Leaning Into Trust

I was having terrible anxiety the night I left Amritapuri. I was leaving the ashram during the night to catch a 2am train to my next home here in Arambol, and aside from a lady in my seva group who told me every nightmarish experience she'd had riding trains in India, I had no point of reference to how it worked.

How would I know which train is mine? How would I know which train car to get onto? How would I know when to get off if they don't announce the stops? What if the driver from the guesthouse can't find me? I accidentally dozed off thinking about these things while at the same time trusting that it would somehow work out, that I would be taken care of.

Exactly 30 minutes before I was to meet my taxi one the girls I shared the room with came in from a late night Amma darshan, inadvertantly waking me up.

I walked downstairs to my taxi and discovered I wasn't traveling alone. Another girl was leaving for the train station as well--taking the same train, in the train car next to mine, also headed to Arambol. Together, we were able to figure out where we needed to be. You are my angel, she told me as we were sitting on the platform waiting, I don't think I could have done this alone. You're my angel too, I told her. Together, each other's angel, we made our way to Arambol. I'm sure we'll run into each other, she said when we parted ways at her guesthouse. 

Though we were both staying for a month, I never saw her again.

Back before I left Santa Cruz, a friend who had traveled throughout India for 9 months the year before told me that if I was going to enjoy traveling, I needed to be able to lean into trust, that I couldn't constantly be fearful of everything--like getting lost or getting sick or being ripped off. In other words, I needed to believe that the Universe is always conspiring in my favor, that the world is out to help me no matter my circumstance. Of course, along with trust, having a keen sense of intuition goes a long ways too.

Leaning into trust is intuitively knowing where to go, where to eat, where to stay, and who to engage with. Trust the taxi driver with my life as he weaves in and out of all the oncoming traffic. Trust that I won't get hit by a motorbike while walking down edge of the streets. Learn to haggle and trust in my ability to get a fair price. Trust the people around me and talk to everyone, but keep boundaries. By keeping myself open, I have had some of the most interesting conversations and found some of the most unexpected friends.

Leaning into trust is not shutting down when getting harassed my a bunch of 12--year-old girls on the beach wanting you to buy scarves and anklets and trinkets. It can get kind of annoying after awhile--if you let it. I opened myself up to it, and I made it a game. Tell me a story and I'll think about it, I'd say.

Over the course of my weeks here in Arambol, I probably bought about $10 worth of things (that's a lot of scarves and anklets) from these girls if they kept me captivated long enough. My favorite has been Mira--mostly because the first time I bought something from her she kissed the rupee bill and held it to her heart and told me I was her best luck. Ever since that day, whenever she found me on the beach (and she always did), she called me her best luck. If another girl saw us and started to edge her way in and beg, I would just start quoting Bruce Willis from Moonrise Kingsom: "I can't argue against anything you're saying kid, but then again, I don't have to, cause you're 12 years-old." At that point, the new girl would either go away or really want to talk with me.

Leaning into trust is having the same faith in people that they have in you--like the bookshop guy who let me pay the next day when I didn't have enough for the two Murakami books or like the handful of cafes who couldn't make change and told me to just pay them next time I came in. The first couple times it happened I just stared at them dumbfounded. I trust you, they would always say.

Leaning into trust is sitting down to chai with the Indian guy who stopped you on the street or beach because you said hi back to him when he waved instead of ignoring him. Within the first five minutes of chatting, I always knew if it was a conversation I should stick with or back out of.

Leaning into trust is walking down the beach alone late at night, and instead of becoming fearful when a group of guys starts yelling, understand they probably aren't harassing at all, they are simply trying to communicate: Hey crazy girl, stop before you run into that volleyball net two feet in front of your face.

How trusting are you of the world around you? Do you tend to lean into trust or always sway more on the cautious side of things?

Signing off from the magical and enchanting Arambol, Goa. And just like when I left Amritapuri, I'm leaving Arambol during the night with complete trust that I will be taken care of on this journey to the north.

Breakfast with a Cannibal and Other Stories on Impermanence

I.

One minute I'm casually taking photos from the cliff side cafe where I stopped for coffee, the next minute I'm being propositioned to have my head eaten by a cannibal. Or at least that's what I thought was happening.

I noticed him first thing when I sat down for my coffee. Could have been the fact he looked a little like he just crawled out of a cave. Could have been the fact he kept blowing a whistle every time he needed something from the waiter. Who knows. By the time I stood up to take pictures and leave, he was blowing the whistle at me. I walked over to him, and he motioned for me to sit down. He tried to feed me a bite of his fruit salad and showed me his skull necklace. He then proceeded to run his finger across his throat and bite his arm. Then pointed at my head. I don't understand, I said. He made the motions again. About that time I was starting to get the feeling he was trying to tell me he was a cannibal and was perhaps asking if I'd like to give him my head.

At that point, he reached over and snatched the sunglasses off my head and grabbed my phone from my hand. He put the sunglasses on and poked at my phone taking a string of rather odd pictures of him smiling obliviously and me grabbing at my things. Once he got a few pictures, he gladly handed them back, but not without signing the eerie cannibal message to me again. I smiled and slowly backed away from him. I really wanted to ask him a few things--like: Are you a cannibal? Does your necklace represent how many folks you've eaten? Why are you eating fruit salad? Are you from Papua New Guinea, by chance?-- but I got the feeling he didn't speak so I made my quick escape.

Walking back down to the hidden little beach cove pressed against the cliff, I was left with the lingering feeling that maybe this was the start of a string of very strange stories I would be encountering. I am reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, after all. And if you've ever read Murakami, you already know where I'm going.

II.

To say I finally got to fulfill my lifelong dream of dancing barefoot at a beach side dive bar (twirly skirt and all) to two Irish ladies singing Nancy Sinatra would be an understatement.

Let me start over. I was walking by the bar headed home when I swear I heard Whiskey in the Jar. I did hear Whiskey in the Jar. Two Irish ladies were singing it traditional style. I wandered in to listen to them for a bit when I heard a voice.

"Hey, I know you."

"I was just in here two days ago," I said.

Next thing I know, my new buddy Leroy, a 20-something long term traveler from somewhere south England, shoved a drink at my face and started introducing me to everyone around us.

"You're a scientist too!" Exclaimed the Swedish scientist.

"No, I'm a writer," I said wondering how he could have possible gotten scientist out of writer.

"A science fiction writer," he shouted more enthusiastically.

"That's right," said Leroy. "And she's really into Star Trek."

"I've never seen Star Trek," I said.

"Spock is her absolute favorite," Leroy continued.

Then Mick, a retiree from Cambridge joined us.

"Mick, meet Sarah," Leroy said. "She a science fiction writer from Texas."

"I am not from Texas," I interjected.

"A real hardcore Trekie. Loves Spock."

"Nice to meet you," said Mick.

"How long are you here?" I asked.

"Only 4 months this year," he said. "I typically stay 6 months, but this place can make you a little kooky after a while." He shook his head. "This is my 16th year coming here."

I nearly choked.

When it came up that I was headed to Thailand to teach English, the Swedish scientist told me he had once taught English in Japan for a couple years. "Loved it," he said. "Had to have some papers forged in Canada to get the job though."

I waited for him to finish the story, but he didn't. He just stared off into space for a moment and finally said, "Canada" with a sigh and took a sip of his drink.

It was then Leroy pulled me off the barstool and out onto the floor where I kicked off my flip flops and twirled about wildly. The world a flip book around me.

Back at the bar, I noticed Leroy had the word PlayStation tattooed in big black letters down his inner arm.

"Why do you have PlayStation tattooed down your arm?" I asked.

"Himalayan spiritual pilgrimage," he mumbled then fell off his barstool.

It was getting late. I finished the last sip of my drink, gathered my things, and waved goodbye to all the characters I'd met that night. I walked slow back to my guesthouse along the edge of the water trying to come to terms with the fact this strange group of people will forever remember me as the science fiction writer from Texas who's really into Star Trek, especially Spock.

III.

I started dreaming in Russian. No, that's not entirely true. I wasn't asleep. I was half awake and hearing two folks talking loudly in Russian outside my door. It's an odd thing to wake up to really, especially while in India.

Later that night I was leaving my house to go on my nightly beach walk when I heard the most blissful thing in the world coming from the little beach shack at the end of my walkway. Cat Stevens. Well, not Cat Stevens, but it was a Cat Stevens song. I was lured in, and like a magic spell had been put on me, I couldn't leave.

Over the course of the next week, I kept finding this band. And I would always stop and listen and stay because I couldn't not stop and listen and stay. I eventually decided I needed to introduce myself because I was starting to feel a bit like a stalker (an accidental stalker, but still). Not too many days later, I am agreeing to be the singer's student so he can practice teaching music in English. Last month, back at Amritapuri, I read a book about a Russian musician so that seemed about right.

Again, at that little seaside dive bar, between the chaos of Russian conversations, making plans to meet for the music/English lesson, and trying not to lose track of my flip flops that I had carelessly tossed somewhere, I was suddenly struck with how strange and impermanent everything about my life is these days--how so very different my life is here in Arambol to what it was back at the ashram in Kerala and how so very different it will be once I move northward to Rishikesh.

When I left for this trip, I had no expectations for India. I assumed I'd be getting a lot of writing done and doing lots of yoga, but other than that, I left a blank slate for the Universe to fill in. And it has filled it in with the most unexpected and surreal things. It's like bits and pieces of my subconscious are manifesting--kind of like in Contact when Ellie Arroway takes that wormhole to meet the aliens and everything is shadowed by the images in her subconscious. Or like a Murakami book, where you're led down odd, twisting, surreal paths and plots that go nowhere. The point isn't where you're being led--it's getting sucked into the magic of that moment in time, one moment falling away to the next, impermanent and fleeting. Letting go of expectation and attachment to such isolated magical, fleeting moments, helps drive the magic.

Have you ever just let go expectation and let magic take over? What did you learn? Where did it lead you?

Not a Backpacker

I awake at dawn and wander the nearly deserted streets of this sleepy little Indian beach town. I follow the dirty, hidden path to the back of the house and climb the crumbling concrete stairs to the rooftop where my yoga class is held.

I sit for hours reading and writing in the outdoor living room like atmosphere of the cafe below the yoga shala.

I lounge on a different beach each day brainstorming story scenes and blog ideas. Some days I hike to the Banyan Tree, most days I don't. I get lost down the alleyway like market streets buying cheap clothes and coconut smoothies.

I meander down the beach every night seeking out fun music and having awkward conversations with expats and locals and travelers.

When I get emails and messages from friends back home asking what I've done since I've been here...I think, well, I'm living an amazing dream like life, but I haven't really done much. I'm not out to see all the sights--living out of hostels and following the crowd to the next popular thing. I'm not keeping myself on the go because I'm not a backpacker. That is not my intention for this journey.

My intention is to plant myself in one spot and live. Not to say I won't take day trips here and there, but my intention is to ground where ever I am. At the ashram, I became an ashram resident and kept an ashram schedule. Here in Arambol, I'm living the beach bum life in the tropics.

I have become, as Liz Gilbert once put it, someone "who has been so ill-treated and badly worn by life that they've dropped the whole struggle and decided to camp out here in [cheap, tropical location] indefinitely....but generally, all they are doing here is seeing to it that nothing serious will ever be asked of them again."

Don't get me wrong, I've been know to pack more activities into a 10 day or 3 week vacation than many people do in 5 years, but that's not what I'm doing here. I'm immersing myself into these places and into life with no responsibility or agenda. I don't want to flit across the surface like a bug on water; I want to dive deep (as deep as I can in a month's time) and see and feel what's inside.

I measure my days in how many new pages I've written and how many submissions I've made. I seek to learn something new about the town and meet someone new or get to know someone better, try the local food and follow the acoustic music pouring from the outdoor cafes that line the beach, to be ever present where I've landed.

What kind of a traveler are you? Whether you are on vacation or a long term traveler--do you land and stay or are you always on the go? Comment below or shoot me an email. Let's keep these conversations going!

Lost in the Fold

It's so easy to melt into Arambol like butter on thick, hot toast--absorbing into the crevasses, never again finding yourself in that solid, separate state that you once were. I can see why people end up here and never leave. Life is easy and affordable, and time is only measured by the rising and setting of the sun.

No one seems to know how long they've been here. I asked a girl from England who sat with me at breakfast one morning how long she had been in Arambol. She shrugged, I don't know, five months, maybe. She didn't seem all that concerned about it.

People fold into this place and become indistinguishable from it. Everyone kind of looks like they went to a music festival about 4 days ago--the festival ended, but no one went back to the life they came from.

I'm careful of these sorts of things--folding into places and people, losing the edges that make me who I am. This place has worn on the jagged edges I left Santa Cruz with, but I'm still intact--my edges softened, but still distinct and my own.

I wander the beach front and market streets and dusty, jungle paths. Around every corner seems a delightful and sometimes magical surprise--like the Kundalini Yoga classes I stumbled across at a place called--appropriately enough--Magic Park. Or the barefoot kids with dreadlocks and unidentifiable accents that I followed along a rugged jungle path--up to the Banyan Tree where the Old Man lives who invites everyone to his home under the tree to play music and chat with him.

I feel the free spirit attitude soaring through the atmosphere at one end of the beach. Turn a market corner at the other end and I see sketched out hippie kids who fit snug into this place, the laces pulled tight--there's no going back to anywhere for them.

There is no rhythm to living here, no solid foundation to build from or climb onto. There is no purpose other than turning your cheek to the world you were born into and disappearing into the chasm that is Arambol, Goa, India.

How much does place play into who you are? Do you get lost into the fold your environment or rub against it without ever sinking in? How has moving changed who you are (if at all)? Tell me your stories.