But for now I moonwalk,
My soul held by a heartstring tied.
Pale blue water,
And none but a crisp wind as guide.

A crunch on dirt path,
Twinkle from the silver stones,
Stars and memories awaken,
Never truly walking lone.

The tattered leaves speak volumes,
Seasons passing as the tyde,
The evenlight a quiet blessing,
For nowhere need I turn and hide.

There are no lonely shadows,
My soul held by a heartstring tied.
Stars and memories awaken,
For nowhere need I turn and hide.

So for now,
I moonwalk.

So, I will be coming back to the US in a few months and I’ve caught a few interesting job prospects. My group is going to Jerusalem tomorrow and I wanted to get some resumes sent out, so I’ve been working all day, a good 8 hours of computer time after an 8 hour work day and well, I did a darn good job on my resume. I got everything all updated, saved, and ready… and then…

After I saved, I closed the file, made a copy and reopened it. All… was gone.

Oh yes, apparently my writer software lost the entire job even though I saved. Even with my tech savvy, there was nothing I could do.

It’s 12:30am, I need to be up at 6am, I still need to pack and have a shower. But, I laugh, somehow, I can laugh at this. I really want to cry too, really badly, but it’s just too funny. In the scheme of things, it’s not that big. I can redo the formatting and the cleaver writing relatively easily because I’ve done it once… it’s just a bit of a shame.

But, I suppose I’ve grown, I’m going to bed now but felt that I needed to share, to get it on paper so that something comes of it all. At least I got to make a nice reflection on all that I’ve done in my “professional” life and maybe the fates were telling me this was not the time to be applying to these things – or maybe, it’s a test of whether I want it badly enough to push even more. For now though, I know the limits.

To pack, to shower, to Jerusalem!

In summer camp for a short time at the age of 16 my companions called me Bilbo and for the past two months I have been living up that name. I now live in a mud dome in the middle of the desert. We grow a portion of our own food, learn how to make everything ourselves, and how to live comfortably, sustainably, and efficiently. It’s a program called the Green Apprenticeship (GA) and is a 5-month intensive in the practices of Permaculture, sustainable living techniques, and community building. Once again, I’m on a kibbutz just 2 kilometers (yes, the metric system!) from where I lived last, but while my last experience was an academic institution and in the books, this time I’m knee deep in mud half the day and showering in a solar heated greywater system (take a look at the eco-neighborhood!).

It’s the real deal, the doing it, not just looking at the pretty pictures. It’s an opportunity to practice and learn about what it means and what it takes to actually live in and build a community, one that seeks to live on the wisdom of the ages and not on the over-stretched fat of the Earth. With that comes lessons about compromise, about understanding that it cannot be done all at once but most certainly it can be done a little bit everyday, and a little bit better on the following day, and maybe to our vision of a happy life where we give more than we take on the next.

Following is a picture of some of what I’ve been up to in the Desert Shire (I’ve been listening to Tolkien audio books and they make me happy). At the end of the recounting, indeed because it only happened yesterday, is the retelling of a nigh Misty Mountain adventure where the Shire was saved by the Hobbits in the wee hours on the eve of our redemption! (Oh boy, I hope the story is as good as that trailer ).

*Mooooooooooooooooooooo! and Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm yummy!* ———————————————————————————————————————– So, I milked cows. I used suction pumps and attached them to the udders of big, milk filled dairy factories. I used a fire hose to clean up after the filth left behind. And really, it wasn’t so bad, nor were to the animal terribly mistreated… but when it comes down to it, the job wasn’t for me. Each week as part of the GA we take part in one of the kibbutz community work branches which unfortunately are more traditional and industrial (my program is part of the mission and aim and we’re doing our best to live it, but the rest of the kibbutz, though they try, are not there yet). For a time, I worked in the cow refit (place where cows or kept in such operations). The job was smelly and tiring and I have a good bit of respect for the people who get up at 4am to run around on their feet for 4 to 5 hours straight so that Israel can drink a cheap gallon; they work hard.

The the short time I was there though I learned a great lesson Initially the job was difficult and putting the machine on the sometimes agitated cows took some practice, but then after I got pissed at one animal for knocking the suckers off repeatedly the hesitation left me and I hit my Zen. Everything flowed more easily and I took well to the job. Sometimes, if you’re going to do something, you have to ‘just do it’; sometimes you have to turn off the hesitation, sometimes doing these things is easier said than done. The cows were the last straw in my learning this lesson, in turning off all of the ‘shit’ around you and doing something because you decided you would do it. For some this is easy, natural, for me it’s been hard. I was good at doing math in my head as a kid, that makes it hard to not try and calculate everything as an adult. Well, now, sometimes, when I need to though it still needs work, I can turn off the calculator and just hit the peddle on the engine.

Buuuuuuuut, indeed, it was not the right fit for me. At first I was in the cheese house making, yes, cheese (and yogurt) from the goats milk also produced here, then the cows, then I was put in the date fields, another interesting experience, and recently I have been working in the kitchen. Well, indeed, that is the place for me. It’s a job everyone seems to hate but I love, and I think I know why. It’s an OCD job for someone with ADD. It’s generally a series of short lived, menial tasks that require efficiency, speed, and a quick shift to the next task. It’s social and practical at the same time and of course, for a good bit of it you’re either working with food or making people happy by giving them food. I like this very much . Lifting things, setting things out, cleaning up, and serving all come naturally to me and I like the hustle with the big ‘ahhhhh’ at the end. It’s likely that such work is in my karma, I don’t mind at all. If when I have my bakery / coffee / poetry house one of you comes in and reminds me of this e-mail you can have a Fairtrade coffee and chocolate granola muffin on the house (mud house of course)!

Story PS – I entered a baking contest during Purim and made a lovely cheesecake which people enjoyed very much

*The Sustainable Hobbit* —————————————–

But of course there is more than the work in the dates / kitchen / milking, that’s only a small part of what I’m doing here. The main focus is Permaculture http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Permaculture, gardening, building structures with mud, and building communities. Well, what does that mean? Permaculture is a brilliant system that was developed about 35 years ago in Australia (of all places) that aims to look at the wisdom of the ages and the expertise of ecology to develop sustainable food production and living systems. The aim is efficiency, for example making the place you work and play the most near the places that you live (no 2 hour commutes to work!), using companion planting to keep pests away and enrich the soils from year to year, and learning how to “make things pay” by making sure that each element of your system serves multiple functions.

Wow, lots of words. The simple of it is humble observation and smart action to create a sustainable life – it’s a way of thought and mind and action. That’s the area of it that I’m most interested in as well, the way to take all of my interests (which I have been told are sometimes too all over the place) and combine and connect them most efficiently. So, of course, to do so I’m here getting more skills and interests to throw into the bag!

Oh boy, well, it’s not so bad. I’m also using the GA as an internship towards my graduate degree in environmental education, learning these great skills, slaking my “wanderlust”, learning about Israel and Judaism (and a little Hebrew!), and meeting some interesting people. That’s the essence of Permaculture right there – just sitting here in our little GA library surrounded by the finest collection of “green” knowledge that I’ve ever seen I’m killing about 10 birds with a single mud brick (darn destructive metaphors, see where our culture is heading!).

In addition we’re taking classes on green design, social justice, and the Gaia Education Curriculumfor sustainable community design. This is the most robust education curriculum that I’ve ever seen towards building a sustainable world. I think the major lesson in it (and in Permaculture) is this: To build a sustainable future for humanity it’s not necessary to give up our lives as we know them, but to reassess what wealth is, and what is truly valuable.

Here’s a look at a basic day during the week (non-date fields day): * Wake at 6:45am * visit the composting facilities and as the founder of Permaculture says “make a deposit” on future plant growth * have a juice in our communal mud-made field kitchen and maybe put something into the solar oven for the afternoon * go to “morning circle” for some stretching, dancing, and “tuning in” to the day with my group * go to the kibbutz dining hall for breakfast (which for me is usually eggs and salad and a stupid amount of tachina, or yogurt / cottage, or if I’m feeling happy, both) * then it’s off to practical work in the garden, or building with mud, a lesson is usually put in there as well * then perhaps there’s a class about green building, Permaculture, or community design, working on our design projects * lunch! * Then usually another class as above * from there it’s already about 4 or 5pm and we’re beat, go have a fruit and do our own “projects” like yoga or internet or shower or walk or sleep or make pickles for me, maybe eat what was in the solar oven from earlier on * somewhere before 7:30 it’s dinner or preparing for potluck in our bustan (neighborhood) when there’s no dinning hall dinner * on many evenings there’s eco-cinema or a personal presentation that each of us will be doing (one a week) until we’re done * some nights there’s a fire in the giant geodesic chilling area in our community, or me sleeping early, or reading, or munching, or doing something random like looking at the stars or having tea with my kibbutz family or wasting time in some Hobbit like way

Indeed there’s some variation there, but you get the idea. Overall, there’s plenty of work, tea time, business, and chilling in my mud dome. I think my favorite time is at about 5pm, when the desert air is settling along with my energy and the air gets cooler. I’m usually practicing Tai Chi in the main area around the center of the kibbutz between the dining hall and the community center… there’s good energy there. It’s these moments, after a lot of mental and physical running about all day, that I appreciate most where I am and what I’m doing… the desert, the mountains, the path. This time of day no matter where I am in the world seems to be where I find myself – a lone introspection and reflection with forward looking joy at the evening and repose at recounting the accomplishments of the day. The stillness and the shift from active to passive, from yang to yin is where I like to live. It only lasts a few moments, but as I’m learning, it’s this moment and what we do with it that truly matters most.

* There and back again… but the battle rises on the return…* —————————————————————————————-

My Mom is in Israel! On the cusp of the Passover break, the equivalent of Christmas break in Israel my Mom came here on a tour and to visit me. Well, I went up to see her in Jerusalem. It honestly made me very nervous. I had not seen her in 8 months and I had no clue what would come of our reunion… well, after a nice bus ride, a hike through the city to the King David Hotel (with a stop for wheatgrass and etrog juice first!) I arrived. My greeting was a powerful, teary hug filled with the might of Samson. I was told I gained a lil’ weight and “filled out”, looked healthy and great, was given a gift of chocolate matzos (my passover favorite) and some sneakers, and after about 20 minutes it was just… Lee and Mom. It’s amazing how months and many miles ultimately changes very little in the closest of relationships (although for me, inside, as an individual, everything is different).

And ohhh, did coming to this 5-star hotel feel like an escape to Rivendale (not Riverdale, but the Elven, not eleven, but Elf stronghold from Tolkien’s world). Forget not, I’d been eating the same salad every day for many months with little respite and laboring in the hot sun only to come to a High Temple of global consumption with a rich Lordess as a benefactor (one who loves me very much) to entreat me. Food and wine overflowed to a higher level than I have seen many times before (and trust me if you’ve read anything I’ve ever sent before you know I’ve seen my share). It was a good change of pace and I spent my time mulling (not wine, but thoughts unfortunately) about what I’m doing and my place in all things. I exercised a bit in the nice hotel facilities, walked around a bit, read, ate, talked with my Mom a good bit and had some very interesting conversations.

A highlight of my minimal sight seeing was to the spire tower (just one tower, not The Two but very cool none-the-less) of the International Jerusalem YMCA and the amazing Muslim art exhibit there. It was a series of “drawings” rather, word art mandalas with Qur’anic, Arabic text weaved into the work. Arabic script can having a living quality to it and these images brought them from living to mind-piercingly beautiful. The translation of the texts were below each were touching especially one which I will do my best to here recount. It’s a little bit awful, but the lesson and point is amazing:

*A young man is told by a wicked man that if he presents him with his mother’s heart then he will give him a great treasure. So the young man sharpens his knife, goes to his mother and cuts out her heart. On the way to present the wicked man with the heart, he drops it and the heart rolls in the dirt. At that, seeing his own wickedness, he in shame and disgust takes out his knife and and aims to kill himself. Just before the blow, he hears his mother’s heart talking to him: “My son, you have already cut out my heart once, why would you do so a second time?”*

Wow. Sure, we don’t usually kill our parents and loved ones literally (though sometimes we think we’d like to), but how often are we cruel to them? How often are we cruel to ourselves? How often to we realize that this self-cruelty is an equal cruelty to those that love us so?

After my time in the 5-star Rivendale came to a close and while my Mom, whom I had a nice time with, went to fly down south to meet me on my Kibbutz for the holidays, I took the bus back (and as I told her I would) beat her there by a few hours. This was on Erev-Pesach (the evening before Passover), and as the Hobbits were far from done in their adventures at the end of the Ring trilogy, the battle was yet to be met on my Return.

*Fire and Water: A Pesach Tale is Told (and Relived!)* —————————————————————————————-

*A Pillar of Fire to Guide Them…*

It always sees to amaze me, as a get off of the bus returning to the Arava Valley in the Southern deserts of Israel there’s a stillness, a settling in the air as I step off of the bus. After I grab my back from the undercarriage and the bus pulls off I’m left staring at the brown, red, golden expanse of the sands. My whole body settles as though every cell had been on edge without my noticing and then suddenly sat in rest. My vision seems to brighten and my ears sharpen, my breath becomes calmer and deeper. It’s like coming home, but not home in a place, home in the heart – to a state of being that I belong in.

Walking the kilometer from the road to the kibbutz I see a family of Ibex, small, golden, 4-legged, herbivores. A few males with splendidly large and curving horns and a female nursing a foal. It was an invitation to the desert. When the creatures are there (or I’m able to see them) I know that the connection is there, the divide between me and ‘the spirit’ is very small and I can absorb the sun and the sand, the dry air and the Gaia energy fully. That one kilometer took me about 45 minutes between stopping at the remains of the stone fort that I discovered, lying in the sun with an apple, and watching the ibex some more, just taking in the quiet and solitude and my luck before returning through the gates of Kibbutz Lotan.

On the way my Mom called and said her flight was just taking off (yes, I beat her by that much) and that she’d call me when she got in. The mud dome, Bustan neighborhood was nearly empty with people traveling over the holidays and I took a few minutes to clean my dome and rest. I hand not eaten much that day and was going to the field kitchen to eat something at about 3:30pm with one friend that was still here when over to my right I saw billowing black smoke in the distance. I was confused, my friend was confused, but in our hearts though we tried to find a reason knew that something was wrong. We ran to the scene.

There indeed was a massive fire. The children’s after-school building was burning in a 30-foot high pillar of smoke and flames. The kibbutz members were on it, running to and about with fire hoses and tending the area. We were scared for people’s lives, but with the grace of all things, the children had left only 30-minutes before the blaze began. There were 3 other fires around the kibbutz that day from moments earlier and a lot of confusion and questions being asked. As it seems it was a freak weather condition that caused it. The day was very, very hot and the dried date palm fronds used as roofing in some areas combusted. The odd thing is that they have been using this material for many years in this region without trouble and this was far from the hottest and driest part of the year. So why now? Was if foul play or a freak accident? I lean toward the latter, some odd, odd weather pattern that created just the right conditions but who knows, and ominous the day before the holidays.

I offered my help, as I’d had wildland firefighting training in the past, but it was under control in all areas. As it turns out when I walked back down the road, I saw my Mom standing in the car lot waiting around with her bags and looking a bit perplexed at all of the confusion. I told her what had happened and as we later found out, her tardiness was serendipitous. One of the areas where there was a fire was in tourism, some trees near some of the rooms caught flame and in the dousing out process some of the rooms were made “unavailable”. Well, as it turns out, her room was to have been one of those rooms, which she likely would have been in at the time had she been on time. So, I suppose, as my teacher says, maybe “there are no coincidences”. Tourism found her another room, I showed her around, and from there all was well, lots of talk and confusion, but all’s well… so I thought.

*Water and Haste in the Night…*

My last night at the King David Hotel was disturbed by poor sleep and poor dreams. I got little more than 3-hours and didn’t sleep at all on the bus, yet through the day I felt well. With the excitement of the fire you might think I went to bed early but some evening juice and sweets saw to it that I did not. It was about 11:30pm that I stretched out under the covers, ready to listen to music and get some rest when from outside I heard a faint commotion.

“What should we do… I don’t know… go… someone…”

I pulled myself out of bed, tossed on some clothes and went to check calling out, “Is everything OK?” A firm “Noooo!” Was the answer and I soon saw why. There was a stream of water making its way down the center of the Bustan. I ran over to see what was going on and found that the road behind the neighborhood and between us and the goats area was flooding over. I went to see the source and as it was, a major water main had burst shooting out high pressure water at an alarming rate. I had my phone on me and called one of our supervisors, Mike, who had just spend half the day running about taking care of fires. In his characteristic way he was calm, but the tiredness was clear in his voice. I described the situation and he quickly realized that this was more than a minor leak. He said he’d send somebody over and be over himself shortly.

Just near the water main and behind the Bustan is an area with bathtubs of clay, a big sand pile, straw and a small industrial cement mixer. It’s these supplies that we use to mix large batches of mud for building projects. It gave me an idea. Before hanging up with Mike I asked, “Mike, should we take the sand and start building a dam to divert the water from the neighborhood?”

“That’s a good idea,” was his reply. I hung up, ran and changed into work clothes, and we got to it. The group of GA’s and eco-volunteers fell into place like we had done it before, maybe somewhere in our genetic memory from long ago. Some filled buckets with sand, others carried them to the wall, we communicated and identified areas of greatest need. Shortly, Mike arrived and without words, became the de-facto architect. Our efforts were augmented by the spare tires all around the mud making area. These are usually used as the “good shoes” base and understructure of many of the mud building projects, but were now appropriated for saving the Bustan.

And we were to learn that our efforts were doing just that. These mud domes are hardy indeed, and while they can be designed for high moisture areas, these were not. We’re in the desert after all and the rains are not heavy enough to cause great concern. Had the water logged into the foundations of the domes, which are concrete sitting on sand, it could have caused major problems.

I gave up on staying clean early in the process, getting at least knee high in muddy, sandy mush as I ran about with buckets and tires trying to shore up holes in the wall. Faces were, might I say, grizzled with determination to get the job done and done right. Sweat was dripping, sand flying, but the ant army that we were pushed on with a joyous fortitude. It was amazing to see, the leadership, the role sharing, the communication, the giving as some went to fetch water for the thirsty, the power of a shared goal, urgency, and exertion. These buckets were heavy, there were many to carry, it was late, but, and I know this is true for me, I had a big smile on the inside just about the whole time.

It was not until 2am that we gathered in the field kitchen for hardy gulps of water, midnight snacks, and a final settling of energy. We were joyous and excited. The water finally was turned off about an hour after we finished and much it had been diverted away from the neighborhood.

The irony was not lost on us, the Biblical irony. Here was a group, mostly Jewish, toiling into the night to build walls without straw on the eve of Passover, the holiday of redemption from suffering in Egypt where Pharaoh forced the Hebrews to do almost the same. When it is said that you must retell the story as part of your Jewish duty this is not likely what was in mind.

Pillars of fire, torrents of the elements, labor with sand and mud, there were even a lot of mosquitoes (plagues?), and I am a first born male… but I suppose, as I am alive to make the recounting, the angles “passed over” me that night.

The Shire, was saved.

——————

As you can see, I’ve been up to a lot. My Seder was… interesting. I missed my Aunt’s event in NY very much but it was great to have my Mom here with me. I’ve been teaching Tai Chi on the kibbutz and she was able to join me which is a great, great blessing. Today I will see her off to the airplane in Eilat and soon continue my learning here for three more months, finishing my grad degree, and hopefully enjoying myself a bit.

Thanks for reading, Until next time, May you find joy in each of your own Shire! -Lee

PS – Happy Earth Day! Go save something, go hug something, smell a flower!

What if, not a single moment in your life had you done before? What if this were the first time you ever sat down to read something? Right now! But magically, your brain knew what to do with the words like a baby knows how to grab a finger placed gently into its palm. What would you do? How would you feel?

It’s a game yes, but it’s also a lesson, it’s something different and a wake of coffee sprinkled with flowers and smelling salts to bootstrap one back to the ‘now’ of life. it’s the moment, the quintessential Buddhist “just this”. Every breath is the first, every experience is new. There are no bellies to hang over your pants, no ‘To Do’ lists, no limitations that you cannot unfetter.

And why not? Why not ask yourself: “What if this were my first time eating an ice cream?” How about taking a look at a telephone? What a weird looking object? Do you remember the first time when you were little, playing with this unusual toy and hitting buttons just to hear the sounds and feel the texture of the buttons roll around on your finger? Did you ever notice the oils from you skin, the prints from your hand mark the plastic on the sides of this unusual jumble of wires?

Maybe not, but you get the idea. How about putting on an earring for the first time? Going to the bathroom, the kitchen, walking into your house! Try it, the next time you open the door to your home, just before, say to yourself: “This is the first time I’m walking into my house.” See how you feel, look carefully at the first thing that comes to your eye. Then, walk in, look around like a little child, or a cat in a new place. Take a sniff of the fake plastic flowers on the vase, pick up that pencil left curiously in the middle of the clean table, notice the thin veil of afternoon dust hanging on the air as the sun enters the room at just the right angle.

It’s there, it’s all there. The joy, the little smile at the corners of your mouth. That’s you, that’s the you that’s been forgotten. And it’s OK, you were never really gone, just a little bit asleep. All things that are important will get done. Wash the dishes for the first time. Take out the garbage for the first time, call the doctor’s office for the first time, then go read your favorite book for the first time while eating an Oreo for the first time in the first glass of milk that you ever dunked a cookie into.

And if you forget to ask yourself these questions, if you forget to notice; it’s OK. Just say, “Well, what if this were the first time I remembered that I can always come back to right now?” That would be a joy, wouldn’t it?

I have been walking, these past two days as a different man. Each step is slow and unmeasured, balance is just a toy to play with, and the inner voice, the thinker, is not doing much but taking a moment to go blank. I have been practicing, meditation, movement arts, walking, breathing, eating, reading, listening. It’s a fullness I have not felt in some time, but the ethereal nature of the days has held a coolness as well, matched by the desert air at night. When the sun goes down, or just before, my being awakens. The day is not for me of late, too much activity, too much rising – I need to settle, and I’m giving myself that space, for a rare time I’m listening to only the inner heart space and what it needs… at least so I’m trying.

It’s a back to basics feeling, back to the questions and curiosity of the grandest of questions that I’ve always asked: What is that feeling? How can I go deeper? What’s holding me back?

Every moment is an experiment in awareness: The bark smelled so good today, the cold tiles outside the dinning hall so smooth, the wind drawing the suffering out of me as dust from a room as the window flies open. It’s all right now, it’s all right here… but indeed, it is a bit lonesome. The fire in me is stoked at the thought of that deeper touch, that deeper need, but I need this time, this silence, this healing, so I remind myself.

This evening I walking, jumped about, explored in this way and found myself at one of my ‘nodes’ of earthly energy in this place, by a tree in a spotlit section of the kibbutz, nested in an open space between some houses. Touching the trees I felt the communication to the land, the connection with being, the ecological science of my inherent connection to life. Coursing from the ground through my feet it was as drinking through a blocked straw that was working itself open with the strength of my lungs; a nourishment from nature, directly. I have felt this before, it is not new, but it has been, too, too long and here it was – such a beauty found in the grass and stillness of life all around.

But still… something was missing, a quality of my own action and fire, my place in the cycle, my Right Livelihood. How might I give to the cycle? In walking about, surrounded by this cool, breezy love in the lamp-lit night I, about to leave, looked up. There was a blue, swaying plastic bag high up in the fringe branches of the tree that I loved so. It was too high to reach or climb to, no stick was tall enough to untangle it, no object to be thrown to dislodge. The tree that could offer me so much and I could not stop the plastic bag from obscuring its fingers in the sky – but I really, really wanted to. But I suppose it makes sense…

I just finished a term studying the environment, and how we might relate better to it, protect it; I’m about to spend 5 months in a hands on apprenticeship learning about sustainable human relationships with the environment, the world, and each other; it’s about connection, stewardship, inner fire. Thank you friend tree, thank you Arava Institute, thank you desert for teaching me, reminding me, what I’m here to do: Fuse the inner and outer worlds, bring the heart to the surface, love, relax, grow, teach, move, burn that deep inner burn, and as one teacher always tells me, smile.

Yet, not all things are the same as they were centuries ago. There are now date farms and powerlines, roads, and cities only a few hours away. The clash between fragile, valuable resources and human expansion is stark in this land and that’s what I came to Israel to learn about. Right now I am living with a kibbutz community set in this picturesque landscape studying at the Arava Institute for Environmental Studies (AIES). There I’m taking a term to learn from some of the leading researchers in the world working toward a more sustainable future by addressing issues of water scarcity, conservation, and cross-boarder environmental management.

The magic of the program though goes beyond the location and the topic. The students at AIES this term come from Israeli, Jordan, the Palestinian Territories, South Africa, Brazil and North America. All of us, getting beyond language barriers, cultural differences, and preconceived notions come together to work on our shared vision for a more secure and environmentally sustainable world. We take workshops on peacebuilding, go on hikes together, visit eco-villages with mud buildings, share our languages, and help each other in building a community of trust and understanding. It’s a process, but we’re getting there.

Everyday I’m changing. It may be the communal living on kibbutz, the air, the people, the spirit of the land itself; I’m not certain. The universe conspired to give me a gift and brought me to the place of my ancestors, to engage my passions, and to prepare for the challenges of the future. If I’ve learned anything so far in Israel it’s that peace is something worth striving for, and it is indeed possible.

The desert and its painted landscapes is but one proof of that. I only wish more could see it, could feel it, so that all of us could find that peace in ourselves, with our brothers and sisters, and with our planet, the kind of peace that today is so desperately needed.

(Originally published in The NYU Jewish Voice; Vol 3., Issue 1.)

I just went through the June 2007 podcast found on the Yoga to the People website. Under the stars in the Israeli desert I was swept away by the breath connection I was led to realize. I engaged some things that were long in needing to be faced – healing will come when I let go. And most of all, it was a reminder that there are others out there, doing the work, striving next to me.

In this generation of taking yoga classes recorded in NYC three years ago, played my a portable computer, under the sky on a warm desert night in the Middle East… I am offered hope. Recent changes in the world, such as globalization, are often mourned as losses of something that we once knew that we have now forgotten, and they very well may be. Yet, here, in the striving of one soul to reach out to those he cannot call upon with his hand, the same tools have brought light.

Yoga is union. Life is change. The manifold path cannot be written in a book or cast into electrons. It is not something we have forgotten because it is not something we ever knew in our minds, but in our hearts, souls, bodies, and Dharma. In striving for our depths, looking to now and the future with a smile, not mourning the past, we take on a new form. As Greg quotes David Campbell at the end of the podcast:

“The cosmogonic cycle is presented with astonishing consistency in the sacred writings of all the continents, and it gives to the adventure of the hero a new and interesting turn; for now it appears that the perilous journey was a labor not of attainment but of reattainment, not discovery but rediscovery. The godly powers sought and dangerously won are revealed to have been within the heart of the hero all the time.” -The Hero with a Thousand Faces

We are the heroes. Smile.

Then consider karma. I must admit that up until a few minutes ago I had always thought of karma as following the “arrow” of time and the human progression. This references the idea within quantum physics that humanity experiences time as a one way arrow moving, as we would call it, forward in time. In fourth dimensional thought though all of time is linked in a fabric with space, a cloth where the arrow of time flows both ways… the only “time” is now.

In all of my human silliness I somehow thought that all of the little deeds and feelings, all of the past life experiences discussed in karmic theory were somehow limited to “moving forward”, as if there was somewhere to go. Now I see that all karma, for all time, is linked. The Egg references this thought in the following lines:

“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”

“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”

This statement was made to a 48 year old man in modern times by the usher of the afterlife. What a brilliant concept!

Time relative to karma is an illusion. The vastness of ones experience is infinite. And this formula for thinking of karma fits the concept that indeed, the only time is now.

This will be the final chapter in my three months of travels that have taken me around quite a few fascinating places in the world. Thank you for those that followed me along the way. There will be more writings after this but they will take a different form as I am in one place now to continue my graduate studies.

Much has happened in the past few months and I will share two snippets with you. Hopefully the taste of these stories will close this three part e-mail series well. To be honest, I had no planned ending because I did not know what was going to happen – that is afterall the essence of a Masa, Hebrew for ‘journey’, the experience is not yet written and the tale grows in the telling.

But let me see… I left off in Dehab, in the desert of my ancestors…

A Pilgrimage of the Heart to Mt. Sinai
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After leaving the healer’s I found myself on a bus roaming through a land changing with every mile. From buildings and dust the world transformed to dry mountains and stone with the texture of soft adobe and the color of sand brushed, orange pottery. It was inviting though equally daunting with the heat trying to peel away the roof of the bus to pelt of comfortable, air conditioned bodies with the truth of the desert – I am wide, I am hot, and I know more that you can dream.

Soon I found myself at the Jasmine Pension with a salty fellow to wheel and deal with at the front desk. I cut the included breakfast from my rate and got quite the deal: a little single with air conditioner and TV for what is found between the cushions of lounge seats at a Marriot. I let myself be greeted by a fantastic fresh fruit drink and ended up having a nice evening with some Icelandic girls that I met at one of the oceanside bungalow restaurants.

The next few days were rough though. I was feeling very uncertain about my recent experience, was tired, and in digestive discomfort. I walked around, ate, talked, swam and snorkeled and in many ways felt rather lonely. There was something in me that was still stuck. I was trying on the new feelings and processing my months of experiences, a snug pair of jeans that needed some wearing in, and watched House at 12am on the room TV.

It was time though. About 5 days in I went to the salt, starving because he was fasting clerk where I was staying and paid to jump on the evening trip to Mt. Sinai in the Saint Katherine’s Protectorate. Here’s the deal: leave at 11pm, get there at 2am, start hiking, get about around 10:30am. Wow, that would be a push, and it was.

In the evening, after not napping and a bowl of granola which did not sit well, I went off. There was an interesting crew with me in the van, a combination of Korean tourists, uptight older travelers, a few young Australians and me, the only American of the bunch. After a trip through the dark mountains, lit only by road lights and the moon which gave the whole scene an ethereal glow, we arrived at the Protectorate which is named after the Christian monastery of St. Katherine at the base of the culturally accepted Mt. Sinai (there is some debate about where the ‘true’ mountain is).

We were introduced to our Bedouin guide and after thwarting the barrage of camel ride offers we headed up the snaking path up the side of the mountain. It was dark, I was tired, but the hum of the air and the hundreds of pilgrims from around the world, each with their flashlight that could have been a chain of oil lamps making an illuminated dragon up the trail was a sight to remind me just what I was there to do. I was also in a bit of pain. The granola and soy milk I ate for dinner as energy was really not resonating with me and the suffering became a mantra, I turned it to a reminder, a weight that I was to bear up the mountain – I wanted it, I wanted that climb if it would kill me.

So, in the dark, where perspective and distance are impossible to gauge, so was my ability to judge progress, pace, and distance. The only measure were the rest stops along the way where you could by tea and Snickers bars at exorbitant rates. Camels passed by, the trail was worn and traveled, but rough none the less and the fatigue of a constant uphill at 4am without sleep wore down on me hard. But the goal, the sunrise at the top drove me and the hint of indescribable views which the moonlight teased me with as I neared the top; I had come some way but there was a ways to go.

The final assent was up the last section of the rough stairs that made for the second path up the mountain called the Path of Repentance. It was inspiring to see the young and old, from all reaches of the Earth, not separated by financial position (locals were there as well) struggling to the final peak minutes before the sun came up. For myself, instead of going to the platform where the hundreds await the new day, I climbed along the boulders just below to a more secluded area. I could see no one but the few pilgrims below finishing the climb, and I waited.

It was colder at the top and I changed out of my sweaty undershirt to find some comfort in the waiting. The light edged its hands over the range, inching across the stunning valley of red rock, green trees, and desert sands below. Paint me a picture of a mountain! In art there is more truth than in what the eye can see! Some sights are so real that they lose their reality and I cannot hold it all in my vision at once. It requires a kind of surrender to fully embrace. In trying to hold on, you lose it all…

And so I let go. I let go of a final token, a little something that I carried with me that I held from my father. I gave rest to my heart, I did a duty, and I forgave myself. I realized that while I walk a path, I was not enjoying that path and I nearly cast it all away. Then the words of a teacher came to mind: “Mr. Lee, if you don’t like something – change it.” I chose, rather than casting all things aside, rather than casting to the wind my whole past, to embrace it, and change my approach for the future, for the now. As Kalil Gibran notes in The Prophet:

You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care nor your nights without a want and a grief, But rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them naked and unbound.

The Sun, Ha’Shemesh, came into view and the new day had begun as a new intention for my heart and path had been realized. I admit, it was an intentionally crafted metaphor, but what else is any ceremony in any culture anything but a communal vindication of a time of change? I opened to a new chapter for my journey… as in my prayer at the Pyramids, I found out how to start again. Treasure on the mountain top.

(As an aside, I love the Zen quote: “The only Zen on the mountain top is the Zen you bring with you”… food for my thoughts on that experience)

After a few moments, those futile minutes we take trying to burn the image and the awe into our beings, I began the tired and arduous way down. I took the Path of Repentance on the way so as to get some different views, and it was quite worth it. The enjoyment was somewhat rattled by my extreme tiredness but overall (and of course in retrospect) it left me with some good visions of the Sinai in the bright daylight in which the views and colors become that much more clear.

I got back around when we were supposed to, about 11am. I began this journey many hours before, or was it many years before? Either way, I was off to Israel… it was time.

Yom Kippur – The Festival of Repentance in Israel ——————————————————————————-

It was about three weeks into my journey in Israel that I found myself, surrounded by new family and friends, downing a final meal before 25 hours of fasting with no food or water. I was about to participate in one of the most important Jewish holidays of the year, the Day of Atonement, a high holiday known as Yom Kippur.

Preparation for this day actually begins 10 days before with a celebration of the Jewish new year of Rosh Hashanah. During that time a practitioner repents, though not to god! But to the people he or she has wronged during the year. Bygones become bygones, a time of renewal begins, and a trial is held for your soul to decide if your name is written into the Book of Life.

It’s a blend of heavy times and light hearts, bounty and fasting, introspection and communal celebration.

For me though, Yom Kippur is a symbol. I’m not a religious Jew, but I am a cultural one. Matzo ball soup flows in my veins and I have as many opinions on subjects as there are sides to argue. Fasting is something that I do on this holy day and that I’ve always done because it’s part of who I am; from the sweet noodle pie the day before to the bagels and cheese the day after, to the sharing of stories, walking, and napping during the hard midday waiting.

Yet, as I’ve grown spiritually, pursuing Eastern philosophies and wandering the world, Yom Kippur has taken on a new meaning; this year more than ever. Just as a birthday can be a stark reminder of ones life progress; Yom Kippur, with its deep cultural, spiritual, and physical elements holds a light to the page of my inner progress. How have I been doing on my path? Am I honoring my journey? Myself? My loved ones? My gifts? How can I do better?

This year, I’m spending my first Yom Kippur in Israel, with the family of my Israeli friend. They have generously opened their hearts and doors to me during this holiday season. Sharing in their life, going to their local synagogue, singing their songs, and feeling the energy of an entire country shutting down to do something together is very powerful. Nothing like this happens in NYC where I grew up. It brought to me a gravity that this year, more than other years, I was really doing something special.

It became clear to me that I was fasting for more than myself, I was also fasting for everyone else. My new friends would have been happy to allow me to eat, but knowing that I participating contributed to the energy of everyone’s practice. We were in it together. That ‘it’ was not just a matter of no food or drink, but of spiritual renewal. It’s a beautiful thing to help someone on their inner journey merely by sharing in a practice. In some ways it may not be very different from having a running partner or an intellectual rival – both are powerful motivators for improvement and resilience.

As a bit of a nutrition buff, I’m also well aware of the cleansing value of a day of dry fasting, and my goodness, does the juice I slug back for my breakfast cleanse me spiritually and colonically! Yet, as with any spiritual endeavor, it appears that one can only go so far, can only be so selfish about the benefits of the practice before it becomes evident that others are integral to the process. Without offering, there is no receiving.

So here is my lesson, here in my prayer for the year: May all that I have be offered as light to others, may I be fortunate enough to have some light shine back toward me, and may we all learn to rejoice in that glow together.

———

Thank you my dear friends and family for joining me on this journey. Your words of kind support along the way were treasured. I’m now on a Kibbutz, a communal living center in the Arava desert of Isreal to study here: Arava.org to finish my degree. Even after just a few days I know that I’ve found the place I’m supposed to be, for now

Cheers and Love, Lee

Two years ago, I came a hair’s width away from buying my plane ticket to Israel. It came to me in a flash that I wanted to explore my roots. I fancied the idea of going to the pyramids from Israel as a way to touch the furthest reaches of my Jewish heritage. “Hey,” I thought, “I can’t go any further back than that.” I was looking for a new beginning and that felt like a good place to start. Luck or providence kept me from that mouse click, and a week later my Dad took sick. I would have to wait.

But I was committed, I would get there eventually. Maybe it was something to hold on to, a plan for the future that gave me some hope through the hardship. In the meantime I began grad school at NYU in environmental education; if I had to stay I was going to do something good. Sadly though, In the middle of my first term my Dad died. I was “free” (physically if not yet emotionally) but I was not going to quit. But now, there was a little more ‘play’ in the program.

Don’t worry, this build-up will all make sense in a moment…

During an intensive second term I became a yoga teacher, and figured out an amazing way to finish the second year of my degree in Israel – a “productive”, whole year in Israel!. I had a plan, it was over a year in the making but it looked something like this: My Mom offered to take me to Kenya on safari, from there to Egypt, then through the Sinai to Israel; the journey of the Israelites! That certainly tickled my fantasy epic funny bone.

It was scary too though. I openly admit that I had not, until now essentially, committed to *anything* for over a year, save of course for the things that were embedded into me from early on, like basic school and such; and I was equally skeptical that it would ultimately all work out. I’d seen my share of curve balls in the past few years…

So, there I was, finally, at the pyramids, after all of that build up. This moment had been my plan for so long that I did not know what to do with myself. Spiritually, I had no clue what was next, or where to look. For years I didn’t even bother thinking about what came after. Quite magically though it was there, at the place of my beginnings, having asked for a new beginning, that I was unknowingly about to begin quite a journey, a deep, inward journey with a fascinating outward component. And it started like this…

After kneeling at the base of the second pyramid, my soul a bit spent and expended, I walked down to the Sphinx entrance ready to leave the complex. Of course this was not without a look at the famous monument on the way. The sight of the Sphinx with the three pyramids in the background is the postcard memory everyone is going for when they visit the site. This way out just to note is not the ‘usual’ way, with no bus leading right back to the city center. Though tired, I wanted to walk a little…

FOODIE PHILOSOPHY SIDE NOTE:

One of the treasures of Egypt this time of year are the mangoes. As I learned later, this is the one month that they are particularly abundant and everywhere stalls sell a large helping of 100%, no sugar added, mango puree for a whopping 75 cents. Well, after taking about a second to consider if I wanted the greasy, salty falafel on this sweltering day or the mango stuff, I went for the big juice. This is one of those little moments that can make all of this difference in a day, that can change the whole state of mind. I remember asking myself, all in the one second, “how do you want to feel?” I imagined the falafel in me, and then I felt out the juice. I wanted clarity. I *chose* the fresh feeling of the juice. Oh, the little forks in the road (wow, that was a bad, untended pun), and it did make me feel a bit better.

From there, I walked a little, and decided it was time to go back to my room to rest, I had been up since 5:30am to get to the Pyramids early. Well, as fortune would have it, I never got back to my room that night.

On the mini-van bus I ran into Mohamed, an English teacher at Cairo University in Alexandria who literally dragged me to his sister’s home to have tea there. I’ll be honest, it felt rather sketchy and potential abduction in the dirt streets of Giza are not part of the Lonely Planet suggested itineraries. If it weren’t for the kind eyes of the children that we passed in this impoverished neighborhood I would have fled. The young eyes could not lie if something was amiss, so my gut told me, and fortunately (thank goodness) I was right.

After the tea in this humble home I found myself opening my heart to Mohamed and his family. His sister had the sweetest little baby boy with energy enough for three and they lived (with a prodigal husband that I never met) in the rooftop apartment of a ramshackle building in a run down part of Giza. Being there felt somehow extremely uncomfortable yet oddly appropriate. Something in me trusted this man; I felt I needed to speak the total truth to him and after he asked me some rather deep questions, conversation led to the barrage of health problems that I’ve faced for some time, mostly related to poor digestion. That was when Mohamed mentioned a Muslim healer he knew of…

Now, to say this, I would not have trusted it for a moment were it not for the genuine report I was building with Mohamed, while he always seemed to be a little unsettled by nature, a kind of spiritual tiredness, he also emanated a strong and genuine kindness, a desire to help and nurture. I was keen to go and see this healer, a man who does not work for money, but for his relationship to his god. I was told the work would be quick.

After a long taxi ride we arrived to the workplace of this healer and Sheikh. The office was small, dark, with jars adorning the walls and a desk full of papers and small items in the middle. It was located on a small side in an urban neighborhood and the wood seemed to emanate a nostalgic though serious and for me, foreign energy.

The man’s eye was a bit piercing and I, in my great hopes, felt a bit giddy and humble, which for me manifests in being austerely polite in my words and mannerisms. Mohamed spoke with him in Arabic, using few words. The Sheikh asked me questions, few, but to the point. He didn’t touch me but only looked. He said I needed cupping, a form of mild blood letting with suction cups based on ancient practices (that has actually started to be vindicated by some Western research).

As an aside, I’ll note, I’d been to a few Western doctors to no avail. I’d tried Eastern medicine, to no avail. I’d been doing yoga and exercising and tried every dietary thing that I’m sure you cannot even imagine, to no avail. As it turns out, the lesson in the end is that it was not what I was doing or who was doing the doctoring but how I was inwardly going about it. The medicine needed was for the heart. I don’t like the style of most Western trained counselors (nothing personal) and I wasn’t keen on a ‘support’ group type of thing. I did have two people, wise teachers, that I spoke with regularly which helped me a lot, but all was not yet well. Thus, I figured, heck, some Muslim magic and bloodletting couldn’t hurt. Why not try?

We ran off, I got the cupping work done, and came back to the Sheikh’s place. He said the cupping helped but that I had something deep in me. There was something in me fighting against myself, weakening me. Mohamed in his translation did not say ‘daemon’, he said someone had ‘touched’ me, in an emotional or metaphysical sense. Clearly his practice was a kind of intuitive and spiritually inspired medicine. I was not asked to pay for his services.

He prescribed for me an interesting regimen that Mohamed would have to help me with, because he’s Muslim and I’m not (shrug). It was a blessing in disguise though. There I was, back at his home, and trying to figure out a way to go to Aswan on my overnight ticket in a few days while still doing this regimen. It wouldn’t work though. I had to chose. What did I want? What’s more important? Giving this craziness a try (and it was a crazy, non-intuitive series of things I had to do, a story onto itself) or leaving to another place.

It was hard to pull myself away from my expectations… I was “traveling”, I had to go “see things”, if I wasn’t I was “weak and slow” or something like that; I had to let it go. Wow, staring me in the face was the chance to stay with these people, live at their home during their Ramadan, *really* experience something, and I was looking for a way out of it. Well, there was part of my medicine. I had to chose, run or stay and fight, get out of my ideal and take a risk. I’ll tell you, after traveling for a while, you get good at a routine. I’m very good at going from place to place, finding the main attraction, chatting it up with people, sleeping and doing it again. It’s great, but honestly I wasn’t growing anymore. I chose to stay, to fight, to take a risk that my healing might be there. It would be interesting at least.

This decision did not come easily though. I cried in my friend’s arms, he held me like an older brother. I felt limp as a broken child at that moment, held lovingly, vulnerable. Maybe that was the ‘presence’ that was in me, feeding off of my energy and hurting me, afraid to be defeated and banished? Maybe Western psych would call it an identity crisis? Maybe, it doesn’t matter and that medicine can take many forms; that there is more to the human condition, Horatio, than can be found in your medical textbooks?

As I said, it was Ramadan, and these people took care of me. They, though fasting during daylight hours, did not mind my eating. It was part of my healing apparently to eat a lot, and I think there’s a little Jewish grandma in everyone regardless of culture, or is it that grandma like traits are ubiquitous cross cultures? Either way, my diet consisted of an amazing whole wheat, Bedouin pita, yogurt, farmer cheese, kofta kabob, chopped salad, deadly sweet tea and other Ramadan specific foods for the next week. The peoples eat communally, on the floor, dipping bread and using their right hand to gather portions. I got to see how these people really lived. I met their neighbors, who also greeted me like a brother. It is amazing how welcoming they were with what little they had.

They were very poor, and it showed in the conditions they lived in, but they were happy. Certainly, they lived worlds better than the Masai I lived with in Kenya, but it was non-the-less an example of severe urban poverty and the barrage of issues that comes with: poor schooling, poor medical care, and poor prospects for changing it. What did I come all this way to see after all? I stayed with the Masai to learn about their life; I came to Egypt with the hope that I’d get to spend time with a family during Ramadan; I got handed a chance to really travel, and I was going to cast it aside?

I mean this toward myself in a nice way; it was foolish to even think of such a thing. Travelers, journalists, and students dream of such an experience. This was the day after seeing the Sheikh and after the night passed and I missed my train, I relaxed a bit. Yet, it was to be as nerve wracking and intense a few days as the ones before it.

I ate in other homes, I had some fun times with the people, immersing myself in their life as I could, hand gesturing and using the little Arabic I’d picked up to communicate, and doing (not just taking) the medicine. I went to the desert to meditate at ancient ruins. I helped to feed the hungry, I helped to save a life, I learned more about who I really am. I didn’t run, as best as I could at least. A lot of it was not fun, some of it was, and I always felt out of place; accepted, but I knew it was not the type of life I could settle into. It was not the poverty, that was no big deal to live in actually, it was the energy. Mohamed would have had me stay forever, marry, and build a life there…

Oh, but that was about five days in, and the journey, intense though it was, had just gotten started. See, I was supposed to go back to the Sheikh for a follow up appointment so to say, but he had spoken to Mohamed, discussed what had been happening with me and already knew what I needed to do (how, don’t ask me).

I was whisked away on a motorcycle to another part of Giza, not too far off from where I’d been. It was night-time, and after arriving I was told I would need to stay at this place, with it’s open courtyard and clean air for 2 or 3 more days. To be honest, I was not keen on it; this had been an intense few days and I’d had about enough. That was, until I was called to the gaze of the home’s owner, Ibrahim. He too was a healer and spoke English rather well. He wore a dark robe, a round, welcoming face, and had in hand what looked like a set of worry beads. Sitting beside him on the stoop, meeting his gaze, one of those with a rare, piercing yet innately peaceful quality, being told that I would stay with him for a few days receiving healing, I felt a total shift in my being.

It all suddenly felt totally right. I would stay in this healer’s home for three days, spending most of my time with him, telling him about my whole life, hearing his humble advice, and receiving his Bedouin and Muslim healing practice. My intuition spoke well about this man, and I was well served by it. The dreams I had that night were intense, sleeping on the rooftop in the wee hours. I ate too well there as well, sharing in their late, Ramadan breakfasts, playing with the children, and sharing smiles with Ibrahim’s kind wife.

On the stoop late into the night, with a small open field used for crops before us, somewhere in the urban areas of Giza sitting with Ibrahim, I told about everything that was inside me, and I mean everything. It has been weeks since those days and I still cannot think of the slightest secret or hidden part of my being that I did not share with him. That too was part of my medicine. I think it was his openness, his non-judging nature, and the fact that he was thousands of miles from anyone I knew that made me so honest. I was also ready to spill these things from me. It felt like an intensive mentoring retreat with a bit of magic and ritual thrown in to keep it interesting. It was very intense, but I was much more relaxed than I was with Mohamed (just something about the whole atmosphere that didn’t resonate with me).

The lessons along the way came, not easily, but because of the place I was at inside, they came clearly. The medicine of the heart that I needed was presented to me, and I had to chose to open to it. They came with my words, my actions, my choices. These were opportunities that were likely screaming at me for a long time, but that I could not listen to for some reason. I found out how I want to spend my energies for helping people, I found out how to listen (or rather learned how to start) to listen to myself, I took the risk of opening up, something I’d been afraid to do for a long time.

COFFEE TALK TO THE READER BREAK:

Sorry that I’m being vague with how these lessons came about, they are some interesting stories, but there’s are reasons for it. One is, this description is getting long, and if you’re still with me, you’re a trooper and I thank you. Two, is getting into the details would be whole philosophical, epistemological discussions that would take me away from the deeper points I’m trying to make about my “treasure”, good fortune in these encounters, and descriptions of the lives of the people I met. Three, is that out of respect for the culture I encountered I do not want to discuss details of their practices without being willing to spend the time to go into depth about those practices on a personal and academic level. It would not be fair to them or to myself otherwise. One day I hope to write these thoughts out, and should I meet any of you that has read this, and you have more questions, I’ll be happy to go into more depth.

END BREAK .

In that week, I went to Mosques (to watch), lived in two different homes, changed lives, had my life changed, ate too much, engaged my heart, took risks, and got intimately involved in another culture. The offer was again made by Ibrahim for me to stay with him as long as I wished, but I knew now, not with a feeling of running away, but with a feeling of good heart that it was my time to go. I realized though that I did not care about going to Aswan and the Upper Nile. The surely magnificent sights of the Valley of the Kings would have to wait, perhaps forever. I knew what I wanted to do; it was time to go to the Sinai and to Israel, to make the journey that I came for.

Inside, I cannot say that all of my physical ails were gone, but my heart felt a little… cleaner somehow. My follow-up prescription from Ibrahim was as my friend in acupuncture school said, “a very appropriate diagnosis,” yet comically something he would “never tell anybody else [except for me] to do”. The essence of it, simply put, was don’t exercise or push myself too much, don’t meditate, eat meat, and try to only follow good feelings… and do it for three months; then go back to doing whatever I want.

Wow.

It really is astonishing, when you ask for something with genuine heart and intention, sometimes you get it. Thus far I’d had a fascinating cultural experience, found how I want to place my energies for helping the world, cleaned out some emotional baggage, and had some big and culminating realizations about how to listen to my heart. I also got a writ to, as one healer in the US told me, “take it easy”, something that’s been hard for me to let myself do in the past.

Now I had to find out what that all meant; you never know how good a new pair of pants are until you wear them to work for a day. First stop was Dehab, on the coast of the Gulf of Aquaba with its crystal waters, hippy divers and pillow camp restaurants – a little backpacker town in the base of the Egyptian Sinai. But that’s for next time…

Thanks for reading, Lee