Losey Land

Varnished Vacation (Part Three – Back to Dessie)

I’m thirsty. So thirsty. If I stop and take water, I’ll lose my
momentum. The backs of my hands are sizzling like bacon. The front of
one hand is still burning and numbed from the plant I accidentally
touched on the way down. When I touched it, it felt like a bee had
stung me 20 times at once. How did I get a sunburn on the backs of my
hands? I readjust the scarf that either shades my face or neck. My
face and neck are continually in contest as to the winner of
protection. The flies coat the faces of scabby-faced children and
beasts of burden in what seems like the hundreds. If I stand still,
they’ll place a flag on me and claim me as the West Indies. I don’t
want to be discovered. I want to be my own island away from the flies.
Now that Ras Dashen is accomplished, the wind has been taken out of my
sails. I’m paddling back to the camp where we can get a ride out of
the Simen Mountains. An imaginary carrot is being waved in front of my
eyes as I stumble forward. I promised that we’d have tacos at my house
in Dessie after we’d climbed Ras Dashen.

By the grace of God, Allah, Vishnu, or Buddha we finally made it out
of the Simen Mountains. We all licked our wounds on the ride back to
Debarq from a town called Shiro Leyba (meaning thief of Shiro – a type
of sauce served with injera). Then Libby, Janelle, and I made our way
back to Dessie to enjoy a little bit of relaxation and tacos.

Unfortunately, Libby had to leave to go back to the states a couple
days after that, so we came back to Addis Abeba to drop her off. As
the time was approaching Thanksgiving, Janelle and I headed to Wolkite
to enjoy some of Ericka’s hospitality. There was more food at her
house than you could shake a stick at. I couldn’t even force down
desert I was so full. After Thanksgiving, I had to drop of Janelle at
the airport for her new adventures in Luxembourg. It was sad to see my
friends leave, but they are of course not to far away in my heart.
Cheesiness aside, it was brilliant to be able to commiserate with my
amazing friends. The time then called to go back to home - to Dessie.

Varnished Vacation (Part Two – Ras Dashen)

We set out at 6am in the morning with our scout Nege (his name means
tomorrow / eats and drinks once a day / preferred beverage is tella [a
locally-brewed beer] / balances his belongings on his head / can kill
thieves and charm ladies with the same look). The rest of the group
consisted of Libby and Janelle (visitors from a distant land /
athletes / cute girls), Kyle and David (fellow volunteers /
experienced in the ways of the wilderness / can both skin a bear in 5
minutes flat while playing the harmonica), and Graham (couchsurfer /
experienced world traveler / rugged looks with baby blue eyes), and me
(experience in the wilderness comes from watching Bear Grylls, brought
one pair of jeans [these jeans now rest with Davy Jones], has softer
hands than Libby, complains about stuff, if he were to fill out a
survey on the amount of yearly exercise he partakes in, this one
backpacking trip would be listed as “exercises frequently”, while at
the same time being the only exercise he partook in for the whole
year).

The first day was amazing. We traveled from a highland plain to craggy
mountain cliffs. These cliffs made me think God had once had a field
day with a machete. The outcroppings and angles of these mountains
seemed to almost be man-made rather than the work of time, movement,
and weather. The inevitable shadows created rivulets and rivers across
the mountain sides and through the valleys, striping the land with
shade. Everywhere I looked it seemed there was one mountain after
another mountain receding into translucent blue. On one area, we ran
into a herd of what seemed like two hundred Gelada Baboons and were
able to get within 6 feet of them. We finally arrived after hiking for
8 hours at our first camp. We then ate dinner and drank part of the
lovely bottle of sake that Libby had brought for me from the states.
It was heaven.

The second day had perhaps some of the most astonishing and beautiful
views. It already felt like we were at the top of Ethiopia. The
highlands below us stretched out to the horizon. Once again the
terrain we passed through was astonishingly varied we went from lush
overgrown mountaintops to pastoral hills to a large grassy plain where
the final camp was. As I was starting to suffer the effects of not
having enough calories and protein whilst hiking, I bought 13 eggs
from one of the girls at the village right before the camp. I
hard-boiled most of those later that night so that I could have some
good snacks during the day. We all crashed pretty hard after the
second day. We sat there like zombies while snacking on food trying to
regain some energy. After a refreshing cold shower, we all felt
better. So we set up a slackline (like a tight rope, but with climbing
webbing) in a precarious position between two trees. It was great
getting all the scouts, guides, and cooks (we only had a scout [see
guard with gun] all the other farenji that were traveling through the
Simen mountains had cars, mules, and personal chefs) to scurry across
the line. We ate a large dinner (except for Libby who was feeling
sick) and went to sleep.

Apparently the third day was supposed to be up up down down down down
up up up up up down down. What I did not know before I came was that
most of the 5-day trek from Debark was going to be exactly this. When
we finally reached the last up before the down downs we had done a
steady hike up for what seemed like 4 hours. When we finally arrived
at camp, we found that they had bread and beer, the two requirements
needed in order to relax after a big day of hiking. I went down to a
stream to wash my face and feet and I found Kyle in his swimsuit
washing his whole body. The water was freezing so he was jumping
around like he was in the NBA. After he finished washing I borrowed
the soap and washed as well. There were a large amount of the crazy
dinosaur birds that are native to these parts hanging around a little
up stream. On my way back, I found out why. Just around the bend
upstream from where we were washing was the gutted carcass of a bird
laying in the middle of the stream. I prayed that I wouldn’t die of
some terrible disease and went up and ate dinner. After dinner,
feeling rested and fed we drank some whiskey that had been sent by
Nichole (a volunteer of Dessie-renown), smoked some cigars provided by
Dawit, talked, and wondered at the beauty of the stars.

On the fourth day, we set out for our next camp. This day was up up
down down down down down down down up up. On the first up up portion
of the hike, we actually spotted the Ethiopian wolf. Currently there
are approximately 550 adults left alive. After we reached the top of
this mountain path, we were nearly at the altitude of Ras Dashen
itself. Unfortunately for us, we had to drop down what I think was
about 7,000 feet to the valley floor below Ras Dashen. I handled the
days before this of long uphill walks with tiredness, but not hatred.
When we reached the valley, the temperature skyrocketed and it seemed
the number of flies that followed us around took a cue from the
temperature. I imagine I looked like a zombie of a man by the time we
reached the last camp before the summit of Ras Dashen. At this camp,
we surveyed the damage that the hike had done to our feet thus far,
ate, and then went to sleep early for our semi-agreed upon early
departure up the face of Ras Dashen.

We tried to get our guide to leave an hour earlier than the normal
starting time, but in the end he only budged on a half hour earlier.
It was freezing outside at this temperature. We soon realized why he
didn’t want to leave that early in the morning, he had only been up
the mountain once before and he didn’t know the way well. So we
huddled together in a sledding line for warmth while we waited for
another scout to come a half hour later (we found out on the way down
that we were a skip hop and a jump off of the trail while we huddled
there shivering). The path wound and wound around the mountains until
we were able to narrow down which mountain peak we were climbing.
Finally we scrambled up the sharp rocks to reach the peak. The peak
that guidebooks say seems slightly smaller than the other mountain
peaks around us. We also wondered if we were on the wrong peak, but
our guide told us this was the top. We were too tired to care. We had
made it. The roof of Ethiopia. The toughest climb I’ve ever done. We
allowed ourselves some celebratory pictures and a quick break and we
started the inevitable hike back.

Varnished Vacation - Part One

The day starts in silence. The unreality of today’s arrivals, casts a
hue on perception. Arriving at the airport at 2am and change, it was
like looking at the set of a TV show that has smitten me. I think
partially, is this my life? I think partially, these things are
familiar and foreign at the same time. The airport is the most modern
building I’ve seen in a year. Why am I fidgeting? Why can’t I
concentrate on Dostoevsky? Is it because he had the lungs of a
champion swimmer and the wind of a hurricane? Well, yes, he is quite
long-winded. But that’s not the whole story.

The day’s arrivals were Miss Libby Sauter and Miss Janelle Armitage
arrived in Addis Abeba to travel around Ethiopia with me. It was
heaven catching up. The beauty of it was that it took no time at all
to fall back into the beautiful nature of friendship. The hardest part
of living in Ethiopia is to be so far away from the amazing friends I
have in the states. Like a mood ring, my hue once again changed.
What’s the color of excitement mixed with a feeling of contentment?

In the morning we headed for Bahir Dar (a lake-side city on the
Western side of the Amhara region). Despite my worries, Libby didn’t
get motion sick. Driving into the Rift Valley was absolutely stunning.
Once we arrived in Bahir Dar we settled down at my friend Kyle’s
house. Another Peace Corps volunteer in town invited us to a charity
dinner for this amazing school. The school provides for their
education, gives them a roof over their heads, and is run by an
Ethiopian. My friends got to experience a smattering of local dishes
and cultural music and dance with the added benefit of supporting a
great cause. The next day we took a boat ride out to a monastery and
saw some hippos. Then we chilled and set up Janelle’s slackline at a
local hotel (of course Libby was there!). The next morning we set off
for Gonder then Debark (with Kyle and couchsurfer Graham in tow) to
meet up with David for the hike to the top of Ras Dashen (the highest
peak in Ethiopia at approximately 15K feet). That night we stocked up
on provisions. [Editor’s Note: Jon Losey has only backpacked once when
he was a kid with a summer camp in Yosemite. When weighing adolescent
Jon Losey, the staff at this camp shook their heads at his weight.
They then proceeded to remove everything in the backpack besides his
swimming suit, sleeping bag, and smalls amounts of hygienic
accoutrements. Therefore his knowledge of what provisions to bring on
such a difficult hike were heavily encumbered by his inexperience. As
a result, goods that need to cooked were a heavy part of the materials
procured for the climb and in effect lunch, a time where heavy amounts
of energy boosting materials should be eaten, was generally paltry.]
Our bags weighed between 40 and 50 lbs each after we had packed all
the provisions. The dinner that night was amazing and the beers cold.
Appropriately, we drank the draft version of Ras Dashen beer called
Royal. The calm before the storm.

Requiring Resuscitation

The distance between blogs has been increasing steadily for me. If my
blog were a heart monitor, we would have flat-lined a long time ago.
But through continual resuscitation, you will still get updates on my
life. A lot of my work, as of present, has died down. Part of the
problem is that I have not put a lot of energy into resuscitation of
work. The other problem is continued set backs in work. It's been
hard to get work that I feel will be helpful, but I think that as time
goes on I will be able to make my schedule busy.

Now I will be taking my first official vacation in the Peace Corps and
I have almost been here for a year. I will update you all more when I
get back from climbing Ras Dashen and seeing some of Ethiopia. Cheers!

Jon

Gishen Mariam

The SUV moves its way up the mountain like a glass on a table during a
heavy earthquake. Only the tried and true experience of the driver
keeps the glass from breaking into so much matter off the precipice
inches away. The shine off the mountain, like a retinue of lemmings
an hour away indicates the sheer number of vehicles that have made
this same trek for Gishen Mariam and the feast of the true cross.

The masses are huddled sleeping like pieces in a puzzle next to the
church of Gishen Mariam. The air is crisp and cold and the bodies on
the ground give resemblance to a blanket of snow subtracting degrees
from my mental thermostat. Most of the crowds that have huddled here
are wrapped in white cloth waiting for the sun to rise and the
festivities of the day to begin. Inside the church a piece of the
true cross of Christ is said to be buried. I have been told the
number of people that take the pilgrimage here are between the tens of
thousands and the hundreds of thousands.

As the light begins to layer itself across the plateau, the chants and
songs of the Ethiopian Orthodox faith begin to blend together between
the drumming of the kabero and the clapping of hands. The wax candles
are still lit for those that can afford them. On the stage that will
soon be the center point of song, prayer, and dance stands a priest.
His look is distant, as if he is looking for a sign from the heavens.
The flags encircling him on poles flap towards heaven, as if they are
sending his thoughts to heaven.

It was a beautiful moment to be able to experience a festival of such
intensity in Ethiopia. Truly an indicator of how encompassing the
faith is within the Ethiopian Orthodox church. It is one of the only
branches of Christianity that to this day has retained its cultural as
well as religious identity to the majority of its followers.

Glad Tidings

Someone recently told me, “You seem happier now. Other people seem to
think so as well.” This raises some questions in my head. What was I
like before? Was I the cat’s drag or the cat’s meow or perhaps its
pajamas? I think I may wear my emotions on my sleeve. I may also wear
my emotions in a tie and vest combo, (it’s impossible for me to be sad
with a tie and vest on), my wallet (I become a cheapskate when I’m
sad—and by cheapskate I mean cheaper than I usually am), and by the
moisture in my hair (if I’m happy, I might just use gel). So which
hitherto unmentioned wearing of emotion has caused this shift in
opinion towards my happiness?

1) Two of my lovely friends (Libby and Janelle) are coming to visit me
in November
2) I bought a Kabero (Ethiopian drum)
3) I got my iPod to work (picture me trying to fight back the urge to
dance to Thriller whilst strolling casually through a crowded bus
station).
4) I have grown my first vegetable ever! Hooray cucumber. (In other
news the sheep have mounted one final counterattack on my garden.
Thank goodness for holidays. Hope they tasted as good as all the
vegetables that could have been.)
5) I was able to finally “authorize” some of the music I got off of
iTunes a long time ago and am now learning a Fionn Regan song on the
guitar.
6) I’m reading the Kor’an and a friend is teaching me some Arabic.
7) My compost pile is almost finished
8) I’ve set plans to climb Ras Dashen (the tallest mountain in
Ethiopia at a little more than 15K feet) in November
9) The winter cold is coming and with it a ton of Christmas songs to
learn on the guitar. “Let it snow” anyone?
10) I’ve started translating a basic computer course into Fidel.
የሜሰራች Note: If you do not have Fidel fonts set up on your computer
that reads Yemeserach and means glad tidings.

In other news, a personal record was set in length of Amharic
greeting. As a general accoutrement to greetings, one generally asks
the same questions repeatedly in rapid-fire Amharic. The conversation
went something like this:

Man: Selam Nesh? (Are you peaceful?)
Woman: Egzyabeher Yemesgen. (Thanks to God.)
Woman: Selam Neh? (Are you peaceful?)
Man: Egzyabeher Yemesgen.
Man: Selam Nesh?
Woman: Egzyabeher Yemesgen.
Woman: Selam Neh?
Man: Egzyabeher Yemesgen.
Man: Endit Nesh? (How are you?)
Woman: Egzyabeher Yemesgen.
Woman: Endit Neh? (How are you?)
Man: Egzyabeher Yemesgen.
Man: Sera tiru now? (Is work good?)
Woman: Egzyabeher Yemesgen
Woman: Sera tiru now?
Man: Egzyabeher Yemesgen
**5 minutes of conversation later**

Man: Selam nesh?
Woman: Egzyabeher Yemesgen.

The World Has Turned And Left a Smile

In my view of things, when you are separated from the things that
dictate your culture and your personality in your familiar homely
environment, a layer of your cultural self is removed. Cultural self
could be encased in a TV, inflated by friendships and love ones, or
built by your house or your neighborhood. Basically it is what makes
you you in your familiar environment.

I've been getting these strange moments of electric happiness. It is
something that I never experienced while living in the United States.
This cultural self was long ago removed and I think as a result, some
of my sanity has been removed with it.

The other night I walked home in the pitch dark. When it is pitch
dark near my house, it is absolutely dark. You cannot see where you
are walking. The holes in the road are traps meant to snare the body.
In the case, I continued to step on ground that was lower then I
thought it would be. In this befuddled mockery of dexterity I stopped
in the pouring rain and raised my face and hands to the sky and
laughed for a good long minute. It wasn't a laugh of distress or a
laugh of humor, but rather a laugh of complete childish giddiness.

Just today I was finally able to get iTunes to authorize songs I had
previously downloaded on another computer. I haven't listened to
Fionn Regan since I left the United States and to hear his voice
brought that electric happiness to me. I wake up in the morning to
see the mountain near my house enclosed in fog ... ecstasy. Reading
the Ko'ran ... exuberance. Making a meal that reminds me of home ...
satisfaction. The world has turned and left me electric happiness.

Planting Patience

Like many things in life, starting a garden can be both a blessing and
a curse. The lessons in life can be a plethora of bitter pills.
These bitter pills after being swallowed soon absorb into a subpoena
for life calling for a cease and desist to its trials and
tribulations. My bitter pills, as I have mentioned previously, were a
deep level of grass that needed de-sodding (even after double-digging
for 2 feet I could not get all of the roots), and possibly more rocks
and pebbles than soil, more clay than American Idol once had (it’s a
bad thing for me), and after the rains came I had a realization that
grass grows through a double-dug bed faster than America's rising
budget deficit. I turned my back on my garden for possibly 3 days and
the grass had already dug roots through my whole garden.

The hardest pill to swallow, however, was those devil creatures that
my neighbors let graze in my yard. The sheep weren't even my
neighbors'. They were from a souk outside our compound. Every bleat
they made unnerved me to no end. Wake up. Check the yard. Go to the
restroom. Check the yard. Do work on my computer. Wait 2 minutes
and run to the window and check the yard. But invariably I would
dissolve into a puddle of acceptance. Then I would once again wake up
and check my yard. The resulting chaos was not a garden that had been
eaten that met my weeping eyes. It was the burnt beans on Cinco de
Mayo. It was the fallen brethren on the battlefield. It was watching
Dancer in the Dark on repeat for a year. Sadness. Grief. Sorrow.
Misery. Depression. Then what is it you are supposed to feel?
Acceptance?

I endured the first encounter from those beady-eyed sheitan with a
fiery anger. I went to my neighbors and asked whose sheep it was.
It's not my fault I was told. The sheep are not ours. I fried,
stewed, steamed, and simmered until I had lost all of that vapor that
angered me. Then acceptance. It's just a garden. I have spent a lot
of time preparing it, but it's just a garden. Next season I'll do
better. Next season I will take more care. Next season I'll tend it
with loving hands daily. I put up with the second encounter from the
pentagram enclosed beasts of 80s heavy metal. I asked myself can this
happen again? I talked with my neighbors to see if they could keep
the grazing 7th Inferno's companions away from the garden.

I tolerated and stomached and swallowed the 3rd, 4th, and 5th bitter
pills of fallen brethren. I had told myself that it was an accident
this time. I told myself that the souk-owners and my neighbors would
be more careful about tying up the sheep. On the 5th bitter pill, my
sweet corn was gone. Same for my beans, my eggplant, celery, and my
bell peppers. The distant mirage of farenji vegetables I had not
tasted in what seemed like millennia evaporated into thin air. The
5th poisoned pill had dissolved into something important that I've
lacked most of life. That would be the patience to deal with things
that anger me. This is the understanding that can only be achieved by
turning the other cheek to see that it is only a triviality in life
that has presented itself to me.

After acceptance came deliverance. After the 5th time, my neighbors
finally took notice to how much of my garden had been eaten away by
those darkened agents of doom. One of my neighbors started to build a
small fence. Another pulled tomato plants out of thin air and planted
them in the vacant spaces. I was helped with the weeding that I had
resolved to not be vigilant with after so many bitter pills. I was
helped in turning my compost pile that had grown a protective sheen of
weeds. My neighbor told me that one of the things I thought was a
weed on the compost was actually a tomato plant. To which I replied,
no of course it's not. I didn't plant tomatoes. He insisted and sure
enough I smelled it and it brought back memories of my dad's constant
trials and tribulations in the Las Vegas heat to successfully grow
tomatoes. We replanted it in my garden. I realized that my compost,
on which I thought I had done a dreadful job of making (and I had done
a dreadful job) was actually composting. In a couple of months the
compost will be ready to put on the garden over winter. The soil will
be better. I will remove more of the deficit-like grass. Finally, I
will remember the most important thing. Planting patience.

Rock-hewn Rendezvous

Endit now bus (How is it bus)? The driver greeted the early-morning
bus to Lalibela like a rockstar or a politician. The driver has
descriptives to match both. The driver is like a rockstar because of
the mass amount of drugs (chat) he chews in the line of his work and
he is like a politician in that if there is a way that he could rip
you off, he'd be more than happy to oblige. The rains have turned the
dirt roads up to Lalibela into a Disneyland Star Wars ride, without
the charming politeness of C-3PO.

I had yet to travel outside of Dessie since the big rains started in
July. A vibrant blanket of green seems to have been cast across the
whole of Amhara. The dry riverbeds have started their trickle.
Around every bend a thin boy is tilling the ground with two even
thinner oxen pulling him along. I spot a clash in color against the
blanketed background. It is a pinprick of electric blue, like a
shining mirror against the blackness of night it catches my attention.
The momentary distraction was a Starling, the most beautiful bird I
have seen in Ethiopia, made even more beautiful by the contrast.

When I arrived in Lalibela, I set off to find a hotel that was
recommended to me by some couchsurfers I had. Down the hill away from
the tourist hotels, the hotel was found. On the way down, my memories
of insatiable Egyptian tourism were awakened vibrantly. It seems that
the whole of the town wanted to be my tour guide. I guess it is to be
expected, but the home-grown hospitality of Ethiopians seems to have
deteriorated in this case. However, when searching for yejebenaw
bunna (coffee from a traditional coffee pot instead of an espresso
machine) a small souk (store) gave an invitation for free jebenaw
bunna showing that off the beaten path from tourism it is still in
Lalibela if you search for it.

Inflation was quite evident in tourist pricing. The price to see the
church in Lalibela jumped to 300 birr from 100 birr just a few months
ago. The price to see the monastery was 50 birr up from 10 birr. If
you are paid a non-farenji salary, things like this can hurt the
wallet quite a bit.

The following day I went to the monastery on the mountain that shot up
from Lalibela. The hike at elevation was great. Being able to walk
through the lush surroundings brought back memories from Switzerland.
As I walked upwards, large groups of laborers carried trees and other
materials off of the mountain. Clouds of mist brushed over the peak
of the mountain as if the capped mountain was enjoying large puffs of
a cigarette.

When I reached the monastery, I found out about the change in pricing.
I figured I'd hiked all the way up; why not pay to see the monastery?
The monastery by itself was beautiful, but quite common in comparison
to the rock-hewn churches in the town below. The more interesting
part was the epic view from the outcropping near the church. After a
brief interlude of snack-age, I decided to go all the way to the top
of the mountain (a nearly straight-up climb above the monastery). A
little girl who was following us around offered to show us to the top.
At first I declined the invitation as I had declined the many
invitations I had throughout the day for a "guide" to help us find the
very evident path up the mountain, but she offered to take us up to
the top for free and as I didn't know the best way to climb up the
veering cliff-face, I accepted. When we arrived at the top the view
was completely fogged over; apparently the mountain was a
chain-smoker. But the epic-ness of sitting at the top of the mountain
was definitely worth the climb. On the way down the young girl
invited us to her house for bunna (to which she interestingly added
salt in replace of sugar). I had never been in an extremely rural
gojo bet (straw-thatched mud hut) before and was amazed at all of the
mud compartments that were housed on the walls in the hut. In the hut
was a calf that discovered that my arms had been caked in sweat. So
while the girl smoked us out with a smoky fire to prepare the bunna,
the calf cleaned off my skin and removed perhaps four levels of skin
with its abrasive tongue. After the bunna and the hospitality I felt
it would be nice to show my thankfulness by giving her a few birr for
the cost of the bunna. At that point she asked for more money for
being a guide and more money for her hospitality. I told her that I
didn't ask her to be a guide and that the birr I gave her was more
than enough to buy more bunna. This frustrated the adventurous day so
far, but I couldn't blame this little girl for the detrimental social
repercussions of tourism to hospitality.

I met up with some Brits that I had previously run into in Dessie and
we made our way to Lalibela. The churches were amazingly chiseled out
of the rock hundreds of years ago. The most amazing aspect of these
churches is that they were still a part of the rock they were carved
from. The amount of men and time and skill it took to make all of
these churches defies logic. It's comparable in my mind to the
mystery of how the stones of Stonehenge were transferred and placed so
symmetrically.

After the viewing of the churches and dinner, the Brits and some other
travelers from Belgium, Israel, Japan, Canada, and Germany met up for
some traditional dancing and masinko playing (a traditional
one-stringed instrument). Of course this was a Tej Bet (a place to
drink honey wine) so we were obliged to partake in the potent effects.
I did put my Ethiopian dance basics to test. I'm sure that
practicing in a mirror or having some kind of instructor would help as
the constant shoulder shrugging probably looked more like a seizure
than any real form of Ethiopian dance.

Even with the expense of Lalibela, it was definitely one of the
wonders of the world. While I won't be able to go as many times as I
would have liked due to the cost, I will be going again in the future.

A Spoonful of Sugar

Times are changing. The megaphone blast of the morning prayers are now bits of sound overheard from a passing cell phone conversation. The once ignored demands of you and farenji and money can now affect my temperament, whereas before I would glide over them like skates on ice. Some parts of passing conversation are understood when before I felt like Charlie Brown listening to his mother's muted jazz legs.

I made a list yesterday. I haven't felt the gumption to attempt such a feat yet. An inner gasp steams through my lips and my body shudders with surprise. Has this poor pilgrim penchant for progress? If you point your bow and arrow slightly down from the bull's eye, your target will be true. I might even be overwhelmed with work soon, as my tentacles have been grasping at multiple projects since I arrived.

This morning I awoke at 5am. The reading by candlelight routine is beginning to crook my body as I angle arms, neck, and back towards candlelight. If you were to look at me in my act of absorbment, you would think me a mad scientist on the eve of invention. Therefore I have decided to go to sleep and awake early to limit the crooking of bones. It is a good morning, this.

On a stroll the other day, I remarked to a seller of produce, my what big oranges you have. These boulders of oranges turned out to be grapefruit. So lately in the morning I have fresh grapefruit and the remaining gulps of juiced nectar. It has its foundation in nostalgic breakfasts of yore. This morning I decided to try a new concoction that is written in this Buddhist cookbook of mine. The recommendation is to split the grapefruit, cut out the triangles. Preheat an oven (in my case a precariously balanced lid top on tiny jalapeno cans inside of a large metal pot) and then add a spoonful of sugar to the center of each. Even Mary Poppins would take pride in this.

But of course we all take the good with the bad. The parable's display of sheep in the Bible doesn't mention how they are quite fond of gardens. Today I discovered that one of the neighbors in my compound had let their sheep off its rope. My neighbors have talked about my garden and they are quite aware of its existence and yet I look at my window to see why the sheep is bleating every five seconds and realize that it is running around free. As I turned slow-motion to my garden in horror, my gut wrenched. All that freaking work and now most of my plants are ruined. At least it left the Eggplant, Beans, and Celery. I have to admit that I burst with anger. I had to confine myself to my house for an hour listening to classical music while I steamed like a ... like a ... it's too sore a subject. Should I go back and change the title of this posting to "A Spoonful of Vinegar"? It's only a garden I tell myself. It's not like I need it to feed myself. I'll go and pick up some more grapefruits later today.