"Opportunities for Growth"

For weeks the "bed bug incident" was the gold standard for difficult nights. It was the bar - the night against which I compared all others when I needed to feel better about things. "Yes, this is bad," I would say to myself. "But is it bed bug bad?" Then I came to Peru. In a matter of one week, the bed bugs were usurped and the standard for mid-night misery reset not once, but twice. Before I rush into the stories, though, I want to share a bit of my philosophy with you, so that you don't shed too many tears over my misfortune. Save that water. Warm weather is on the way and it's important to stay hydrated. So here is my disclaimer: I am not having a bad time in Peru. In fact, whenever possible I try to avoid labeling my experiences as "good" or "bad". Each one is just another opportunity for growth. (If you need a motivational speaker, my rates are very reasonable.) Ok, so I don't believe that all the time. Cognitively, I believe it, but sometimes - like when my body is crawling with bugs - the rest of me screams, "Bad! Bad! Make this experience stop!" I'm not enlightened yet. But I'm practicing. And writing is one of my favorite tools for making sense of the experiences that I want to call "bad". On average I tend to write more about things that sound "bad" than things that sound "good" because this is how I get better at accepting them. Oh, and they make way better stories than the days where I have delicious food, perfect bowel movements, and a sound night's sleep. Who wants to read about that? This is another way in which my writing practice serves me. It helps me to accept reality; because even when I can't say to myself, "Michael, two hundred dollars may seem like a lot of money to lose, but be grateful for the opportunity to explore your attachment to material things", I can say, "Wow, this is going to make for great writing material!"

That disclaimer aside, on to the writing material. I am going to share an excerpt from a ten-page journal entry, furiously written in a $60 motel room in Lima where I stayed for three and a half hours under the pretense of rest. To set the scene: it is 1 am in Lima and 3 am in Santiago (my body time). Wearing only pants because of the heat and the dampness of my travel-weary shirts, I sit at a wooden table - to which my forearm sticks with sweat as I write. My body is completely erect as if my entire organism were a missile launcher for my hand, which fires rapidly and with little precision. The lines cannot contain my wrath. All around me is noise and distraction - I can hear every shoe on the stairs outside my room and from the balcony window enter the sounds of laughter and live music that celebrate Friday night - but I am focused only on the pen and the paper and I am not celebrating.

Excerpt: yes $200 is a lot of money but it's not even about the money it's that I am not in control I am not in control maybe this is part of the Peru curriculum of slowly releasing into the Heart telling the mind it's ok you don't have to be perfect you've been driving for so long now and I know you're tired and it's ok you don't have to be perfect here it is another stupid lesson I need about my desire to be perfect I just can't believe he sold me sold me on a hostal bueno y barato (good and cheap) talked all about the hostal bueno y barato he'd take me to so much of course than the airport hotel which could cost $150 he said that he'd take me somewhere good and cheap and I didn't ask what it would cost me to get there didn't ask and he took me for a ride all the while telling me to watch out for the "street taxis" taxis de la calle he said couldn't be trusted but he called himself an official airport taxi really? for an official airport taxi he didn't look so official a yellow polo shirt with zero visible credentials an unmarked car no radio dispatching other official airport taxis and no business card nothing to give me when I asked for his number and he had the worst parking spot one could imagine does an official airport taxi really park on a curb probably illegally at such a walk from the airport that it seemed to be off the grounds of the airport proper that doesn't smell like an official airport taxi but he warned me just the same of the street taxis and the common thieves on the street who would jump me in gang at the ATM when no one else was walking past and then take every last cent I had every last cent I had wow that does sound bad but not nearly as efficient as this guy's system because he got more than every last cent I had we had to visit the ATM twice to meet his price maybe bribe at this point it's sort of understood blackmail isn't it? give me 350 soles (Peruvian currency) or you're on your own here in this neighborhood in evident decay crumbling store fronts interspersed with neon places restaurants bars I don't know really at that point he can name his price and what do I do?

My primary intention for this trip to Peru was to move out of my brain - spend less time there, listen to it less, so that I could begin to hear the soft sounds of my heart. I did not expect it to happen so quickly or completely. And frankly, the brain is very useful for some things. Avoiding consensual kidnapping is one of those things. I could say that it was 2 am in my body and I was exhausted from travel, and that would be true. But I also need to acknowledge that there is a part of me so naive, so trusting that I followed the man in the yellow polo shirt all the way through the parking lot to a place clearly off the airport grounds. This is difficult for me to admit because it is difficult for me to accept that part of myself, love that part of myself. The stupid part. The $200 I can let go much more easily because what is $200? $200 is whatever importance I give to it - it is the entire cost of the trip to Isla Mocha (!!!) and it is also the cost of the electric guitar and amp I bought (mom bought?) in high school. I played that guitar three or four times and it didn't produce anything nearly as impressive as all the writing I've done about the $200 I spent in three and a half hours in Lima. So with some skilled rationalization, I can let the money go. I can accept that. But how do I let go of feeling so stupid, so little so misused? How do I love myself when I feel like that? How do I love the man in the yellow polo shirt?

When you're on a bus full of people who are into spirituality, self-development, and shamanism (as I was for many days) the usual small talk of weather, families, and jobs is replaced with lots of vague, esoteric words about surrender, letting go, accepting reality, self-love. It's pretty easy to talk about that stuff (I'm guilty too), especially with a group of people who listen to stones, cry at the sight of a bird, and pay lots of money to receive energetic transmissions. I don't mean to belittle the importance of listening, crying, and receiving energy. These are good things. But sometimes it's impossible to hear the birds and the stones over the footsteps in the hallway, the raucous music below, and the fury inside. What then? There's the work. There's the reason why I walk and write on an island for a week, or hike into the mountains to pray and listen to my heart. Because in the noise of Lima, the noise of the world, I forget what it sounds like.

Even in the apparent stillness of the mountains there can be so much noise. One week after Lima, on Good Friday, we were preparing our despachos (offerings to the spirit of the mountain) in preparation for the full moon/equinox ceremony. A despacho is a beautiful gift crafted with patience, care, and intention. It starts with a piece of white paper - like a cross between gift-wrapping paper and sandwich-wrapping paper - and on that canvas you create something that ends up looking like an elaborate cake in the form of a circle, cross, square, or rectangle. The ingredients that go into the despacho are many, too many to name, and fall into three basic categories, which - continuing with the cake analogy - form the layers. The first layer is of natural ingredients from the earth (representing fertility), the second layer is of sugar and candy (representing love and the sweetness of life), and the third layer is of man-made objects (representing wisdom and vision). My favorite ingredients were the animal crackers, alphabet soup, and alpaca fat (it might have been llama fat but I like the alliteration). When the offering is complete, it is neatly wrapped - folding the white paper in a particular order - and then tied closed with string.

With my white paper and bundle of goodies, I sat down on the earth, facing the majestic, snow-covered mountain. Even dressed as I was with multiple layers on top and bottom, a down jacket, and fleece hat and neck warmer, it was a cold and windy afternoon at 14,000 feet. And I could feel myself getting a cold. The telltale scratch in the back of the throat had already evolved into that feeling that I should be able to breathe fire if I tried hard enough. My mind certainly spat fire. What the heck am I doing here? I´m making a present of animal crackers and alphabet soup for a mountain! My throat is killing me. I should have the alphabet soup, not the mountain. This is stupid. I can´t do this. That doesn´t look anything like a circle. He said everything should be perfectly symmetrical, like sacred geometry. This looks like the kitchen counter after preparing a meal. It was true. My paper was a mess of sugar, rice, beans, quinoa, and other tiny particles that rearranged themselves with every gust of wind and each touch of my big, fat, clumsy fingers. Imagine trying to build a house of cards on a trampoline while someone jumps on that same trampoline. Now imagine that your house of cards is being judged by a mountain that´s been know to kill people. Fuck.

I can´t do this. I can´t do this. How do I get out of this? I know. I´m sick. Yes, I´m sick. That´s why I can´t do this. Shouldn´t do this. Of course this isn´t my best work. I can´t be judged under these conditions. I stood up and went to the shamans. I told them of my frustration with the elements, with myself, with my health. Jeff told me to put my jacket back on - I had taken it off - and work through it. "This is a powerful mountain," he said. "It´s testing you." It sure was. It had been difficult to work with any skill before I started working with the alpaca fat. Once my fingers were covered in that, everything stuck to them. The offering became an Etch-a-Sketch. Anywhere my fingers went, everything followed. My thoughts became so toxic, so self-defeating that I found myself in middle school art class - an experience so deeply repressed that I cannot remember the teacher´s name (I can remember every other teacher´s name from my seventeen years of schooling). I hated my work in that class. Each day I´d start to push my fingers into the clay and wait for inspiration to strike. I´d play with the lifeless material for forty minutes. When the bell rang, I´d look at the grotesque shape in front of me, and - close to tears - beat the clay back into the pile of nothing that would torment me again tomorrow. After about two weeks of frustration and embarrassment that I couldn´t produce a "work of art" (oh, my other intention for my time in the mountains was to disempower my perfectionist tendencies...) I gave up. I had to because everyone else had fired their pieces in the kiln already and it was time to move on to the next project. So I lied. I told the teacher that someone had stolen my clay out of the kiln room. I am a very bad liar. She gave me a mediocre grade.

I wanted to tell Ausangate (the mountain) that someone had stolen my despacho, all of my materials. I wanted a C+, a cup of tea, and my sleeping bag. No, stop thinking like that. You are not in middle school art class. It doesn´t have to be perfect. it´s the intention that counts, and if you keep thinking all these negative thoughts, you´ll ruin everything. It´s already ruined. Look at it. Does that look to you like a cross inside a circle? It looks to me like the dog got into the pantry and was just sick all over your paper. My paper? You made this crap. I could not think myself out of my negative though pattern any more than war can create peace. So I implored Ausangate, in all his power, to exorcise my self-destructive thoughts. (After conversations with buses, I don´t think conversations with mountain spirits are so weird.) I went back to work and finished the despacho.

Later that night, Ausangate either healed me or punished me. Maybe both. Between 9:15 pm and 3:15 am, I raced out of my tent in a flurry of zippers - sleeping bag, tent, rain fly - between eight and ten times. I lost count. Each time, I put on my boots without tying the laces and raced the hundred or so meters to the shit tent. The night was cold and windy and the ground covered with snow. After our ceremony it had first rained, then hailed with thunder and lightning, and then finally snowed. The tent was too small. That´s an understatement. The tent was only slightly roomier than wrapping oneself in plastic wrap. Shaped like a teepee, the tent was very narrow around my head if I stood, which I had to in order to get in and out, and the wind blew the nylon material against my body as I sat in the dark. With one had I tried to fend off the tent, with the other I fought off my three pairs of pants - rain pants, regular pants, and long johns. Back in my sleeping bag, I didn´t even bother to take off my hat, gloves, neck-warmer, anything. First because I knew my nap wouldn´t last long and second because even in my 15 degree Fahrenheit bag, I couldn´t produce enough body heat to stay warm. The night was the longest of my life, longer than the night in Lima, and longer than the night with the bed bugs.

Last night, I went out dancing and had my first regular bowel movement in five days. This morning, I ate a delicious celebratory breakfast - mango/papaya juice, fresh plain yogurt with granola and fruit, and a banana and chocolate crepe. Life is good.