Jellyfish

Emotions change every minute, however subtly.
In one day a human may experience every one.

I may go to bed feeling terrible and wake up feeling amazing.
I will rarely know why.

Things that once mattered have ceased to.
People that once fired fierce desire leave me cold.
Secrets that turned my world upside down now slide silently over its surface, unnoticed.

At any point in the future I will remember few of the thoughts I am having now.
I will not remember writing this.
I will likely not even remember any of the things I did today.

The world changes imperceptibly over time, as does movement within it.
The reaction I have to it now is not the reaction I had then.
Nor the reaction I may have at any point ahead.

Nothing is permanent.
Everything is fluid.

In this life I move like a jellyfish, drifting along unseen channels, undulating past fantastical views and magical enticements.
I try to look backwards and I feel dizzy.
I try to peer ahead and the breadth of possibility makes me feel small.
I try to hold on to things that fly past in the current and their weight pushes me off balance.
I release them and my centre returns.

The only thing we can ever count on is change…
So I'm letting go.

Beach Samadhi

The class is almost over. I call everyone out of Sivasana, the customary deep relaxation at the end of a yoga session. They pull themselves up, hair over faces, back into the circle where we began. As always, it is as if each member of the class is awakening from a deep dream.

At the farm I would finish each class with an expression of gratitude for the moment, some kind of philosophical thought or reflection; perhaps even a poem. I might call their attention to their own energy field, asking them to explore how it felt. Perhaps they feel a tingling on their skin or a feeling of pervading contentment.

Here on the beach that seems ridiculous and I am caught in a moment of horror, paralysed by inability to say anything at all, while this circle stare at me, waiting.

The feeling passes. I place my hands together and thank them for practising with me. Namaste. They smile.

It bothers me that I sometimes feel slightly apologetic for yoga. I think this is the reason that most people know yoga for its toning abilities rather than for "the settling of the activity in the mind" as Patanjali wrote in the Yoga Sutras, 2000 years ago. The concept of slowing thought is quite bizarre in a world where efficiency is such a virtue. Whereas I, in my slow wanderings, embrace it or lose my mind altogether.


For me, the concept I have most desire to communicate is one of space. Of achieving order within a chaotic inner world. Distilling the eternal activity of the mind into a rare kind of peace.

Patanjali defines the space, the depth found within absence of thought - as samadhi.

Samadhi is a state of consciousness where the individual as an entity becomes integrated with its surroundings - a state of total immersion. There are no thoughts, no focus, no drifting of the mind into anything other than the space between breaths. There is nothing between you and the world. You somehow feel as if you are everything.


The perspective this provides is life-changing.


Put yourself there, now. Close your eyes.

Turn your senses inward.
Breathe.
And watch.

Your breath becomes slow, drawing from somewhere deep. With every inhale you suck in your attention, pulling it deep inside. You focus.

Your awareness is pointed, following the sensation of the air as it touches your nostrils, your throat, your lungs.

Your belly rises. You expand.
You pause, caught in a moment of stillness, the air frozen in your lungs.
Then the breath releases. Slow… slow. Smoothly falling from within you.

It flows out through your nose and you follow the sensation as it hits your throat, your nostrils, your upper lip. The breath that hits your skin is warm and damp.

Your belly falls. You sink.
You pause.


You are deep enough into meditation that your thoughts slow. Your attention withdraws. The distractions become less interesting. The little monkey brain is throwing its best creations at you and you just steer your attention away. Back to the breath. Back to the breath. Back to the breath.


And then… everything falls away. Your body is there but not there. You are above but simultaneously below. All of a sudden your attention, so focused on this single point, somehow takes in everything at once. You sense everything and yet nothing at all. There is nothing in between you and the world, nothing to differentiate you from everything else that exists. Your whole concept of separateness dissolves.

This, then, is what it means to be 'at one.'

Wind is simply movement of air. Without the movement, wind does not exist, even though the air is still there.

The mind is thought. Thoughts are always present; what changes is our choice not to pick them up and look at them, not to be swept into their whirl.

Without attachment to thought, there is no mind, and the boundaries of the brain and the body seem to fall away. All that is left is space.

Now, yoga. Here, samadhi. A state of “pure, unbounded awareness.”

Like I said, in India, where it originated, yoga is a way of living. A state of mind. Not just a way of bending the body. But we're not in India. I have never even been to India.

Luckily, the place we're in does not much care for efficiency either. The sea stretches in all directions, broken only by little palm tufts that mark more islands of Panama's San Blas archipelago. The water around this island is the colour and clarity of a swimming pool, kissing fine, white sand dotted with pink shells and fragments of coral. On this tiny island, space is appreciated.

To translate what I've learned and what I revere about the ancient teachings can be hard. But the essence is so simple it reaches everyone whether they know it or not.

I have just given them an hour and a quarter of stretching and breathing. All they have done is attempt to synchronise their breath with their body. And they get it.

The class leaves, and I remain. Pausing.  I have never been on a more idealistic picture of paradise than this tiny island. A state of pure, unbounded perfection.

Clotted artery

The alarm wakes me up at 5.30am. I ignore it.

My sister pokes me at 5.40. I ignore her too.

At 5.50 I roll sideways and launch myself with minimal effort into the shower, which, for the first time in months, is hot. By 6.00 I am steamed, dressed, armed like a turtle with my rucksack on my back, shepherding my family into a taxi to carry us swiftly to the bus terminal.

It is dark but we are full of purpose.

We arrive to a crowd. Unusual, I think, but then again perhaps not so much; the bus journey from David to Panama City is a minimum eight hours of dry, dull savannah; any seasoned traveller will happily trade a few hours in the morning for a head start on the day. I stroll to the ticket office and state boldly our desire to leave on the 6.30 departure. The attendant looks at me with the blankness of repetition and informs me that tickets will not be on sale until the road reopens.

My flow, interrupted. My smile falters.

What road?

But there is no need to ask this question. The answer is simply; The Road. The only road to cross Panama and indeed the only artery maintaining the flow through Central America, linking the Panama Canal with every other trade centre in the North American continent. At almost 50,000km long, the Panamericana is the world's longest 'motorable road', running from Alaska down to its abrupt end in Ushuaia, Argentina. It breaks just once, 700 km east of here, where the spinal curve of Central America trickles into a dirt track, bowing out graciously to the impenetrable Darien Gap that famously divides Panama and Colombia.

I've followed this epic path through the deserts of Mexico, the mountains of Guatemala, the cliffs of El Salvador and the rolling hills of Honduras, through volcano-strewn Nicaragua and the cloud forests of Costa Rica. I've seen it turn from painted tarmac to crumbling dirt; parallel lanes of strictly-ordered traffic to single, winding mountain loops. I've watched its shimmering growth in the sun and I've seen dramatic collapse in the storms.

Now in Panama I seem doomed to rebound up and down its length, pulled by the forces of friends and family and ill-formed plans. For in Panama this really is the only road, and anyone who spends any decent time here will begin to know it well.

So when they tell me that it is closed until further notice, I listen well. It is hard not to respect this move when I have experienced the route in this way. Whoever is responsible for this act of rebellion has some serious power in their hands.

The blockade is in the Ngobe Bugle Comarca, near San Felix, a couple hours east of David City. The Ngobe are one of a handful of indigenous groups within Panama, who have each retained enough autonomy to mark themselves on maps. These groups rule four Comarcas as semi-independent states under the Central Panamanian government. The Ngobe, like the Kuna and the Embera tribes, are mostly left to themselves, preferring to live the way they have lived for centuries and staying away from the action; staying away, that is, until the government decides to pass a law that threatens their land.

Which is exactly what has caused this uproar.

Today, our stagnancy has been inspired by official plans to re-open several mines within the Comarca, dredging the last of the land's wealth, as well as dam one of the last remaining un-plugged rivers in the area. The plans threaten not only the immediate environment, which will of course be literally torn apart, but also the self-sufficiency of the Ngobe people and their way of life.

While I sympathise with my father and his partner and the thousands of other tourists whose holidays are compromised, I cannot find it within me to wish this disturbance away. I pause in the middle of the action, surrounded by stories of missed flights and night-long waits, imagining that clot in the centre of the country, trails of compacting traffic growing even as I stand.

I think of that tiny blob on the map, the delineation of the land protected fiercely against centuries of conquest, and I marvel, as I have so often before, at the power of big business to take an eraser to those lines at the drop of a law.

I speak with my father. His blue eyes reflect that same scene. We could wait it out, wishing for the uprising to disperse, perhaps choosing a different destination. Or we could take ourselves and our intention out of the equation.

At 1pm we board a flight from David to Panama City.

As we trace the graceful arch of the country I squint through the pod-like window, trying to get a glimpse of the battle scene. The blockade itself and the people around it are too small to see…as invisible as they must be from the map, scribbled over in some office far away. But the lines of traffic around it would be unmistakable, a pregnant build-up of energy. I wonder how deeply these fingers will penetrate; how far away the impact will be felt.

Everybody's Shufflin'

I stand in the fourth floor studio, nose pressed against the window, and watch the orange sun slide down behind the high rise glamour of Panama City.  This room is hot.  I run my fingers along the window, making a clear line through the condensation.

Behind me, a group of gorgeous Panamanian dancers.  They sweat and laugh and flirt with each other, delighting in their beauty.  They are almost ten years younger than me. 

We are learning a routine. 

A few hours ago I was approached by a jogging, middle-aged woman, who said breathlessly, you are perfect for my television commercial here is five dollars please come to my agency you will earn money. 

I needed cash.  She'd given me a fiver just standing there.  So I went. 

A few photographs later and I am the Chosen One, placed here in this incomprehensible situation, trying desperately to follow this leaping crowd. 

Don't get me wrong: I am an avid dancer.  I frequently lose my friends and myself on the dance floor, squeezing between sweaty bodies and the gaps between armpits to find a square of space in which to move.  And I dance with a hula hoop like many have never seen before, whipping it around and over my body in a looping, complex flow. 

I am built for strength, flexibility, perhaps a (very) subtle hint of grace. Put it this way; I am not known for my elegance. But once in a while, on streets and in clubs, those caves of movement, I am in my element.  I find liquidity.

However, as I survey the room's bouncing crowd of supple bodies, here is different.  My hula hoop seems like child's play compared to the inherent rhythm of these kids.  They are energy beings, made of lightness and gold.  I am an awkward girl in a turquoise dress, sweating just a little too much. 

As always, I am tuning into another language.  This time, however, it is the language of the body I cannot understand.

I stand by the window and alternate my attention between them and the skyscrapers, trying to drop my shame and bounce along with them, whilst sending silent thanks to the gods of chance for this new window onto my world. 

I have no idea why this woman decided I would be perfect for her mobile phone commercial. But two days and buckets of sweat later I leave with three hundred dollars and a face plastering the gaps between Central American sitcoms. 

Not bad for a little swallowed pride.  Plus, I can now whip out a routine to 'Shufflin' on command at any forthcoming dance floor.

Strange world.

Translating the Family Language

I stroll along the side of the road, eyes blinking in the strong sun.  The land falls away from us in lumpy imperfection.  Ahead of me my father, his girlfriend and my sister Emily walk single file through the dry grass.   The burn from the light meets the chill of the mountains and I feel balanced. 

We are walking along the road because we're not sure what else to do. The hotel we landed at turned out to be a hostel, full of strange, hiker-types talking geekery around a too-small table.  My dad's girlfriend finds it hilariously unbearable and drags us all out for a Mars bar, to be bought an hour's walk down the mountain road.

A monstrous truck assaults my senses.  As if its air-sucking presence were not enough, the driver feels the need to beep, as most drivers do.  My dad turns to look but I am acostumbrada. 

The language of the car horn over here has a subtlety and depth not normally found in the States or UK, used not simply as an auditory reminder of potential hazards but rather as a creative approach to conversation from within any particular sealed compartment on wheels.  On any given day it substitutes one or more of the following:

Hi there!

Goodbye!

You are in the way

You are sexy

You are fat

You are sexy for a fat girl

Hey guys, look!  Attractive woman passing

Oye! Muchacha, want a lift?

You are a gringo, go away

Watch out, cow on the road

Watch out, car backing up the lane ahead of us

Hombre, lights changed almost a second ago, vamonos!

Hombre, sorry I missed the light, I was changing my t-shirt

*insert further comment here. 

Today it seems to be nothing more than an acknowledgement of our family outing and it makes me smile as I cast my eyes over my clan.

As always, there are two sides, dual emotions to every event.  I was born into this group for a reason and there are karmas that must be played out.  Proximity to close relatives means one comes face to face with those habits that are so hard to overcome even alone - ingrained reactions intertwined with ego. 

We are content in our togetherness but as always the presence of family brings me right back into my conditioned self.  People, especially family, like to box each other by neatly-labeled criteria.  They are forever reminding you of who they think you are, and getting annoyed when you behave differently to what they expect.   They have known you all your life, so the natural inclination is to assume that you have been and always will be the same.

There is little realisation of the power of such assumption.  Despite my awareness, I feel myself doing it to others at the same time as they do it to me.  But there is no reason why I should not be constantly surprised by everyone. 

I am both surprised and unsurprised at myself.  Each companion draws out different behaviours within us - in this situation I see myself become defensive and opinionated, easily frustrated.  I see those parts of me that have changed and those parts that I would still like to change.  I see myself forgetting everything I want to be. 

 

But at the same time I feel strong. My past selves stack themselves in a line behind me, envisioned by my loved ones, and I feel I measure up against them well.  For, I realise, I am proud of myself. And they are proud of me too. No matter what expectations a family has, I am lucky enough to be part of a loving one, and while my wanderings may occasionally vex my father, I know he trusts me to follow my heart.

Another truck steamrollers over the silence, his horn piercing through our eardrums.  This time, the beep means, 'Check out the view!'  We stop in front of the falling hills to look, standing loosely.  Apart but nevertheless together.

Ripples

My sister Emily and I dance down the jungle path to the beach. It rained this morning, and the mud makes our steps ginger and calculated.  We leap between rocks to avoid the water, laughing at how unsteady we are on our feet these days.  The sounds of the forest surround us.

Two small girls appear, walking the other way. They hop from stone to stone, squealing.  As they pass one of them shouts back, "We're sisters, you know!"

Emily calls back to them; "So are we!"  They stop, dead, and look at us. 

Most people when they are told this refuse to believe it, incredulous that two different hair colours could belong to the same family. Instead, these sisters nod, knowingly.  "You're just like us!  Blonde and brown."

They leap away on some pressing mission, hair dancing as they run.

Just like that, they are gone.  Like an apparition, a memory of two other sisters, long ago, they dance across my path for a brief moment.  A simple interaction, reflected; a ripple through decades. Two pairs of girls, pulled in together, bounced back from this point as if it were a mirror in time.

Emily and I hop from stone to stone, our step imperceptibly lighter.  We head towards the sea.

Hostelworld

I walk into the room and throw my bag onto the bed. Emily flops onto the other, and we are silent for a moment.

This place has a strange energy. Spanish, spoken too rapidly for me to follow, surrounds us on all sides. I'm hungry, but there is no kitchen and no electricity. The beds smell damp.

The Pacific of southern Panama rumbles through the barred windows. I hate to say it, but I wish there was a hostel.

I am not sure how worldwide the hostel network spreads, but in Central America at least, the crusty dormitory has become a subculture of its own. Travelers brag about their off-the-path destinations, but even the most seasoned will always break up their journey with a stopover at one of these havens, to drain the free wifi and cook noodles alongside other English-speakers.

The best ones are covered in murals; the worst, clinical white with squeaking metal bunks. The most basic leave you perching on kitchen counters to eke out a social life; the most extravagant providing cushion holes and leather sofas, pool tables and bars. The strangest of locations hide pockets of sizzling atmosphere, largely dictated by the Lonely Planet's analysis, which perpetuates whichever scene the writer found during his stay, through however many editions the hostel survives.

Most are run by travelers who got stuck, wanderers who came and just never left.

Regardless of the social bubble offered, the hostel represents safety. Not simply the safety of four walls, but the representative security found amongst others of your own kind. In a hostel, I am not just a lost Brit. Even if I do not speak to a single person, I will feel as if I am part of something; as if there are things happening, that I am somehow involved in by just being there.

In short, as if there were a point to it all.


Here, the absence of others exposes our truth - that the only point in being here is to lie on a beach, perhaps write a few half-hearted observations and unwind today's passing dramas. Travelling to a random destination can be fun, but when the travelers are two sisters with little direction in their lives and no strong desires to fulfill, an undiscovered beach is not always as captivating as it sounds.

With no distraction and no one to teach, I cannot deal with such starkness.

I can find other truths; the pursuit of happiness and the stripping of societal layers is of course the real focus of my travel, but on a day-to-day basis, when I'm not in the mood to contemplate, it can be hard to see the value of this space. And in combination with another wanderer, who does not share my passion for world-dissection, my search can seem jaded and naïve.

I feel ripples hitting me from big changes up ahead, but I cannot yet see the disturbance that makes them. We both know we need to start something, but we're not quite sure how.

This may not be a hostel, but one truth shines like a light in this bulb-less room. Along the wall scratches graffiti:

"The prayers of a righteous man are powerful and effective."

New Year: Unresolved

I'm searching for the words to convey my experiences of the moment. The fact is, there are not many experiences that I want to put into words. Not to belittle them, but more that to form these lines around them seems at odd with the purity of the happenings. Right now I feel struck by the perfection of leaving things for all that they are.

Things are happening. Just as every day, things happen. That, in essence, is all. These daily experiences are beautiful and poignant. But they do not stand out from other beautiful, poignant times.

These current days are not spiced with revelation as they have so often been these past years, but they are none the less perfect.

I see in the year with my sister. This, of course, is special. In three weeks we have already grown closer. We've shared delights and sorrows that would otherwise have been difficult to communicate. We look different, we behave differently, we eat different things and pass our time in different ways. But our eyes are the same shape. Our voices the same tone. And that secret cave of comfort, that past world of soft memory and mother's food, is shared.

Despite Emily's strong presence, I am undergoing a period of unrest. Starting from that moment at the lake when I became captured in the strong winds swirling me away from my Guatemalan home, I have continued to feel unsettled. I feel keenly the lack of roots that defines my life right now.

I realised back in June that mindless travel no longer meets my needs, and yet with the lack of any clear direction I find myself still caught in that swirl. I am content to observe the restlessness and move with it until it stops. I feel like I am riding the bumpy journey with style and a strong core.

But the New Year has brought in a shift in perception that manifests itself as a degree of urgency, and to that I must pay the most careful of attention.

The world continues to bring me what I need in the most enjoyable of ways. Money is tight; indeed, there is little left of what I earned back in London… not surprising, really, considering I left almost three years ago. But I am offered a role in a mobile phone commercial based largely on an inane streetdance routine. It seems bizarre to have called this into my life, but having danced my way through Costa Rica and Panama over the festive season it makes some sense that I am offered work in this form.

But there is still something I need to find before I stop again. And I know that now, in this strange turbulence, is when I need to be most alert, for I will not know what it is until it appears.