The Lovelight Project

Almost three years ago – July 22, 2015 – I wrote a blog post called “Escaping the Maze.” I was in the first year of my nomadic life, and in the post I gave tips on how to push out of the well-carved ruts that tend to suck us into the same old patterns of life. At the time, I was still working to reduce the number of clothes I owned, and I used the idea of the Ten Item Wardrobe as a way to consider pushing yourself out of a comfort zone.

Oh, to have known how far out of my comfort zone I was actually about to push myself! I had indeed escaped the maze, but it was more like entering “The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe” than a simple TED Talk reference on minimalism. I had

I learned how to drive a scooter this month! I also played in waterfalls, fed elephants, allowed fish to nibble my feet and got so many Thai massages.

crossed into another realm, one where so many things were unfamiliar and it was actually OK.

From seeing the Grand Canyon as a rut where rushing water cut a path after years and years of wear, now, tomorrow, I am visiting the “Grand Canyon” outside Chiang Mai in Thailand and jumping from the highest cliffs into the waters below. Just like I jumped into the freshwater ceyotes in Mexico. Just like I jumped off the starboard side of a sailboat into the Caribbean Sea. Just as I jumped out of an airplane over a glacier in New Zealand. Ruts aren’t things to escape now. They are things to play in and around.

How did this change occur? How do you turn from someone who is nervous and analytical, wondering if the plans are going to work out into someone who is confident that, when you strap everything you own to your back and walk out of an airport, you can find your way in a country you’ve never been?

I still have more than 10 items of clothing in my wardrobe, but not many more. How did I go from having checklists upon checklist in Operation Tighten Up to actually being tight? Faithful blog readers know you have to Do The Work, but there’s another component to change.

Enter the magical element of time. Patience.

Do you know the story of how I discovered patience? I love this story, so forgive me

Buddha has patience, and patience is required when you visit Buddhist temples along with throngs of others.

if I already told you. It was about a year and a half ago, when I was living on St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands. I was teaching a wonderful yoga class in this tiny, breezy studio about 20 minutes from my little studio apartment, which I rented for a few months. I had locked up the studio doors after another heartwarming class and walked a few minutes down the busy road. On the island, you can wait at designated stops for public transportation called the “Safari.” These open-air trucks – I mention these in Looking for Same – don’t really operate on a time frame. They are independently operated vehicles that just come around when they come around, and you flag one down and pay either $1 or $2, depending on how far you go (and that is sometimes a matter of debate), and it gets you close enough to walk yourself home. In fact, there was a guy (another shout-out to Curtis!) who sold beers and bush rum shots from the back of his pickup truck, which was usually parked exactly at my Safari stop. It was a good system – most of the time.

This one day, I was waiting and waiting on the side of the road for the Safari to come. My friend texted me and said she got a table at the restaurant where we had planned to meet. I hadn’t even caught the bus yet! I was started to do some calculus in my head: Maybe I could hitch? Maybe I could call a taxi? I didn’t know many people with a car on the island at this point … just as I was really thinking I might as well start walking, the Safari came.

Now, it is custom in the Virgin Islands to greet everyone in the room or public vehicle with a “good morning,” “good afternoon” or “good night.” It was amazing how these people were able to identify when it was 12:01 p.m. to switch from “good morning” to “good afternoon.” Anyway, so when I hailed the Safari that day, I climbed in and looked around and everyone and said, “Good morning.”

The passengers, as is custom, returned the greeting to me. This included the Rastarian man who I happened to sit next to. He looked at me and continued the friendly conversation, again, as is custom:

“How are you today?” he asked.

“Well,” I started, trying to shake my frustration from my head as I was finally on the way to meet my friend. “I wasn’t sure the Safari was going to come! I was waiting for a really long time!”

The man turned slowly, looked at me and smiled. He uttered one word with that Jamaican, “I’m probably stoned” accent that I’ll never forget:

“Paaaaaaaatience,” he said, so slowly that it actually took patience to hear him say the word.

Noodle: The Cutest Pup in all of Chiang Mai

And that was it. Now, every time there’s a point where I can feel myself battling against Divine Timing, I take a breath and hear that man saying the word “patience” to me. And now I wait for the right time.

So, what does waiting for the right time have to do with the comfort zone? Because, the time has come to move out of mine! I’ve been living in Thailand for the last month, housesitting and caring for the cutest pup in all of Chiang Mai, and it’s an incredibly easy city to live in. There is a reason some of these places in the world are hotspots for digital nomads: It’s amazingly inexpensive. The weather is wonderful. The people are kind. I rented a motorbike for a month and scoot from free meditation session to vegan brunch to a quiet café to work, then back home to jog or swim in the pool, maybe head out to a $5 massage or $2 fish pedicure, grab dinner – maybe freshly made veggie pad Thai for $1 – and then connect with friends or chill. People smile at me. I smile at people. It’s a very comfortable place.

So why would I ever leave? For one, there’s the issue of visas, which involve the most minimal amount of hassle to extend. But my current visa only lasted 30 days. And because I heard the famous quote recently by IBM’s old CEO Ginni Rometty: “Growth and comfort don’t co-exist.” I’ve done a lot of growing since I wrote that blog three years ago. I’ve still got more room to grow!

And just like that – after a year of slowly plugging away on a personal project, something I had to sneak into between working gigs because it wasn’t about making money but sharing a story – I am now a published author with a book title on Amazon. With a click, I went from being someone who says airily, “Oh, yeah, I’m working on a book,” to someone who did it. My book dropped.

In today’s modern self-publishing world, I guess it may not seem like that big of a deal. I’m not like my amazing friends who have agents and publishing deals and New York Times #1 best sellers (damn Amie sets that bar high) … but I’m closer than I’ve ever been. And tomorrow, I’ll be even closer. What does it take to reach a goal? Persistence, effort and believing in yourself. Let’s break it down.

Woo! I published a book!

Persistence

My book is called Operation Big Fun: The Fest Life Guide, and the idea came to me as I was riding in the back of Jeffrey’s RV with Jody, Joni and Ema after seeing the Allman Bros. perform their last festival show at Lock’n in Virginia. I was a good few states away from my rental home, and the folks I caught a ride with up to the festival decided to “leave early to beat the traffic,” which was perhaps the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard in my life. Somehow, I was able to find friends with a willingness and room for me to join them on their travels home. Somehow, I figured out a way to transport my overpacked belongings across the festival grounds to their VIP RV. Somehow, I ended up having just the very best time. As I was singing along with Joni’s beautiful guitar, lounging on a pile of Mexican blankets with my feet up on the cushy seat, I realized that my somehow wasn’t just chance. I had used my experience, wisdom, connections and skills to make my festival experience the best imaginable. I didn’t quite realized it at the time, but I was divinely guided to share what I knew.

So, with my pen scribbling a draft table of contents as the RV bumped and bobbed along the country roads home, I started my first book. It was just a dream at that time. Four years later, it’s a finished product. A whole lot has happened in my life in those four years. I went to a bunch more festivals and learned a lot more. I also quit my office jobs, sold all my belongings, transitioned my writing career to being completely remote, learned how to sail and lived in 10 different countries (with plane tickets to two more in my pocket!). And yet, this whole time, I knew that if I plugged away at this idea, I could make it a reality. I could be a published author of a book.

Effort

About a year ago, I was living in the U.S. Virgin Islands in a studio apartment with a sleepy kitty. I had ended a long-term relationship and writing all kinds of public relations work that was paying the bills but not fulfilling me creatively. I was teaching yoga four times a week, dating handsome men and drinking a little more than I should. It was time. I pulled out that scribbled piece of paper I crafted in the back of my friend’s RV and opened up my computer. And it began.

My desk in the Caribbean where I wrote most of the book, evidently with messy author hair. RIP T-shirt.

They say that the hardest part is the start. Once you start something, Newton’s Third Law of equal and opposite reaction takes over. When you pull, it pulls back. The wheel begins to turn. For the less scientifically inclined, it’s as simple as The Secret. You put effort when you wish it to go, and suddenly it’s all you can do.

Well, that’s not exactly true, now is it. There were weeks when I did absolutely no writing on my book. I would be swamped with paid gigs. I would be sailing to the British Virgin Islands. I would be too busy having fun. And then, an angel would appear and say something as easy as, “So, how is your book coming?” or “What kind of writer are you? Do you write books?” It was the stark look in the mirror that reminded me that I needed to return my efforts to what I found important, what I wanted to persist. And so, I sat down in the chair and opened up that computer file again.

And while people may turn their nose up at the concept of self-publishing, the end result is a lot harder on the author. Not only did I have to write the best piece I could, I had to find the pictures that I wanted to include. I had to find a designer who could execute my cover concept. I needed to learn how to format a book for a Kindle and then format a book as a paperback. I needed to learn every aspect of the process, something that authors who have publishing companies just pay someone else to do. Since I have a background in marketing, some elements were easier than others. But I had to put effort into it all to make it happen.

Believing in Yourself

The most helpful thing – besides YouTube, of course – was my friends, both new and old, who asked me about my book. My mother often asked me about the book, and who knows how she’ll actually feel about it … I had to send her a note to warn her about the sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll in it. She might not like the book, but I know she likes me. And, so do I. I knew I could do it.

As I travel and live outside my comfort zone on an almost daily basis, I have to constantly come back to the concept of being my own best friend. I knew I could write a book. I knew I could live in a country where I didn’t know the language. I knew I could get on a scooter today and drive it further than I ever have driven a scooter to get myself to the coffee shop in Chiang Mai, Thailand, where I’m writing this blog post.

Of course, I’ve had my setbacks with everything. A few weeks ago in Malaysia, I was working out and fell down, scraping my knee badly and crying about how alone I was. But I ended up slapping a bandage on it, calling a Grab and teaching a great yoga class less than an hour later. Same with writing: Some days, man, you gotta slap on that bandage and keep on going.

I have always been a writer with ridiculous hair.

Why? Because there’s a trick to being the kind of person who says they’re going to do something and then doing it. And the trick is persistence and effort. The trick is in the doing, not the dreaming. I see this a lot with people who want to work remotely. They dream of it, but then don’t put in the effort, persistence and belief in themselves to make it happen. For me, I knew I could “try” to write a book, or I could just do it.

And what now? I have a plan to share my story with as many people as possible, but again, this isn’t about money. This isn’t about fame. This is about me being 7 years old, sitting at my little desk in my Pennsylvanian bedroom, digging my little toes into my green shag carpet and sticking my tongue out in concentration. That was when I realized that I am a writer. I am a poet. I am journalist. I am a copywriter. And now, I am a book author.

OK, so let’s start with the punchline, which is simply that I am actively avoiding work while writing this blog post. But I digress …

I’m a member of many groups in Facebook of digital nomads – of which I could have

“I’m working!” said with the same voice as a 6-year-old would say, “I’m helping!)

been labeled four years ago if such a label even existed – as well as solo traveling females, which, well, hi. These groups are a big mix of men and women, young and old, seasoned and green. The latter often ask questions like, “I’m still in school and I want to be a digital nomad. How do I do that?” Or the slightly less open-ended, “I want to be a professional writer. How do I do that?”

Well, as a professional writer for the last 20 years, I can tell you the answer. If you want to be a professional writer, the first thing you have to do is write. You have to actually sit your ass on a chair and do the work. You can’t be a writer if you do not, in fact, write. Getting paid is the second level of work. In order to get paid to write, you have to hustle. You have to reach out to editors, post your own content (hi again) and get an education that provides you the skills for better writing. You have to read a lot and think about ideas and the way to describe how life unfolds in front of you. You have to actively do everything you can to be a professional writer if, in fact, you would like to be a professional writer.

Usually, that’s not the answer most of those greenies want to hear. Like everyone, they want to take a magic pill and transform magically into whatever you wish to be. But it

I don’t remember Jack and the Beanstalk being so bad ass, but here you have it. Remember, “magic seeds” are part of a fairy tale.

doesn’t work like that, now does it.

I just started jogging again. I’ve done it pretty regularly for the last two weeks, and I even bought a pair of trainers and running shorts, which I wear for the 30 sweatiest minutes of my day. I’ve done this good habit long enough now that I can write it down. See, I’m a jogger. I can’t just buy a pair of running sneakers and say that I want to be a jogger. Gosh, how can I become a jogger, one of those people who don’t look like they are dying while shuffling their feet down my block? Because no one wants to be these red-faced losers – no, we want to be fit joggers! How ever could you possibly become one of those people? Here’s a hint: Jog.

So, faithful The Lovelight Project readers know that I’m a big believer in the fact that “The Universe Provides.” This, by the way, is different from The Dude Abides. It really does. Here’s an example. This morning, I was making my daily scroll through Facebook as probably everyone (except my Dad and Stephan, who gets his first, requested shout-out in my blog!) who is reading this. My friend Savannah posts a random video about how great jackfruit was. It reminded me that there was a jackfruit tree in the backyard, and it had been raining a lot. In fact, I need to add after my last “I’m so f-ing awesome” post, I ended up trudging 20 very wet minutes in a downpouring rain from the bus so there. Well, anyway, I look outside, and there’s a huge jackfruit on a low-hanging branch.

But – here’s the point. I still had yet to enjoy the Universe’s gift of a jackfruit. I first had to

Me and a jackfruit, which is really heavy, I might add. 

get a stool that I could stand on to reach that branch. I had to walk outside my gate around the corner where the tree was overhanging and position the stool cautiously on the uneven ground (Ha! No Obamacare for me! I’m a functional ex-pat!), climb up and use clippers to cut the thick stem of the jackfruit. I had to make sure it wouldn’t fall to the ground and split, and then I had to brush a gazillion ants off me (jackfruit are SUPER sticky, by the way). I had to go back to the house, retrieve a bucket and fill it to the brim with water. I had to lug the bucket back to the ant-covered fruit and dunk it in the water. I carried it back to the house, washed the ants off, washed my shoes and then the bucket (did I mention jackfruit are really sticky?) and soon, I have to take a knife to the fruit to expose the amazing meat-replacing goodness found inside.

In other words, I had to do the work. I wanted to eat jackfruit. That’s one way to do it. Sure, I could have biked to the market and bought some pre-cut pieces of jackfruit laid out quite nicely on a little plastic tray – but I’d have to pay for it. I bet you can see where I’m going with this.

Look, sometimes a bird will drop a magical holy breadcrumb into your praying hands, you eat it and then suddenly your dreams of having a baby come true when you give birth to Hanuman, the warrior monkey god. But Hanuman’s mom, Anjani, was doing the work. She was praying. She was actively looking deep in herself and living in such a way that the gods would bless her. She wasn’t sitting on a couch eating a bag of potato crisps/chips wishing she could be fit enough to job around her mildly hilly Malaysian neighborhood without dying. She made it happen.

That’s right! It’s not the Universe making it happen. It’s actually you. Maybe it’s God working inside of you, maybe not – you get to figure that part out. In fact, you get to figure everything out. So, what magical thing are you going to make happen next?

I was standing a queue with my new friend, a fellow writer from the U.S. who is traveling throughout Southeast Asia and had just bought a one-way ticket to Chiang Mai.  We were on the mainland of Penang, Malaysia, awaiting the opportunity to pay 1.20RM, which comes out to about 30 cents, to board the ferry back to Georgetown on the island.

My first time on the ferry. Unfamiliar to me, a twice-daily commute for everyone else.

I had never been here, and neither had Krista; we were returning from a dinner party. And yet we basically followed the crowd down a walkway and found ourselves standing in line. Without discussion, we paid the man in a glass booth and received a small receipt with a UR code on it. We walked a few steps and discovered the code provided access through a turnstile that led to a waiting area for the ferry. We sat down and had to acknowledge something:

That completely foreign situation did not stress us out in the slightest.

In fact, when ordering from the restaurant where we really could not understand the menu the day prior, we were fine. Figuring out where the bus picked us up? We can do it.

THIS is the bus map! Note how the bus just magically arrives at a destination without using the roads. Need to change routes? Good luck!

Finding a good place to stay and a quiet place to work (she has a cool blog: Reroute Lifestyle) – we did that too. We’re making friends, seeing interesting places and loving the confronting reality of life unfamiliar. 

How familiar is your life? Do you know everyone around you, know where to buy what food you like? Do you know where everything is at the store, and what places to avoid at night? What is a mystery to you?

For me, I have created a life where I am sometimes shocked to see things that are familiar at all. I am always finding beautiful people to befriend, people with big smiles and kind hearts – so it’s not all odd. But the way I move through my everyday life presents surprises at every turn. Even ordering a cup of coffee: In New Zealand, I had never heard of a flat white (it’s delicious), and here in Malaysia, I had to Google “kopi-o” (you drink it from a tied plastic bag and straw, and it, too, is delicious).

Such is the way of the traveler, I know, which is why so many people enjoy it and so many people hate it. Life unfamiliar is not for everybody. There is comfort in having roots, and life is easy when you have most things sorted. You’ve already figured things out. You don’t have to wonder which key opens the lock. You know to take the umbrella with you because you know what happens when the sky looks like that.

Why ever would you want anything else?

It’s a good question, and one I often ask myself as I am embarking upon more and more  unfamiliar paths. I call it living the “one-way ticket lifestyle,” where I fly to one destination and greatly enjoy everyone I meet and everything I experience to the point of thinking how lovely life would be if I simply stayed. Then I buy a ticket and fly onward.

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
– Robert Frost

I put energy into my root chakra, known as the muladhara. While I constant pull up roots by changing my home every few months, in reality I am growing roots that stretch throughout the world. I am laying a foundation for the expansion of my greatest self. As I am constantly confronted by not knowing and comforted by the knowledge that it all works out, I actually become more safe and secure in my world. A handsome man called me a “poor confused girl” the other day. I had to laugh. Technically, yes – I’m not rich, I wasn’t sure I was in the right spot and I am a female. But in reality? My cup overflows, I was indeed in the exact right spot and I am a strong, powerful woman.

Catrina and I hiking up the Bridle Path to Lyttleton in New Zealand … We took the bus home.

So how does one turn from being a poor, confused girl to feeling completely secure in a world where you have never gotten on the ferry before and somehow you have to figure out how exactly you’re going to get back home after a dinner party where we all had a number of vodka cocktails?

The trick, I believe, is to have your taproot firmly grounded beneath you. See, I was confident in my ability to figure out the ferry. I was confident that I will have enough to eat and find ways to make money if my current opportunities dry up. I am, at the heart, confident in myself.

I went to the local market here in the peaceful neighborhood of Tanjung Bungah in Penang yesterday, because I wanted to buy some chocolate to add to the cookies I was making for the dinner part. Once there, I saw a man chopping a foreign fruit. Anytime there is a fruit I haven’t eaten, I buy it. Last trip to the market, I purchased a durian. Those spiky fruit have an interesting, pulpy seed that people go crazy for. (Smartest thing

A durian. My friend Alex likened the consistency to “dinosaur poo.” Nice.

I did all week? Ask him to crack it for me.) This time, I saw my first sea coconut.

“Here, take the flesh and put it on your face. It will get rid of all your freckles,” a man said.

“But I like my freckles,” I replied.

In fact, I like most everything about me. I was talking to this same handsome man other day about needing alone time, and how his last relationship lacked it. He found it hard to believe that me, a woman, loved alone time. When else can I write, play my ukulele, practice yoga, meditate, shuffle about the kitchen and make totally amazing oatmeal-banana-walnut-chocolate chip cookies? The reason I am so comfortable by myself – and at a dinner party and on a crowded dance floor and across the table from a date in a romantic restaurant – is because my taproot is strong. I am grounded even when I have no idea what is going on around me. I may not know how to get to where I want to be, or whether I actually even want to be there, but I have faith in myself that I will figure it out.  THERE IS NOTHING TO FEAR.

This isn’t a characteristic that happens overnight. It takes making executive decisions to create a practice of embracing life unfamiliar. When I was considering where I wanted to go to university, my mother took me to visit a college in Ohio. Everyone looked exactly like me and probably thought like me, too. What was I going to learn about life there? Then we visited a college in New York City, where no one looked like me and I had no idea what was going on. Four years later, I knew all kinds of nooks and hidden gems in that city – and in my heart.

Feeling comfortable and rooted comes from feeling good about yourself on a base level. Acknowledge and verbalize the accomplishments you have made when you were unsure, when you step through the fear without letting its flames lick you. Those are powerful moments that help us grow and open. I wish more of those unfamiliar, wonderfully confusing, ego-busting moments in my life – and maybe yours too!

I’ve been having vivid dreams, and last night was no exception. In my dream, I was in trouble. I came out of the bathroom, and there was a security guard waiting for me. He actually took me by the ear and starting leading me to wherever I was supposed to go. I

When did people start pulling others by the ear? Why was a security guard doing this to me in my dream last night?

said to him, “Really, that is simply not necessary.” He released my ear and deposited me in a spot where I was to wait for whatever talking to I was in for. Then I woke up.

Um, I’m sorry?

I’ve been thinking a lot about apologies lately, because for the last month or so I’ve been flittering around New Zealand and living communally with strangers in hostels. Often, there is an unchoreographed dance that take place in the large kitchens during meal times. In bathrooms, there’s plenty of being in the way, and the dorm-style bunks involve piles of luggage and sometimes-smelly hiking shoes lining the doorways. There is plenty of apologizing, constantly.

This is making me think about the difference between “I’m sorry” and “Excuse me.” I am meeting people from all over the globe, and there are cultural difference as well. “Lo siento” means, literally, “I feel that,” while “Me disculpa” means, basically, “It is the fault of me.” In French, “Je m’excuse” is different than “Je suis désolé.”  Subtle stuff, but I’m a writer so words are important.

Often, I find that when living in close proximity with others, one is quick to simply apologize for existing. As in: “I am totally standing in your way, and I’m sorry I am existing in your path. But I need to stir my noodles as well.” Then there’s the apology that comes from bumping into someone. Then there’s the apology for being bumped into. That’s what got me thinking.

What is the boundary between apologizing for existing and honoring yourself for existing? I tend not to apologize for being bumped into, but I hear people do it constantly. Instead, I would smile and say, “Oh, no worries.” And yet – it is simply another cultural difference. I had a conversation with a Kiwi friend and a French friend, and they both agreed that the person who was the “victim” in the situation ought to own up to their role in the conflict and apologize as well. My French friend even went as far as to say that if a boyfriend were to cheat on her, she would apologize to him for whatever she might have done to cause that poor behavior.

This is very different from the American way, and better, I think. I used to think that there was a global epidemic with people who were unable to apologize for things they really ought to. This opinion came straight from my own experience: Ex-boyfriends, who by all accounts were wrong, but would dig in their heels and demand, “I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!” instead of simply being sorry for even upsetting me. And yet, to what degree was I at fault? What a burn to the ego to apologize for being hurt: It’s pretty awesome.

On the other hand, I have been bumped and nearly sat on by Asian tourists here who fail

Um, excuse me! Excuse me again. Just enjoying the water here. Yep, excuse me.

to even acknowledge my existence. At first, I thought they were being rude, and then I quickly recognized that personal space simply does not exist where billions of people live basically on top of one another. Why apologize for invading something that doesn’t even exist? I’m grateful to have this lesson months before I head to Asia for the first time. I really am the one who should apologize at the silly notion to think they were rude in the first place. How ethnocentric of me!

Recognizing personal upset as a deserved, justifiable lesson that requires an apology is a big evolutionary process. It seems too easy for some people to cross their arms over their chest, jut back their shoulders and stick out their chins and “stand their ground.” As in: “This is MY place in the kitchen! This is MY pot of noodles! How DARE you try to get a cutting board while I am stirring my noodles!” It’s ridiculous. If saying “I’m sorry” feels like a blow to your being, a simple “excuse me” honors your existence while also acknowledging that your bodily demands conflict with another’s.

My favorite apology is “lo siento.” It’s energetic in nature. I feel that conflict, and I want to verbalize it. I feel you. I feel you, bro. (Insert fist bump here) Another Spanish apology is “con permiso,” which means, “With your permission, I would like to pass.” And then there’s the simple “Pèrdon.” Why are there so many options in some cultures and so few in others?

Even with my own self-work and my interest in helping others, I’ve still certainly done

When an apology becomes a helping hand to another in the world … it’s a beautiful thing!

enough in my life that warrants apology. The old “hurt people hurt people” saying holds true; when I’ve lashed out at someone, it’s because I was hurt as well. Yet, doubling the hurt will not make the initial hurt go away; quite the opposite. The apology and the deflation of the ego is what will make that hurt go away. The only thing that really hurts is the ego. When that’s removed, you’re just learning a lesson.

And yet, in my dream last night, I really didn’t feel like I did anything wrong. I didn’t have any guilt, and I had no reason why I was being dragged by the ear by a security guard. I didn’t know who I was waiting for, or what to expect. I woke up curious. Maybe I was wrong. If I was – or even if I wasn’t – I’m sorry.

Perhaps because so much of my life was living in an American suburban and urban world of strip malls, air-conditioned traffic and florescent lighting, I am acutely aware of natural, outdoor spaces that are sacred. Do you feel this too: the actual breath-

Garden of the Gods in Colorado, USA is sacred as well.

taking moment when you enter a space that is powerful, magic?

The more I travel, the more I am blessed to find these places – a good motivation for more adventures. In fact, as I am Googling away to learn about the different sacred spots in the globe, I realized that I had already made plans to visit one in a couple weeks.

Of course, not all of the sacred spaces on Earth have been documented, and not every site is going to agree on the definition of “sacred”. Sometimes the energy is really subtle. Some areas are special because they serve as backdrops for memories, but the sacred sites radiate higher vibrations that make me step back in awe and wonder.

Five places that I found exceptionally magical:

1. Jesus’ tomb in Jerusalem, Israel: I’ll start big and religious, but I’m neither religious nor big. I traveled to Israel for a magazine article almost 10 years ago for a magazine article I was writing. Only three people are allowed inside the tomb at a time. It crackled with energy.
   

   Me at Panther Meadow

2. Warm Mineral Springs in Florida, USA: I honestly believe this is the Fountain of Youth, and I’m not the only one. It’s on the National Historic Register as the spot Ponce de Leon of Spain was looking for it when it stumbled upon St. Augustine, which currently swindles tourists to drink sulphur water. It’s a weird, outdated spa facility that houses truly a miraculous healing environment. Really! Swim there to feel like a million bucks yet have a hard time wrapping your head around it because the facility is so filled with odd foreign tourists.
3. Panther Meadow in California, USA: Click here. You’re welcome. It’s at the foot of Mount Shasta, a well-known sacred site (and that link is of a totally far-out and right-on guy who I stumbled upon).
4. Puerto Mosquito in Vieques, Spanish Virgin Islands, USA: I wrote an entire blog post about this glowing lake. Now, the small island has been decimated by this year’s hurricane season. Edie Widder, whose name I once misspelled in a newspaper article more than a decade ago, was interviewed recently on this topic; the storm impacts to the extreme concentration of bioluminescent dinoflagellates are unknown.
5. And this little hill along the Rio Diamante in Villa de 25 of Mayo, Argentina, which was where I was yesterday:

I enjoy walking with the dog every day along this 30- to 45-minute trail behind the house

My favorite spot on the walking path is under that tree. I’m not alone in liking it, as I discovered yesterday.

where I’m staying. It is a beautiful path with wild asparagus, wildflowers of every color (I pick myself a different bouquet almost every day) and so many shorebirds. Of course, I tread lightly as half the time is spent avoiding large piles of horse shit, since much of the path is over pastureland. To get there, you walk through the backyard and out their metal fence (beware of barbs, but no worries because you can get a free tetanus shot from the small villa clinic by simply walking in at 7 p.m. and asking in broken Spanish). You walk over a large cobblestone beach along the river, which honestly is a creek at that point, and then head back upland. When it is very rainy, there’s a short bit of a swamp through which to trudge to get back to the road.

After the swamp, which always feels a little precarious with the high swamp grass with paths previously tread by horses and dogs, you head up a very small hill, just the slightest bit of natural elevation. I’ve seen a few cross-country bicyclists and a couple families by the river, but I’ve never encountered another human on my walks through the pasture land here in the country. It’s so peaceful and wonder time for introspection. So, I was in a deeply receptive place when I was first taken aback by this location.

This magical place is underneath a weeping willow tree. When it was still chilly (seasons are opposite in southern hemisphere, which at first blew my mind), I would stop there and enjoy the view. A few times I heard a massive swarm of bees, but could not see them even after looking for a while. There were interesting fuzzy, dark green plants growing only there – like weeds, but … comfortable.

Then as spring arrived, there was an eruption of wonderful smells and colors at the top of this little hill. Delightful purple wildflowers suddenly covered the ground, and the sides of the path were lined with fragrant white flowering vines. It felt so good, this sacred space: a gift from heaven. I sat there many times in the last few months, looking out over the river to the mountains, with the biggest grin on my face.

But yesterday, my spot – which often was the highlight of my day – got darkly complex. As I’m all-but skipping up the embankment, I came across a murder scene underneath the willow tree! Feathers were everywhere! More feathers than I have ever seen in a pile. Dark gray outer feathers, the white soft, smaller inner layer of feathers. The dog sniffed a few times, wasn’t too interested and started to wander. I gasped and stopped in my tracks to survey the scene.

Thrown toward the trunk of the tree was the bird’s head, and its tail was under the pile of feathers. No blood. It looked like a gray dove. What happened? Someone or something (my guess is a dog?) did an excellent job stripping the body of feathers. I started to collect the biggest feathers.

I’m not one to be scared of death, although gore and danger are certainly not my thing. Many people are scared of death, and the obvious display at my sacred spot really spun me. In the last few weeks, a cousin died and my ex-boyfriend had near-death accident that he is currently recovering from. Another friend got hit by a car. People on a female travel social media site I’m on worry all the time about their safety. There’s #metoo and then there’s death. It’s a lot to be worried about, physically.

I am not a worrier. Was the bird? Was it a nervous type? Birds here are kind of fearless –

A highly recommended Angel Card deck by Doreen Virtue

there are hawks that dive-bomb the dog in the backyard, which is hilarious to watch all the animal frustration. Just as I was writing this, I saw the cat returning proudly to the house with a lizard in her mouth. But the lizard managed to wiggle an escape and high-tail it, literally, through a chain-link fence. Near-death is everywhere, all the time.

I have been taking a moment to contemplate my relationship with death, not to sound morbid or anything. (Although I guess I am approaching middle age.) Doves are the symbol for peace, and a recent angel card reading I gave myself included the SIGNS card. This means I need to look for signs. Whoa! OK! I think the murder of a peace dove in my special spot is a sign. It didn’t feel like a war has begun, though. It feels like I no longer need an external symbol of peace. What war has ended inside of me?

What war can you end inside of you?