"The hands that now work for you also heal. As you align your desires with the highest good for all, you become a channel, a woman of good medicine. Life is your power. The Creator is you, bringing life into the world through the patterns of your thinking, the images of your mind...womb of creation...these are your powers."

- Carol Bridges

On coming home...

It's been almost five weeks since I left India behind in a whirl of silks and spices...and emotions. 

I walked through the airport numb. Not talking to anyone. Not reading. Not listening to music. Not allowing myself to give in to heartache. I felt so raw and bruised; like a fallen apple, dropped to the ground by a tree that was overburdened and could not carry me any longer. India...the mother that was the catalyst for all those years of saving and planning, had pushed me out of her womb premature. I was not ready and felt malnourished.

 My Grandmother, while she had such a long road of healing ahead of her, seemed to be getting stronger each day. I anxiously awaited updates from my Mom. Sending love and strength to my family at home who was facing a different kind of reality than I. Saying goodbye to someone is so uncomfortable. Seemingly so finite. How do you possibly express all of the love that you possess for someone. Wanting so badly to articulate all of those emotions, hoping that if maybe, just maybe, you are poetic enough, that they will keep fighting. I see now how self-serving this is. I also understand that as humans, we will all experience it at some point. My Grandmother remained as long as she did for all of 'us'. She was ready to go swirl around in her layers and layers of tulle skirts, square dancing with my Grandfather. She was ready to stop missing him so much. 

...I am so in awe of our mental processes. The way in which our hearts allow us to 'hang in there' and remain strong until there is a time to safely let go. That was the reality of my first two weeks home. I had barely time to unpack and recover from jet lag until I was in a church surrounded by family that I hadn't seen in years. "How was your trip?' - hundreds of times over.

"Good." This was about all I could think of. It was just the only answer I could muster. Even now, five weeks later, I have not really spoken of it. Its as if my mind is blocking those memories from being shared until I can relive them with Nate by my side. The day we parted ways was difficult to say the least. We had experienced more than we could have imagined together and had so much more ahead of us. India for seven more weeks, then onto Africa. Our relationship had swayed with the winds, like a ancient tree firmly planted, but had felt the pressures of a passing storm. Nothing that had not strengthened our branches, just simply, growing pains. Seven months of traveling together will do that! Now the "road manager" as Nate called me, was leaving the tour early. For those of you who know me well, you know that India was my Mecca. Calling me home forever. But it simply was not ever a question that my rightful place was at home with my family. To hug my Mom. To say goodbye to Grammie. To weep with all of my heart for all that was lost.

Less than a week and a half after my Grandmother passed, so did her second husband... 

 Elwin and my Grandmother dated in high school, and after their respective spouses passed, they were fortunate enough to find love again. My Grandparents along with Elwin and his first wife Sylvia, remained friends throughout their marriages, raising 10 children between them. Sometimes Sunday meals would be shared after church and birthdays and milestones were always recognized. Not much changed once Elwin and my Grandmother were married. With over 25 Grandchildren and more than a dozen Great-Grandchildren between them both, they never forgot a birthday, never forgot a name, and could always be counted on to "fill you in" on what everyone else was up to.

 More love in one lifetime than anyone could dare dream. Elwin died from a broken heart and there is nothing more poetic than that.

You have probably heard me say countless times, "everything happens for a reason". Such a common wisdom, yet no less true. Each time I have felt sadness for not still traveling, each time I had felt lost and displaced by my situation, and each time I have felt even a drop of self-pity, I am reminded of my own words. How incredibly lucky am I to have experienced even a day of this journey? How fortunate to have the family I do, that allows me the space to grieve and have solitude when I need it. After all of the suffering I have seen on our trip and in travels past (or in my own country for that matter) ... how people with so little, can carry on with such gratitude and grace in their hearts. This is the only lesson I sought to learn on my journey. I did not realize it setting out, but being home, it could not be more clear. 

 I go for long walks in the woods behind my childhood home and I've watched over the weeks, life slowly blooming again. I pick bittersweet and wild chives. I sit by the lake and watch the suns reflection in the water. How sneaky the water can be by making the rocks underneath it look so big. I think about how the fish must see me looking down on them. But mainly, I just appreciate the present. I breathe really deeply. I take my time with most matters. I make a point to look everyone in the eyes and be a better listener. I speak with intention and I try to live with a passion that I hope can be contagious. I'm trying my best to be a dependable and loyal friend. Above all...

I AM GRATEFUL.  

I count down the days until I can hold my loves hand again, listening to his African tales. I am so incredibly proud of that man. He overcame his fears of the unknown; Of setting out into a world he was unfamiliar with and then letting go of my hand when he had to, continuing out on his own to become more and more, the truest version of himself. 

“When we love, we always strive to become better than we are. When we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better too.” 

-Paulo Coelho

Goa, going, gone

April 6th, 2012

Dear Goa,

So long and thanks for all the fish. I'll always remember your laid back, charismatic lifestyle and the times we shared. Laughing, lounging, soaking the sun... It was so nice and relaxing, I don't know how I could have done it without you. You were such a wonderful catalyst for making new friends. I had no idea an American, a German, a Russian, two Brits and two Scotsman could share company for a week and NOT talk about politics.

I also want to thank you for your bountiful gifts of fresh fruits, fresh veggies, fresh juices, the freshy fresh market, the fresh smiles, fresh sheets at the guesthouse (such a nice daily treat), fresh sunburns, fresh flowers, fresh dried fish...? and the aforementioned fresh seafood. Oh gosh, stop me my friend!

Oh and cricket! You taught me about cricket! What a wild game, I mean, in that highly competitive, somewhat sophisticated way. I'll never release the memory of cheap Budweiser and cricket matches into the morning hours. Or how about the lovely karaoke session we shared!? Just delightful.
I do hope you heed my small advice and clean yourself more. The ill placed rubbish that surrounds your beautiful ocean eyes is dreadful. I know, I know we discussed it. And I don't want to seem brash towards you in the least. But push harder towards your recycling program, educate those who don't know and maybe in time a new shift will begin. You never know til you try! So try my dear!

Ok, I'll rest my pen now. Take care Goa, land of relaxment, land of blissed outness. Until we meet again.

Your traveling friend,
Rev. N.R. Meloney

ps. - I think you have my shorts.

Mumbai baby

We arrived in Mumbai by train, a whooping 19.5 hours after departing the quiet and serene lakeside village of Pushkar. Excitement and a pinch of fear for the unknown awaited. This city of 16 million plus was quick to show us its underbelly. A blast of sweltering heat and humidity immediately shocked the skin. Morning rush hour traffic screamed in an orchestra of horns and engine noise, overwhelming the ears. Exhaust fumes stinging my nostrils. My eyes were pulled in a thousand directions trying to absorb my first glimpse of this metro monster... This country mouse will always visit a city, but never live there. All in all, we had an interesting two hour taxi ride that introduced us to more of the city than we wished to see at that early hour. But we landed at our sea shore hotel safe and with a good tale to tell.
Mumbai is a huge city. Approximately 30 miles long by 10 miles wide. It spreads its arms across the western coast of central India being one part sand, two parts port and four handfuls of garbage. The city is a fusion of chic metro fashion, preserved Indian culture, crumbling English architecture, auto rickshaws and taxis, high end lifestyle and absolute poverty. And it's all amazing.
History IS Mumbai. You can feel it walking down the old, broad city streets. The huge overgrown trees that line the way have stories only they know. Palaces and forts have been converted to beautiful museums and fancy dining establishments. With all the spit and polish of the posh comes the opposite as well. People are poor. They have no chance of growing or farming in a concrete city. They struggle to make money for a meal, offering to polish your flip flops for two rupees, or using their soiled children to guilt you into giving money. Renouncing worldly possessions and material objects, these are the people whom Ghandi connected with the most. The people who still welcomed and lived life while looking into the face of hardship.
Old or new, dark or light, rich or poor, it's all part of the far out landscape of Mumbai baby.