The Whole Elephant/Aimee Makes People Cry -- Devon, England

For once, the morning is mine.

I've grown accustomed to living with people who can't stand mornings. It's like being the only person in the house who in the house who likes tahini.

I get to eat all the tahini and no one minds one way or another.

Here, I share mornings with Michael and moments of mornings with Harriet. The lanky South African slowly opens the double glass door, quietly asks, "How did you sleep?" and pads through the carpeted room to the kitchen to switch on the kettle for his rooibos tea. "Would you like tea?" he always asks before the door creaks shut behind him.

I always look at the mug resting on the stone hearth beside me (pink with white polka dots today) and say, "no, no, I'm fine."

He waits for a few more seconds, assessing the mug, the hearth and me, takes a deep breath and --

"Okay."

-- walks through the door.

Harriet breezes in, bundled up from head to toe and bursting with energy.

"Oh, good morning. How did you sleep? No, no, I didn't sleep well at all. I'm having a bit of a health crisis, you know. Ever since I got greedy with that popcorn -- not your fault, totally not your fault -- I've been feeling sick. Headache, mmm. Yes, that popcorn put me into a health crisis. I think I'll have an enema this morning and some good, healing liver cleanse for breakfast. Now, if you could just raise the blinds," she says as she tugs on the strings closest to her, "I'll see you later."

Then she rushes out the door and up to Holdstone Down to channel positive energy through mother earth and out to all mankind.

Say what you want about conspiracy theories (Harriet calls them "reality theories") and aliens -- this woman has the kindest heart and the best intentions. I don't think I'll ever find myself trekking up Castle Peak to interact with E.T.s, but I do think I can learn a lot from this lady about healthy eating, positive thinking and yoga.

Five minutes pass. I take the last few sips of my lukewarm licorice, mint tea.

Michael meanders in with his steaming rooibos and sits himself down on the leather cushion the on the other side of the hearth. He nabs a sketchbook and box of colored pencils from the bookshelf and begins to meditatively doodle.

I quietly write.

He quietly doodles.

Together, we share the quiet morning.

But Michael must be meditating upstairs today. His cushion is abandoned and last night's art project is propped against the logs by the fireplace.

The morning is mine for the moment.

Today marks nine months of travel. I have visited Ireland, Wales, England (twice), France, Monaco, Germany, Italy and Turkey. I have written 160 blog posts (some better than others), a few short plays, picked up my watercolor paintbrush and recorded some yoga meditations. I have learned to cook socca like a champ, to brew the best cardamom coffee of all time, to navigate big cities and to treat E.T.s with an open mind.

I've forgotten all the songs I knew on the piano. I've forgotten the smell of oil paints and turpentine. I've forgotten the taste of my favorite tea. I've forgotten the feel of owning a space.

Colorado night skies are fading. The serpentine pattern of my favorite hiking trail is fading. The taste of the ubiquitous Mexican chicken tortilla soup of my childhood is fading.

Sometimes I cling to habits and memories because fading and forgetting makes that time in my life seem pointless.

I used to play Simon and Garfunkle songs so beautifully. What happened to me? Argh. Was all that practice wasted? 

No. It was what I needed then. It's not what I need now. Why is it not what I need now? Because I'm not doing it, for the love of BOB (I'm on the last Douglass Adams book...also, "for the love of Bob" sounds less intimidating than "for the love of Master Aetherius" ). 

The skills that come and go are just like the places that come and go. I am not the fermentation/cheese making goddess I once was, but I do know the secret of fine Ayran and have discovered a way of expressing myself through watercolor.

Don't beat yourself up for the skills that atrophy as you move. Understand that as each place is different, the way you live in each place will be different. 

I've taught four yoga classes since I arrived at Aetherius House one week ago -- one to Kayla, one to Kayla, Stephen and Michael (wherein I think I broke Stephen, as his practice of crazy Kundalini doesn't quite transfer to vigorous Vinyasa), a gentle hatha/partner yoga class to Rosie and two of Harriet's students, and a beginning Vinyasa flow to twelve of Oona's more athletic practitioners.

Forty pounds for ninety minutes of fun. God, I wish I could pay for my life of travel purely off of teaching yoga. I'm sure I can make it work. Somehow. I just need to find the proper connections and do a bit more research. 

Eleven of the twelve students loved the intense practice. They relished the challenge, the sweat and the feeling of their muscles slowly turning into jelly.

One broke into tears.

"I had a really hard day," she bit her lip as the rest of the students filed out. "And this just wasn't what I expected."

My heart hurt.

"I understand. When you have a tough day and expect a relaxing yoga class wherein you can let it all out, there's nothing worse than having those expectations shattered and meeting another challenge. When all you wanted was something restorative."

"Yeah," she blinked back tears. "I mean, I'm glad I came... I just..."

"Go home and put your legs up the wall -- that's what I do whenever I'm feeling stressed. It's really restorative and can ease a lot of tension. I know I'm all sweaty and disgusting, but can I --?" I opened my arms and asked for a hug.

Oof... maybe this was what she needed. I hope so, anyway. 

"Feel better," I called after her as she walked down the stairs.

Stephen drove me home after the class. We talked about the Aetherius Society and how Mother Earth was supposed to have been completely destroyed in the 1960s because of all the negative energy from the atomic bombs and warfare polluting the ionosphere. We talked about the scale of vibrations and how hatred lives near the bottom of the scale, love resides around the halfway mark, unconditional love hangs around six hundred and "blissed out" is about six hundred and fifty. We talked about Aesop's fable of the blind men and the elephant and how the Aetherius Society believes that every religion sees bits and pieces of the truth/elephant -- but only the enlightened (those vibrating in the seven hundreds) see the whole elephant/truth.

"And we are all divine and have the ability to reach enlightenment. That is our journey. To see the whole elephant."

"But I don't know if I want to see the whole elephant," I mused, ignoring the absurdity of the situation. "I think that only seeing bits and pieces is what makes life beautiful. What makes life unique. What makes life a kind of art. If everyone saw the same elephant, it would take away the perspective of the individual. I like that you see a different part of the elephant and can tell me all about it. As long as I don't tell you you're wrong and can appreciate your tail as much as my trunk, we'll get on just fine."

Stephen turned on Bing Crosby and I sang along to "Deep in the Heart of Texas" as we sped down the country roads of Devon, the Atlantic ocean a few hundred yards in front and alien mountain a few hundred yards to the right.

Once again, I ignored the absurdity of the situation.