that nature can and should be enslaved to make WE the humans more powerful-- is the one that my ancestors used to justify their treatment of the environment, and which humans today continue to believe.
It isn't my job to conquer this mountain, to prove my own strength, to prove anything. It is my job to appreciate, protect and nurture that which is dear to me.

I breathed again and felt my tiny body on this magnificent natural wonder, and smiled.
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It would still be another 5 hours of solid hiking, many rest breaks and swigs of water, and a couple of near-breakdowns before we re-entered the "civilized" world.
But for the time-being, I could let go of my worries.

The Earth is my home; feeling grounded is just a mindful moment away.

Peace.

Reflections from a Chicken Bus

Note: the following was written ages ago a week or two before I left Guatemala.

Sometimes I think I'm going to die on a chicken bus.

Because these ancient, elaborately-painted American school buses are private, for-profit businesses, their "ayudantes" are extremely motivated to get 'there' as quickly as possible with as many people (or chickens, or geese, or loud and passionate preaching pastors, or men selling bottles of pills...) as can be squished into the bus.

There is nothing quite like speeding around the sharp curves of winding mountain highways and being slammed against the window or into your plump Mayan seatmates for reflecting on a journey.

It took me far longer than I expected to adapt to life in Guatemala, but as my return flight draws closer, I find the thought of leaving bittersweet.

I love it here, right down to death-defying bus rides and the roosters that crow at 3AM.

Sometime during the 2 months that I have spent in Guatemala, San Andres Itzapa became "home".

And because it is home, I have learned to take it for what it is: an average, imperfect, and intriguing Guatemalan pueblo.

I enjoy (or at least tolerate) things here that I wouldn't normally be so fond of, solely because I have an unconditional love for this country.

Because I love Itzapa, even the litter (at home in the States I was once an avid practitioner of the Zero Waste lifestyle)doesn't bother me much; I now barely notice the creeks and fields strewn with empty chip and candy wrappers, and when I do think about them, it is no longer with so much judgment. I look at this, and most every situation, as a fact of life, and part of a larger and longer story consequent of Guatemala's industrialization.

I sometimes give tours to new Maya Pedal volunteers interested in seeing one of the most prominent local garbage-dumping points- a once-beautiful ravine splitting the city. When I look out over the bridge and watch the vultures watching me from eye-level branches, I wonder what will become of this waste and this place.

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I love the donkeys packed with firewood coming down the street from the farmland and rural towns above.

I love the long, slow "buenas taaaardes," and the slap-slip-slap of of chapin women making fresh corn tortillas.

I love sleeping on the roof at Maya Pedal, and wrapping myself in layers and blankets, burrito-style , to keep the cold and sounds of late-night explosives at bay. I love getting up in the morning and peering out through the wall of bike rims to watch Itzapa start its day, a blanket of smoky wood-fire-stove haze atop the concrete.

I love shopping at the market, and ducking under the low-hung ropes and sheets that keep the vendors out of the sun while they sell their goods, and makes a game of limbo for my nearly 6' tall self.

I love seeing what ever-changing and always-odd assortment of items will grace the surface of a booth's blanket: firecrackers? a sculpture of the baby Jesus? huge blocks of chalk? grannie panties?, or finding the perfect pineapple, a good deal on papaya, or the last dozen mini-bananas.

I love the sound of my name ("Mee-shell! Que estas haciendo, Mee-shell!")coming from the neighbor's roof, or from a small voice in a doorway, or from waist-height walking past me on the cobbled street. I love getting hugs from little chicas who want to know when we're going to play art school with my crayons next, or if I can spin them around like a helicopter. "Dame vueltas!" they squeal.

I love the bike shop, and I love Maya Pedal.

I love how terrified and proud I feel with the power tools, the most nerve-wracking being the hand-grinder with the spinning blade and and subsequent cascade of hot sparks shooting half-way across the shop. I love the grease that accumulates on my hands, which makes its way to my work apron, my pants, my face, my food... and the occasional battle scars I acquire from doing the wrong thing with the wrong tool. And I love the satisfaction of finally, finally, figuring out how to true a wheel, or overhaul a headset, or weld a piece of bicimaquina.

There are more things I love about Itzapa and Guatemala than can be listed, just as can be said of anywhere one calls 'home'.

In Spanish, there are two verbs that mean 'to know': one is 'saber' (yo se= I know) for knowledge of information, and the other is 'conocer' (yo conozco= I know)for knowledge of people or places.

In American English, we generally say things like "Oh, I've been there before," or "I like that place" because Americans commonly live in or travel to many cities in their lifetimes. In Guatemala, the phrasing translates to "I know that town".

It makes sense to me that the word that means 'to know a place' in Latin America is the same as 'to know a person' because the sense of familiarity is so strong.

In fact, it seems the only time anyone ever leaves the town they grew up in is for work (rare though even that is)as family is extremely important culturally and logistically (families are large so that aging members are well looked after, and so that farmland can be cultivated), and children seldom stray far from their parents as they do in the States.

Just as I have learned not to hold so much judgement of people, I have come to see places in a similar way.

The wonderful (and heart-wrenching) thing about living abroad in one place for an extending time period, is that you are able to get to know that place and people. And even though I'll miss it here, I am so glad that I "conozco" at least a small part of this beautiful- albeit troubled- country.

It just makes it extremely difficult to leave.