All Things Sacred

"So I pack my things, nothing precious, all things sacred." ~Alanis Morissette

I. Some Notes on Stillness

It's Tuesday night and the wind is blowing viciously and the waves are crashing on the boulders that line the cove. Quite the contrast to the glassy stillness that had been encompassing this island for months--the kind of sweltering energy that stagnates everything, the kind of energy my life had slowly dwindled to over the past few months. When the air and water stop moving, so does everything else. 

My friends and I sit at the ocean side restaurant and talk about the strange lingering energy and how it's manifesting into folks breaking down, dissociating, and mentally collapsing. One of them is a trauma therapist, fully booked and taking emergency sessions on the regular lately.

As the world around me stilled, so did I. Cultivating stillness calms the mind, clears channels, strengthens intuition, and allows steady movement through a world of chaos. It allows softness, the rise and fall of all things without such intense gravity attached to them. Perhaps, with the stillness of the island, comes an inner stillness that many are resisting, and instead of harnessing it, it's pouring out in erratic and strange ways. 

II. Some Notes on Staying

When I first visited Koh Phangan back in 2016, I knew I would live here one day, and for the past two years, I have. My original plan was to stay one year, but when borders closed last spring, I stayed. Life here has been an incredible blessing, and I'm beyond grateful for the experience. 

For the past two years, I've been living in a small house on a hillside in the jungle. And if you've ever lived in the jungle of a tropical location, you understand that walls are an illusion. The jungle encroaches on you until you are one with it. It takes some getting used to--the heat, the wildlife, the thickness, the rugged landscape that led to my front door. 

But it has been in the ever morphing experiences and connections that have made these two years unforgettable and eye-opening--the Koyopa community, kirtan nights on the beach, Osho dynamic meditations, rebirthing breathwork, Mooji satsang, early morning self-inquiry meditations, write nights, improv nights, cooking classes, and of course, all those incredible jungle hikes, night time rides, and ocean swims. 

My first post after moving to the island was how I'd reached some kind of pinnacle of existence, and I think, at that moment in time, I had. I mean, how can moving to a tropical island to finish writing a novel not be a pinnacle experience? But that novel is finished and entering into its next phase. And so am I. 

III. Some Notes on Change

When the pull to leave began back in the fall, I knew the end was near. I fulfilled what I came here to accomplish. With that project complete and new ones on the horizon, the need to immerse myself in new energy and surroundings grew. 

If you're into numerology, you might have guessed, my life path is five--a path of change and freedom. My soul number is four which represents stability and discipline. My life is one of finding stability and discipline within a world of constant change and, at times, chaos. I don't struggle or fight this way of life; I thrive in it. It takes discipline and stillness to understand how to move with the energy of change, to know when it's best to move on from whatever place or situation I've temporarily grounded into. Without the stillness, the change and movement would devolve into a kind of chaos, a compass without function. 

The world is quietest just before sunrise, Amrit Vela. Your channels are clearest, your senses are sharpest. It's the best time to explore the places between, where the biggest mysteries lurk, and where, when all else falls away, the unchanging, undying part of us can always be found, ready to move with this sacred life and all its magic and wonder. 

How do you find stillness in the chaos of life? How do you find equilibrium between change and stillness? Do you have a tendency for one over the other? How do you see them reflected in your life? 

And on that note, island life is a wrap...for the time being anyway. I've been back in Chiang Mai for two weeks, and I'm already spilling over with stories and insights to share. Because without contrast, life would not be near as dynamic or interesting or surreal. 

Experiential Moments of Wonder

I.

As I desperately clung to the boulder for my life--steep drop offs on either side of me, blood running down my leg, tears stinging my eyes--I became paralyzed with fear. My friend glanced back in my direction. "Don't be afraid," she said. "You're not going to die. You have so much more to accomplish in life." This was not a comforting thought. When I asked her to take me to the viewpoint that over looked a remote part of the island, I was not expecting such an extreme experience. But these are the moments that change us forever. They are the moments that ultimately define everything on the other side of them. 

II.

It was after we crossed the rickety bridge, walked through a cluster of abandoned, dilapidated bungalows, and ducked through a rip in a barbed wire fence, that I was sure we were on the right track. We wandered aimlessly through a grove of fallen coconuts and dead palm fronds until we saw the path that squeezed between two half-standing, graffitied structures. Roots tangled at our feet as we made our way down the ridge to the beach to meet our friends--the most tucked away, hidden beach I've yet to find on this small island. Waves crashed against boulders, the sun warmed our bodies, my heart exploded in awe that places like this still exist in the world. 

A week later I went back to the hidden beach cove. This time the water was glassy and smooth and quiet. A fisherman sat perched on the ledge of one of the abandoned bungalows balanced precariously on stilts over looking the ridge, his fish spread over the rocks, drying in the sun. What a life. My friend and I waded out into the water as far as we could go. When I turned around, the most surreal, tropical scene popped into focus--the beach, the coconut palms, the abandoned huts, the fisherman on the ridge. Years ago, in another era of my life, I had written on a scrap of paper how I'd one day live on a tropical island and write books. Words are magic spells. Use them wisely. 

III.

At the edge of the entrance to the barren, dirt road, the desert like landscape stretched around us in all directions. The jungle, the ocean, the lushness of the tropics fell away. I didn't know where I was anymore. We cut through a property of makeshift shacks and low voices hidden behind walls. Drug dealers, my friend whispered. Information probably better left unsaid when traipsing through unknown, desolate land. 

The path gave way and spread over rocks full of giant tide pool like crevices. I'd never seen anything like it. We're at the top of a waterfall, she said and pointed into the distance where boulders gave way and disappeared over the horizon. A chill ran up my spine despite the heat. I glanced up at the cloudless sky. Threat of a downpour would mean certain danger, I was sure, but not today. With no clouds or shade of any kind, the only escape from the scorching sun was to immerse ourselves into the pools of water. Tiny fish nipped at my skin. An eerie silence filled the space between our words. Water, Sun, Rock, Dry Heat. All the elements fell on me, heavy and fierce. 

IV.

We were on the mountain, somewhere in the jungle, halfway between Coral Bay and Bottle Beach when the thunder clapped so hard I swear the earth shook under us. It had been rumbling in the distance since the moment we hit the trail. We all picked up pace. The last thing we needed was to be caught in a jungle downpour full of muddy trails and slick rocks. The sky remained ominous, the air muggy, but the rain never fell. Eventually, the trail dumped us onto the beach--clear, blue sky, and cool stormy water. One scene gave way to the next like an artist painting a landscape of emotion. 

V.

I might have turned back had I not already made it so far, had I not been so determined to make it to the top. Ukulele strapped to my back, bright sun in my face, I gripped the boulder and pulled. My exposed skin scraped against the rough surface. At the top, I crawled along the rocks until I reached the cliff edge where the fear dropped away and the world expanded in shades of blues and greens--sky, jungle, ocean, remote and terrifyingly beautiful. 

VI.

Throughout April, old and new friends filtered through Koh Phangan whisking me away on adventures, lively dinners, and nights out. Though life has slowed and stillness settles over me again and I fall into a steady rhythm, the lingering energy remains. This life is an exploration after all, and to fully experience the world around me, I need to keep my sense of wonder alive. I continue to explore through writing and daily practices, through reading and learning. I chase dark sky and full moons. I dig my feet into the sand, listen to jungle sounds, and feel earth energy move through me. I weave stories from experiential moments of wonder. 

How do you fully experience the world around you? How do you keep your sense of wonder alive?

I am

The news of his death arrived on a Friday morning in late January. I let the words sink in and waited on some sort of emotion to emerge--relief or sadness or anger. But there was nothing. My indifference startled me more than the news itself. I hung up the phone and went about my day. Later that morning in meditation, I remembered. I remembered that I had mourned losing him years before his physical death. Tumbling toward the inevitable, I'd always suspected how and why. It was only a matter of when. 

Two days later was when the fear began to creep in, not in some sort of overwhelming way, but in a slow, permeating way that left me spooked and sleepless for over a week. As though residual darkness from those years was resurfacing--energy that I thought I'd released long ago. Of all things I thought I might feel, I was not expecting this. 

I stretched myself across the floor as my friend, the healer, stood over me. If the seer is right about me and my journey, then how and why did I ever get mixed up in something that became so dark and twisted? I asked. 

A futile question, really. It was a spiritual sickness, a dis-ease of his soul. It never had anything to do with you, she said. Look at what you learned from that experience. Look at where you are now. She placed the singing bowl on my chest, and the vibration reverberated throughout my body. 

She was right. I had spent those last couple years in Santa Cruz mindfully learning the art of forgiveness and compassion and gratitude. I learned how to believe in miracles. I learned how to dance with life. But, in the weeks following the call, a strange, uncomfortable fear I hadn't felt since those years had come unwedged and resurfaced, and it wanted out. My friend slid her hand under my neck and pressed. The pain that had been building there over the past week vanished in an instant. I'd never felt lighter. 

When a void is created, be mindful what goes into all that empty space. 

Mid-February. I left for Chiang Mai at 5am on a Monday morning. After the long, exhausting journey north, I ended the night in the most unlikely of places--a small local dive bar covered with string lights and a tarp. I met with a friend, and we caught up on life and talked until well after closing time, until they finally kicked us out. Over the next two weeks, I connected with all my Chiang Mai friends, spent hours writing in cafes, hiked through the jungle, explored markets and classes and new neighborhoods. I filled the empty space by being present, by filling it with light. 

At the lake's edge, I sat with a student of the seer (one of my first Chiang Mai friends) and asked too many futile questions. Don't ask why, he told me, then paused and smiled. And stop asking questions you already know the answers to. Continue creating your path. Enjoy your journey. What's next? I asked. He laughed. Whatever you want. 

Illumination rarely ever strikes me like lightening. It drips slowly until I notice it, like it's always been there. Each season of my life unfolding like a story, it has no distinct shape or arc, but unfolds as an exploration of various facets of this life--some yin, some yang, some shrouded in darkness, much of it full of lightness. I'd written in an old post that 'why' was the most useless question to ask. What's important is the dance with life and how we move with it. Am I listening to the changing seasons? Am I allowing? Am I leaning into trust? Am I living the story that lights me up? Am I? Am I? 

I am. 

What about you?

Prolonged Island Life: A Reflection

One year ago today, on January 28th 2020, I entered Thailand for the last time. Little did I know that I would not be traveling through Vietnam and the Philippines and the US over the spring and summer as I had planned. Little did I know I would still be here in Thailand a full year later. And aside from a 3 week trip to Chiang Mai back in November, I've not left Koh Phangan at all (day trips off island to deal with my visa don't count). My first post of 2021--a full year reflection of this prolonged island life. 

February: Synergy. Tuned in and dancing with life. Kosmic Nesting at Jai Thep Festival in the northern mountains, meeting up with friends visiting from the US for island adventures, hiking to remote beaches to watch storms brew and feel lightening charge the ether. I catch wind and let the sweet energy of life around me sweep me up and carry me away. 

March: Unravel. Heat waves and rumbling thunder. I attend lively writing sessions and esoteric workshops. I find belonging. But the center does not hold. I fall ill with dengue on a Wednesday morning. Days later when the fever dreams subside and I crawl out of bed, I emerge to a world come unraveled. 

April: Stalemate. Locked in place. Trapped on a tropical island. Life takes on a surreal quality. I meet friends on deserted beaches where we share otherworldly secrets and traipse through thick coastal jungle. Nothing looks or feels real anymore. There could be worse existences. 

May: Wisdom. I accidently join a mystery school and spend the next 2 months studying ancient mystics and practices. Of course, wisdom gained never comes from others. It always comes from direct experience, using discernment, and integrating awakened memories of knowledge lost. 

June: Ground. I integrate back into community through grounding group meditations on the beach and attending cozy, close knit improv sessions in the jungle. The alchemy of human connection is an ephemeral gift that I embrace for as long as I can. 

July: Anchor. Along with a mass exodus of island dwellers, communities burn out and energy dissipates. Online, I reunite with friends spread across the world. I anchor to their presence, their wisdom, their guidance. 

August: Retreat. I take long, late night drives across the island to see dark sky, bioluminescence, and fireflies, to untangle thoughts, clear channels, and gain clarity, to immerse myself in the magic of being. I retreat to the tri-bay to walk the labyrinth and watch the sunrise.  

September: Explore. Follow the pings of curiosity--discover hidden bays, the wisdom of Mooji, and the serendipitous magic of manifestation. 

October: Celebrate. Another solar return, and this year I ask: How will I go about seeking more questions? By digging into life more, by celebrating each moment of this precious, fleeting human life. 

November: Dream. I head to Chiang Mai and fall into a lucid dream. My days are full of reunions and laughter, hiking and waterfalls, astronomy and goats. I've stepped through a portal where the illusions of the world fall away and all that's left is the beauty and mystery that surrounds me.

December: Boundless. Back on the island, I find vortexes, faeries, planetary conjunctions, and meteor showers. I come unstuck in time and connect with the stars and planets and all the wonder of the cosmos. I tap into their vastness and energy and expand into the boundless universe.

January: Hermit. Circumstances have pushed my Chiang Mai trip back until February. Now all I have is time--a gift not to be squandered. Divine timing working it's magic. I ground the cosmic energy of December and withdraw from the world. I revisit old practices to keep my channels clear and open. I become hyper-focused. In three weeks time, I've completed the fifth and final draft of my novel. Time to take the next steps, to move forward, to accept everything rushing toward me at incomprehensible speeds. 

I am beyond grateful to have spent 2020 on this little tropical island in the south of Thailand. I lost nothing this year and gained so much more than expected. As long as I keep my curiosity alive and align with the seasons of my soul, I will continue to thrive and create and experience magic.

Reflect on the year: How did you work with what 2020 presented to you? Were you able to gain knowledge and wisdom and understanding from it? How will you move through 2021? What will you do differently this year? 

Liminal Space

Between sunset and complete darkness, the half moon hiding behind clouds, Jupiter and Saturn were the first to pop out of the darkening sky. Planets always are. I sat on the beach and witnessed their paths cross so close they looked like one big, bright object in the evening sky. 

I swear this happened back in July, I told my friend. You probably did see it, she said. You probably time jumped. There you have it folks. I have come unstuck in time. 

Upon my return to the island, I kept having visions of this café--open air, precariously perched on a steep cliffside hill, overlooking the ocean. It popped into my mind on my flight back, and I couldn't stop thinking about it for days. How strange. It's not even a place I go often. Not even back a week, and within two days, I met up with three different friends at said café. Like a vortex, they each chose the place, pulling me back again and again and again. 

And then nothing.

Fires burnout too easily here, I told another friend. Nothing sticks. Never have I lived so long in one place and witnessed so many communities rise and fall, catch flame and burn out. And I have lived in some pretty transient places in my life. Too much air, she said. 

And so I recede, and I continue down my path.

One of my cards for 2021 is Temperance. Balance. Alchemy. Being grounded here in the present, yet still allowing myself to live in the liminal space--where I'm unstuck in time, where vortexes form, and where the stories I write live. I'm on a mission to create, and I cannot lose sight of that. The unseen forces guiding my life will not let me lose sight of that. I am always presented with who and what I need in every given moment. To accomplish what I've set out to do, I need to keep myself in both worlds. 

I can't ground myself in air. Friends and communities will come and go as they always have. But I can walk bare foot in the sand, swim in the ocean, and ground stories to this plane. I can remind myself that life is a beautiful unfolding. I call friends and remind them too. I send them pictures of planets and tell them to watch for meteor showers. 

Colors of sunset fill the sky. Jupiter and Saturn drift apart. The full moon rises. The year ends. 

Mid-December. Sprawled on the dark, desolate beach at 2am, no moon, no light pollution. Just me and the beams of light shooting across the sky. Time has taught me that the most magical moments are never the ones I chase, but given as unexpected gifts.  

Many unexpected gifts came out of this year. And I welcome more of them as we shift into 2021. 

This year was also full of unexpected chaos for many people. Perhaps that's an understatement. But hidden in the unexpected, buried in the chaos of life, is where many gifts and blessings are found. What unexpected gifts or blessings did this year bring you? 

For the Love of Astronomy, Lucid Dreaming, and...Goats

 I.

Angela and I had just sat down with our drinks when I lapsed into some sort of hybrid fit of crying and laughing about everything and nothing at all. But I normally feel good, I vaguely remember saying through a bunch of incoherent rambling. It was my last night in Chiang Mai after all, and because this is my life, the night took a surreal turn. 

Strange melodic music erupted from Angela's phone drowning out the horrid rendition of Puff the Magic Dragon that had been drifting from the small stage throughout my mental collapse. 

"What's that sound?" I asked, now alert and present. 

"I am lucid dreaming," she said and peered at me over her drink.

"What?"

"My lucid dream alarm. You know, to remind myself."

I leaned back in my chair and look up at the tree above us. The lights strung through the branches were no longer lights--they were stars, fireflies, beams of magic caught in the space between, where all else falls away.

"You're in the portal," Angela then said to make the moment even more unreal. I focused on her, and she pointed over my shoulder. Behind me was a scene that I swear was not a part of our surroundings when we arrived. The entire backyard of the property looked something from another planet, a dream world--complete with a neon portal, a telescope, and abstract art installations. 

"Genius," I said. My life tends to hinge on a lucid dream like quality anyway so why not push it as far as I can. And because this is my dream, all of my Chiang Mai experiences simultaneously converged at the only moment that has ever existed. Now.  

II.

No tourists, no sky lanterns, no pending doom as failed, flaming lanterns fall and snag in trees and power lines. This year Loy Krathong collided with Halloween--a potential for insanity of epic proportions, but alas, no such insanity ensued. Not in this lucid dream anyway. 

Angela, Taan, and I put on our cat ears and devil horns and slipped into the café. The subdued lights and soft music and delightfully, fun costumed bodies a contrast to my unhinged morning--in which I lost my motorbike key and got locked out of my apartment. When the landlady's spare key refused to work, her husband simply took a hammer to the doorknob and latch until they fell off and the door swung open. 

My motorbike key was not in the room. I had been in Chiang Mai less than 24 hours. I hadn't taken the key anywhere without the bike. As I stood at the end of the drive waiting to cross the street and make my way to the rental shop, the parking lot attendant approached me and dangled a key in front of my face. My motorbike key. He didn't speak. He only smiled and placed it in my hand.

Angela, Taan, and I toasted our drinks and talked of manifestation and synchronicities, of voids and how to stay in them. This year I lit candles and made wishes. I did not release a krathong or lantern like all the years before. Instead, I released expectations and dreams. I created space for magic to flourish. 

III.

I stood in awe in front of the Thai National Radio Telescope in Doi Saket. The telescope towered above the trees, and to my left, a Billy goat chewed on the grass in the surrounding field. Not far from the site is a goat farm that sells fresh milk and yogurt so it wasn't too surprising. 

The telescope pet--it lives here, he paused to tell me in a breathless side note between his enthusiastic explanation of building the telescope and how it works. I wasn't entirely sure who was more excited about this excursion--me, the writer who needed some inside information on radio astronomy, or him, the guy on the research team who gets to tell me about it. 

When I started writing this novel 10 years ago, it was all character sketches and scenes with no plot at all. The evolution of this book and where it has led me has been like traveling through a lucid dream--one full of mystery and synchronicities. The process has been far more than working out a plot in my mind and telling a story. It has pushed me to follow the strangest of curious pulls, to travel and research, to make new friends and go beyond my comfort zone.

Writing this book has led me from exploring remote areas of New Mexico and Lake County, California to studying everything from radio astronomy to schizophrenia and multidimensionality, to sleep paralysis and astral travel. It led me to reaching out to a complete stranger (the one that Angela, master lucid dreamer, met in a tiny, obscure coffee shop) and asking him to read my novel--which led me here, standing in front of the Thai National Radio Telescope (site still under construction, closed to the public) and allowing him to help me clearly see and refine my main character and his story in ways I'd never be able to otherwise. 

Being a writer has given me purpose to explore beyond my everyday life, to jump down rabbit holes (or maybe black holes) that perhaps I wouldn't even consider. It satisfies my insatiable curiosity about the world and the people that fill it. 

To round out an already surreal day, we ended up spending the rest of the afternoon and evening in what appeared to be a hobbit house, drinking craft beer and sharing stories and pictures of all the radio telescope sites we've visited and hope to visit one day--also, vibrant sunsets and tangled wires. 

We shared memories of the Bay Area, Lake County, and Hat Creek (what are the odds we both spent time in these places only to meet on the other side of world because of a book spawned from my imagination). I asked a lot of questions and filled in missing details, breathing even more life into these characters and story. And somehow the conversation inevitably wrapped around to the fairy tale Three Billy Goats Gruff because lucid dreams involving astronomy inevitably will involve goats. 

IV.

The days between were not any less dream like. Dawn and I got lost walking around Huay Tueng Tao and stumbled upon a zoo of giant creatures made of straw. I went to an acupuncturist and had my stomach electrocuted for 30 minutes straight. It seemed to fix the issue in question so I'm not too concerned. One night, I went to visit an old friend and somehow ended up learning how to make fresh pesto, got an unwanted crash course in the latest ongoing conspiracy theories, reminisced on long forgotten memories and songs of another time, another life, and laughed until I couldn't breathe. 

One dreamlike scene gave way to the next. Gazing through the telescopes at NARIT to distant worlds too far to fathom. Everything was in Thai, but there are no language barriers when tuning into the stars. Playing pool for the first time since leaving the US. Pool is a skill you never lose, especially in dim dive bars where drinks are cheap and there is only one usable cue stick. Seeing angry and/or bored clowns in deserted lots is a thing that can and will happen more than once in a lifetime. Familiar smiling faces of market venders I haven't seen in a year wave and ask where I've been and what I am doing and will I stay, please. 

V.

To be in a lucid dream state is to become fully conscious while the body still sleeps. In my lucid dreams, I'm always taken by surprise at the portals I've walked through, where I am and what I see, always an observer, never an active player. Ever wonder if you are just a part of someone else's lucid dream? Angela had asked at one point. 

But here in the so called waking world, I am still lucid dreaming. And no matter the portal I step through, I can play and co-create and interact with the places and people around me. Like Angela, I just need an alarm to remind myself sometimes. 

Do you ever lucid dream? Maybe you're in one right now. Tell yourself: I am lucid dreaming. How does it change your perspective? I'll leave you with a mantra. Repeat it until you remember. It's that simple.

"Suddhossi buddhossi niranjanosi, Samsara maya parivar jitosi, Samsara svapanam, Traija mohan nidram, Na janma mrityor tat sat svarupe." 

"You are forever pure, you are forever true, and the dream of this world can never touch you. So give up your attachment, and give up your confusion, and fly to that space that's beyond all illusion." --English translation 

Seeking Answers, Finding Questions

This year for my birthday I fully intend to live the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything. In other words, I will probably come out the other side of this year understanding far less than I do now. And with a lot more questions. Perhaps that was Douglas Adams's point all along. 

And how will I go about seeking to understand less and finding more questions? By digging into life more. 

Since my last update, I have started playing ukulele again (ask me to play you a wildly out of rhythm rendition of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah), driven to remote areas to eavesdrop on conversations in languages I don't understand (laughter and emotion never lie), and started attending Mooji Satsang on the veranda of Grace's beach front bungalow (watching Mooji's face flap in the wind on the projector sheet never gets old, plus the message always relevant to my life in eerily specific ways). 

Each week after Mooji Satsang, I walk home along a dark stretch of beach where lightning strikes out over the Gulf and the warm air sticks to my skin. The season is changing. 

Monsoon has finally hit the Gulf islands full throttle, and everyone is fleeing. Sideways rain, high tides, and crashing waves move in. Pleasant sunny days give way to overcast sky and muggy, humid air. I've just finished the 4th draft of my novel and sent it off to an array of beta readers. It's time for an adventure. And as we all know, adventures are the best ways to seek answers and find questions. 

Next week, I head back to Chiang Mai--my first venture off island since January. All those traffic lights and stop signs and people and bookshops. Imagine the possibilities. Meetups and road trips and book buying are on the horizon. I hope I don't short circuit. 

What sort of adventures should I dig into this year? What sort of answers should I seek to discover even better questions? 

Until next time friends. Stay mostly harmless.