The Queen of the Sands - by Mark Ivan Cole

The faint, broken trail was marked by scattered bones, sun-bleached to a brilliant white. Few who ventured into the desert ever stood before the throne.

The Queen of the Sands had ruled this land for time immemorial. Those who preceded her were immortalized in stone, great statues that stood silently on their pedestals in the courtyard outside the palace gate. Day after day, she sat upon her throne, gazing out over her domain. Only the wind breathed on the barren landscape. All was peaceful and still.

The sentinel stood at his high post by the gate, waiting, watching, his eyes scanning the valley that led to the great white palace. He had guarded this place since before the Queen of the Sands came to power. Though visitors were rare, some did come to ask a boon of the Queen. No one escaped his sharp eye. No threat escaped his spear.

Today, he saw someone in the distance, staggering under the unrelenting sun.

“A man approaches, your majesty,” said the sentinel.

“If he means no harm, let him in,” said the Queen of the Sands.

“Yes, your majesty.”

The man wended his way unsteadily between the statues of the ancients. When he finally reached the palace steps, he quailed under the gaze of the sentinel. But he was determined.

“I…I have a request…of the Queen of the Sands,” he croaked, his tongue so dry it could hardly form words.

The sentinel looked him over. “Proceed,” he said.

The man nodded and struggled up the steps. When he passed between the gates, he did as all the others had done before him: he fell to his knees before the throne of the Queen of the Sands. He could hardly look at her for she was as fierce as she was beautiful.

“What is your request?” asked the Queen of the Sands.

The man’s throat worked but there was naught to swallow. “Rain,” he whispered. Indeed, this was the only request ever heard in the throne room of the Queen of Sands: rain.

The Queen answered with another question: “Why?”

The man fought for control of his tongue. “My lake,” he gasped.

“Why?” she asked again. He could not answer.

The Queen of the Sands reached into his mind where she saw a lake, sparkling and blue, and beside it a great city filled with people. Here and there along the waterfront stood glistening palaces, all of which belonged to this wealthy man. The rich clamored to spend even a day in one of his opulent estates. But now the lake was dry and no one wished to stay there.

“Denied,” said the Queen of the Sands. “Go back the way you came.”

The man trembled before the throne. His eyes pleaded with her, but she would not be moved.

“Go,” said the sentinel. “Go, before I throw your body to the winds with the others.”

The man crawled away from the throne, out the gate and down the steps. The sentinel watched him struggle to his feet and stagger back down the valley. This one may last the night, he thought; maybe not.

Decades passed, each day just like the others, interrupted only by the rare appearance of another supplicant. Each wanted the same thing: rain. Each was driven by a burning desire. One wanted a river on which to sail great ships laden with goods. Another wanted vast farmlands for his crops. Another wanted an orchard; another, a mighty forest.

“Denied,” said the Queen of the Sands. “Go back the way you came.”

Those too weak to obey were thrown lifeless to the winds. Years passed, each day the same as the last.

Then one day, the sentinel spied a small figure trudging slowly across the dried red rocks and onto the white clay that led to the palace. When the Queen inquired “How does the desert look today, my sentinel?” he answered: “We have a visitor, your majesty. But he moves slowly. We shall see if he arrives at all.”

“Indeed,” said the Queen of the Sands.

The day passed, and still the figure moved ever so slowly across the parched ground. After the sun set and the moon rose, the sentinel watched as the figure lay curled in a ball on the hard earth. Maybe he is dead, thought the sentinel.

But the next morning, the small figure stood up and proceeded once more toward the palace. The sentinel was intrigued. This one did not stumble or strut; it appeared to be looking around, admiring the view.

As the figure drew nearer, the Queen asked “Will our visitor arrive today?”

“I believe so, your majesty,” answered the sentinel. “The traveler has persevered and will approach the gates today.”

“If he means no harm, let him enter,” said the Queen.

“Yes, your majesty,” said the sentinel, his eyes fixed on the slowly moving figure.

By mid-afternoon, the traveler had reached the statues of the ancients. He looked up at each one as he passed by, neither intimidated nor afraid, only curious.

The sentinel watched him closely. This visitor was nothing like the others. Most of the supplicants were heroes or warriors, men of strength and power. Some were women of great endurance. All were ambitious and determined. This frail old man seemed hardly capable of making such an arduous journey, much less of offering a compelling request of the dreaded Queen of the Sands. His back was hunched and his withered hand gripped an equally withered walking stick. Despite his shriveled appearance, he was still moving.

The frail old man reached the gates and smiled. Turning to the sentinel, he asked quietly: “May I enter to see the Queen of the Sands?”

The sentinel looked him over once more. Certain that the bent old man could do no harm, he bade him enter.

The frail old man passed between the gates, putting one gentle hand on a great carved pillar to help him cross the threshold. Instead of falling to his knees as had all the others, the old man merely bowed and smiled up at the Queen of the Sands.

Never had the Queen beheld such a kind face! She could not help but smile back.

“What is your request?” she asked him, her voice soft like sifting sand across a dry dune.

“I wish for rain,” said the frail old man.

The Queen of the Sands’ smile faded a little. She had hoped for a different answer. Still, she would ask him the same question she asked all the others.

“Why?” she asked, her voice now more like stone sliding against stone.

The wrinkled old man simply smiled back at her. “There is only ever one reason for rain,” he said; “to support life.”

The Queen of Sands sat back in her throne and regarded him quizzically. “Go on,” she said, her voice softening again, a breeze among the rocks.

“There is another question, even more important, that you should ask,” said the frail old man. “Only by asking this second question does the first answer make sense.”

“And what is that?” asked the Queen.

“The question is ‘how much?’” said the old man.

The Queen smiled again. Today was different. This was more enjoyable than the other days.

“Then I will ask the second question,” she said. “So tell me, old man: how much rain do you wish for?”

At this, the old man’s cracked and wrinkled smile grew even more broad. He shut his eyes and turned his head this way and that, as if looking across a landscape seen only in his mind.

“Only a little,” he replied; “and very rarely. Only enough for the wildflowers which will wait patiently, and then bloom in profusion at the slightest kiss of moisture. Only enough for the beetle, the spider and the scorpion; they don’t need much. Only enough for the yucca which will stretch forth its long neck and offer rich blossoms while defending the ground with spear-tipped leaves. This is all I ask,” he said. “Only a little.”

The Queen of the Sands reached inside his mind and there she saw her domain radiant with life! She could feel the old man’s joy as he imagined this rich land.

“But why do you request this?” she asked him. “You are old. Even if I granted your request today, it would be years before this vision came to pass. You gain nothing.”

“Ah,” said the frail old man. “But I need nothing. I am already blessed. I have seen many seasons of beauty over many miles, many lands. But this is the first in which I have found no creatures with whom to share it. By the time this desert is a garden, I will be long dead, but perhaps in some way, my request will have made this world a better place for life that can thrive only here, Queen of the Sands. For that, I would be grateful. Besides,” he said, opening his eyes; “I have already seen it in my mind; so for me, the reward is already in my grasp.”

The sentinel became alarmed. “Your majesty!” he called out from his station. “Do not listen to this old babbler! If you bring the rain, your palace, your throne and your very life are in mortal danger! I have failed you, my Queen. I have allowed admittance to the very one who could harm you the most!” Then, with all his might, he flung his heavy spear at the old man.

The Queen waved her hand, instantly shifting the old man out of the way. The spear tip caught just the trailing edge of his tattered robe and tore it off, nailing a piece of it to the floor.

The Queen of the Sands stood to her feet and bade the sentinel stop. “No, my dear servant,” she said. “You have admitted the only one who has offered me the key to immortality.”

The sentinel looked up, anguish on his honest face. “I do not understand, my Queen.”

The Queen of the Sands held her arms out wide. “Let it rain,” she said. “Let it rain only a little, and very rarely. Let this palace wash away. Let the waters carve channels between the rocks. Give life to the seeds blown on the winds, but let only those who love this place survive.”

She looked down at the wrinkled old man. “Old master,” she said; “may you live in this garden forever. May you find shelter in the rocks and grasses. May you be quick, agile and fearless. And should anyone seize you, may you always escape.” With a wave of her hand, the old man became the lizard who leaves his tail behind in the grasp of his bewildered attacker.

The Queen of the Sands held out her arms to her faithful sentinel. “Your work here is not over,” she said. “May you serve me still when this palace no longer stands. May you always remind those who come to this land that they are to tread carefully and disturb nothing.” And with a wave of her hand, the sentinel became the snake who rattles his warning to the unwary, and bites those who trample incautiously.

“But what about you, my Queen?” asked the snake. “What shall become of you when all this is gone away?”

At this, the Queen grew radiant. “I shall love the rains most of all,” she said. “For I shall be the glory of the desert every year. I shall store the precious rain carefully, never wasting it, and every Spring I shall revel again in the richness of my choice.”

Then the Queen of the Sands called the rains, and they swept the land, though only a little, and only very rarely.

Slowly, over eons, the palace began to melt away. The statues in the valley were reduced to broken rocks perched on pedestals that grew thinner and weaker as the years went by. The great hall and its gates wore down, bit by bit.

But if you know where to look, you can still find the wash where the rains first fell, and you can follow it to the red rocks that lead to the great white palace of the Queen of the Sands. And if you persist, you can find the courtyard where remnants of the statues of the ancients still tower over your head. And if you wish, you may freely walk through the ruined gates and stand before what is left of the Queen’s mighty throne. Off to the side, you will see where the sentinel kept watch. You may even see a lizard scurry past, for he still lives here, just as the Queen decreed.

And if you come in springtime and you’re very lucky, like we were, the Queen herself may appear to you as a cactus with a bloom so rich it will take your breath away. But tread softly and gently as you go, for the sentinel still watches, and he will not abide carelessness

Paria Rimrocks Toadstools, UT - Where we found the palace of the Queen of the Sands

Ping standing on the remains of the Queen's throne

The view from the sentinel's watch

The Queen of the Sands keeps her promise

"The Whole Story" - by Mark Ivan Cole

("The Whole Story" Pastel, Graphite and Digital)

Sit down, lad. It’s time you and your Grandpa had this talk.

Your Pa didn’t tell you everything. Not entirely his fault. He didn’t actually know everything. For one thing, he wasn’t there for some of it, and for another thing, I never told him everything either. But anything he might have told you and didn’t, well, that’s going to have to stay in the grave with your Pa.

What I’m gong to tell you surely isn’t everything either. Some things happen for reasons we just aren’t privy to, and there are personages and forces at work that we’ll never meet—not all of them, anyway.

And this is where the tale gets a little strange, which, if I guess correctly, is partly why your Pa never told you everything. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It all starts with your Mum. Actually, that’s not really where it starts. By the time your Mum came along, the story had been going on for maybe a hundred years or more, I don’t know. But it was your Mum coming along that brought your Pa and Grandma and me into the story. Just one look at those smiling green eyes and your Pa’s destiny found a home. From the very first day when he came racing in from the field, breathless as a horse and flushed red as a strawberry, your Grandma and I knew our future would include this beautiful young lady with the long, red hair and befreckled cheeks. Ah, but we didn’t know how short that future would be. Nor could we know the fates would bless us with you, so no one could ever forget the lovely girl with the clear, green gaze.

But I’m going on and on and not telling you the whole story, aren’t I. Maybe it’s harder to do than I realized, but I’ll keep trying.

Bless you for not minding an old man’s ramblings. You’re as fine a man as your Pa. Everything he’d hoped you’d be, and more.

You didn’t know your Mum, and that’s a pity. Had you known your Mum, you might have understood your Pa better. You might have understood why he never looked at another woman, though you know as well as I there were plenty interested in your Pa, especially once you were no longer a babe underfoot. You might have understood why he spent so much time in the woods with you, teaching you how to fend for yourself, how to listen to the forest, and how he insisted you practice with the knife and the ax and the bow until no one in the village could match you. Maybe, too, you might understand better why he never let you rest, even when you bested every contender who came up that long road to challenge you.

Maybe if you’d known your Mum, you’d understand why you never felt like you belonged here.

See, I’m putting it off again. I’m not telling you everything. I’m sorry.

Here’s the piece you need to know first. The fact is, it’s true: you don’t really belong here. You’re not exactly one of us—not just like us, anyway.

No, it’s not that your Pa isn’t your Pa, or that your Mum wasn’t your real Mum. She was. They were. It’s just that, see, your Mum, she wasn’t from around here. It’s not like it wasn’t obvious, to be sure. No one had ever seen the likes of her in our little town. No one had ever heard such singing as that girl could do. I’d venture to say it was the sound of her voice that carried the most of her magic. Yes, probably her voice, I’d say, though I think your Pa loved her eyes the most.

Did I say “magic?” Did I already? Oh, well, then the secret’s out, I suppose.

You may have suspected. I don’t know. Something in your face tells me you’re not surprised. I suspect you figured this out on your own. Your Pa was adamant that we never tell you, but he’s gone now, and, well, there are signs that you’re going to need this information soon.

Yes, your Mum was as fay as any in stories told around the fire at night, as fay as ever danced a jig to the tune of the unseen fiddler who visits fairy rings on a midsummer’s eve. Your Pa knew it the moment he laid eyes on her, but he couldn’t help himself. How could he? All his young life he’d talked of some day meeting a fairy. Grandma told me to stop scolding him and let him believe if he wanted. I’m glad I followed that advice, especially since one of the fay came to live under my own roof and brought me the grandson I’ve enjoyed so much in my old age.

You are an amazingly patient fellow, I must say. Bless you for that.

Now, back to the point.

Not everyone was happy about your Pa and Mum choosing each other like that. Besides every girl in the village being heartbroken, some in town called your Mum’s heritage into question.

“Where are her parents?” they asked. “Why does she not say where she comes from?” they asked. “Aren’t her eyes just a little too green, her hair a little too red, her step a little too light, her voice a little too clear?”

Aye, now you see why they ask these same questions about you, fair boy, why people both shun you and stare at you, fascinated. It’s because of your Mum. There are those who do not appreciate fairies. They treat you as if your touch were poison. They talk behind your back, blaming your fine skills on fairy art, not giving you your due for your hard work, endless training and practice. Aye, such people can do you harm, for they believe, but they do not understand. And because they do not understand, they are afraid and will misuse and mistreat. Your Pa kept you away from them, and so have I. But you have to make your own way, my boy.

Many simply do not believe. Their lives are filled with work, a little pleasure, a little pain, a little hope, a little joy. But for them, there is no magic. I know, lad, because I was one of them. The closest I came to magic was when I met your Grandma. Yes, it even happened on a stormy midsummer’s eve when she arrived at this very door. You might not think a bedraggled, sodden little girl might bring in something akin to magic, but this wet kitten of a lass, all wrapped in a blanket, smiling shyly at me by the fireplace—ah, for me, that was magic enough.

Your Grandma opened my eyes to the world of magic. See, she was a different kind of person; she believed in fairies, and, by some grace, she understood them. Your Pa, he was another. Somehow, he always knew they were out there, though your Grandma never taught him directly, and I discouraged him. In the end, they were both right. I’m just lucky I got the chance to have it proven to me. Even I could tell there was something special about your Mum, lad. It was just the way she carried herself when she walked, like any movement of her feet was a kind of dance. It was the singing, maybe, as if every wind, every birdsong inspired some lovely melody for which words would not suffice. It was how the sunlight seemed to live more brightly in her smiling eyes than it ever did up in the sky, even on a clear day.

Did you know this, lad? Did you know your smile is like your Mum’s? It is, it is. There is no overcast that can withstand it, no darkness that can overcome it. There, see? The room is brighter just because you smiled!

But I’m not getting to the point, am I? No. I suppose I’m not. Well, I guess it’s time. After all, you’re no longer a boy, and that’s when this story takes a turn that I always thought your Pa would be here to make with you. I don’t know why I’m all that’s left to tell you, lad. Just a broken down old man with little strength left to help. But maybe you don’t need my help. I think not. “We always have exactly what we need when we need it.” That’s what your Grandma used to say, and I think your Pa believed it, too. I’d like to think they’re right again, since…well, let me get to the point.

I guess I’ll just have to come out and say it: your Pa and your Mum didn’t upset just the townsfolk when they chose each other. There are personages more powerful than the mayor, the constable or the priest could ever dream to be. These personages descended upon this house on the very night you were conceived, and an argument ensued the likes of which I have never seen before or since, and I don’t care to.

Anyone who says the fairies know nothing but bliss and mischief has never felt the depth of fear, the height of anger, the breadth of the arguments, or the strength of the determination shown by all sides that night. Back and forth the battle raged, though no one ever drew a bow or unsheathed a blade. Up in the loft, your Grandma and I heard nothing but words, most of which were in a tongue we couldn’t understand. But the meaning was clear: your Pa and your Mum had transgressed some ancient law, and these grand personages were none too happy about it.

If I could wish you one thing, though, lad, it would be to have seen the faith your Mum and Pa gave each other in the midst of this great battle of words. He stood by her and she stood by him, never wavering, even as accusations flew in all directions.

It seemed it would go on forever, but your Grandma flung herself from the bed and dashed down the ladder. I followed. I can’t properly describe everyone who was in this room that night. But your Grandma—in her dressing gown, mind you!--strode right up to the mightiest personage of them all and told him in no uncertain terms to lay out his complaints and describe what justice demanded. Not only that, lad, but she had the ginger to insist that he say it in plain English! Aye. That she did, lad, and she never looked more fearsome or more beautiful than she did at that moment.

Well, what I have to tell you next will explain several things, but it may leave you with more questions than I can answer. I’ll give it my best try, lad.

According to this mighty personage, the law separating humans and fairies cannot be violated except on pain of death. For your Pa and Mum’s transgression, they must pay with their lives. Now what I tell you next is not so that you’ll think me a hero, because my action had no effect. I’m just telling you the whole story. See, at this point, I pulled a cleaver from the drawer and rushed in. What I expected to do, I don’t know, but I tried. The blade simply flew from my hand and clattered harmlessly into that corner over there.

Then it was explained more clearly. This death would come at its own time, visiting the person of its own choosing.

Now I understood better what the argument was about. These mighty fay were not there merely to mete out the punishment for breaking the law. We were arguing with Death himself, because he had chosen you, and your Mum had offered her life in place of yours.

Yes, lad, that she had, and when we knew she’d done it, there wasn’t a one of us who hesitated to offer ours instead.

But Death would have none of it. A king among kings is Death. With but a breath, he can snuff the candles of a thousand soldiers. He chooses whom he will take, and when he moves to strike, none can delay him.

None that is, but, perhaps, your Mum and your Grandma, lad. None but they.

Maybe it was the fierceness of their faith, their belief in the rightness of their cause. Maybe no one had ever stood on that boundary between the worlds with the strength of Motherhood as did this fay and this human. Your Pa and I stood fast with them both, but Death paid us no heed. He knew our power to produce life was limited to but a small seed, and that part, however necessary, had already been played.

All eyes were on your Mum.

“At least let me raise my son,” she said, but to our ears it was a song of the most achingly beautiful yearning. The notes of your mother’s plea lingered in the air long after she had ceased to sing them.

Death himself stopped to listen.

But then he shook his head. The answer was “no.”

“Then at least let me bear him,” she cried.

I tell you, lad, the desperation in that plea nearly broke the heart of me. The song that sailed out to the bitter wind was sweeter yet, and stronger, and full of such pain as would make a man wish  that either he’d never heard it, or that he might hear it forever. Aye, lad, I’ve wished for both many times.

In the end—and it’s the end I’m coming to, the long way round as usual, so I do appreciate your indulgence, lad—in the end, a bargain was made.

Even Death, it seems, has a heart. He agreed that your Mum could bear you, but nine months only, and then he’d come for her. Your Grandma insisted that the child should have his mother till he was weaned, and Death granted this as well, but in return, he would take your Grandma first.

And so it was that the day you were born, your Grandma held you bright and smiling until she handed you back to your Mum. And then, lad, she bid us all good bye. She left us with a smile on her face, lad. She had no regrets.

And then, when you were old enough to reach for solid food, your Mum left us, as she agreed. Aye, make no mistake; she had no regrets, though our days seemed darker then. Yet your smile brought the sun back in and the breeze still wafted through the window, so your Pa and I took to raising you as best we could.

But you see, Death is never finished. Your Pa had broken the law separating humans and fairies, and now he would never leave your side, so what was Death to do? We never know when Death will come—at least most of us don’t—and we didn’t see him coming for your Pa. But your Pa knew his days were numbered. He knew better than most that each day was a gift, and he poured them into raising you to be strong, clear-headed, capable and independent.

And you’ve become all those things, my boy. You’ve become them all, even though your Pa was taken before you became a man. But here you are, a man. And a good one.

So now you know the whole story, though, well, I suppose it’s not quite all. Your Pa could not have told you this last because he wouldn’t know.

See, after your Pa died, Death came back for you, my boy, looking for you in this house. You see, in Death’s mind, you break the law daily, just by virtue of who you are. In your very body, you join the human and the fay. You cannot take a breath without bringing those two worlds together.

But every time Death comes a-knocking, I ask him in, and pour him a drink, and I tell him again how the world is changing, how his bargaining has made it so, and how he, himself, has broken many laws. And then I say that maybe just this once, he can let it pass again, and give it another day or two.

And perhaps he is amused, or perhaps there is enough truth in what I say that he just finishes his drink, slaps me on the back and takes his leave once more.

But the reason I’ve had to tell you this, lad, and the reason it’s taken so bloody long, is that my old friend Death is sitting over there, just now, warming himself by the fire, waiting for me to finish. You see, he agreed to let me tell you the whole story first.

And I have, I guess. So that’s done. He’s held up his end of the bargain. Now it’s time for me to hold up mine. It’s only fair. He let me pay my bit last, and he gave me many years to do it.

Just one more thing before I go, though. One more thing: that green-eyed lass who’s visited here these last few days—treat her well, lad. She’s from the same place as you.

You never know how long you’ll get.

Every day’s a gift, lad. Ah, and that smile of yours is the perfect ending to this story.

Good bye, lad. It’s been good being your Grandpa.

Criminal Activity in Barcelona

Gaudí Park, Barcelona (but don't tell anyone)

They say that ignorance of the law is no excuse. All that does is leave me with no excuse.

Apparently, it's illegal to paint plein air in Barcelona, Spain. Thanks to James Gurney, I am now no longer ignorant of the law. 

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), I was ignorant of the law when I sat down in the Gaudí Park in Barcelona, blithely pulled my Inktense travel kit from my backpack and started painting. I confess: I have committed art in the first degree. In Barcelona. Yes. It's all true.

Had I been caught, I would have been fined and made to go to the police station to fill out paperwork.

Gurney's interview with Roger Bansemer brings up the practical reasons why plein air painting has been banned in several places.I guess I'll have to watch my step in St. Augustine and Winter Park, FL, too, if I ever get the urge to paint there.

There's a simple solution: one painter, one painting. Let's all use common sense, not block traffic or anyone's business, and allow everyone a fair view of our subject. It'll all work out fine, then.

I wonder what the statute of limitations is on this. It's been a year. Can I go back safely yet? Maybe I'm on their no-fly list. The mind boggles.

Tantrums

(Zion National Park, USA)

When very young children experience negative emotions and don't know how best to express their needs, they act out. We recognize it as a "temper tantrum" and try to understand. It's best when we can calmly communicate with them to determine the root cause, to fully understand the situation so we can address their needs.

What about adults who throw "temper tantrums" on the internet? Perhaps too much unresolved pain, stress or disappointment has built up in their lives. They act out by leaving unkind, angry, unchecked comments wherever they are allowed. What do we do with them? What do we do with a presidential candidate publicly throwing tantrums and repeatedly using the kind of language that we would not allow our children to use? People behaving like this seem to forget that while their comments may exist only in the virtual world, the damage they inflict is for real. Words have power.

I am not wise enough to come up with a solution for the world at large. I can, however, make sure to safeguard my personal cyber world. I choose not to expose myself to unfounded or poorly conducted news reports, inappropriate language, biased emotional outbursts, etc. Allowing that into my life would be to unintentionally propagate it further. I can stop it here.

Coffee Talk

For years, Mark and I have started our day with coffee. It's something we both treasure and look forward to every day. We have some of our most interesting conversations over this cup of coffee. Mark may relate a vivid dream from the night before. "Dream Analysis, by Wanda," (starring Mark as "Wanda!") can be revealing, insightful or confusing, but having that direct connection with the unconscious is fascinating.

I don't seem to remember most of my dreams. Interestingly, though, at that early hour of the day, I very often have "wiser thoughts" to share. It's also interesting how I often start the day feeling wiser, and seem to progressively lose my wits throughout the day.

I think it'll be fun to capture some of our "Coffee Talk" conversations in this blog. I shall label them as "Coffee Talk."

(P.S.: Have no fear, "Wanda" doesn't do "TMI.")

Experiment

(Off the beaten path at Telč, Czech)

"Gratitude turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos into order, confusion into clarity...it makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow." ~ Melody Beattie
 
I decided to do an experiment today:

I will focus on Enough & Blessing.
I will express gratitude every chance I get.
I will say "Yes" to life, followed by "and I choose to..."
I will use my sitting posture as a reminder.

Wait...say what?

One of the hard lessons I learned from 2015 was Proper Posture. I thought I had already gotten all I needed to know about that from books, articles, chiropractors, physical therapists and ergonomic specialists. I hadn't noticed that, in fact, I was in constant pain. I was too busy with everything else, paying little attention to my physical experience. My body did its best to accommodate a "brainy person" like me who simply took it for granted.

It was truly eye-opening to realize how disconnected I was from my body. I had to peel away layers and layers of pain to find out that the way I was sitting, standing, lying down, and walking guaranteed pain and poor quality of life.

In our current lifestyle, I sit a lot. That's why I am using my sitting posture as a constant reminder. Here's how I sit if I am not paying attention:

tense
leaning forward
neck and shoulders hunched forward
holding my breath

It's as if I am afraid I'll miss something if I'm not always poised in the "ready" position.

Instead, I am going to recite the following, like mantras, throughout the day:

I am enough.
I have enough.
Relax.
Breathe.
Thank you.

I hope to experience the magic of physical life in this world of abundance.

Car/Driver Analogy

2006, Iguazu Falls, Brazil

I was lying on the floor doing my daily E-cises*, contemplating how the mind, body and spirit function together, when I thought: each of us is sort of like a car and driver. Our body is the car, and our "spirit" or "soul" is the driver of that car. 

A car attains peak performance when it is well maintained and driven by a good driver who knows the car and drives it the way it was designed. Good drivers accept and appreciate their car for what it is, and don't wish it were something else. Once behind the wheel, drivers get to choose the destination, route, speed, rest stops, and so on. Of course, drivers also get to decide if they enjoy the ride or not.

In my simple world, we're all just "driving" through this life in our different "cars." I don't expect that everyone else's car should be painted the same color as mine, have the same owner's manual, or carry the same number of passengers in exactly the same way. The world needs all different kinds. I find the diversity fascinating.

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* A few words on E-cises: They are simple physical therapy routines developed by Pete Egoscue. The basic idea is to allow one's body to heal on its own. The best thing about doing the E-cises is, in my opinion, being pain-free.

(P.S.: Thanks to Mark for his wordsmithery on this!)

A Brand New Start

“Loss can be the place where beauty and goodness begin” ~ Parker Palmer

Just like the years before, I started 2015 with an apprehensive but hopeful attitude. I was even more hopeful after reading some astrology forecasts on the internet. By that time Mark and I had lived in Taiwan for more than three years, long enough for him to renew his residency card (similar to the “Alien Card” in the US). It hadn’t been all rosy up till then, but in 2015, something good was sure to happen, so I hoped.

Back in 2011, we both stepped away from Corporate America. We knew that doing so without a clear vision was a bold move. However,  we are innately optimistic and we were pretty confident of our creative abilities. Between the two of us, we really do have tons of ideas on any given day. We believed we just needed the time to try them out. Taiwan seemed like the logical place to do it.

Taiwan is my birth country. When my parents learned of our intent to move here, they generously offered a place for us to call home--without charging us a penny. Taiwan isn't just any place in the world, either. It has more than 260 peaks over 3,000 meters. It’s full of friendly people, good food, and awesome coffee shops. The national health insurance is truly affordable. Being our adventurous, happy-go-lucky selves, we gave away or sold our belongings and made The Move.

Have I ever mentioned in this blog that I cried for days and was depressed for months after the move? I’m sure I haven't. I couldn’t face it, and I didn’t want to. It was confusing.

Although I grew up here, and was a “good kid” at home and “model student” at school, I had very little exposure to and understanding of the real world. Being a “good kid” meant I had to stop being myself, and unquestioningly submit to authority at home. Being a “model student” meant I had to ace tests, excel at competitions, and unquestioningly submit to authority at school. It was a narrow life.

Immediately after college graduation, I moved to the US and stayed there, so I never did learn the “way of living” here in Taiwan. I was virtually clueless about this culture, but I didn't realize that when we moved here in 2011. I thought I should “get” this culture and know it by heart. I didn’t know that the difficulties I was experiencing were “culture shock.” Worse yet, people expected me to know how everything works here. I kind of looked like a Taiwanese, and sort of talked like one, but I definitely did not think like one. Mark couldn’t help much because of the language barrier; plus he was dealing with his own culture shock. Hence, I felt very much on my own figuring out everything from toilet paper to government matters (Mark tells me he gets those two mixed up all the time).

Don’t get me wrong: there are many good things to say about our lives after The Move. We have explored a lot more of this beautiful world, and we have had the opportunity to focus on things we care about without having to follow a set schedule.

I have also had many opportunities to face myself, my fears, and the challenges of living very intimately with Mark, in a small space, day in and day out, day after day. We both wanted to make this new life work. I found that when things got tough, I simply read more books and tried harder to be a better person. Mark did his best to stay productive, drawing, writing and painting. Some days weren't so productive. When that became the trend, we were both concerned.

As 2015 progressed, something we did not expect and could not change became clear. We confessed to each other that we couldn’t enjoy the long, hot, humid summer that seems to last all year. We needed the big sky, big mountains, big land, and quiet living space more than we realized. But that was just the start.

I totally did not expect that 2015 would be the year “the shit hit the fan.” I was beat, physically and mentally. I was in pain and in shock on so many levels that I was forced to pay attention to myself, whether I wanted to or not. To my own surprise, despite being discouraged over and over by a baffling variety of constantly shifting pain, I still had the will and perseverance to pursue knowledge. I found resources and studied holistic healing and healthy simple living.

Even more surprising was this: I was experiencing an increasing sense of gratitude for everything. How could one have so much pain and be grateful at the same time? I don’t know. It’s truly awesome. Perhaps all that stuff I've read over the years is finally sinking in.

I find I have a better understanding of why I'm on this planet. I believe my purpose in life is to explore and discover beauty in all forms, and share my discoveries with the world. In my world, beauty is the gateway to inner peace and joy. I find beauty most easily in Nature, in music, in graceful body movements, books and almost invariably when I go to a new place.

Something good has come out of all this pain. I have learned a lot, but most importantly, I am learning to breathe, sit, stand, walk and sleep. It’s like having my life all over again, only this time I am prepared to walk with a healthy body and a grateful heart, fully living as that awesome, curious soul I was from the very beginning.