Presence

Christmas. A celebration. A tradition. A feast. A consumerist splurge. A religiously biased and therefore contentious term in public relations. What else? What is christmas to you? 

I am not a Christian, but I am anthropologically and theologically curious, adventurous, and flexible. The chameleon is my totemic animal, and I tend to experience any colors I crawl across with my entire body, observing with rolling eyes the environment I have blended into. If I enjoy the sensation, I retain its memory in my scales for future use.

I grew up celebrating christmas as a day when fairy-tales come true, when families get together, when the house is decorated, when music is played, good food is eaten, and gifts are exchanged. Occasional snow and cold weather added romance and winter fun, and made the warmth emanating from cookie baking ovens and bustling family members inside the house even more precious. The tale of Jesus’s birth in the stable was part of it, too - served in christmas carols, kindergarten plays, and porcelain nativity scenes inherited from more pious generations - so even though I was not raised in a Christian household, I grew up immersed in Christian traditions, and I am happy for it.

Jesus is best known for dying a horrible death on the cross and rising from the dead a few days later, but it is his birthday that marks the most elaborate Christian celebration in most Christian countries today. Jesus of Nazareth brought significant gifts to many, including universal forgiveness for their sins, constant soul support and companionship, and eternal life in exchange for following his rules here on earth. When he was alive, he built things. He taught generosity, neighborly love, courage, charity, and honesty, and healed people from ailments and handicaps. The festive food eaten for Christmas - and traditionally shared with the poor - as well as the gifts exchanged are apt symbols for the honorable life style he advocated. 

Watching scenes of customers attacking competitors with pepper spray at Walmart to secure the best deals for electronic items on Black Friday, and desperately pushing our way through cities that seem to hemorrhage christmas spirit while consumption madness sprouts like a giant tumor from every commercial-ridden street corner, and christmas carols lull shoppers into more vexing desires, more tempting deals, and more outrageous splurges, it seems that the original spirit of christmas has become perverted and distorted in many minds and places. 

I, on the other hand, was blessed this year to celebrate christmas with a group of people who have chosen to counter-act this trend, seeking a life based on ideas like community, self-sustainability, exchange, and making the most of local resources. When a small core group of people started this community 20 years ago, they made a rule that no kids would be allowed on their land. Today, they have matured. We have babies, children, teenagers, adults, and elders, and there is talk of finding space for a cemetery. Whatever life style, whatever ideology you choose, being human, you cannot escape birth, disease, old age, and death - and all that they entail. 

The focus in community life is on walking the path of being human together. On eating the cake together instead of having it alone. On baking the cake instead of buying it. On sharing and thereby multiplying our strengths and possessions. On “Mend and make do to save buying new.” On giving and receiving. On nurturing our own and each other’s individual sparks; creating and disseminating skills, joy, and support.

The three main items on our agenda for christmas day express this philosophy in a nutshell. 

1. Piñata - The children whack the piñata until it cracks open, and are rewarded for their efforts with copious supplies of candy. They are happy and high for the day. 
2. Potluck: everybody makes and brings food to be shared.
3. Everybody brings a present. Presents are exchanged in a game with the following rules: each participant receives a number. The number marks a person’s turn. Number 1 means, you get to choose and unwrap the first present. Number 2 means you get to choose the second present. As Number 2 you may either take the present Number 1 has already unwrapped or unwrap a new present. The game continues in this fashion, and each person has the choice of either taking away a present that has already been unwrapped, or getting a new present from the pile. After a present has changed hands twice, however, it is locked and can no longer be taken.

We have had two months of nearly constant rain in Puna that has turned our land into a swamp. Four-wheel drives are increasingly useful; diseases like sore throats, headaches, and eczema are going strong and must be kept at bay with saltwater gargling, hot drinks, ginger, garlic, and turmeric; leather, towels, window screens, fabrics, furniture, and yoga mats get moldy and must be checked and cleaned daily. 

One day I open a drawer and hardly recognize my passport under a layer of blue fur. I have to wipe a drop of sweat and a distraught look off my face as I grab a cloth to save my internationally mobile identity, threatening to be overgrown by jungle mold. When the blue-gray coating gives way to chipped golden lettering on wine-red leather, however, what I hold in my hand seems like a mysterious alien object from a long forgotten world that has nothing to do with myself. Spooked, I throw it back in the drawer and kick it shut. I might go back to this later. For now I am merging with the elements around me, exploring the chemical reactions that occur and the new materials they yield.  

We have all been dreaming of a dry christmas. And our wish is granted. Christmas day this year comes with rich blessing of sunshine. We enjoy the first glasses of home-made organic eggnog and locally brewed beer outside in the sun, hang the piñata from a tree, and let the kids pick up their candy from a patch of nearly mud-free lawn. 

Potluck today is bounteous. People have made extra efforts to piece together a special feast. In addition to my usual oat and raisin cookies I have made the second cheesecake of my life and decorated it with chocolate and whipped cream. Other dishes served include: brined roast chicken, kumquat skins filled with chocolate, grilled ribs of grass-fed Hawaiian beef, vegan sunflower paté with gluten-free gravy, English cheese, freshly harvested avocado, lemon pie, mozzarella and tomato with basil, filled wine leaves, oven-roasted vegetables, orange, green, and white tortillas, vegan and non-vegan rice pudding, mashed, and scalloped potatoes. 

After our bellies are filled, the most interesting part of the party begins: the gift giving game. In our community, company executives are rare. We have some licensed medical marihuana growers. Alternative medicine makers. Teachers. Homemakers. A clown. A translator. People scraping by on welfare and small jobs including market vending, crafting, cleaning, house-and dog sitting, etc. Creative genius and eccentricity abound. These demographics make for an exciting variety of presents.

But what is even more exciting is observing the dynamics of the game. How people handle getting something and then having it taken away from them. The choices they make: Do they go for the gamble of taking something they know and love that might be taken away from them again? Do they go for the safe choice of a present that gets locked in their hands? Or do they go for the surprise of unwrapping a new gift? 

Are they selfish? Or do they pay attention to other’s needs and valiantly hunt presents for their partners, children, friends, or parents? Are they active or passive? Bold or polite? Impulsive or calculating? Do they try to advertise unwanted presents to the next taker so they can conquer something new? Do they express their love for a particular present passionately as soon as they see it or quietly hide their feelings until they get a chance to grab it? How do they take the loss of having a loved present taken away from them? Crisis or opportunity?

As the gift giving game unfolds, I see all of this and more. D. almost cries when his machete gets taken away from him. T. pulls a sneak attack on my chopsticks. N. conquers a beautiful shawl for his wife; she tries to return the favor with a 30-minute full body massage for him, wrapped up in a mandala, but it gets snatched away from her again. Old G. who usually needs a walker, performs a hot little dance with his Hawaiian ti-leaf crown, waving two large leaves by his side in an enchanting hula imitation. 

I see people barter, rattling boxes of energizing mints to make them look more attractive, sticking decorative tiles in people’s faces to hide all their other choices. Some carelessly show off fashion pieces only to be flabbergasted when somebody else claims them. Participants blessed with precious gems hide their booty, silently looking away as the present hunter passes by to strike. 

Another interesting element is to see what presents are the most coveted. Watching the spectacle unfold I feel inspired to make an experiment and have people play this game in different communities, in different places and living scenarios to compare the most coveted presents. Gifts that change hands twice in our game include: a set of 3 cast iron skillets, a bottle of Jack Daniels, a machete, a full-body massage, a studded belt, and a pair of hand-crafted warm walking socks with snake tongues- and faces. 

It is an enriching experience to be exposed to all the forces and factors at play in the gift giving game. I start off with a beautiful set of handmade chopsticks. They get taken away from me unexpectedly. I go for a new surprise and get an equally beautiful shawl. Once again, I get robbed of it. I decide to open an interesting small envelope and am thrilled to discover a voucher for a quart of home-made yoghurt (expensive to buy here!) by a good and trusted cook. Once again, very unexpectedly, it gets taken away. This time, there is only one more wrapped present left, and I go hunting among the unwrapped loot for the first time. I decide to claim a gift box that contains a silver pen, an empty journal, and a calendar for next year - a fresh angel message for every day. 

During the game, I feel animated and emotionally engaged in the gift giving part, but really I am much more interested in the human dimension of it, watching everybody’s moves unfold like the chapters of a psycho-thriller leading to its resolution. While I have each present, I am happy with it. When it gets taken away from me I go through a short stage of slight disappointment, competitive indignation, or surprise, then happily grab the opportunity by the reins. 

After all I know what I signed up for from the beginning, and our founding father quite aptly describes this activity as “a Buddhist game” of non-attachment. While I was happy with each present I had, I feel I have ended up with the perfect present. If this development is any indication for how things are going to go next year, I see an abundant, happy year coming. Now, is this due to the way the game went, or to my carefully crafted attitude? I will never know, but I will always keep working on my attitude - just in case, and because it is all I can do. 

As the tumultuous, exciting, dramatic, and competitive mosaic of human relations, emotions, and individual psychologies comes to an overall happy end, I feel that really, it is not the presents that matter. It is the exchange, the gathering, the game. Maybe, what we should focus on as we try to make this annual celebration meaningful again is presence instead of presents. This seems to be much closer to the origin of christmas than greedy consumerist pepper spray battles. After all, Christ’s most appreciated gift to people is his continued presence. I’m sure you’ve heard fervent preachers say “Jesus cares!” or “Jesus loves you!” A caring, loving presence in our life is something we all long for, something we all need, and something we all can give, regardless of our circumstances. 

Darkness descends, a fire is lit, and music is played. Ukuleles, drums, guitars, recorders. Voices: some musical but uneducated, some the exact opposite. Listening to these songs, equally familiar and unknown, a smile spreads across my face. We are doing something important here. Regardless of our skills, talents, and backgrounds, we are actively striving for harmony. We are born, we get sick, we grow old, we die. This is the part we cannot change. But as long as we are here, we can do out best. We can give and receive presence. Mele Kalikimaka. 

Between Halloween and Thanksgiving

November 2011 was a month of sickness, work, and grief. Not bad, but sad. 
Right on time for Halloween I was struck down by a mighty virus. Falling under the category ‘communal funk’, a term we use in our community to describe the downside of sharing almost everything in our daily lives, it had been going around, hitting everybody at their weak spot - in my case thrusting its pointed blade straight at my left tonsil, an easy target, which, along with the other one should have been pulled out when I was a child suffering from tonsillitis every other month. 

This particular funk had an especially powerful beat to it. It knocked me out so thoroughly, I could not even muster up the strength to leave my bed and drag myself to the desk, never mind sit and work. Once again it opened my eyes to how vulnerable we are. No health, no wealth. I did, however, have something to cheer me up: I was filled with confidence that whatever had snuck into my system would retreat within a matter of days or, at worst, weeks. 

As my dear friend and mentor P. was on my mind, it struck me how my situation stood in sharp contrast to his. Suffering from something that according to the specialists would not heal, but take him rather rapidly to his grave, he was preparing for his departure. Having just met him in this condition, seen him laugh and make jokes, teach and practice aikido, sit and drink whiskey with his friends, gave my admiration for him another boost. 

I have always loved costumes and jumped at any opportunity to wear one. I once imposed a super hero theme on a Bath aikido party. Nobody else shared my excitement, which resulted in me being the only one wearing a costume. P. had come as himself, however, beating the heroism of my Lara Croft hands down, in spite of authentic gun holsters and pellet guns. 

This year I was forced to leave my love of costumes in the darkest corner of my wardrobe and forgo the spooky costume craze of Halloween. Instead, the face of life unmasked presented itself to me, grimacing like a reflection in a trick mirror, silently screaming out the blunt reality of being mortal and living in a circle of friends and loved ones who share this trait with us like the creeping shadow of communal funk, bouncing and bobbing in the sun, while we drag our cursed bodies along in the heat. 

This resulted in a truly spooky Halloween. My fever-shaken body fell into an uneasy sleep, heat threatening to coagulate proteins, shivers hammering in the pending reality of eternal cold like a jackhammer, mind maneuvering through the stormy strait between this world and that, between sleep and wakefulness, dream and reality. Then suddenly, into an expanse of calm, a vision unfolded. 

At first, I could barely make out the silhouettes of the two figures sitting opposite each other at the small table. But as I drew closer, the scene brightened like an oil lamp had been lit between them, and before I knew it I could see them as clearly as if I was right there with them, first hovering, then clinging on to the grapevine. 

At one side of the table sat my friend P., bent over slightly, clasping a glass filled almost half way with golden liquid, turning it left and right, left and right. Opposite him sat a tall skeleton wearing an ornate late 17th century tricorn on his head, sporting two perfect round eyeballs still attached to their sockets. Next to this grotesque pirate leaned a saber, which he swiftly picked up and swung about in a masterful circle, swishing past P.’s face, whizzing through his own spine at the neck, making his head jump up a foot before it landed crooked between his spine and collarbones. His eyeballs rolled around in their sockets, looking for help. His bony fingers picked up his head and re-attached it to his spine. 

He picked up his own glass of golden liquid, and raised it. ‘Tis the last day of autumn, my brother,’ he said with a voice worn down by liqueur and tobacco, then upgraded with the echo of eternal life. ‘The time has come to take stock and prepare for the cold winter months ahead. Come drink with me to that!’ He clanged his glass to P.’s and poured its contents through his jaws, from where they dropped straight down his rib cage. 

This captured P.’s attention. He had so far been watching the light play in his drink, dejected. Prepared for anything, but tired and unsure what to expect. Now he was following the drops of rum down his interlocutor’s vacant body, licking them with his eyes as the last trickle ran across his vertebrae. With refreshed curiosity, P. now lifted his own glass, raised it to the other, looking him deep in the eyeballs, and took the smallest sip. Testing and tasting it on his tongue, his teeth spread like pearls into a rare and precious smile. ‘Excellent.’ An explosive sound of monosyllabic laughter jumped from his throat, ringing bright and clear in the air, making the bones across the table vibrate loudly against chair and floor. 

In lieu of clearing its throat, the skeleton quietened its rattling and spoke up again. ‘I am not here to show you the sense-void emptiness of death. You are aware of it. You taste each sip of life with all your senses, you make each moment rich with deed, you exercise your flesh and work it through your spirit.’ ‘Spirit!’ P. chuckled quietly, and a mischievous look of love permeated his facial features. ‘I’ll drink that. I mean TO that!’ He clanged his glass on the pirate’s, looked him in the eyeballs, and relished another sip, joy and intentional indulgence spreading across his features. ‘YES, rub it in!’ The pirate retorted, crossing his arms in front of his rib cage, having poured down the contents of his own glass in one loveless sweep of futility. 

The warmth of the drink began to glow through P.’s cheeks, and he straightened his posture facing the pirate. ‘I like your eyeballs. Do I get to keep mine too?’ A gust of held back indignation swept against the pirate’s eyeballs from inside his bones and pushed the left one out, where it bobbed up and down, hanging on to a thin nerve like a spider on a desperate thread. He took the tip of a handkerchief tied around his left wrist and carefully rubbed the fallen eyeball clean. He popped it back into its socket like a lost contact lens and looked at P. with fresh brightness. ‘If you take good care of them, you might be lucky.’ P. blew a puff of amusement through his nostrils. 

The skeleton continued: ‘Now as I mentioned, ‘tis time to prepare for the cold winter months ahead.’ ‘I am a diligent wood chopper.’ P. replied and took another good look at the two eyeballs across the table. The pirate’s jaws opened into a garish display of shrill laughter. Two ribs clattered to the ground, and his spine cracked as he bent back and forth in frivolous spasms of senseless amusement. P. picked up a rib that had fallen on his side and clicked it into place as the skeleton was repairing his other parts. ‘You take good care of yourself!’ P. smiled and took another sip of rum. ‘Such a handsome body.’ The pirate’s jaw dropped onto the table, while P. laughed, indulging in his own joke without holding back. ‘Sorry,’ he finally managed to say. ‘I just had to see your jaw drop once. Go ahead. Speak.’

‘Thank you,’ said the pirate, cracking his jaw back into place. ‘Now, my diligent wood chopper friend, this is your lucky day.’ ‘One of them, no doubt,’ P. replied, gaining more and more color as the liquid in his glass receded. ‘What gives me the pleasure?’ ‘Tis Halloween, the time of year when the physical and the supernatural worlds are closest, and magical things can happen with ease.’ ‘Such as our meeting?’ ‘Such as our meeting.’ the pirate confirmed, now obviously talking business. 

‘So it is magical, not fated?’ asked P. The pirate clarified. ‘An opportunity, but not an imposition.’ ‘What a charming host,’ P.’s eyebrows rose. He grinned. ‘Let’s drink to that.’ He held up his glass and spotted irritation in the eyeballs across the table. ‘I’m sorry,’ he forced down his chuckle with another sip. 

The skeleton spoke up. ‘You have been feeling the tug of your final sentence on your days, and then the tug of your days on your final sentence. Your life is shrinking yet expanding.’ ‘I am my own event horizon.’ P. completed the pirate’s accurate description of his recent experience. 

‘You are an expert at Japanese martial arts,’ said the skeleton. P. raised his eyebrows, wondering what he was getting at. ‘You know the Japanese custom of seppuku?’ ‘A gruesome custom, yes.’ ‘Gruesome like your condition. But with an inbuilt clause of mercy. A helper who cuts off the disemboweled’s head to end his pain and shorten his throes.’ ‘O mercy.’ ‘You’ve seen my skill with the saber.’ He offered. ‘I felt it swish past my forehead,’ P. confirmed. The pirate elaborated. ‘I have come on this propitious day to tell you, you may call me if you need me, and I shall assist you.’ The room darkened as face and skull approached each other across the table, illuminated eerily from below by the waning flame of the oil lamp. ‘Who do I call?’ P. asked, and the pirate answered: ‘Saber!’

The light went out, leaving the room in complete darkness, and I suddenly felt cold. I woke up, cold sweat covering my body, teeth clattering like rattling bones. Chilled to the bone, my fever was receding. 

A few days later I got a message from P. ‘My life is getting shorter, but at the same time stretching. Maybe I am my own event horizon. One of these days I will have to invent my own version of seppuku. But not quite yet.’

My brave friend and mentor P. passed away between Halloween and Thanksgiving. I was drowning in an exceptional flood of finance and alien cult translations when I got the news, struggling to keep my focus, digressing again and again into conjuring up memories, mopping up tears, talking and writing to my dear friend. Work - like life: a blessing and a curse. 

Addicted to the shape I take on, the shape my words draw when I address him, I still write to him. No new feedback can contribute to the way I keep shaping myself. I can hope for no more custom-tailored advice. No more shared laughter or practical jokes played on each other. My task from now on is to cherish his life, his teachings, and his friendship, including the grief his passing has left; to keep putting his advice into practice, and encourage myself and others to emulate the essence of his teachings. He summed it up in a nutshell after informing me he had been diagnosed with cancer:

‘There are good things about this business. I have discovered that all I want to do is carry on doing what I am doing. This is good because it means that I always have been doing exactly what I should have been doing.’

In his native Bath, a host of friends, loved ones, and family saw him off with sparklers to Bob Dylan’s song ‘You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go’ as he had requested. I was unable to attend, so on Thanksgiving day, I used the occasion to give thanks to him on our lava platform, introducing him to Pele, Goddess of the Volcano, lighting a little fire, and imagining all his new shapes and adventures. 

Six Limerix

I once met a man in Bath

He put me onto his path

With a left-handed punch,

An enlightening crunch,

And a thweep that that me on my arthe.* 

*note to the reader not to be read: = “a sweep that sat me on my arse” said without front teeth 

Our fighting got better and bolder

I knocked out his tooth with my shoulder

He had a new story

I basked in my glory

It made us both richer and golder. 

Our first shared passion was fighting

The next we discovered was writing -

Soon followed by cooking,

A theatre booking,

And then the odd werewolf sighting.

To capture his essence is tricky

Though it does stick around like a hickey

Compulsive mischief was part of his kiss

Compulsive charity beefed up its bliss,

His humour was limericky. 

He may pretend to be dead

But he’s alive in my head

And kicking in my actions,

And frolicking in my distractions,

With all that he did and said. 

That lightning-struck night I heard him howl,

Saw thunder clouds roll back and scowl,

And reveal a full moon

To a well known tune

I take it he’s out on the prowl.

Travel Truly - Be Here. Now. Part 3

We make our way into town, have our picture taken by a charming American tourist in front of Bath Abbey, and then meet Tony who takes us to the ‘Wild Cafe’ for fish & chips, sweet potatoes with mushrooms and root vegetables, goat cheese and fig salad with balsamic vinaigrette, stirring wild appetites in the blood, driving saliva from all corners of the mouth. Tony shows us his house in Bladud Street where we will meet to go to Hedley Hall in a few hours. Lawrence is off to meet a friend he is staying with. 

Daisuke and I take a stroll through the magnificent autumnal beauty of Bath, packed with nostalgia for me, beckoning with novelty to him, producing an enjoyable blend of Pulteney Bridge souvenir shopping, stories of old dates and cameras dropped in the river, memories of pubs crawled through on my ceaseless quest to get through my masters degree, academically and emotionally. We take a long walk to the Royal Crescent, do yoga poses in the giant park before it, witness a hot air balloon getting prepared for take off in Royal Victoria Park opposite the golf course, meet an exuberant dog jumping up to stretch his playful teeth into my face, do some present shopping at Waitrose and have a cup of tea and a caramel square at the cafe next to it. This feels so familiar I am tempted to walk straight back home, review the vocab for tomorrow morning’s consecutive interpreting class, and prepare myself for a bout on the mat with mighty P. 

We meet Lawrence and Tony and drive to Hedley Hall. I spot P.’s bald head through the window and know immediately it is him. Thinner. Paler. But when I stand in front of him, he is still a giant, still mighty if not mightier. Green eyes are blazing brazenly from the depths of his private battlefield. I have envisioned this moment, heard myself ask a dozen times: ‘How hard may I squeeze you?’ ‘Don’t squeeze too hard,’ he answers the question before it is asked. Maybe his powers have been elevated onto yet another plane, and he has already heard me. He does seem to be hovering in the clouds on a carpet of ki at the same time as being here. I double check his feet have not escaped. They haven’t. 

During class, P. teaches newcomers. While I enjoy a rare practice with Andrew Miller, one of my literary heroes, he gets Daisuke involved and throws him on one of the girls’ heads. Later, he takes his hand and tells him straight-faced: ‘You must marry her.’ Then finally, my favorite pirate steals me from my partner. Here I am. On the mat with P. I used to go home bruised and blissed out from tusk to tail after these stormy bouts of rage, rapture, and wicked wizardry. In spite of him feeding me with home made chocolate covered figs and thinking up all kinds of handicaps to make it easier for me to win. This time, the handicap consists of him having to fight another much mightier opponent at the same time, a demon that has his insides in a vise, tightening his grip as we fight. We engage in bouts of pushing hands. ’Something I could enjoy.’ Yes. Every moment of it. And he still blows me away with his sudden bursts of sneaky ki that completely throw me off balance. I half-jokingly counter with ridiculous youthful backbends à la Drunken Master instead of admitting defeat, and draw larger green eyes from him. ‘Come on!’ I silently will him, simultaneously casting the evil eye at the demon wringing his guts, ‘I know you’re really holding the key to the fountain of youth in your shark teeth!’ 

After practice, we go to the pub. On the way, I see P. walking on his own, looking like he is no longer filling his large brown leather jacket - the one I wore last time we met, when I carried enormous chunks of firewood through his woodland like a Clydesdale, sweating happily under his instructions in wintery Bath. I take his arm and hook it into mine. ‘There ARE arms in these sleeves!’ 

At the pub, P. drinks a half of Kingston Press, nursing it forever. ‘I can’t drink anymore.’ But then he proceeds to order a whiskey and sips it to the end, making an inexplicable smile settle deep in my face as if punched into shape by golden liquid. I am star struck and thrilled to talk to Andrew Miller (Ingenious Pain), handsome, with lucid clear eyes that see in the dark like cats' eyes, and manage to perceive a picture of all this nobody else can see until he hurries home and writes it down. Andrew Miller giving me advice on publishing, what an honor. And what bliss! I get to practice aikido with two of my favorite heroes in one night and then have one on my right and the other across from me at the pub. Before we leave I grab P.’s shoulders and knead them gently, caressing precious moments of life, ichidaiji pulsing through my veins on wings of Kingston Press.

We walk back to the church. P.’s work - a church turned community welfare center, full of activities that enrich people’s lives. He points out the sofas, warns us not to sleep on the bean bag as we will not be able to get up, shows us the tea, the kettle, a bag of home made bread. And then we stand outside and part. 

‘See you in Heaven!’ In Heaven? I am not sure I’ll make it there, but I’m in Heaven now, my friend, with your ridiculous green eyes shining a mixture of eternal victory, compulsive mischief, equally compulsive charity, and, yes, love on me right now. See you? I will, yes. 

And so ends the last leg of our journey. After another brief stop in Hannover, and another farewell, Daisuke is moving on to Berlin, Salamanca, Barcelona, to discover new expanses of our richly laden European coffee table. He has been great company, a good sputnik, and, as always, an inspiring fellow student. I for my part am off back to Hawai’i, the country of aloha, to keep growing my new roots among hibiscus petals and night blooming jasmine, to worship Pele, respect Her land, and humbly import the message of ichidaiji. Aloha. Live, friends. Here. And now. 

Travel Truly - Be Here. Now. Part 2

We part grateful, especially for our teacher’s life, and the way he enriches ours. We see him and his entourage off at Schipol airport, and our Dutch friends take Toyo, our international appendage, my Shosenji dojo buddy Daisuke, and me to the train we have to catch. The three of us spend a few hours wandering about the mesmerizing streets of Amsterdam, which seem to constantly change, blurring, and re-crystalizing, separating, shifting, and reattaching - I’m sure! - yet thankfully, they always magically spout us back out at Centraal Station in the end. Finally, our team breaks up again - Toyo going back to his psychology Ph.D. in Barcelona, Daisuke and I moving on to Hannover. Europe is a coffee table, its islands of treats connected by low budget flies and Intercity ants. Daisuke is just back from a yoga trip to India, traveling, broadening his horizon. I am going home to see my family, facilitating his journey, offering to guide him through a new expanse of coffee table - full of ice cream, Bahlsen cookies, and home made nut cake. 

When we arrive, my grandpa greets us with a blue hand. As I hug my grandparents, I scold them teasingly: ‘Have you two been at it again?’ and my friend from the far East notices quickly how in this house, almost every line contains a joke or two. 

Over the next few days we listen to my grandpa’s hand, blue and swollen from blood being drawn, dancing across the piano like a ballerina, evoking the sweet romance and slapstick comedy of silent movies. We eat my grandma’s scrumptious home made meals and cakes, drink coffee, witness my grandpa’s balloon creations, chew, talk, listen, translate back and forth, laugh. We visit my aunt and feast on Egyptian dishes whose names we’ve never heard, 5 choices of dessert, make attempts to re-create the Japanese tea ceremony. I play nose whistle duets with my father, who has driven here especially from Poland so we can be together. Traditional German canons, Mozart, Strauss’s Blue Danube Waltz. We listen to my father’s violin play, visit my mothers old town apartment, share visions of her new country home. We cycle along the Lake, walk through the empty vastness of a sunny autumn day at the Baroque Gardens, grace statues and fountains, flower beds and bins with yoga poses, walk through crisp cold nights with cans of Hefeweizen in our hands, past the fish of the forest and the lions of the lake. We stroll through the city center with my mother and beautiful sister, posing with Friedrich Schiller and Martin Luther, buying souvenirs at the 1 Euro shop, eating sausages at Bratwursglöckle and buying fish sandwiches at Nordsee for later. 

Hannover is a sparkling expanse of the European coffee table. But another is beckoning, off the continent, decked with tea, scones, clotted cream, and jam. P. is just around the corner. How could I pass by without visiting? Daisuke, a true traveler and fellow student on the path of ichidaiji greets the idea with ‘Let’s go.’ So as I sit in front of my computer for an hour, our trip grows a new leg. 

Another evening train, another airport. In the morning, fluorescent bars fluttering at the back of our eyeballs, we hover over to the airline desk. We find out our tickets have been cancelled due to late booking and buy the only tickets available, which take us to London Stansted instead of Bristol. It sounds close enough. When we arrive we message Lawrence. 

We call him Bond and turn him into legend. Not only because he bears a slight resemblance with Daniel Craig but also because he is everywhere - always - and we are grateful for a coherent plot of entertainment throughout our lengthy trip. We beg him to save us and pick us up from the airport. He informs us that we are at the other side of the country. The plot thickens. We imagine him with a Bond girl, her hair sandstone gold like the buildings of Bath, sipping martinis in a subterranean Roman jacuzzi as he types his message. Bond does not disappoint. He has the answer, instructs us to take the National Coach - affordable and fast - at about ₤ 40 each it only takes about 5 hours to reach Bath. We’re on. 

Eating Boost bars and crisps and sipping apple tango from a Stansted vending machine, we watch velvety morning mist turn silky and lift, giving way to a splendid day of honeysuckle sunshine brightening lush green grass, rolling hills, hazelnut colored rabbits frolicking in due-decked meadows, little rows of chimneys on homes, quaint, and charming square figures squatting along the roads, docile and useful like the sheep dotting the pastures between them. A different island, a different world. An old home. What I eat in the morning is called a continental breakfast here, although I allow myself to gorge on sausages, bacon, fried eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, hash browns, baked beans, and toast while here - the British morning’s tested way of dragging the farmer into the field, the tourist into town, and the pub crawler out of of his hangover.

We change busses at London Heathrow. Another 2 1/2 hours, and we arrive in Bath, waiting for Bond. It was probably a good Bond girl. Or a bad one, and he had to kill her, which caused unforeseen complications and cost time. That must be it. Will he arrive in an amphibian vehicle hiding its fins in sports car camou? Send a Limousine and have us brought to a secret mansion in the country? Is he already at the heart of his mission stealing a miracle drug to save P. from a bunch of dangerous dealers at Southampton port? Our imagination is so thrilled with his secret quests, we spot him about 3 times before the actual Lawrence walks across the street, apologizes for being late, and greets us warmly, reinstating his actual personality through the coat of fiction we have thrown on him: lover of aikido and shiatsu, classical guitar player, upholder of friendship and loyalty, facilitator of complicated friends’ visits across countries, supplier of information and rental cars in strange cities.

Travel Truly - Be Here. Now. Part 1

On October 3rd, I travel from Hilo to Amsterdam. I board at 8.35 in the morning. 4 planes, a couple movies, a sleeping pill, some written pages, and a few chapters of the Shark Dialogues later I’m on the other side of the world - 12 hours time difference exactly. I don’t even have to change my watch. As I wrap my cashmere shawl around me a little tighter and watch green pastures and chewing cows through the train windows on my way from Schipol to Rosendaal, I remember waking up with warm trade winds on my skin, sunbeams hitting me through palm fronds, and am amazed. Traveling has become so easy. 

I have just read a fictional but realistic account of Dutch sailor Mathys Conradtsen traveling to Hawai’i on the Silver Coin in 1834. The ‘Sandwich Islands’ had been discovered by Captain Cook 56 years earlier. Men slept in bunks below deck full of fleas, 2 ft away from the next man, unable to sit up, in total darkness. They spent their days in a stinking rut, repairing sails, ropes, rigging, standing watch aloft the mast, its height towering over the sway of the ship, stamp sized from above, augmenting their nausea. Suffering from malnutrition, dehydration, bad hygiene, diarrhea and a host of other diseases, dying or throwing themselves into the sea. Catching and disemboweling sperm whales, diving into their heads, melting their precious blubber and storing it in barrels called hogsheads. Eating the same things every day if they were lucky enough to have food, worms squirming in their bread, rats swimming in their water. Slitting the veins of the newly dead and squeezing out mice to quench their thirst. Having their ship smashed by a mad whale. Escaping on life boats, cursed with survival, eating their shipmates and arriving at their destination labeled cannibals. 

At Rosendaal station, my host family and friends greet me with warm hugs and shower me with pity for having had to suffer through such an endless ordeal of a journey. I smile, knowing better, and happy to see them. 

I’m here to accompany my aikido teacher Katsuyuki Shimamoto and interpret for him at a seminar he will teach over the next 4 days, in Uiden, Zevenbergen, and Mechelen, Belgium. My teacher has been through a rougher ride than me, having recovered only recently from stomach cancer surgery. Really, he is still not supposed to exercise, but here he is, ready to teach his annual seminar and add a new Belgian location to the menu. At our first dinner together since August - Chinese takeaway at our host teacher’s house - it is a truly smile-inducing experience to see him eat a whole plate full of food and go back for seconds. He takes this social opportunity to introduce us - the disciples gathered around him, thirsty for his teachings after dinner - to the theme of this year’s seminar: 一大事 ichidaiji. 

The word consists of three characters: ‘one’, ‘big’, and ‘thing/issue’. If the first two are combined, they mean ‘major’ or ‘top’. If the second two are combined, they mean ‘important’. In this way, many interpretations and layers of meaning can be gathered from the term if one thinks about all the possibilities it offers. Conventionally, the word has an everyday meaning and a Buddhist interpretation. In its everyday meaning, it refers to a major tragedy like cancer, or a tsunami. Its Buddhist meaning is the Buddha’s  manifestation on earth to save all living things. The major issue. The one important thing. My teacher says he has finally arrived at his own idea about the essence of ichidaiji. 

‘Think about it’, he says. ‘There is air for us to breathe. Water to drink. Food to eat. People who have poured the efforts of their own lives into giving birth to us, raising us, educating us, feeding us. There are a million incredible factors that make our life possible. This life we have, here and now, is the most important thing. Honor its every moment with the right effort: good posture, calm mind, all-seeing eyes, welcoming others into your heart and sphere, and creating harmonious exchange. Life is ichidaiji. Consider everything you do with it ichidaiji. Give each moment your best.’ 

This is the lesson he has brought with him this time, no doubt influenced by his recent bout with cancer, a serious issue that could be called ‘ichidaiji’ in everyday Japanese. But he has found a different meaning in it and blessed us with its power. 

His lesson gives us the necessary attitude to spend a magic five days in Holland and Belgium with our fellow disciples who have once again come together from multiple countries including Poland, Israel, and Spain, to learn how to lead better lives and be better people. Through four days of aikido, dancing, breathing, intertwining, and flying around different dojos, and an additional day of sightseeing, fry feasting, waffle wielding, chocolate chomping and beer boozing in Antwerp, Belgium, we truly connect and give each other our best, getting the best out of it. Making every moment count, we celebrate life, love undug and hearts emptied in the grip of a moment, the sweeping power of a breath, the singing voice of inevitability, the musubi of the senses and the mind. 

I am also pleased to run into Lawrence on the third day of the seminar, a fellow member of the brethren once gathered around P. in Bath. We met at an aikido seminar in Israel last spring and talked at a party. We found out we had both lived in Bath. Then P.‘s name was mentioned, and we fell through the cracks of first small talk into something closer to an ancient friendship. Once again, we talk about P., ichidaiji on our mind. About Bath. Lawrence has his contact in his phone. Offers help. We see the reflection of necessity and excitement in each other’s eyes. With his spy skills, Lawrence finds out quickly that the Bath aikido brothers practice at Hedley Hall on Thursday nights, and that P. can still be found there. A plan is spawned.  

Sweet, Fragrant Trade Winds

One more Saturday market, and I’m off to the Netherlands and Belgium to interpret Zen priest and aikido master Katsuyuki Shimamoto’s teachings to his European followers. I look forward to this new adventure but I will miss the market. The Saturday market at S.P.A.C.E. is a weekly highlight for many people in Puna, including both guests and vendors, and before I miss it for two weeks in a row, I would like to pay tribute to it.

Over the past month, my waffle vending business has brought me a pile of wealth. The crumpled dollar notes that land in the hand-tailored pockets of my white apron as customers stop by, attracted by the fragrance of fresh waffles, are of course a welcome pocket money, but I am referring to a different kind of wealth. Three markets have passed, and I have been able to exchange my waffles against: 

• a karuna massage
• a bunch of bananas and two heads of lettuce
• an energy/ body healing session
• heaps of great conversation
• many new acquaintances
• an acro-yoga class
• a sachet of raw ulu powder

and

• a postcard sized art print showing a shark eating a snapper while being groomed by three little cleaner fish: ‘Life from Life’.

The title of this postcard that is now gracing my desk, motivating me as I write, is in fact a great summary of what I want to say about the Saturday market. 

In this world most of us blog readers and writers inhabit, we are used to buying things with money, and selling things for money. I am not about to discuss the benefits and drawbacks of money here, but fact is that when selling low-priced goods, the money we receive from somebody does not tell us much about the buyer’s personality. Of course the transaction can become more personal as the waffle bakes and conversation starts to flow. We may also deduce certain aspects of the buyer’s personality from their choice of product. People who buy waffles like a nice leisurely breakfast. They appreciate sensual pleasure. They like it sweet, warm, and fluffy - or sometimes crunchy. Some of them like to chat, some prefer to walk. My personal market research has already taught me to distinguish wheat-free sugar-free waffle buyers from classic waffle buyers based on their looks in 90% of cases. 

But back to the point: compared to exchanging a product against money, trading a product for another product or service feels much closer to actually communicating with somebody. While I specialize in entertainment (Captain Ladle), making things sweet, warm, and fluffy for people (waffles), and promoting the localvore mentality (toppings made with fruit grown on Bellyacres), other market vendors specialize in healing (massages/ energy healing), providing food (bananas, lettuce), or making the world more beautiful (art). By trading products and services at the market, we get a glimpse of each other’s personalities. We give a piece of ourselves to somebody else and in turn receive a piece of them. Let me quote one of my favorite sources - Wikipedia, a website based on the free trade of knowledge - on the history of trade: ‘Trade originated with the start of communication in prehistoric times’. 

I am the last person to reject the achievements of the modern world - I have composed odes to modern drugs for saving my life, and sung hymns of gratefulness to the simple pleasure of sitting on a clean heated toilet seat as blizzards were howling cacophonies of frost outside. But this back-to-the-roots experience of trading one thing for another instead of relying on money for every single transaction of goods and services has been a very charming experience for me. 

While I am full of appreciation for the wonders of modern civilization, I believe it is still an asset to know about our human beginnings. It can remind us of some things that are easy to forget leading the life we lead. In many ways, we have improved life, in others we have digressed from what is important. Innovative efforts and inventions represent genuine human needs and longings, but in a world dominated by such a high degree of specialization, a world in which people are so used to buying things for money that they cannot understand, let alone make, most of the objects they use in their daily lives (Can you make a pen? A kitchen knife? Cornflakes? Do you know how a computer works?), experiencing the intrinsic nature of trade is a welcome reminder that in order to thrive, we need to communicate. We need to make an effort and fulfill our innate mission to make whatever we happen to have access to available to our fellow human beings. If it wasn’t for others, would you have the house you live in? The clothes you’re wearing? The food you’re eating? 

The S.P.A.C.E. market is the epitome of an important principle that can help us lead more fulfilling lives and help others do the same. People in Puna are great at this. Classes (yoga, fitness, juggling, circus arts etc.) are offered free of charge - small donations suggested at most. People are interested most of all in your presence. In your energy. In sharing. In creating a scene and making something happen. In Hawaii, they call this ‘Aloha Spirit’. 

Carrying a couple of waffles over to the energy healing table, I take in their aroma and realize: these are just another form of energy. Food is a form of energy. Massage is a form of energy. Money is a form of energy. In Japanese, energy is called 気 ki. It has another connotation connected with the basic power of life, similar to the Hawaiian ‘ha’ (essence/breath of life), which, according to folk etymology, is exchanged in the greeting ‘aloha’ (alo = presence/ front/ face). Ki is the energy we learn to use and control in aikido. Ki is the energy we exchange with our partner during practice. Ki is the power we try to channel with the single purpose of creating harmony. This is what my master Katsuyuki Shimamoto has to say about the subject: 

‘The Japanese word 和不同 wafudō, written with the characters ‘harmony’, ‘not’, and  ‘same’ expresses that harmony does not equal sameness. On the contrary, for the concept of harmony to exist, it takes multiple factors, multiple forces, multiple notes. When we try to create harmony with our partner, we do not try to become the same person. We respect each other, including all our differences, and try to complement each other in the most harmonious way, bringing out each other’s best. 

Let me give you an example of harmony. In Japan, we have a type of dish called ‘和え物’ (aemono), written with the characters for ‘harmony’ and ‘thing’. Aemono usually combines two ingredients. Often, one of the ingredients alone would not taste good: it may be too bitter, too oily, or too dry. But combined with the other, its best flavors are brought to the fore, while its negative components exert a positive influence upon the first ingredient and bring out its most delicious flavors. If you eat a plain waffle, it is usually too dry. If you eat only butter, it is too oily. But when you spread butter on a warm waffle, the waffle sucks up the oiliness of the butter, the butter moistens the dryness of the waffle, and the result is perfect harmony.*

So how can we create harmony? Remember that what goes around comes around. You need to focus on what you send out. Whatever exchange you engage in, both you and your partner should enjoy it. Being the host, it is your task to create a pleasant, harmonious setting for you and your partner to converse in. When inviting your partner into your sphere, focus your efforts on inviting and sustaining a sincere, fruitful and harmonious conversation. Communicate from the heart. 

Every encounter should be a pleasant exchange.’

And this, I believe, is the beauty of the Saturday market. This is exactly what we do. Trade. Communication. Aloha spirit. Exchange of ki. We bring our individual flavors together to enrich each other’s lives and create harmony. 

Helping spread Katsuyuki Shimamoto’s message in Europe and absorbing more of it myself over the next two weeks, I will have all the more energy to share with you the next time I get to  enjoy the harmonious flavor concoction of the Saturday market. Thank you for trading. 

*slightly altered by the editor due to the unfamiliar examples from Japanese cuisine used in the original ;)