14 April 2011
Warning: DO NOT read this posting if you:
- have a weak stomach,
- have a romanticized ideal of me, Alex Moore, and want it to remain that way,
- have a poor sense of humor.
This time I do not blame my stomach (as I have in the past). This time I deserve the blame; my stomach can only be a good sport for so long.
Preface: for the last six years I’ve eaten very little animal products. Meat is completely out and milk, cheese, eggs, butter and anything dairy are rare exceptions in my at-home diet. But, alas, while traveling one needs to be flexible.
Flexibility for the sake of others, at times, causes problems for me.
It began yesterday at lunch. First pasta made with a butter, cheese and chunks of red meat cut throughout. Looking at it alone made me queasy, but again, I pride myself on flexibility (and I am ideologically in line with Italian farmers who produce for themselves and purchase local and organic; not supermarket products purchased from American factory farms). Next came rich eggs from the farm's very own hens, full of cheese. While I could have politely just had a “taste” of everything and eaten a ton of bread, I pushed my limits. I’ve had all of the aforementioned variables already on numerous occasions in the past two months: just not all added into the same equation. The rest of the day, my stomach reprimanded me and I felt a little nauseaus, but I pushed on. By dinner time (never before 21:30, here), all I wanted to do was go to sleep, but I hate to miss the opportunity to sit down and talk during a meal with Fabio and Margherita, and I told myself I should eat something, sickness is mental. I breathed a sigh of relief when I walked in and saw only boiled potatoes: just what my stomach needed. However, choosing to add ample amounts of fresh garlic and hot pepper may not have been (although, had my stomach been upset for bacterial reasons, both would have been good choices for natural antibacterial properties). When I was relatively in the clear, Margherita pulled a new cheese out of the refrigerator. Try this! My personal restraint collapsed, and that sliver of cheese was the straw that broke the camel's back.
Right away my stomach started feeling worse again. I got a little preemptive relief in the bathroom, but I could tell there would be more to come. I asked Margherita if she could leave the house unlocked, in case I needed to come in later, and got straight into bed.
I did not sleep at all; just rolling over made my stomach’s contents go on a roller coaster ride. Finally, I got up and went to the house. But in the dark, with everyone sleeping, the little bastard dogs had become full-fledged guard dogs. I put out my hand, talked to them, reasoned with them, but it was no use. Their eyes made it quite clear that tearing me apart was their number one prerogative should I enter. I stood there for several minutes calmly with my hand extended, but it was no use; they were barking too loudly to hear my attempts to calm them, and every time I took a step inside the fence, they lunged toward me like panthers. Finally, I retreated back to my little hut, hoping that I could wait until morning, but knowing subconsciously that there wasn’t a chance in the world. Finally, an hour later, the stomach rumbling came to a sharp climax, I grabbed the first bucket-like object that I could find—-which was, it pains me to say, a one liter yogurt cup I had been saving for travel leftovers—-and barely made it behind my tiny wooden hut before I dropped trow (thank god that cultural evolution has influenced elastic wasted pants for sleeping, with no bells and whistles, i.e. snaps or belts).
To say I had explosive diarrhea would not allow you to understand the gravity of the situation. Within what could not have been more than 1:10 seconds, the yogurt cup was full, but it kept on coming. There I was, squatting behind this wooden hut on the grass; the dogs barking at my commotion nearby; a much appreciated darkness that reduced [my awareness of] any splatter; with tears of laughter, frustration, pain, and cold in the corners of my eyes. And then? I couldn’t use grass: I was surrounded by thin blades and an Italian like bamboo, neither lending themselves well to either cleaning one surface or protecting the other. And to search much further I was paranoid, anyway. Two days ago, while I was weeding the strawberries, Fabio warned me that I needed gloves to weed one particular plant that was in abundance. He noted that it had a perfect toilet paper surface, and one could see it had perfectly adapted its poisonous surface as response to being used as toilet paper. He laughted that over its years it likely had given some people an unhappy surprise After several minutes of waiting (for what, I’m not quite sure: more to come? My butt to air dry?) I waddled back into my hut.
I tiptoe-waddled inside (hoping to not incite the dogs again/ hoping the dogs wouldn’t see me in my pants-less, half-squatting shame), reached into my bag and thanked god that I am an environmental packrat. Every time I am given a big napkin at a restaurant, at a meal, etc, it ends up not in the trash but in my pocket, then in my bag, waiting for some future use to extend its life and make its passing worthwhile (to throw away a full napkin after a little bit of oil and tomato sauce seems a needless waste of life). I found a bountiful assortment of used and crinkled napkins and a brown paper bag. Again, the lack of good lighting (and one or two other past experiences of parallel proportions) made me feel less filthy, and I jumped back into bed. But what to do about the mess out back? What do I do with the full yogurt cup and the paper bag in the morning? I could get up before everyone else wakes and sneak it all to the bathroom, but they wake early so I’d be sneaking in in the dark. And if getting into the house in the dark weren’t part of the problem, I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.
In the morning, with light and the rest of the family awake, the dogs nonchalantly let me pass (all I could think was to take them out back and rub their nose...). I went to the bathroom and let out another pound of water and materials rejected by my stomach (at this point I’m feeling nice and slender!) When I came out, Margherita asked, “how do you feel?” knowing I had gone to bed feeling a little off. I told her the whole story (leaving out the yogurt cup; I just couldn’t bring myself to include it, nor to thereafter explain my panicking, split-second reasoning behind it).
She laughed as if I had told her something nonchalant such as "finding a gecko under that rock gave me a good fright!", and said, as though she’d said many times before, “Well, get a shovel and some dirt...!” In shame, I went to see the damage in the light of day, emptied the contents of the yogurt cup (I’m still not sure what I’m going to do with that damn yogurt cup...its future remains undecided), and began the burial ceremony.
Today, after an unproductive morning I’ve thrown the towel in. Sitting, tea, and rice are the prescription for me today. In fact, I think I’ll go take a shower.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
WWOOFing in Italy: Animals
11 April 2011
As far as the farm family goes, this is one of the best farms I’ve ever been on. We sit for hours at the table conversing—-religion, GPD, European Union agricultural policy, jazz music, fava beans, you name it—-and both Fabio spends all the time in the world making sure I learn if I seem interested.
That said, there are other problems in the farm environment: cats and dogs.
Four dogs.
How many cats? Who knows—I can’t line them up to count them, and Fabio says somewhere around five, but he cannot be sure. They sit in the house, curled up on everything, and occasionally, the little instigators that they are, jump onto my lap, knowing the allergetic damage they do me. In theory, I try not to take pharmaceuticals; medical corporations are among the last I want to support. Here, though, I have been pumping my asthma inhaler at least five times a day, sometimes twice in an hour (I think the box says 4-6 hour intervals, max four times a day. Good thing I didn't bring the box with me; I don't feel so bad about it).
Then the dogs. There is a small wooden fence surrounding the house front door where the dogs stay. My house (a 2X2m wooden box, in essence) is outside, so I always have to walk through dog territory to get into the house. These are not the typical domesticated dogs; they are Italian farm dogs, small, but a little more wild evolutionarily and at heart. When I first arrived, they growled and barked at the new intruder—even while Fabio and Margherita stood there with me—but Margherita assured that this would stop if from the beginning I do the typical hand out, let them hear my voice and pet. For someone substantially allergic to dogs, you can imagine, the last part did not sound ideal, so I put more efforts toward the first two, the hand out and talking to them bit.
For the next two days, every time I entered the fence, they barked like crazy, I would put my hand out, give a few symbolic pets and words, back to the door, and exit. Then on the second or third day, I negligently assumed that enough time had passed for them to accept into the household, understanding me as a semi-permanent fixture. After the hand out and symbolic pets, I turned around to walk, and two jumped at my legs, one biting my calf and drawing blood.
Great. Now I’ll have to carry the rabies cooler (traveling in Asia, we used to joke about carrying the rabies cooler, for should one be bitten by anything, rabies shots come in a series that come over several weeks and need to be kept cold…) Fabio said that I shouldn’t worry about rabies (well, as farmers in the country, they did not give the dogs the shots that are legally required…) because there are no wolves around here. In situations like these, sometimes I turn off my better judgment for the sake of mental serenity and simplicty. Some would say, “better safe than sorry"; I say I rather not deal with Italian hospitals and I am too proud to let myself look like a complainer. (This mentality could, of course, come back to bite me in the back, no pun intended). Fabio gave me some propoli, and after one day used the gauge that I had not woken up howling at the moon to confirm that I must be fine.
For the next four days, I had to buy my entry into the house: every time I needed to pass Margherita gave me bread or dog food to pacify them. By the end of the four days, we seem to be good friends (them wanting to be pet, me wanting to use all my strength to kick the little bastards across the yard).
As far as the farm family goes, this is one of the best farms I’ve ever been on. We sit for hours at the table conversing—-religion, GPD, European Union agricultural policy, jazz music, fava beans, you name it—-and both Fabio spends all the time in the world making sure I learn if I seem interested.
That said, there are other problems in the farm environment: cats and dogs.
Four dogs.
How many cats? Who knows—I can’t line them up to count them, and Fabio says somewhere around five, but he cannot be sure. They sit in the house, curled up on everything, and occasionally, the little instigators that they are, jump onto my lap, knowing the allergetic damage they do me. In theory, I try not to take pharmaceuticals; medical corporations are among the last I want to support. Here, though, I have been pumping my asthma inhaler at least five times a day, sometimes twice in an hour (I think the box says 4-6 hour intervals, max four times a day. Good thing I didn't bring the box with me; I don't feel so bad about it).
Then the dogs. There is a small wooden fence surrounding the house front door where the dogs stay. My house (a 2X2m wooden box, in essence) is outside, so I always have to walk through dog territory to get into the house. These are not the typical domesticated dogs; they are Italian farm dogs, small, but a little more wild evolutionarily and at heart. When I first arrived, they growled and barked at the new intruder—even while Fabio and Margherita stood there with me—but Margherita assured that this would stop if from the beginning I do the typical hand out, let them hear my voice and pet. For someone substantially allergic to dogs, you can imagine, the last part did not sound ideal, so I put more efforts toward the first two, the hand out and talking to them bit.
For the next two days, every time I entered the fence, they barked like crazy, I would put my hand out, give a few symbolic pets and words, back to the door, and exit. Then on the second or third day, I negligently assumed that enough time had passed for them to accept into the household, understanding me as a semi-permanent fixture. After the hand out and symbolic pets, I turned around to walk, and two jumped at my legs, one biting my calf and drawing blood.
Great. Now I’ll have to carry the rabies cooler (traveling in Asia, we used to joke about carrying the rabies cooler, for should one be bitten by anything, rabies shots come in a series that come over several weeks and need to be kept cold…) Fabio said that I shouldn’t worry about rabies (well, as farmers in the country, they did not give the dogs the shots that are legally required…) because there are no wolves around here. In situations like these, sometimes I turn off my better judgment for the sake of mental serenity and simplicty. Some would say, “better safe than sorry"; I say I rather not deal with Italian hospitals and I am too proud to let myself look like a complainer. (This mentality could, of course, come back to bite me in the back, no pun intended). Fabio gave me some propoli, and after one day used the gauge that I had not woken up howling at the moon to confirm that I must be fine.
For the next four days, I had to buy my entry into the house: every time I needed to pass Margherita gave me bread or dog food to pacify them. By the end of the four days, we seem to be good friends (them wanting to be pet, me wanting to use all my strength to kick the little bastards across the yard).
Monday, April 25, 2011
WWOOFing in Italy: Day One on Farm Three
6 April 2011
When I arrived to the station in Ancona, Fabio picked me up after his teaching woodworking at a university in Ancona. The man did not even finish high school, but he is so experienced that after retiring he was asked to teach at this private university.
I have not met a single “simple” farmer through WWOOFing in Italy! While it is part of their shtick to look a little rough around the edges, they are all either highly experienced or highly educated. We drove to his home, a beautiful mountain drive on a cliff overlooking the Adriatic Sea, hills (as per usual), and snow covered mountains in the distance. We stopped at the beach to enjoy a look at the water and to squint out the skyline of Croatia, and arrived at his farm home of 37 years to meet his wife, an artist. The evening we sat at the table for at least an hour and a half talking. It’s so nice to be on a farm where they speak in Italian, not just dialect, and one where they are interested in talking to me, not either too gruff to be bothered/ too busy with children or other work/too entranced by a television set! While it is taking their dogs a little while to warm up to me, I do not think it will take Fabio long at all. In the morning, after I had expressed my desire to learn about apiculture he spent a good hour showing me how he makes the houses, comparing the families and their strengths and weaknesses, and simply sitting and watching them do their magic. I need to reread that chapter in Origin of Species about bees today that had seemed so dry at the time…now I could appreciate it. Bees are amazing creatures! Wax, honey, propoli, bee hives, dancing out encoded messages...what can’t they do?
Fabio makes the beehives inside his workshop, where he also does all sorts of other work. He built his entire home himself, starting 37 years ago, from the planting of every tree to the latch on every door. Currently he is making a model size Parthenon for the blind museum in Ancona; for this museum he has made several tactile structures for people to enjoy. Hanging from his wall, there is a black and white print from a computer that he seems to have made in Photoshop. There are three cavemen making tools with rocks on the ground, one of them with Fabio’s face photoshopped in (very little extra photoshopping is necessary to make him a believable caveman). Over, it says, “Homo Fabius.” This man has got a sense of humor.
When I arrived to the station in Ancona, Fabio picked me up after his teaching woodworking at a university in Ancona. The man did not even finish high school, but he is so experienced that after retiring he was asked to teach at this private university.
I have not met a single “simple” farmer through WWOOFing in Italy! While it is part of their shtick to look a little rough around the edges, they are all either highly experienced or highly educated. We drove to his home, a beautiful mountain drive on a cliff overlooking the Adriatic Sea, hills (as per usual), and snow covered mountains in the distance. We stopped at the beach to enjoy a look at the water and to squint out the skyline of Croatia, and arrived at his farm home of 37 years to meet his wife, an artist. The evening we sat at the table for at least an hour and a half talking. It’s so nice to be on a farm where they speak in Italian, not just dialect, and one where they are interested in talking to me, not either too gruff to be bothered/ too busy with children or other work/too entranced by a television set! While it is taking their dogs a little while to warm up to me, I do not think it will take Fabio long at all. In the morning, after I had expressed my desire to learn about apiculture he spent a good hour showing me how he makes the houses, comparing the families and their strengths and weaknesses, and simply sitting and watching them do their magic. I need to reread that chapter in Origin of Species about bees today that had seemed so dry at the time…now I could appreciate it. Bees are amazing creatures! Wax, honey, propoli, bee hives, dancing out encoded messages...what can’t they do?
Fabio makes the beehives inside his workshop, where he also does all sorts of other work. He built his entire home himself, starting 37 years ago, from the planting of every tree to the latch on every door. Currently he is making a model size Parthenon for the blind museum in Ancona; for this museum he has made several tactile structures for people to enjoy. Hanging from his wall, there is a black and white print from a computer that he seems to have made in Photoshop. There are three cavemen making tools with rocks on the ground, one of them with Fabio’s face photoshopped in (very little extra photoshopping is necessary to make him a believable caveman). Over, it says, “Homo Fabius.” This man has got a sense of humor.
WWOOFing in Italy: Selecting My Third Farm
3 April 2011
Yesterday I arrived to my third official Italian WWOOF host. I met Fabio at the WWOOF national meeting last month, and made the decision then that I should stay with him in the future. Why? Because I wanted to prove him wrong.
At this meeting, I was conducting interviews as part of my university research with both hosts and WWOOFers. One morning, I began a meeting with the great Paulo, an Italian farmer who counts Vandana Shiva among his friends. Because Fabio and he are good friends, Fabio sat down nearby to listen just as I asked about the material benefits and costs of WWOOFing, such as the amount of money spent and saved due to WWOOFers. Having walked in right after I had finished asking about the nonmaterial benefits (cultural exchange, language, friendship, etc), Fabio was visibly offended that one would ask such a question.
“How American, to always think of money. There are other reasons for having WWOOFers. The money does not even factor into the picture.”
Luckily, Paulo was there to defend me, saying, “No, this girl has really well thought out and well rounded questions! She’s already asked about nonmaterial…”
Despite Paulo’s support, after this encounter I, of course, felt terrible. No—I’m not a typical American! We do not all think the same! The question about the financial aspect I would not have even considered to ask on my own if my professor had not brought it up while I was preparing (I say this purely as a personal ego defense: as far as research goes, it shows that I am totally not prepared to do applied research and conduct well-rounded experiments if I cannot think of a single concrete question like that of finances on my own). I wanted to tell him all this, but in this one short encounter, I had little opportunity.
I probably would not have come all the way to his farm to prove him wrong if it were not for a few factors.
First, I sort of thought more highly of him because he thought less highly of me because I was an American. Not that I necessarily appreciate being lumped into one homogenous sum, but
a) I have certainly done that of Italians, and
b) I agree with him thinking less of me, should I be in the lump sum American stereotype.
Second, I adored Paulo, and a friend of Paulo’s must be a pretty cool guy.
Third, I became quite good friends with Fabio’s WWOOFer of the time, Andrea, during the meeting. He had WWOOFed on over twenty farms in Italy, so he was no light-weight. His biggest advice to me before I left Italy, “Go stay with Fabio. Of all of the WWOOF experiences I’ve had, staying with him may have been the best. He is incredibly intelligent, lives by his principles and shares them, and if you step inside his workshop with any object in your hand asking him to whittle a wooden copy, I assure he can do it.”
So here I am, WWOOFing with Fabio.
Yesterday I arrived to my third official Italian WWOOF host. I met Fabio at the WWOOF national meeting last month, and made the decision then that I should stay with him in the future. Why? Because I wanted to prove him wrong.
At this meeting, I was conducting interviews as part of my university research with both hosts and WWOOFers. One morning, I began a meeting with the great Paulo, an Italian farmer who counts Vandana Shiva among his friends. Because Fabio and he are good friends, Fabio sat down nearby to listen just as I asked about the material benefits and costs of WWOOFing, such as the amount of money spent and saved due to WWOOFers. Having walked in right after I had finished asking about the nonmaterial benefits (cultural exchange, language, friendship, etc), Fabio was visibly offended that one would ask such a question.
“How American, to always think of money. There are other reasons for having WWOOFers. The money does not even factor into the picture.”
Luckily, Paulo was there to defend me, saying, “No, this girl has really well thought out and well rounded questions! She’s already asked about nonmaterial…”
Despite Paulo’s support, after this encounter I, of course, felt terrible. No—I’m not a typical American! We do not all think the same! The question about the financial aspect I would not have even considered to ask on my own if my professor had not brought it up while I was preparing (I say this purely as a personal ego defense: as far as research goes, it shows that I am totally not prepared to do applied research and conduct well-rounded experiments if I cannot think of a single concrete question like that of finances on my own). I wanted to tell him all this, but in this one short encounter, I had little opportunity.
I probably would not have come all the way to his farm to prove him wrong if it were not for a few factors.
First, I sort of thought more highly of him because he thought less highly of me because I was an American. Not that I necessarily appreciate being lumped into one homogenous sum, but
a) I have certainly done that of Italians, and
b) I agree with him thinking less of me, should I be in the lump sum American stereotype.
Second, I adored Paulo, and a friend of Paulo’s must be a pretty cool guy.
Third, I became quite good friends with Fabio’s WWOOFer of the time, Andrea, during the meeting. He had WWOOFed on over twenty farms in Italy, so he was no light-weight. His biggest advice to me before I left Italy, “Go stay with Fabio. Of all of the WWOOF experiences I’ve had, staying with him may have been the best. He is incredibly intelligent, lives by his principles and shares them, and if you step inside his workshop with any object in your hand asking him to whittle a wooden copy, I assure he can do it.”
So here I am, WWOOFing with Fabio.
Friday, April 22, 2011
WWOOF Italy: Farm Three
4 April 2011
Google Map:
Visualizzazione ingrandita della mappa
Farm Three's Personal Description:
Since 1973, I have organically cultivated one hectare of land near the Parco del Conero (Ancona) and my aim is to be as self sufficient as possible. In the 1980s, we built the small house in which myself, my wife and our daughter (18) now live. We have a large vegetable garden for family use, 38 olive trees, a small vineyard, maize, legumes, 50 fruit trees, chickens, beehives, 4 small dogs and 4 cats. Part of the land is a semi-wild field of red clover, lucerne, clover, chicory and wild edible herbs -to create humus and to have a low maintenance winter garden. I am also a seed saver. I have a small workshop and teach wooden sculpture and model-making at a school. I am happy to share my skills with any interested WWOOFers. We eat nearly exclusively all our own produce. Accommodation in a small wooden house for 1-2 people, preferably for longer periods (2-4 weeks or longer). Apart from needing help with projects on our small piece of the planet, we hope to find friendship and share cultural exchange which will enrich everyone's lives. A little English and French spoken.
Google Map:
Visualizzazione ingrandita della mappa
Farm Three's Personal Description:
Since 1973, I have organically cultivated one hectare of land near the Parco del Conero (Ancona) and my aim is to be as self sufficient as possible. In the 1980s, we built the small house in which myself, my wife and our daughter (18) now live. We have a large vegetable garden for family use, 38 olive trees, a small vineyard, maize, legumes, 50 fruit trees, chickens, beehives, 4 small dogs and 4 cats. Part of the land is a semi-wild field of red clover, lucerne, clover, chicory and wild edible herbs -to create humus and to have a low maintenance winter garden. I am also a seed saver. I have a small workshop and teach wooden sculpture and model-making at a school. I am happy to share my skills with any interested WWOOFers. We eat nearly exclusively all our own produce. Accommodation in a small wooden house for 1-2 people, preferably for longer periods (2-4 weeks or longer). Apart from needing help with projects on our small piece of the planet, we hope to find friendship and share cultural exchange which will enrich everyone's lives. A little English and French spoken.
WWOOF Italy: Meditation with the Retreat Center
16 March 2011
I've been sitting with the members of Brahma Kumaris for an half hour evening meditation most nights since I've arrived. Raja yoga meditation means open-eye, sitting in a chair meditation. We look like a bunch of people mesmerized by a tv, but there is no tv. Only a big framed picture of the founder of Brahma Kumaris on an easel next to an empty padded chair on a platform, some candles, and a giant, back-lit psychedelic tilted red square above them both. Basically, a shrine. We are suppose to think in the present (we spent most of our lives thinking either of the past or the future with almost no focus on the present) in terms of ourselves and the wider world. This is not blank-minded meditation; there are directed thoughts and a specific god we are to believe in. There is a clear religious structure in Brahma Kumaris with a hierarchy, a god who sends down his opinions, and in the meditation we are suppose to think about the entire world and send good wishes.
Every hour, on the hour, in this house there are speakers all over that play one minute of music. 'Traffic Control', they call it; it's a one minute meditation where we stop everything we're doing to be reminded to be in the present. The evening meditation begins and ends with this music. I can't keep my mind on track for the two one-minute music interludes (which, in theory, should help lull me into a mental state of quietness). There is no hope for the other twenty-nine minutes. I try to think about all the things Regina taught me in my introductory lesson--my soul, its detachment from my physical self--but then I get cynical and the Darwin in me starts arguing all of that soul nonsense. I realize I've lost track, so I try to bring my focus inward to my body. I'm not sure if I'm suppose to be doing this as we're detaching from our physical selves, but as I said, I'm an amateur. It works in hatha yoga classes, and that's enough for me. So I imagine circling up every inch of my body, slowly circling my foot, through my heal, up through my leg, etc. (classic for all of you who have been in a hatha yoga class or two) until I reach the top of my head, and I stay on track! But as soon as I'm back to being with my mental self, it's over. My mind starts wandering to my many options for this summer, places I'll live, whether I'll be living in my storage unit...no!
Focus. Then the itches start coming. Right under my nose, the left nostril. Deep breaths. I scrunch face into silly shapes thinking that this will somehow magically do the trick. No cigar. I'm stronger than you, itch. Then it's my right ear AND my left nostril. Then it's my right elbow, my right ear, AND my left nostril. Christ! Are there bugs all over me? Detach from your bodily self, Alex. Your soul does not feel itches (unfortunately, this thought has minimal effect when you don't believe in souls).
How can I nonchalantly slip that gorgeous man who's been working here my phone number? I had it all ready on a little piece of paper, but when he left both of his jacket zippers were closed. Why does he have to be so shy? My time on this farm is finite!
Bah! Present, Alex! Remember what Regina told you. We have an intellect that can tell our brains which thoughts to hold on to and which ones are non appropriate for the time. This one is not appropriate for now. Present. Come up with a happy thought. A present, happy thought, whatever that means.
What the hell am I suppose to think about, then? The fact that I'm sitting silent in a room with a shrine in front of me? This thought for half an hour? The soul thing is out, so I'll think about the gloriousness of my body's complex systems and how they coevolved through symbiosis to the complex organism they are today. So complex, in fact, that I have this 'conscious', whatever the hell that is, that causes people like us to do things like this: sit in front of a framed Indian man and a red box like entranced zombies.
Cabbage! (In Italian, “Cavolo!”, literally “cabbage”, is used like “darn it!”) I'm back to thinking about my worldly body.
My worldly body—I remember last week when the retreat owner Piero asked us what our bodies are like in heaven. Do we have arm hair? How does he manage to turn every conversation into something spiritual? I appreciate that he is passionate about what he does. That I am. So appreciative, in fact, that I smile in what could be perceived as agreement with other people, rather than * changing the subject to what interests me more: how cool it is that our decomposing bodies when we die feed the worms who in turn feed the soil who in turn feeds plants who in turn feed small animals who in turn feed larger animals who in turn will one day feed people who die and feed the worms...but I don't think that this would be welcome at the moment. Well, our decomposing bodies should feed the soil, but instead we build stupid boxes to remove ourselves from the glory of Mother Nature's cycles...
Yes! the music! my thirty minutes are over! One last minute of music. Poor job focusing, this evening, Alex: let's make this last minute count.
Present, inner self, present, inner self...what is that sideways square called? It's not a diamond--diamonds don't have right angles. A rhombus? I don't think they have right angles, either. Is the light around it glowing red because the light coming through the tilted square itself is red? I don't think so. I think it's just a red square and white light. The music's over!!!
Yes. Done. Done poorly, but done. This last part just urks me. Everyone sits for an unspecific amount of time after the music ends. One minute, five minutes, but no one stands up right away. I think we should all jump up the moment the music ends and high five one another for having gotten through one more evening.
I’m sure that they have lost their focus, too: they are all thinking, “who will be the first person to get up? Because I have to wait at least forty seconds after them, to not be the first, but also not seem like I was waiting for someone else or affected by their choice. Raindrops keep falling on my head...”
Forget it. I stand up and peace.
* As I was writing this blog post: Cabbage! The one-minute traffic Control! I just can't get away from it!
** I tried to recreate my stream of conscious thoughts throughout these thirty minutes as best I could. I apologize for the confusion of it. But rest assured, I present to you thoughts much more trimmed around the edged than they existed in my head.
I've been sitting with the members of Brahma Kumaris for an half hour evening meditation most nights since I've arrived. Raja yoga meditation means open-eye, sitting in a chair meditation. We look like a bunch of people mesmerized by a tv, but there is no tv. Only a big framed picture of the founder of Brahma Kumaris on an easel next to an empty padded chair on a platform, some candles, and a giant, back-lit psychedelic tilted red square above them both. Basically, a shrine. We are suppose to think in the present (we spent most of our lives thinking either of the past or the future with almost no focus on the present) in terms of ourselves and the wider world. This is not blank-minded meditation; there are directed thoughts and a specific god we are to believe in. There is a clear religious structure in Brahma Kumaris with a hierarchy, a god who sends down his opinions, and in the meditation we are suppose to think about the entire world and send good wishes.
Every hour, on the hour, in this house there are speakers all over that play one minute of music. 'Traffic Control', they call it; it's a one minute meditation where we stop everything we're doing to be reminded to be in the present. The evening meditation begins and ends with this music. I can't keep my mind on track for the two one-minute music interludes (which, in theory, should help lull me into a mental state of quietness). There is no hope for the other twenty-nine minutes. I try to think about all the things Regina taught me in my introductory lesson--my soul, its detachment from my physical self--but then I get cynical and the Darwin in me starts arguing all of that soul nonsense. I realize I've lost track, so I try to bring my focus inward to my body. I'm not sure if I'm suppose to be doing this as we're detaching from our physical selves, but as I said, I'm an amateur. It works in hatha yoga classes, and that's enough for me. So I imagine circling up every inch of my body, slowly circling my foot, through my heal, up through my leg, etc. (classic for all of you who have been in a hatha yoga class or two) until I reach the top of my head, and I stay on track! But as soon as I'm back to being with my mental self, it's over. My mind starts wandering to my many options for this summer, places I'll live, whether I'll be living in my storage unit...no!
Focus. Then the itches start coming. Right under my nose, the left nostril. Deep breaths. I scrunch face into silly shapes thinking that this will somehow magically do the trick. No cigar. I'm stronger than you, itch. Then it's my right ear AND my left nostril. Then it's my right elbow, my right ear, AND my left nostril. Christ! Are there bugs all over me? Detach from your bodily self, Alex. Your soul does not feel itches (unfortunately, this thought has minimal effect when you don't believe in souls).
How can I nonchalantly slip that gorgeous man who's been working here my phone number? I had it all ready on a little piece of paper, but when he left both of his jacket zippers were closed. Why does he have to be so shy? My time on this farm is finite!
Bah! Present, Alex! Remember what Regina told you. We have an intellect that can tell our brains which thoughts to hold on to and which ones are non appropriate for the time. This one is not appropriate for now. Present. Come up with a happy thought. A present, happy thought, whatever that means.
What the hell am I suppose to think about, then? The fact that I'm sitting silent in a room with a shrine in front of me? This thought for half an hour? The soul thing is out, so I'll think about the gloriousness of my body's complex systems and how they coevolved through symbiosis to the complex organism they are today. So complex, in fact, that I have this 'conscious', whatever the hell that is, that causes people like us to do things like this: sit in front of a framed Indian man and a red box like entranced zombies.
Cabbage! (In Italian, “Cavolo!”, literally “cabbage”, is used like “darn it!”) I'm back to thinking about my worldly body.
My worldly body—I remember last week when the retreat owner Piero asked us what our bodies are like in heaven. Do we have arm hair? How does he manage to turn every conversation into something spiritual? I appreciate that he is passionate about what he does. That I am. So appreciative, in fact, that I smile in what could be perceived as agreement with other people, rather than * changing the subject to what interests me more: how cool it is that our decomposing bodies when we die feed the worms who in turn feed the soil who in turn feeds plants who in turn feed small animals who in turn feed larger animals who in turn will one day feed people who die and feed the worms...but I don't think that this would be welcome at the moment. Well, our decomposing bodies should feed the soil, but instead we build stupid boxes to remove ourselves from the glory of Mother Nature's cycles...
Yes! the music! my thirty minutes are over! One last minute of music. Poor job focusing, this evening, Alex: let's make this last minute count.
Present, inner self, present, inner self...what is that sideways square called? It's not a diamond--diamonds don't have right angles. A rhombus? I don't think they have right angles, either. Is the light around it glowing red because the light coming through the tilted square itself is red? I don't think so. I think it's just a red square and white light. The music's over!!!
Yes. Done. Done poorly, but done. This last part just urks me. Everyone sits for an unspecific amount of time after the music ends. One minute, five minutes, but no one stands up right away. I think we should all jump up the moment the music ends and high five one another for having gotten through one more evening.
I’m sure that they have lost their focus, too: they are all thinking, “who will be the first person to get up? Because I have to wait at least forty seconds after them, to not be the first, but also not seem like I was waiting for someone else or affected by their choice. Raindrops keep falling on my head...”
Forget it. I stand up and peace.
* As I was writing this blog post: Cabbage! The one-minute traffic Control! I just can't get away from it!
** I tried to recreate my stream of conscious thoughts throughout these thirty minutes as best I could. I apologize for the confusion of it. But rest assured, I present to you thoughts much more trimmed around the edged than they existed in my head.
WWOOF Italy Farm 2: Agritourism
15 March 2011
The location where I'm staying now is an agritourism and meditation retreat on a lovely 200 hectares of land. They practice a sitting yoga and follow Brahma Kumaris. As the WWOOFer job description is extremely vague, hosts can pretty much give us any possible job. Conveniently for them, I arrived a few days before a retreat group from England came, so they were able to put me to dusting chairs, arranging cupboards, and all sorts of work to prepare for the group. However--thank you, mom--I already am quite skilled in housewife jobs, so I was a little blue not to have been given more jobs outside, actually learning about farming.
Luckily, meeting local Bepe has been my saving grace. He works for Piero, and I met him to pick and clean carrots for a farmers market. Saturday morning, we spent together selling at the market with a full table: carrots, cabbage, sprouts, wild greens, oats, wheats, lentils, alfalfa, chickpeas...
The location where I'm staying now is an agritourism and meditation retreat on a lovely 200 hectares of land. They practice a sitting yoga and follow Brahma Kumaris. As the WWOOFer job description is extremely vague, hosts can pretty much give us any possible job. Conveniently for them, I arrived a few days before a retreat group from England came, so they were able to put me to dusting chairs, arranging cupboards, and all sorts of work to prepare for the group. However--thank you, mom--I already am quite skilled in housewife jobs, so I was a little blue not to have been given more jobs outside, actually learning about farming.
Luckily, meeting local Bepe has been my saving grace. He works for Piero, and I met him to pick and clean carrots for a farmers market. Saturday morning, we spent together selling at the market with a full table: carrots, cabbage, sprouts, wild greens, oats, wheats, lentils, alfalfa, chickpeas...
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