Asha's Flowers

After the Palo Alto pilgrims left Jerusalem to journey home, Dambara and I were exploring the city around our hotel one morning. We wound our way through one of the street markets, mostly fruits and vegetables and one flower stand. Of course we stopped.

We decided we didn't need any flowers, but wouldn't it be wonderful to bring some flowers back to Asha. We scanned through the numerous varieties, and only one had blue blossoms. Not exactly nayaswami blue, but a nice, violet blue. So we bought one bunch.

They were light to carry, as they swung along in their plastic sheath, safe from bumps and bruises. During the long walk home, we discussed how to deliver them. Should we bring them downstairs to dinner? We could add a bit of water to their bag and hang them on her doorknob. We didn't know her room number. We could get it from the front desk. They might not be allowed to give out guest room numbers. We could call her. She might be in seclusion, recharging between pilgrimages.

So we brought them down to dinner, as the least invasive strategy.

The cafeteria was closed.

There were too few guests in the hotel to warrant opening up the cafeteria buffet, so we ate in the small cafe off the main lobby. Delicious soup. Yummy salad. No Asha.

So the flowers stayed in our hotel room that night.

And the next.

And the next.

When we brought the flowers home, they were tight little buds, perfect for longevity in an elegantly simple vase. Maybe by keeping them longer than expected, it would give them time to blossom into vibrant color. By the time they started to open, their leaves were starting to shrivel slightly along the edges. Plus, they drank a LOT of water, so much so, they spent one afternoon water-free, drooping pathetically around their short, stubby coffee cup, the only vase we had available, completely devoid of elegance.

So they stayed in our room, recovering. Which they did!

They were some kind of poppy-ish flower, with papery petals, long stems, and a burst of leaves just below each blossom, splayed hands announcing "Ta-da". They were a cross between Dr. Seuss and Charlie Brown's Christmas tree. I loved them.

Soon it was too close to the time of our departure for Tiberius, which would create a dilemma for Asha. Should she throw them away or try to carry them through a day of bus travel? I decided I would carry them for Asha. So they stayed in our room, waiting.

I put them back into their plastic sheath, added a half cup of water, and hung them from the back of the bus seat in front of me, Asha's seat, as it happened, and there they swayed along, peering out at the passing country side or dozing in the sun dribbling through the window as the bus waited in successive parking lots while the pilgrims wandered holy sites, listening to Asha whisper in their ears about the spiritual significance of each spectacular church or field or sea.

Finally we and the flowers, shriveled from their sunbathing, arrived at our hotel in Tiberius. As we were waiting for our luggage to trickle out from the depths of the bus's undercarriage, Asha strolled over to smile at us and peer down onto the forlorn flowers peaking, one-eyed, out of their plastic sheath.

"Oh. Huh," she said, politely.

Dambara and I grinned at each other. "These are actually your flowers. We bought them for you last week."

She burst out laughing, appropriately.

"They used to be in better shape, but they were always a bit bedraggled," I explained.

She couldn't stop laughing. "Here are some scrawny flowers for you," she mimicked. "We bought them especially for you."

I should note that Dambara and I were laughing just as much as Asha.

"We were going to leave them on your doorknob, but we didn't know your room number."

"I was in hiding," she admitted.

"We figured as much," I admitted.

"Well, this certainly is a case of it's the thought that counts." She was still laughing,

"Absolutely!" We agreed.

Threading our way through the throng in the hotel lobby, clutched card keys in hand, I ended up sharing the tiny elevator with two, polite Indian men from the pilgrimage. They politely stared at my bag of bedraggled flowers. "They've had a long day of traveling," I smiled. "The bus was a bit hard on them." They nodded politely and smiled politely. "They're Asha's flowers, but I ended up keeping them." They nodded politely. Empathizing. Wise decision, I could hear them politely musing.

I brought the flowers into our hotel room, found them another, non-elegant coffee cup, cut off six inches of their stems, and tucked them into fresh water. They perked right up.

I think they're lovely.

Asha's flowers

The Power Gap

We are in the gap between two pilgrimages. The first pilgrimage, with Ananda Palo Alto, finished on Sunday evening with heartfelt reminiscences of highlights of our two weeks together in the Holy Land.





At the top of everyone's list, it seemed, was being able to spend time together at many, many holy sites. Time together. That was the highlight for me, too.

Time with dear friends, most of whom we've known for 20 something years, growing alongside each other in our spiritual lives, enjoying being together in prayer, meditation, song, laughter; it's been a magical two weeks.

Listening to Asha, Shanti, and Rami, our Israeli guide, orient us to what we're seeing, where we're going, what we'll be doing. Rami gave us each a Whisper receiver, so Shanti or Asha or Rami could be talking softly in our ears as we stood and gazed or wandered around each lovely destination.

Heaven on earth.

By the time we arrived at our final gathering on Sunday night, we had many, many stories to retell, laughter to reshare, and insights to reveal.

And then we sang, just as we had sung everywhere we went. Practically the entire group was part of the Palo Alto choir, so wherever we went, we sang, and it was glorious. Tandava played the guitar, Dambara played a small keyboard, the rest of us sang. In courtyards, under trees, in churches, in caves, we sang, and we sang.

Asha hugging Rami.

As a going away gift for Rami, we had been practicing two Hebrew songs, on our own for the last several weeks, and then together a couple of times. At the end of our farewell gathering, we stood and sang the Israeli national anthem, in Hebrew, for Rami. Then we sang a popular song, Shalom Lach Eretz Nehederet, Hello You Beautiful Country, which uses the same melody as City of New Orleans. Steven sang the first verse, we all sang the chorus; Dambara sang the second verse, we all sang the chorus; and Tandava sang the final verse, and then we all sang the chorus, several times, clapping, stomping, laughing.

We also sang one of Swami Kriyananda songs, A New Tomorrow, which is actually a hora, so we circled up, back-stepped, kicked, kicked, back-stepped, kicked, around the circle, our amateur rendition of the traditional Jewish dance. What might have been a sad last gathering was instead a rousing, joyful celebration.

People trickled away over the next few days, traveling home, WhatsApp-ing each other across the globe, transitioning back to everyday lives, holding the glow of pilgrimage in their hearts.

Everyone trickled away except Asha, Dambara, and me. Asha is staying because a new pilgrimage has started to trickle into Jerusalem from India, and she will be leading these Indian pilgrims through the same holy sites that we just completed, along with four Ananda leaders from India.

Dambara is staying to bring music into this second pilgrimage. The choir has trickled home, and only a few in the second pilgrimage know the music, so Dambara will anchor the music in a way none of the rest of us can. Singing was an integral part of the inspiration for the first pilgrimage. Of course we wanted to include song in this second one.

The second pilgrimage has its first gathering tonight, just before dinner. Everyone has been traveling all day long, and even though there is only a three-hour difference between Israel and all of India, it is a long journey, and people will be quite tired, ready to rest. We'll gather briefly, have dinner, and then people can go rest.

Tomorrow morning, the journey begins.

So, we've had this four-day gap between pilgrimages. It's been a restful time, a regrouping time, but surprisingly, it's also been a power-gap time.

Forty-some world leaders have been traveling, making their way to Jerusalem, alongside our pilgrims, for a remembrance of the liberation of Auschwitz, 75 years ago today. This meeting will help bring into focus the rising incidences of antisemitism we've seen over the last couple of years, and hopefully acknowledge the worldwide need for constructive action.

The King David hotel on the far left,
Old Jerusalem in the background,
taken from our balcony at the King Solomon Hotel.

The power meeting happens to be taking place at the King David Hotel, which is across the street from the King Solomon Hotel, where we're staying. We've watched the security ramp up as we thread our way along barricaded sidewalks toward the Old City, visiting the same sites where we've spent time during our pilgrimage, and which are now being visited by world leaders. We go in groups of 2 or 4; they go in triple-digit groups.


But it all works! We're free to come and go as we please; they jostle through politely, ambitiously, and it all just works.

I'm finding that a power gap is much better than a soft gap between these two pilgrimages. There's a definitive change in the atmosphere, so that we can move beyond the energy of the first pilgrimage and have a clean slate into which the second pilgrimage can step. The sadness of missing our trickled-away friends has been overshadowed by the power that motorcades past our dining room windows or below our balcony.

The timing is perfect. Our pilgrims are trickling into the King Solomon Hotel just as the world powers are trickling away from the King David Hotel. Tomorrow, the refreshed pilgrims can step into a refreshed Jerusalem, led by a refreshed Asha, singing with a refreshed Dambara.

It's heaven on earth.

John, Renouncing All

John, renouncing all, left his home. Some believe that John, son of Elizabeth and Zacharias, guru to Jesus of Nazareth, left his home when he was three years old, going to live in the desert wilderness. Can you imagine? Do you know any three year old who would be able to survive on his own?

King Herod was purging the country of all Jewish baby boys, out of fear of a prophecy that his kingdom would be won by a boy born at that time, into a Jewish household. So, since he was a ruthless, unfeeling king, he simply ordered all Jewish boys be murdered.

Wild John

John and Jesus were born within months of each other. Joseph and Mary fled to Egypt with their son, Jesus. John went into the desert, where he lived by himself for about 30 years. John is often depicted as a wild man, hair gnarled and knotted, eyes wide and delirious. It's easy to believe, too, having lived without a mother's watchful eye and ready wash cloth and comb.

For the past few days, our pilgrimage has been immersed in the suffering of Jesus. The stations of the cross. Dear Lord! The agony. My imagination is too vivid to be able to endure that contemplation. The crucifixion. Peter's trio of denials. The cruelty. The despair.

And now today, we come to the story of John the Baptist, focusing on his conception, birth, and solitude. After spending time at the Church of the Visitation, we clambered down a steep path to the cave where John spent much of his life. The site filled his two requirements: a cave for shelter and a spring for water.

An altar inside John's cave.

We jostled and snuggled our way into the cave, all of us just fitting, kneecap to kneecap. We sang and meditated, immersed and contemplated. The air outside was fresh and clean. The camaraderie of devotion inside was deep and profound.

Asha, focusing our meditation on the solitude of John.

John, renouncing all,

Left his home.

Wrapped in solitude,

Far from men's ways.

Roaming across desert sands,

Seeking God's truth.

Long years he spoke only with God,

'Til, silent of soul,

Wisdom did fill the ache of his heart.

Then he did see God alone.

Scared, Sacred Teenager

Imagine a teenager, unexpectedly pregnant, yet because of that pregnancy, poised to fulfill a destiny for which she has been trained her entire life. It's easy to imagine her overwhelmed with tumultuous feelings, including anxiety, disbelief, hope, humility, confusion.

The story of Mary goes back even further though, to her mother, Anne. When Anne was pregnant with Mary, she had a vision that her daughter would be the mother of the messiah. When Mary was very young, three or four years old perhaps, Anne brought her to the Essene temple, to be raised specifically in preparation for that future role. The family was part of the Essene community, that portion of the Jewish people who lived in close accordance to the teachings of the Bible, revolving around the prophecy that the messiah was coming; coming soon.

I imagine that many young girls were raised with the possibility that one of them might be the mother of the messiah, so Mary was probably not alone in her training amid fellow students. The idea of becoming the mother of God would have been a familiar theme to her and everyone around her. And yet other young girls and families held the same expectation of possibility. It would have been easy to think, one of us, someday. . .

And then Mary found herself pregnant, a virgin pregnancy, and the focus of the entire community would have turned toward her.

Can you imagine the shyness, confusion, disbelief that would have swept through her, consumed her?

Thus we come to the visit with Elizabeth. Elizabeth was Mary's cousin, so they would have known each other already. Elizabeth was elderly, and she and her husband, Zacharias, were barren. They, too, had visitations telling them of the birth of a son, a long-forgotten hope, a son who would become John the Baptist.

Mary visits Elizabeth

Elizabeth had lived a long life, immersed in the teachings of the Essene community, with plenty of experience, insight, and wisdom gathered over decades. And now, who should come to her, but a frightened, confused, teenaged cousin, who was pregnant with the messiah.

It was here on this hillside, the location of the present-day Church of the Visitation, at Ein Karem, where Mary and Elizabeth met, both pregnant, both miraculously pregnant; one wise, one innocent; trusted cousins with shared beliefs and understandings; both on the precipice of changing the world, through the sons they carried.

Can you imagine the joy and relief, the awe, they both must have felt? Elizabeth would have wrapped Mary in her arms and said, "You can do this! We can do this! This is real, and it's going to be glorious." And Mary might have said, "I'm so scared. I don't know what to do! I'm not worthy." And Elizabeth might have said, "You will be amazing. You have the support of all who love you. For this moment were you born." Elizabeth would have helped ground Mary, helped her find her footing, stabilizing her for the role into which she was stepping.

And so we spent time at the Church of the Visitation, lifted up by the awe of that ancient meeting on this plot of soil, a site venerated for 2000 years, a small chapel welcoming the daily stream of pilgrims, souls come to touch this spark of divinity, this meeting of two women as they wondered at their entwined destiny, clasping each others' hands, looking into each others' eyes, humbled by the wonder of it all.

Mural at the back of the Church of the Visitation

The entrance to the Church of the Visitation

One Responsibility

Asha and Shanti set the perfect tone for our pilgrimage. First, Shanti confirmed that our bus would be leaving for our first day of pilgrimage at 8:30 am. That departure gave us a generous amount of time for a group meditation from 6:00 to 7:00, then breakfast and gathering of stuff from 7:00 to 8:30. She reminded the entire group that some of us are prone to chronic lateness, that we knew who the chronically late were, that everyone knew who they were, and that the chronically late might think about setting their clocks 15 minutes ahead. She said it with great humor and friendship, which made everyone laugh and enjoy the reality that we're all working on our karma, and we're all helping each other succeed.

Swami Kriyananda established the Ananda communities with two principles at the forefront: common understanding and cooperation. In short, if everyone can reach a common understanding, then everyone can cooperate. It's a great partnership.

True to form, Shanti established a common understanding: Be on time for every departure. And, true to form, every last one of us was sitting on the bus at 8:29.

A ride for 40

Second, Asha described that she and Shanti had spent the previous year working out all of the details for the pilgrimage and were in close communication with our tour guide, Rami, the hotel staff, and together they were continuing to take care of all of the details, so we wouldn't have to. Our one responsibility on this pilgrimage was to watch our consciousness.

We are visiting sites of deep holiness, where profound happenings occurred, and where generations of devoted souls have worshipped and touched divinity, across centuries of time. By keeping our hearts open, whether in meditation, conversations with each other, interacting with strangers around us, or coping with weather and fatigue, by maintaining a high consciousness, the power of pilgrimage can change our lives forever.

And so, we moved through our day, in friendship, with respect, sharing kindness, meditating, walking, absorbing, immersing, divinely loving. The experience was so deeply moving that I find it hard to put into words. For now, what I can offer are pictures of some of the sites we visited.

Where Jesus wept for Jerusalem

Russian Orthodox church, with the old city of Jerusalem in the background. So many sectors of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam play visible roles in the care taking of these holy sites.

The golden Dome of the Rock, where Abraham prepared to sacrifice his son, Isaac; holy site in Judaism.

The Church of the Sepulchre is the grey dome immediately to the right of and behind the golden dome, and is the location of Jesus' crucifixion, burial, and resurrection; holy site in Christianity.

The grey dome is Temple Mount, the Nobel Sanctuary, where Mohammed ascended to heaven; holy site in Islam.

The Old City of Jerusalem, showing the close proximity of the three sites holy to the three, major, monotheistic religions.

The Church of Pater Noster, the site where Jesus taught his followers how to pray "Our Father"

An olive grove at the Church of Pater Noster, allowing one to imagine Mt. Olive during the time of Jesus.

At Pater Noster, "Our Father" is displayed in more than a hundred languages around the church.

Each unique in style.

Church of All Nations, in Gethsemane Garden, the site where Jesus prayed before his arrest.

The rock on which Jesus prayed in Gethsemane.

You can kneel and touch the rock itself. We were able to stay as long as we wanted.

Gathering

We arrived in Jerusalem a couple of days ago, and the greatest fun is running into cherished friends. The pilgrimage officially begins tonight at dinner, although pilgrims have been gathering together, trickling into Jerusalem on individual schedules and varied routes.

There are forty of us all together, and almost every person is a dear friend from our years of living in the Ananda Palo Alto community. Since moving away from the Bay Area eight years ago, we haven't spent much time with these friends, so this pilgrimage is especially meaningful, being able to spend extended time together with so many people that we love.

A walk back in time

We run into them in the hotel lobby, on the nearby streets, in the restaurant, and each new sighting is joyous and celebratory. This morning, a dozen of us gathered in the lobby at 5:30 to walk to the Church of the Sepulchre, twenty minutes away. Along quiet streets, with only an occasional early-morning car humming by, across empty intersections, and through a main entrance of a modern, high-end shopping mall. Walking through the elongated mall, with twinkly lights overhead and chic storefronts on either side, it was a journey through time, wending our way through cobbled passage ways, to emerge at the Jaffa gate to the old city. Just beyond, the high doors of the church beckoned us into a maze of passages, altars, stairs, balconies, tunnels, chapels, and alcoves. It seemed endless and somewhat bewildering.

And yet the quiet of the morning hours were gentle and serene. The first encounter was a stone slab, the stone on which Jesus' body had been anointed with oils, in preparation for placing him in the tomb, or sepulchre. Kneeling next to the stone, you place your hands, forehead, your heart onto the stone and imagine the sorrow with which they cleansed his broken body, binding it in its shroud, carrying it the short distance, measured in yards, really, to the tomb. Meditating at that stone, the site where the cross was wedged into its stone base is mere yards away in one direction, the tomb mere yards away in the other direction. It all happened in such a small area, it could have been a small, barren pasture, just there, there, and finally, there.

Pure devotion

A group of five exquisite singers gather each morning in St. Helena's chapel, around several interior corners and down two flights of stairs. Following each others' lead, we wound our way around and down to this small chapel, the site where St. Helena discovered the true cross, two or three hundred years after the crucifixion, just right there, below the foundations of the inner chapel that was once Jesus' tomb. The five voices blended together clear and pure, softly, devotedly, in harmony and rapture, transporting one's soul into inner light and beauty. We listened to them for perhaps a half hour, and then they were finished, kneeling in silence, then gently turning to gather their belongings and climb the stairs out into the dawn air.

We did not go into the sepulchre itself, out of respect for a tour group, then a full mass, then a long line of waiting visitors. Our hotel is so close by, we will go again and again, in the early hours, and find an even quieter day when we can linger and immerse ourselves in the sanctity of the sepulchre, the glory of the resurrection, and the worship from millions of devoted souls across centuries of time.

Our quiet walk back through the passageways, into the mall, back to modern times, out into the busier streets filled with commuters and bustle, back to our hotel and downstairs to breakfast, to gather together again with this friend, then that one, then newly arrived friends, then another. The pilgrims are gathering, and we will walk this holy journey together.

Big Brothers Are the Best

A couple of weeks ago, my brother Jim, flew up from the Bay Area to help us with a couple of projects on our house. Years ago, he built his own home, so has a credible accomplishment under his belt, and as far as I can tell, he knows everything about everything. He's the best big brother ever.

Our main project was building shelves in the master closet. Celeste Sophia had already demo-ed the old, wire shelves. You know, those cheap-o shelves that allow things to fall through or capsize if you don't place things on them just so. I wanted real shelves, solid, durable, strong, pretty. So, thanks to Celeste Sophia's hard work, we only needed to do a bit of sanding to finish her expert hole patching, a quick wash with TSP, and we were ready to go.

Big brothers are the best

Dambara chose the paint color, and a gallon of it had been waiting for us for a few weeks already. The whole idea for closet paint colors came from our good friends, Devidasi and Alex, who designed and built their house at Ananda Village a few years back. Alex prefers neutral, soft colors. Devidasi loves vivid, brilliant colors. So, Alex chose all the wall colors, and Devidasi chose the closet colors. You'll open up a hall closet and get hit with an explosion of tangerine or turquoise or rosey orange. It's beautiful, and it's fun; our two main criteria for refurbishing our house.

We decided that each person who moves into Haven West gets to choose the paint color for their own closet. Dambara picked up the banner and ran with it by bringing home this fabulous lavender. So, after sanding and TSPing, we got brushes and rollers and buried the beige under a thick layer of vivid.

Many hands

Once the paint was dry, we collected hammers and screw guns, shelving and brackets, levels and measuring tapes. We created a wall of shelves, a wall of hanging rods, a wall of drawers, and a wall of blank, ready for kitty-highway construction; a later project.

It feels great to have another room in the house become a functional partner for our household. The kitties have already found their favorite nesting spots, and the lavender really makes the room come alive.


If ever you need help with a project, send for your big brother. They're the best!

Vivid colors to delight the eye

Jet Lag

Asha once described jet lag as having your aura smeared across the ocean along the path of your plane's flight, and that it takes a few days for it to catch up with you again. Isn't that a great description?

We arrived in Tel Aviv three days ago (I think), and stayed in an airBnB a block away from the beach on the eastern edge of the Mediterranean Sea. I didn't see much of Tel Aviv because my smeared aura was still trying to catch up with my disoriented soul. Dambara was much more intrepid, and gave himself the task of hunting and gathering our meals from nearby restaurants, bringing them back to our apartment to tempt me into consciousness.

Local yummies

We came a few days early specifically to allow us time to retrieve our smeared auras, to be fresh and alert for the pilgrimage itself. Dambara has been to Israel before, and wanted to spend more time this trip in Tel Aviv. Our apartment was perfectly located for plenty of wandering, but a blustery storm descended, somewhat truncating his outings, so we both ended up spending quite a bit of time inside our apartment, watching movies, being awake during sleeping hours and sleeping during awake hours.

However, we've made great progress toward adjusting to our new time zone, and today heartily accomplished our trek from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem.

Afternoon view from our hotel room

We took a bus, after considering the train option and the taxi option, and it was an enchanting journey, with surprisingly green scenery and plenty of sunshine. The only tricky part was navigating the central bus station in Tel Aviv, a multi-story monstrosity, but we had the invaluable assistance of Ashtara, newly arrived from Ananda Village, resettling in her home town, Tel Aviv!

She texted us about an hour before we were leaving our airBnB, and we quickly organized an impromptu lunch together. After trading stories and munching yummy sandwiches and a chocolatey, flakey concoction, she wisely accompanied us to the bus station, expertly got us through the correct entrance, up to the correct floor (7th!) of the station, coached us through the process of buying the correct tickets, out through the correct departure doorway, and onto the correct bus.

Navigating the Jerusalem bus station was easy peasy, and now we're comfortably ensconced in the beautiful King Solomon Hotel, up on the sixth floor, with a vista that entices us to the window again and again.

Sunset's glow

Dambara is once again out hunting and gathering, a pastime that he thoroughly relishes, and I am putting words together in semi-coherent sentence structures, connecting with all of you while my smeared aura lets me know that 5:09 pm is quite late for any traveler's brain to be expected to function coherently.

My goal is to fend off unconsciousness until 7:00, when Dambara will most likely have returned, dinner in hand, and stories to share. A couple more days, and my aura will surely have coalesced back into its functional whole, and I will be fully equipped to marvel at this wonderful world, Israel.

Traveling

The journey to Israel was much easier than expected. The flights went by uneventfully, and we watched some good movies, which always makes an otherwise tedious stretch of inactivity go by more happily.

As Americans, we so often travel only within our own national borders, whether to visit far-flung family, experience the wonders of the national parks, or simply wandering through this vast and varied landscape. I love road trips, and Dambara and I take them often.

Traveling outside the US is a different experience entirely, and it always allows us to glimpse others' realities, which is vitally important in our ever-increasingly polarized world. I am hopeless when it comes to recognizing cultural characterizations. I would never be able to tell you a person's origin, simply by observing their body type, manner of dress, facial qualities, or gestures. And yet midway in our journey yesterday, an opportunity presented itself that I found enchanting.

We had a layover at Heathrow airport of about 4 hours, which gave us plenty of time to sit down and have a meal together. We found a deli-type restaurant with delicious sandwiches and miso soup, and since the seating area at the front of the shop was loud and busy, I explored a second, more sequestered room with a couple dozen tables and settled into a quiet table with our luggage while Dambara waited for our soup.

We were in the restaurant for perhaps 45 minutes, which was enough time for most of the tables around us to fill with patrons, then empty, then fill again, a pleasant, leisurely ebb and flow of fellow travelers. Perhaps because of the secluded nature of this dining room, perhaps because this was Heathrow, perhaps because of the airlines assigned to the nearby gates, for whatever reason, almost everyone who flowed into the room and ebbed away again, were Arabian.

I can't narrow it down any more than that, and can only offer that small piece of information about cultural identity because all of the women wore long black dresses, dresses that gently swept the floor as they moved about, their hair covered by black cloths that flowed around their necks and tucked into their clothing.

The size of the room allowed perhaps 80 or 90 people to be gathered together at any one time, and I was probably the only woman present whose hair was uncovered and wore pants. I dress modestly by nature, but if I had allowed myself, I could have felt quite garish and immodest in that crowd.

But here's the thing. I was struck by the gentleness of the people around me; gentleness, respectful, gracious, softness. The women moved smoothly into the room, settled themselves and their children softly and graciously, murmured together, smiling and serene. The children skipped and pranced away their pent-up energy, but even that was quiet and respectful.

They were wonderfully in sync with each other. As the time came for each family to leave, one person would stand, gather her belongings, and the rest of the family would quietly rise, gather, and gracefully ebb out of the room. Men were there, too, a few here and there, but the women were so enchanting, I can't tell you anything about the men.

Experiences such as this are not available at any of the national parks or urban settings. One can only experience another culture by traveling to where that culture remains intact, ebbing and flowing with rhythms sculpted over centuries. How lucky we are to be able to witness other realities, to feel an inner flow that differs from our own daily lives, and which most likely differs from the image wedged into our imaginations about people who are different from us, and how they must act and live their lives.

We are lucky to have such diversity in our world, our wonderful world, and we are lucky to glimpse even a wisp of that diversity, tucked inside a secluded dining room, surrounded by the busy-ness of a vast, international airport.

Pilgrimage

Dambara and I have been on a couple of pilgrimages together, and I must say, those trips spoiled me for any other type of vacation. Hawaii, Costa Rica, New Zealand, all the places that one would think would be fabulous destinations, hold very little appeal to me now. Being on a pilgrimage immerses you in a divine experience, one where your soul soars and your heart stays open for hours and days on end.

We leave in three hours for a trip to the holy land. I've never been to the African continent, so this will be a completely new part of the world. I had the opportunity to go on a pilgrimage to the holy land about six years ago, and I decided not to go. But this time, we're going with the Palo Alto group, led by Asha and Shanti. Holy cupcake! Pilgrimage; a place I've never been; with 40 or so dear friends; led by Asha and Shanti. I can't imagine a more perfect world.

Our friend Lajanna will pick us up, very soon, and we'll go have a Thai lunch, partly because we all love Thai food, and partly because they're open, on this newest day of a new year in a new decade. Then, Lajanna will drop us off at the shuttle stop, which will take us to SeaTac, from there to London, then to Tel Aviv.

We're arriving a few days early, to give us a chance to adjust to the new time zone, and also to have some time together, letting the busy-ness of refurbishing a new home and a new life drop away from us. I'm so looking forward to this time with Dambara, all of it; lunch together, the shuttle ride through Seattle traffic with neither of us driving, relaxed time at the airport, the long first leg, the lay over at Heathrow, then the last hop to Tel Aviv, the taxi to our air BnB, settling in, looking around.

See what pilgrimage does? The grace and joy descend even before we walk out the door!

Happy New Year, everyone! May it be a year of joy and abundance.

I should go pack. . . .

Meditation shawl, check!