It's be awhile. A loooong while.

But I'm back. And truthfully urban. A trek getting here!

Back live, with love and living to tell.

Come back real soon. (Like this weekend.)

Tonight calls for a cup of 'Easy Now' tea, and a break from diligent resume revising. Oy vey!

I must confess that I have had too many musings and movements for apportioned postings since my departure from Canada-land. (Pepper spray outcry aside.)

But before going on, might I preface my sharing, and get honest about my hesitations with this post's theme?

It's this: After three months living and breathing intentional yogic community, I am burned out on the buzz words. In the way a kindergarten teacher recites "raise your hand," or a grocery store bag boy "paper or plastic?", I am worn by the dialogue of community, gratitude, organic. Unlike the teacher and the bagger, though, for me these were not only repeated, they were delved into at greatest, painful length. And after awhile it is hard to get excited about these virtues, especially when expressed exclusively from a white, middle-class, educated, privileged vantage.

I want to tell you about my inner knowing. But it seems so rehearsed! Overdone! Beaten to death! May my sensitivity to the buzz lingo heal in time. For these words are not inherently bad or wrong. They do get at what I am expressing...

My dad recently told me that there's a myth we already know what's going to happen. For me, three days into DC residency, this brings calm. Of course I love this theory! I have always been strongly guided by intuition and, yes, inner knowing.

While I still wonder about this city's fit for me, promise of employment, foremost relationships, climate, graduate school, career goals, various considerations at nauseaum... I am here. Intuition does not equal 100% certainty. A common mixed calculation on my end. I look around at how I got here-- with financial help from family, my godsister's generous sharing of her home and every thing, encouragement and limitless support from my parents, a happy heart in love. It helps to inventory the fortuitous and magical stepping stones of my path.

Sometimes trusting that inner knowing is trusting that I followed it.

Happy Turkey Day y'all.

Yes, I am thankful. Belly full. A year ago I was perched in my second-story cinder block house, breath visible via Skype calls with loved ones, a bowl of popcorn my evening meal. Worlds different. Half a globe, to be exact.

Yet tonight, before bed, I finally got to watching the YouTube video of UC Davis campus police pepper spraying peaceful student protesters. Unprovoked. Brutal. If you haven't already, watch the video.

I graduated in June 2009 from UC Davis. A happy, B.A. waving Aggie. My sisters both finished a year earlier from Cal, and together we haphazardly lamented that days of student protest were not ours. Sure, there were things to be protested, but ultimately we, and our fellow students, spent more time at Starbucks than campaigning for a cause.

Since then tuition has been raised, class sizes are up, class offerings trimmed, admissions tougher than ever. College graduates and returned Peace Corps volunteers like myself are scavenging for jobs. So much is at stake. While I fill up with a mix of disdain and distrust for the uniformed baton wielders, I am all praise for the students on these steps.

This is far from over.

Once upon a time, at the origins of inspiration for this yoga-dom gig, there was a girl, J. Having taken on a similar assignment, though hers being of the paid and arguably more reputable variety here, it was her yoga passion, poise and good gumption that got me here. Yet for all the goodness in her tales, so too were there eye-rolling absurdities to which one must bear witness. Anything less falls far short. But since you're in your seat and reading this, I'll do my best to explain.

The silent table.

An octagon of safety. J once told me that this island of solitude, a hangout for the thoughtful or bizarre (or both), became her mealtime haven. Which struck me as a bit odd. After all, food brings people together. For conversation. Like family dinners (a tradition tragically in decline, though a mainstay of my childhood for which I thank my parents).

But where was I? Oh yes! Silent table...

What J meant.

Living in intentional community, with such immediate, intimate environs is a recipe for casual, benign madness. We hear each other through papery walls. We eat together, practice yoga together, share bathrooms, swap books, delegate tasks, contemplate, meditate, gravitate, and eventually agitate one another.

At some point I simply maxed out. Hit my limit. Not with anger or drama. Nothing like that. A calm departing. Mentally, emotionally, and most notably for the purposes of this post, spatially. Picking up plate and fork, to ever-so gently settle them upon silent table refuge.

Why?

Because I can no longer talk about gluten. Or echinacea. Or beat juice ointments to cure bacterial infections. No more diet talk-- of the elimination, gluten-free, dairy-free, master cleanse, juicing, raw, vegan, or other variety. No more demonizing the use of "boyfriend/girlfriend" in favor of "partner." Please no more uninformed outcries against modern, conventional medicine, higher education, government. No more buzz words of or related to the following: organic, grounded, earthy, community, intention, beets, beans.

A girl can only take so many repetitions of the same cliched yoga-dom conversations. It has me salivating for pulled pork sandwiches, heaping bowls of gluten, and flaunting my voter registration card.

My aversion to beets will dissipate over time. I might even eat one again someday. Slowly important and beautiful words will return to my vocabulary. I'll enjoy, even partake in, mealtime conversation. Prompt it! Embrace my chatterbox between chews!

For now, though, my plate rests between fork and recycled napkin. Meat-less. And quiet.

Among my few reservations in choosing to leave Peace Corps was a fear of foregoances.

What would I miss? Would my expansions of self be equitable? Certainly not similar, but of comparable value? Purpose? Fulfillment?

Because my time in Morocco was rocked with such hardship and challenge, it demanded I be 100% present. On task. Except for when I wasn't, of course. Which typically looked like consumption of a care package's contents, and engrossment in 'Glee' episodes. Yet one can only disconnect until a call to prayer drowns out a MacBook's highest speaker volume. Reality check.

I had it that: Struggle = the only sure route to discovery. Growth. Experience.

What silliness! My life in these months since May has been superior in comfort, diet, happiness quotients. Multiply by 1,000. And not one ounce less. Of anything.

As my season as a karma yogi comes to an end, so too do the trees drop their final, loyalest leaves. In 2 1/2 months here I have built & found much-- an abiding astanga practice, warmest friendships, ease to be in the world, love. L-O-V-E. This rich gathering comes in paradoxical contrast, too. For much has also broken.

The landscape a physical, literal manifestation of this breaking down. Barren branches, emptied field plots, and the natural world laying to rest another year. In due course my body, after six days a week ashtanga + marathon training is breaking, too. Brittle shoulders, ever-sore muscles, all shifting to rebuild. Ouch.

Relationships of my nearest and dearest are coming undone. People apart. Hurt here, too.

And yet together! Just last week I entertained both my mother's week-long visit and my college journalism professor, Coach M. Who woulda thunk that the latter would show up of the two dozen people I invited?

I suppose amid breakings down, unanticipated things can happen. Surprises. Returns on long-ago built relationships. New relationships, certainly. A new body. Fresh spirit. Space for it all.

I've been a negligent writer here. Away. On the mat. Filling my days with daily mysore practice beginning at 6am, then working, refueling, afternoon runnings (have I mentioned I am training for a marathon?), sipping tea, sleepings. Repeat.

Today the fullness takes on new dimension, as I entertain both my mother and college journalism professor during their visits. They navigated all the way from sunny California. Gravitated.

This has me in keen observance of how my life has unfolded in one year. The beauties! This autumn I am celebrating not one, but two Thanksgivings. Canadian (passed) and American (one month to come). A year ago at this time I was cold, eating popcorn as my holiday meal, and alone. My exhalations visible via Skype chats to toasty and toasting family.

I am warm, both in thanks to my crusty radiator, and with radiance from my day. I am surrounded by community, people, conversation, family and friends (from afar!). My happy belly, content with its contents-- tomato soup, organic greens from the garden, chai tea. Nourishing an active body for tomorrow's work and play.

Yes. This is a season to be thankful, a moment to hold in the light.

Call it God, the Universe, Krishna, Buddha, Muhammad, whatever spiritual, divine force you fancy. I prefer Universe. And damn, is it teaching me things here.

How deft and assured I am that I know what's coming next! How quickly I am proven wrong!

A few lighthearted examples, for your entertainment:

Remember when I was packing up headlamps and wool socks on the eve of my Peace Corps departure? I joked, with all serious- and sourness, that my tenure as a lonely nun was about to commence. Somewhere around two weeks later in the Sahara Desert I found myself-- all self-flattery aside-- besieged with girlfriend (or, gasp, wife)-seeking volunteers. Before giving Morocco the boot I had two boyfriends. (Neither of the original attention-vying pack, by the way.) I got the message: Peace Corps is not a prolonged romantic dry spell.

There have also been the summer camp or Peace Corps or yoga commune stints where I packed my homeliest wardrobe. All in the spirit of being outdoorsy! Practical! Comfortable!

Fact: Host country nationals can differentiate Peace Corps volunteers from regular tourists in a heartbeat. Not even they would step outside the house in moth-eaten tatters and wiry bush beards. Here in yogi-dom I find myself in daily dismay with my bleach-stained tee's, and tired leggings. It's no wonder the ongoing quip goes something like "She's given up..." Turns out second-hand hippie apparel is not for me.

So with that long-winded introduction, the real meat of this thing I wish to express: My time at this yoga center has been, and resumes, rife with challenge.

A pressure-cooker of stuff. I am just confronted. Whereas I arrived with visions of vinyasa bliss, organic kale salads, and sun-warmed orchards, it has been all this... and more. More difficult than I ever imagined. Yet again I am proven wrong. Chided for my presumption.

A beauty of ashtanga, my chosen persuasion of yoga practice here (and forevermore), is that the sequence of postures is always the same. I learn these poses, and the work is building them, strengthening. This allows for any changes in my practice, any resistance, pain, failures and successes, to be purely what I bring. The postures remain the same. Physical mirrors of what's going on here (points to self).

It's been a stormy, hot place in there. No room for upset at yet again getting it wrong. This pot be full.

Meet my green friend.

We crossed paths, or petals rather, while I trimmed soggy dahlias. September rains are composting our verdant garden. Perhaps the crisping leaves will provide colored distraction from tiring flowers.

Yoga bliss-dom. This existence continues as a beautiful organic jumble of life.

Messy and uncomfortable, too. I'm on the mend from a nasty infection, which brought up a host of stuff. Health and wellness, when seemingly out of reach, can sure surface much.

This had me instantly wishing I'd listened closer to a dear friend (AC) and packed my easily-accessible, cheap antibiotics in departing Peace Corps luggage. Moroccan pharmacies: no prescription needed.

When initial self-judgement and reaction subsided, I got to the exhaustion and burden of being outside my home. My country. The familiar. The known, navigable modalities. Like getting medical care.

(Navigable: in that I have insurance until twenty-six. Thanks, Obama.)

I admit, I flirted with returning to this island for an extended term in isolated yoga-dom. But home is long overdue. And ya know what else? A regular, livable paycheck!

My tenure as a poor twenty-something is up! Over! Finished! I enjoy nice things-- happy hours, organic cotton socks, spontaneous vacations-- and am all about a life where these are possible. Built into the program, even. The where (SF or DC) and how remain under construction. When: December/January. What: the aforementioned (unabridged version).

Now...

Have I mentioned FUN? This here is good livin'.

I've been juicing. Kirtan-ing. Joined a writing group. Celebrated Rosh Hashanah at Salt Spring Centre School. Busted out a few dance moves at last night's farewell-to-a-special-karma-yogi / raw vegan chocolate -themed party.

Yes, we did play 'NSYNC's "Bye Bye Bye." I may have been the only person familiar with this tune, as well as rehearsed moves straight from the music video. You could say I bring a special California-girl-who-enjoys-J.Crew-and-patchouli dynamic to this place. I get the sense that people aren't anywhere close to figuring me out.

Neither am I.

I have been on a blog strike. Which may have gone undetected, given my post-Peace Corps posting frequency. Needless to say, I am back.

I've been told my blog communicates a confused girl. Uncertain. My reaction: cut it off. After all, there is real risk to share oneself, let alone on a public, online forum. This is no light-hearted endeavor, and can cause plenty of pain or messiness. Thankfully I have largely dodged such blogger woes; others of dearest acquaintance have not been as fortunate.

Tantrum mellowed, I reflected on the plentitude of praise I've received for my blog. What a difference it has made for my broader communication with loved ones, and communication with self. This space has allowed me to work out major mess.

And also? I'm 24-years-old. This is prime growing-up time, dammit. This blog is expression of a young, expanding, figuring-it-out, frequently-confused and often-found kinda creature. I make no excuses.

Just over two solid weeks here in yogadom. September 11th fell on Sunday. A passing I considered and reflected upon, though without much to grasp. Ten years ago the state of the world shifted. Amid a fresh high school morning, on the cusp of adulthood. My tenure in political and greater consciousness has, thus, always been in the wake of such an auspicious, dark day. When two-front war, political turmoil, and irreconcilable division took up residency of my post-pubescent life.

Sunday doubled as a full moon, leaving our vibrant community a bit out of sorts. Or perhaps it is the slow-to-surface "stuff" that comes up in a clear space. Today, over coffee in downtown Ganges, we remarked on the purity of our diet, rigor of our practice, perfection of environs. Yet charged remnants of an outside life bubble up. As if we followed the recipe precisely, yet it smokes, or burns, or is on the verge of flames. We're all contemplating messiness. I resume gratitude for this space, now made available, to deal with what's so. But damn it is ugly! And stinks! And isn't there a lid we can put on this pot?

One thing that's up for me is the future. In two weeks I have flipped my post-Salt Spring plans on their head! Give me death over the prospect of underpaid 60-hour-work weeks in a sterile office building, with pre-packaged food-coloring-filled meals! Not that most of said description was ever on the table (at least the latter half). These days I am flirting with a redesigned next thing. And it is unsettling to shake up my once so-solid notions of tomorrow.

Hiking in Ruckle Park.

Here, on a colourful and cultivated swatch of Canadian island, I finish each day expanded.

This afternoon, rubbing lavender lotion into my well-worked limbs, I chuckled to myself. In pure delight. Or awe, perhaps. I have manifested exactly what I wished, intended.

My days pass in sweet, natural rhythm. Every morning I wake for 6am ashtanga mysore. Pulling on boots for a crisp morning trek, in three minutes time I am at the garden house. Rolling out a jade mat, I then stretch my body wide, building a long sought after, intentional practice. I shower into fresh clothes, brew a cup of chai + milk + raw sugar, and enjoy quietude before 8:45 breakfast. A day begins.

In the next twelve hours I will share three meals with my fellow yogis, cut sweet peas and dahlias for arrangement, vacuum hallways and wipe counters, stop for an afternoon snack of apple + peanut butter. In this 100-year-old house and along its skirt of green space, I play full out, earning my keep and keeping much in return.

Nearly nine months ago, sitting amid wet winter in a frigid cement house, I applied to the Centre. It looked warm and verdant, just everything NOT my life at that time. Though I couldn't be entirely sure. Now that I am here, immersed, what bliss to discover I intuited right. My days are structured and unfold; meals are lovingly prepared from organic garden harvests; I am learning ashtanga yoga each day under the guidance of an incredible teacher; I am comfortable and safe; surrounded by like-minded, beautiful people who share, teach, listen. What abundance!

In the background of much observation, I especially notice perfect timing of arrival. My experiences abroad informed such a vastitude of my being. For this I am grateful. No regrets for going, nor returning. As for the link to my being here? I was ripe! Ripened and challenged while away, getting to know my self in too many moments of not-goodness. Such that now, here, in this place, I am settled. About who I am, what I am up to... and necessarily, what I require for wellness and happiness.

Morning visit in the garden.

Unperturbed neighbors.

Loving. Dahlias.

Home: Salt Spring Centre of Yoga.

I simply could not have imagined such perfection. And so while I have spent my day pondering what to share, and how to go about it, I'm finding myself in awe. More provocative and insightful musings to come.

In the mean time, a snapshot of the landscape. The 'daffodil room' is mine until November 22nd. A small cork-floored box in this 100+ year house, with glass-knobbed door opening to a dahlia-filled organic garden.

Each morning I wake to a 6am mysore practice, my commitment for the duration of my stay. (Yes, my arms are sore to the touch.) This place is magical. Full of light. And lightness. It's been a long time coming... I have arrived!

Daffodil room.

Together again. Lubya too.

Mmmm. Stumptown. Tasty Portland.

Best. Sandwich Ever.Paseo, Seattle.

Peanut butter pie tastes like childhood summers.Chimacum Cafe.

Tonight it is three months to the day of my Morocco departure. Here in California, a moment of reprieve from summer heat while a chorus carries on outside my window. I am well fed, a fan whirs, and life is so full that if I let it all in I am overtaken with gratitude.

My bedroom floor is awash in camp bags chock-a-block with wool sweaters, long underwear, a headlamp, bug spray. An outdoor(wo)man's paradise. And so my next adventure looks much like the last. In appearances only.

Indeed, this 3-month karma yoga study will be, shall I say, the antithesis of Peace Corps. Comforting, healing, centering. Yep, I wouldn't privilege my PC experience with any of those descriptions. Yet, might I add, that I have been noticing, celebrating even, the person I have grown to be out of my experience. This comes to mind...

I am not me any more. At least I'm not the same me I was. -Guevara

Looking around I observe much suffering at the hand of judgement, especially self-judgement. I listen to others' conversation about others. About themselves. It is exhausting to simply bear witness. And I am instantly thankful for my removal, however and certainly harsh, from the (inner) dialogues we run. The paradigms we build and in which we live. Having given what I gave in my service and experience, it is only fitting that I distinguish and (again) celebrate outcomes like freedom.

By the way, I realize that this blog continues as a forum, medium, outlet for the digestion of my PC tenure. Likely forever, to varying degrees and appearances.

As for the looming departure to yoga-land (as I affectionately call it)-- what JOY! I know enough of what I am getting into to declare it all the healing and goodness a weathered soul could ask for! Not to mention great intention for warrior poses.

A SF weekend. Sisterhood + sweet jams + sunshine. Perfection?

Hello sunshine!

A-Muse-ing.

We are sisters. And regulars. Cafe Greco.Wake-up call. Literally. Parrots of Telegraph Hill.

Beloved Community:

I'm off to great places! I'm off and away!

(Almost.) That is to say: My road trip from Redding CA to Salt Spring Island BC shall commence in just over 2 wee weeks. And I am in the midst of creating my trip!

From here to there I am looking for places to stay, people to see, recommendations to fulfill on. If you are along my route, that is to say-- if you live in Oregon or Washington or Vancouver BC, and are interested in being part of my adventure-- please let me know!

I intend to leave Redding on/around August 24th, and stay several nights in/around Portland, Seattle, Vancouver. Any accommodations and company are most welcome and gratefully considered :).

Love, Jessiejessicastopher{at}gmail.com

Here in the Western world, happy hours are poured, summer barbecues sizzle, and every middle-class American totes a kanteen. Ramadan is but a tiny blip in the news, a colorful detail as violence resumes in Syria, washed quickly from consciousness as screens refresh to debt ceilings and premature celebrity deaths.

Though I lamented summer heat and inconveniences of Islam's holy month, I look back on a year ago with fondness. The breaking fast of figs and tea, everyone huddled around a table. At night the streets roared with life, respite from dusty burning days. Blue neon from the Afriquia gas station threw a coolness, illuminating faces of a rare assemblage: Women and men? Children, too, of course. But all of this at night? Together?

I do not miss Morocco. Never have I reflected, even for a micro-second, with uncertainty about my choice to leave. Once made, it brought me great peace. And so as I reflect upon the celebrations of Ramadan half a world away, with warmth, I am present to a shift in my beingness. There's plenty to be angry and resentful about Morocco and Peace Corps. Trust me, I came away covered in both.

But I also fiercely loved people there. Cultivated a greatest friendship. Lived life as a minority, outsider, and target for the first time ever. I suffered and sweated, celebrated others' weddings and births, mourned their deaths. I grew up. Am forever shaped by the experience.

To my dearest Moroccan family and friends who won't read this, and to my fellow PCVs in country who will, Mabrouk Ramadan.

A basic lftur, or breaking fast of fresh figs, dates, cookies (chebekkia), olives,hard-boiled eggs with cumin & salt, fried bread (mismn), and a funky faux meat.

It was inevitable. I suppose. I mean, how long can a girl sustain jet-setting, concert-going, powerful-manifesting, California-summertime frivolity without some proverbial shit hitting the fan?

Ten weeks, I'd say.

In May I met reentry with playfulness and poise. Often with sporadic outbursts of "America is awesome!!" Literally. On the streets. In the car. Aloud in restaurants. Awesome.

After all, kept green spaces, cocktails, and well-made things deserve praise. Plus, I'm relatively unscathed. Unlike so many RPCVs, I am without any lingering intestinal amoebas, depression, or sexual assaults. I'm fifteen pounds lighter, well versed in living as a subservient minority (thanks to my vagina), and a more humble creature. Granted I still have plenty of shit to figure out.

That is in the domain of post-PC "baggage," for lack of a better word. Then there's the flip side: the context in which I am unpacking. It looks like this: I have no job. No vehicle of my own. No set of keys to a private, owned space. Little money. Wednesday began a series of farewells with me in the rearview mirror unwavering and waving-- to my brother, godparents, childhood, summer-time and sweet friends. It f*ing sucks to be left behind with ALL of the goodbyes.

Please do not mistake me for ungrateful. My parents, sisters, brothers, best friends are profound support, love, generosity. They keep me fed, sheltered, loan me car keys and housesitting gigs, take me on vacations, buy my concert tickets and lattes. From them I get warm hugs and patient listening.

I am just, well, sorta lost. I am sad. Also, exhausted, by both of the aforementioned. When I get down to it I realize that at the heart of this is my oh-so-effective strong suit of being responsible. I make my bed, write thank-you notes, and am never late. Being responsible everywhere-- in relationships, with people, with each breathe-- is kinda nuts!

Inside of that? Comes a sense of lost. Now for an experiment with feeling the feelings, and being the emotions of this seldom trodden territory. After all, the Universe works in magical and miraculous ways. It might be responsible of me to be with all of this in quietude*.

*If you're not already privy to the likes of one incredible woman (& writer), please serve yourself a helping of poetry & grace here.

For those of you out there who are also in the business of manifesting, let me share a slice of happenings here.

As you surely know, I am soon off to the land of yogic delights. A certain indulgence in all kinds of awesome. So while the plan has long been to migrate north in late August, I have held onto the sweet idea of going sooner.

A regular yoga routine? Yes, please. A daily rhythm? Uh huh. Homegrown organic meals freshly prepared? Heaven. Intentional loving community. Of course.

It seems all those ideas and expressions, whether muttered to myself or the Universe, or outright requested as possibility, have come together. In 8 days I may be well on my way.

Yikes + yay!

Quitting the Peace Corps was less than ideal. And for awhile there I was in cahoots with my internal thesaurus for word substitutions to soften the truth. For myself. Especially when it came to the word "quit," which is exactly what I did. No more no less.

Tonight I lick chocolate from my banana-drizzled make-shift dessert. It hits the spot, and also spares me dairy-induced stomach cramps. Seems I've grown lactose intolerant while abroad.

I also lost 14 pounds, grew out my jet-black hair, and came home with more fine lines (I swear!). For as little as outward appearances suggest, Morocco left me profoundly changed. Most days I wish this showed up more visibly, readily.

I read my dear friend and fellow PCV's blog, and am immediately brought back to hard lessons about loss of identity, the struggle to be liked and to integrate. In Morocco I found the costs of pleasing others responsible for my safety and well-being great. And the pay-offs were just that: safety and (at least outward) well-being. But it was stifling. Oppressive.

I'm not so much defensive as present to how difficult it has been to express myself again. Sometimes I have thoughts to express and the words come out mumbled, a whisper or not at all. I am quite literally re-learning how to speak. How to listen to my body about what it needs as it cleanses of sugary mint tea. How to dress this same body, and carry it.

So while I reckon with what there is still to do, and give thanks to all the peace I made this past weekend at the Forum, I am thankful. Grateful. For this gift of choice, a decision, to give up. In return it has given more than I imagined possible.

Summer in Northern California is a dream. Really. Ripe with awe-filled moments of gratitude to be here.

If you're reading this, first a note of thanks for attention :). For your return at all. While I have been in DC and SF, wine country and the Trinity Alps, living a full life worthy of reporting, you may have thought me a blog deserter.

I've returned from a miraculous week in San Francisco. Three+ years since my first Landmark Forum, I committed another 36+ hours to life-altering experience. And while I'm not especially inspired to share in much detail at the moment, suffice it to say I am in the most balanced, joyful and present place in... well, years.

More reporting tomorrow after sweet slumber to the sound of encroaching thunder. Magic.

Sara Bareilles concert: next week's destination!Britt Festival, Ashland OR.

I liken my coming-back to America to a sugar rush. With every enjoyment and extravagance at my fingertips, I find myself bamboozled! Satiated, and sometimes overindulged. Six weeks ago I longed for a bundle of kale or a hot shower, now mainstays of my tutti i giorni. How does one strike balance in the land of endless opportunity?

Among my considerations these days is this plight: what to do when my freedom to choose and create is infinite. A place just as bewildering as one with narrow and limited choices, perhaps. What am I up to? Where am I going? When is my next paycheck? Who am I?

So while I have delighted in many a frozen yogurt or glass of riesling, I have made poor use of this time as reflection. At least quiet, settled reflection. Maybe it's a good thing, and certainly a welcome contrast to the listlessness-turned-unhappiness that frequented my PC life. Ok, even as I write this I am calling myself out. After all, everything I am doing this summer -- music concerts, family vacations, wilderness camp, sunshiney afternoons by the pool -- are nourishment. I'm considering that this is a necessary, albeit busy, chapter in self-discovery. All the while of which I have been reflecting, if not in a state of diligent meditation. I just look different than Buddha on a mountains while doing it.

I'm older. I've noticed. Pickier, too. Especially when it comes to food, about which I am more-so a diehard purist, organic-devotee than ever. I enjoy both wine and coffee, but am in conflict about consuming either. I worship my body as a temple (without any weirdness therein). I still don't know how to operate the tv remotes or how to apply the pile of cosmetics from my former and more glamorous life in America.

One thing I am noticing and loving about my self is that my filters have dissolved. Gone. Vanished. I no longer pause before expressing myself. Honesty has such a sweet ring to it! And all that snap-judgment about people, my surroundings, doesn't show up. I am present and welcome to truth and possibility unlike ever before. Refreshing indeed.

All of this has made for a full 5+ weeks on American soil. Please forgive the absence. I've been having fun here:

Me with friends from Camp Royal...

In summation of America thus far: I am happier here at any given moment that I was at the peak of my best days in Morocco.

Life is just better here.

I'd like to tell you that the transition has been ripe with counter-culture shocks and awes-- The cars are monstrosities! Grocery stores boast such season-resistant abundance!

Truth? It all seems pretty normal. Good, even. Granted the Starbucks Trenta size is alarming (31oz, larger than the adult human stomach). And the scarcity of quiet, alone time since taking up temporary residence with my parents, is, well, missed in a big way.

My readjustment, and points of surprise (or non-agreement), are much more nuanced. Difficult to translate from emotional/physical/energetic experience to formed thought, and scarcely come to words. I can be just so damn socially awkward! And what's appropriate when talking to strangers while in line for coffee? Abstain from conversation or invite them to my house for dinner? Navigating the norms of my once former life with my twice former life is weird.

It is also an opportunity. For the first time in my (nearly) twenty-four years I am without 5-year plan. I am flirting with the idea of a move to DC or SF in 2012, and until then am taking time to explore, enjoy, create a life(style). In late August I begin a 3-month work/study program at Salt Spring Centre of Yoga. As a devout karma yogi, I will practice my asanas diligently and help on the land in between sessions. It's a recipe for much-needed community, intense yoga, and wellness all around. Also on the books: a reviewer Landmark Forum in July. Clearings to choose what I'm up to next.

Coming back to America was so clearly the right choice.

In the face of unlikely employment, uncertainty about the next place or thing, people's questions and curiosities, I paid attention to that indubitable intuition: it was time to change it up.

Today I am in DC for a week+ visit with my soul mate of a sister. I sip an iced latte at Filter, bask in post-yoga class glow, and am 100% goofy-grin, belly-laugh happy. What a miracle.

It has scarcely been 7 days since departing Casablanca, yet my time here has been rich with realizations, both silly and serious. Of the latter variety, I must remark on how 15 months in Morocco has granted me space-- an emotional, intellectual, spiritual distance. It is as if I am exploring a once-familiar world completely anew, noticing the absurdities along with the beauties. Things like monster trucks and airline seat belt-extenders, public vegetable gardens and frozen yoghurt.

With all this comes such freedom to choose! Fixed, tired ways of being be gone! I am creating from nothing what I'm about, where I go, what I eat and speak. It is a beautiful unfolding. For now, more care and respect for my body-- more yoga, less unnecessary consumption. More child-like inquiry. Spontaneous dance parties. The works.

I am officially no longer a U.S. Peace Corps Volunteer. Nor resident of Morocco. And I've been away from the States for nearly 15 months, which as I zip up my bags, is a daunting jolt of reality.

I'm neither here nor there, much like the limbo between sleeping and waking. But isn't that such a beautiful time, too, that inbetweenness? In those precious moments I find myself free to direct my dreams, to bring in my pressing concerns and resolve them, building, moving, creating seemingly impossible things.

My sister and I chat often about how I have fallen away from American norms. Many are humorous, such as my infrequent bathing routines and inclination to eat any food with my right hand only. Preference to squat over a hole than pose upon a Western pot. These will take time and playful coaching, and are of little concern.

What are alarming are the less visible or known, even to me. In fifteen months I have come to distrust and fear men. To not look people in the eye. To forego sidewalks, preferring risk of harm by car than by verbal assault. I lie to get out of invitations. Invent sicknesses, allergies. Say what people want to hear rather than truth. Sacrifice my health and well-being for acceptance.

Upon my return to America I will look at all of these. In June I will spend a week in Northern California's Trinity Forrest at a magical summer camp. A week in DC with my sister, a family vacation, a weekend at the Landmark Forum in July, Outside Lands and various SF festivals throughout summer. In August I move to Salt Spring Centre of Yoga for a 3-month intensive work-study program. As for 2012, I have yet to create.

What I mean to say is, I have structures in place to begin the healing. The unpacking, from the zippers to the less accessible spaces of my heart and spirit.

Today is my last Saturday in Morocco.

My luggage is open-faced, piles of clothes and tokens of Morocco ready to jump inside. Today is packing day. And I am joyful.

Those of you who have tuned in, been in communication, you'll know that I have spent the past six months in on-again-off-again contemplation of returning home for good. For a month+ in the middle it didn't cross my mind. Then I went to Paris in March and, voila!-- an irrevocable shift. It must have been the foie gras. Perhaps the crepes.

In London a few weeks back I had a powerful, seemingly inconsequential moment. For nearly a year I had been without an eyeliner sharpener. Not even Morocco's supermarche could fit the bill. In London our Covent Garden flat was a 4-minute walk to a delightful Muji shop, where I not only found this long-awaited sharpener, but replacements for many a broken knickknack. It was just so easy. Easy to meet my smallest needs. Which too long have gone unmet.

Now, don't misunderstand; I am not coming back to America for cosmetic conveniences. But I am coming back because this is not working. Has not worked for some time now. And after over fourteen months --that's 435 days-- I know what another year would and wouldn't provide.

I have no work, despite my best and creative efforts. (My program was cancelled four months ago.) I'm tired of the Arab machismo, the sexual and verbal harassment, gender inequalities. Stifled self-expression. Limited opportunity to exercise or adventure outdoors out of safety concerns. Safety concerns and real threats, in general. Conservative culture. I'm lonely. I miss my family and friends. I want a fuller, fulfilling life. Time for a new chapter.

At risk of being a long-winded complaint, I share this here because repeated explanations are exhausting. Managing my departure is task enough for the moment. Which brings me back to those open bags, anxious piles, and a hungry tummy.

I'm ecstatic and nervous. Ready. Ready to take on this chapter, a major transition. There is much to work out and through, so much healing to embark upon. Quiet time with my thoughts and feelings. With familiar, loving faces. With comforts. Nourishment.

Home.

Quite frankly this blog is a smorgasbord of intention. I'd like it to be artistic, creative and about design. But to be real, these days such expression is few and far between. (More on this in posts to come.) Also, I've been a lethargic writer these past months, dashing my hopes of breaking into journalism or record breaking follower counts any day soon.

Lately, though, I am pulsing with renewed hot-topic fervor. Political. Impolite. Unsavory.

So despite my playfulness, this blog must grow up a bit. And will look the part. At least as much as the little designer spirit inside me will allow. (One day this blog will be a straight .com of it's own with a helping of awesome.)

For now it is late. I am buzzed from too much afternoon coffee. Fascinated by the cockroachesque monster I've had trapped under a glass for 5 days. (Why doesn't it die?!) And flirting with this coming wave of no-nonsenseness.

Quite frankly this blog is a smorgasbord of intention. I'd like it to be artistic, creative and about design. But to be real, these days such expression is few and far between. (More on this in posts to come.) Also, I've been a lethargic writer these past months, dashing my hopes of breaking into journalism or record breaking follower counts any day soon.

Lately, though, I am pulsing with renewed hot-topic fervor. Political. Impolite. Unsavory.

So despite my playfulness, this blog must grow up a bit. And will look the part. At least as much as the little designer spirit inside me will allow. (One day this blog will be a straight .com of it's own with a helping of awesome.)

For now it is late. I am buzzed from too much afternoon coffee. Fascinated by the cockroachesque monster I've had trapped under a glass for 5 days. (Why doesn't it die?!) And flirting with this coming wave of no-nonsenseness.

Gangs of kids and post-pubescent boys. I fear either encounter in the street.

It's the kids who throw the rocks, shout broken French or profanities if they are out of parental ear shot. They can be downright nasty, and I avoid them. Admittedly, those who share my neighborhood have grown accustomed to my presence. The street outside my front door is the only level improv soccer field in a sloping neighborhood. It's an intimate acquaintance, the kids and me. Plus, I know their mothers who would swiftly paddle for offenses against the nice American girl.

Teenage boys are a whole different genre of encounter, and I'd rather not channel the disquiet they incur.

What I want to share is about the kids, and an exception to the masses. Yes, there is Chayma, my neighbor girl who is as sweet as pie. She's shy, can be found hop-scotching at all hours, and has more than once carried my vegetables sacks up the giant aforementioned slope. Mitisam who gives me candy rather than pleeing for dirhams or sweets herself. There are the select few who shake my hand in proper greeting. I have favorites to be sure.

Recently, though, a seven-ish-year-old boy has had his eye on me. I don't know his name or where he lives, but his green eyes are unmistakeable in a sea of brown-eyed gazes. And while the other children are limited to the "how are you's" and the "what's your name's" of rudimentary English, he knows only this: "I love you."

We greet in Arabic, and in parting ways he calls after me, "I love you, I love you!"

Now, he may or may not know what he's saying. Most kids don't know their street English from Polish. The fact remains, though, that this simple and rare encounter melts my heart. He's sweet and shy, and speaks words I can only pretend are real.

I might, at this point, be well-advised to call off the whole blog gig. If I'm not a regular contributor then why even bother? Oy vey! Yet I am inclined against better judgement and serve up a slice of happenings here...

I've been gone, plain and simple. Family here, followed by a week in London, which was all a-flutter with royal nuptials. Beyond the joviality, unspeakable indulgences in all things tasty, and more than one massage (yes, really), the week of British flare passed without a hiccup. Plus there was Mom. And Barb, whose title as aunt/godmother/dear friend never seems to capture her goodness in my life. Such is the pickle of choosing one's family. The point is, family time was the sweetest, most nourishing gift. How does one say good-bye... again?

Back on my mountain, as I catch up on American Idol episodes and share laundry lines, I'm slowly taking stock of the world's events, no longer an arm's length off. Four days after boarding my plane to London a nail bomb tore through a tourist cafe in Marrakesh, where with less lucky timing I might have been a patron, sipping orange juice over the Jma El Fna. Scary shit. Time to take stock of what I'm up to, and where I'm up to it.

Between bouts of shopping in Covent Garden I got to talking with my dear friend Jancy. Have you met her? She's all sorts of awesome, and witty to boot! So, like I said, we were shopping and reviewing a year in Morocco, our perspectives weathered and ripened. It's a tough gig, and I can scarcely drum up the glamorous idealism of a younger self. What she and I came to was this: in one year we've lived a whole lot a' life. It's like running a marathon... for a year-- we're exhausted and blistered, and probably we didn't come in first. We look at the new crop of volunteers and wonder, "why did they sign up for this?" with such distance from our (much) younger selves who chose this, too. I think it's the not-knowing what you're in for that makes this all possible, and the trouble now is, I know. Wind has blown away the clouds and mist, once magical and romantic, and I peer up at the mountain's height. Who could possibly scale this?

More to come.

Snapshots of the landscape here:

Slippers fresh from the tannery, Fez.

Blossom at Yves Saint Laurent's Le Jardin Majorelle, Marrakesh.

Breakfast at Cafe Clock, Fez.

Oh sweetness! The zen of a successful, fulfilling moment of work. Two hours, in fact, of teaching English to the private girls' dormitory in my town. A gem of a place where women reign, headscarves are foregone, and we can be ourselves. There is such magic in places for women, and only women, which are few and thereby oft unknown.

Well over a year ago, sitting around a paper-strewn dinner table with my parents, the "welcome booklet" hinted at this unique experience for female volunteers: admittance into a secret, private world. Sacred. And tonight, as we joked about boys and I jumped around in a charade of emotions from their homework, I realized this is the healing. The nourishment. The saving grace. Because for all the bitter moments we endure as women, and especially foreign women, there is relief. Rescue, even.

Me at last week's spring camp with... boys! Will snag a photo of me with the girls.

Lesson-planning day here. After sitting on the shelf for nearly one year, I pull out my first language notebook. Page one reads translations to the following:

"Good morning""I don't eat breakfast""No, I am not married yet""My stomach (or) head hurts""I enjoy tea more than coffee""I want to wash my hands""May God bless your parents""I have sickness of the stomach" a.k.a. diarrhea

Oh, what a linguistically primitive time! I am by no means a fluent Darija speaker today, but can communicate most anything to anyone. A year ago I was in a makeshift classroom in a rural village outside Ouarzazate, learning my p's and q's, in the midst of an adventure surely none of us would undertake if we knew what was ahead. In fact, I am convinced it is the not knowing what you're getting into that makes Peace Corps possible. The perpetual element of surprise-- first your continent assignment, then country, followed by dates of departure, host families, final sites, neighboring PCV's.

And then the surprises slow, even cease for awhile. I haven't been shocked by much of anything lately. Not the man taking a dump for all to see in an open field. Not the two men who will mix French and profanity in their attempts to win my affections while they pass, holding hands and wearing hot pink rubber sandals. Not the parade of tricked-out Hyundais that stop traffic in a dusty village. Not even the outrageous and often nonsensical "English" adorned t-shirts that ship from China, to be worn for decades in Spain, finally making their way to my mountain village's used sales. (Recently I spotted a dark-skinned Moroccan with a "Black by Nature" hoodie. Yikes.)

I'm not sure if it a mark of cultural integration or simple desensitization. In fact, most of my shock these days comes from exposure to norms of my former life. People can really eat any kind of food they want, any time they want it? Toilet paper, hot showers and toilets all come standard in an average household? You can really show your shoulders and knee caps in public? No, the surprises aren't over yet, but rather waiting for me many miles and months away...

I'm back from Fez. Off to spring camp. Then back for a bit. On the road again for the family's visit. Then London. Then home. Then... well, are you dizzy, too? What little energy I've got I am gonna use packing before heading out the door. More writing to come. For now, and for your viewing delight, a snapshot of me + my women at this weekend's marche in Fez:

There's something peculiar about the French on Sundays. One must purchase a baguette, nibble off the exposed end, and throughout a lavish morning of buying fresh strawberries, or pushing a posh stroller, or navigating a terrier through the crowds, one carries along a perfectly baked baton. Quite literally every Parisian has one. And about the dogs... they are everywhere and nearly irresistible. Mina laughed at my baby faces at the French bulldogs especially, and my half-joking plot for her to distract the owner while I ran off with the pup. How I miss canine companions. (Flea and rabies-free ones, anyhow.)

Yes, I am back from Paris. A weekend and then some. In this moment of reflection I am all awe and gratitude for the goodnesses of my life. Like rekindled friendships. It's been two full years since I met Mina while she was studying abroad in California, and much shared enjoyment has since followed. In Paris she wined and dined me, and we walked our legs numb across the city! Champagne in the afternoon? Yes. Another Nutella crepe? Why not. Thank you, Mina, for a perfect visit.

This is my third trip out of Morocco since the beginning of my service, and somehow these escapes always creep up on me. I plan them and forget them, or am at least too busy to spare much pre-planning. And while seemingly nonchalant, there is a part of me that, like auto-pilot, makes sure there is always something on the books. As I pull out the suitcase days beforehand I am reminded of the necessity of vacation, especially now in my life as a perpetual outsider. What good fortune to live in a Peace Corps country serviced by RyanAir and other budget airlines, neighbor to Europe, more developed than most. For all the "luxuries" we enjoy as volunteers here -- this foremost among them -- so too are there unexpected, less visible challenges unknown in, say, a Christian country or a Spanish speaking one. Equality and familiarity are more scarce, especially for a woman. It is refreshing to let loose and to look as if I might belong, at the very least. Though I could have bought a baguette to be more convincing.

Alas, the travels go on! Inspiring and nourishing, and ever-so tasty.

Saturday crowds at Sacre Coeur steps.

Paul boulangerie at dusk, Tuileries Gardens.

A weekend with the likes of these lovely people.

It's not what you call me, but what I answer to. Today I stumbled upon this African proverb and it stopped me in my tracks. To all my fellow female volunteers, in Morocco and beyond, past present and future. This is such truth. For our lives now. And always. But especially now.

Today I am predictably sipping chai, burning new incense, making Mother's Day cards, and flirting with ideas about how to share my recent Paris jaunt with you. It was perfection. More to come.

Grey, then rain, a forecast I predicted with a native's certainty. Online meteorology tells me Paris will be wet, too. *sigh. I defiantly pack running shoes, keeping in mind my frugal budget, an appetite for every city block, and balance for many a gourmandise.

Something about this trip has my every excitement electrified. It has been seven years since my last real trip to Paris (layovers don't count), and a full two since basking in all the loveliness that is Mina. The sweet refreshment of a long-distance friendship, and most kindred of spirits. Happy heart.

Lately and largely, too, I have been ravenous for good food. Grub. Cuisine. Nosh. Chow. Fare. Too long my palette has entertained the same bland flavors of a culture-centric diet not my own. Need I even mention wine?

When not salivating with anticipation, life here is still clocked to fast-forward-- quick through jam-packed days. After Paris, then Marche Maroc in Fes, and my family's April visit, it will be time to intentionally mellow. At least less iCal-dictations, post-it reminders, and alarm clocks. For all the rewards of these whirlwind months, there are notes and e-mail to be written, friends to Skype, embarrassingly late and unfilled tea dates with my neighbors.

You know those moments when all you need is that left-hand friend? Maybe it's advice, or perspective, or listening to you for you. I've had that lately and it sucks to realize such a friend isn't here and, where are they anyhow? Not at all to discredit or dismiss the abundant love and support and beingness of my parents, sisters (Nikki + Sam), Jance,... What I mean is: some one Right. Here. Yes, this is in due part to my own shoddy relationship upkeep, but a truly and newly noticed flaw in this experiment we call Peace Corps. To be alone without such a readily available resource is a parlous recipe. Volunteer acquaintances, HCN's (host country nationals), or staff are no substitute. It's just a missing.

Thus, the forthcoming goodness of gourmandises, many toasts, + Mina. xo

Tonight is chai tea, children kicking a soccer ball at twilight, my living room full of the echo + hint of warmth from a candle. I am matching magenta with chartreuse, black with lavender, my pretzeled legs awash with djellaba beads and thread. Pieces of the life I have assembled in one year.

That's me, in the yellow Cal hat, stepping off our plane at Casablanca's airport. Oh, the roads I had yet to travel... and all those that still lie before me. Happy anniversary to me, and all of us.

I've been here, there, and everywhere. And yet life in my chilly corner of Africa doesn't forecast a slower pace until... after Ramadan? Thank goodness for that! Two months ago I was twiddling my thumbs and on the verge of a one-way ticket to California. Speaking up -- to Mom & Dad, family, friends, community, the universe -- can work wonders... I've got more flowin' and goin' than a girl can quite believe!

Saturday night here means a street full of soccer-playing boys and my second attempt at authentic chai tea-making. It's been 3 days at home and I am in recharge mode in the midst of bountiful work and life. I've finished laundry, whipped up a batch of dried cherry scones, carrot ginger soup, a pot of eggplant + brown rice stir fry. I flooded and squeegeed my house in true Moroccan housecleaning form. Yesterday was a full-blown host family reunion with couscous lunch, followed by a hard-core hammam scrub, compliments of my host mother. (You wouldn't believe how much skin she sloughed from my limbs!)

All of this in preparation for next week's travels to Azrou for training, visiting, presenting. Followed by busy work weeks, then a jaunt to Paris, then a marche in Fez, then London, then Rabat, then summer. I'll spare you much more schedule insight. It makes me dizzy. So until I have a charming anecdote, quip, or tale from afar, suffice it to say I am well. More than well.

I am a professional bucket bather. A champion sweet mint tea drinker. And a suave Darija-greeting-and-meal-invitation-decliner. Accepter, too, but a girl can only eat so much tajine.

I also left America with the declaration that I would return "thin, buff and tan." This idea was formed well before receiving my Morocco invitation, and probably should have been rethought given I came to a country where a short-sleeve shirt is the dress of prostitutes. Needless to say I am more "fair-skinned" than ever before. And the buff/tan thing has yet to pan out.

Thing is, while my exterior has remained largely the same, my thoughts and means of interacting have shifted greatly. Certainly in my daily routines of hygiene and diet, but more so in the subtle recesses of my being. Much of this inner transformation is beyond my awareness or access. Where is my growth chart for the equivalent of self-discovery?

Would it surprise you to know that I have become more, dare I say, conservative? Certainly more informed in the world of development, an intimacy that has me seriously questioning its intentions and implementation. Last year I attended a week-long conference that cost American taxpayers $200,000 in musical performances, elaborate dinners, and fancy banners. What did this "aid' achieve? At home University of California tuition has been raised over 40% since I graduated, and my tax-paying family of school teachers will struggle to put my brother through "public" university. That's after two years at community college. So I do support aid when it is responsible and effective, yet I have been hard-pressed to witness the variety that sustainably improves lives. This is hard to stomach when there are real needs in my community and family back home.

For "aid" substitute "development" or "economy." I am not entirely sure I buy into the idea of either. (Pun intended.) Too often these are just fancy words. What are the benefits to rural Berber villagers to join a market? Is it necessary? What will it improve? This sense of order and integration can come as such huge costs, often considered irrelevant or minor, but over time yield environmental, cultural, social destruction. It wasn't until the Morocccan government (and thereby the world economy) called upon nomadic tribes to settle, that forests and rural expanses of the country began to suffer under incessant human resource needs. Environmentally speaking the result has been massive deforestation, and subsequent erosion. Seventy-five percent of the Atlas Cedar forests have been chopped down. And so much for the now critically endangered or nearly extinct, bald ibis, barbary leopard, barbary sheep, mediterranean monk seal, or beloved argan tree. All in the name of economy, order, development, progress. At a national level but via global-level pressures.

Truth? I have seen huge benefits in rural populations joining more centralized markets. Women have passed down handicrafts in rug-making, weaving, and dying for generations and to sell these wares in a market means additional income. Because the family has more money they may no longer need their children to quit school early and supplement the family income. More education means a less impoverished next generation. And when women are breadwinners they are more likely to purchase healthy food and address household needs, whereas men are likely to buy cigarette, prostitutes and alcohol. It also improves the status of women, whose work garners them respect and a voice. Yes, these are considerable and worthy benefits.

The negatives here may be less tangible, less visible, even just less. But the reality is that full-circle and measured assessment, even scrutiny, should not be left out of these equations. To not question the means, modes and manners of our work is, in a word, irresponsible. And I am full of questions!

If you've read this far (kudos!), I will conclude with this: My perspectives are changed and changing. And areas where I notice such shifts are most often in conversation about development and economy, which I believe must be witnessed, in action, over long periods of time and not simply initiated by a Washington office. I am thankful that Peace Corps has and continues to provide such an experience. Is there any other way? Unfortunately the corner office thinks there is.

A map of Africa's Barbary Sheep population.

A Barbary Leopard. Reports vary about how many still exist,from complete extinction to 250 remaining individuals.

Photos above: (1) A rug from the Beni Ouarain tribe; (2) A Barbary Sheep.

Until tonight we in the Middle Atlas had not felt a raindrop since November. November. May the deluge keep up for the sake of our spring tulip crop, and summer's tomato and watermelon prices.

What can be known about a person by the company they keep? I've mulled this question many times over in the past year. Is it even fair to consider this? -- A clue, if not a conclusion, about someone? A time ago I was sitting with my dear friend who has also recently become victim of a brutal rape. In reaction to news of this, another person responded that they "had friends who had called that on them." To which I must assure you that the depths of this person's insensitivity, ignorance and normalized concept of violence did not go unnoticed.

Yet at the same time I found myself kindred spirits with a mutual friend of this asshole. How could I reconcile myself by a degree of association? It got me to thinking that in my American life the company I keep are honest and trusted representations of my self. That is, they almost entirely express shared values, and the points where they diverge do not misrepresent. It would not do to have a yoga buddy who killed neighborhood cats for sport, for example. But if my yoga buddy was, say, a "True Blood" fanatic, I would have no concerns.

The point is, I am seeing the ways that to know a person full-circle is certainly linked to who they know. And more importantly, who they choose to know. The company they keep. These days this has me (regrettably) calling a relationship or two into question...

If I may, ya know, just have a tangental moment here. Then I'll get back to my other, more fully constructed posting...

Thank you to the Moroccan mamas for baring your breasts!!

Yes, baring, not so much bearing. For they are indeed bare and quite plump, available in a split second to their babies. And in a country where most women birth five, six, nine children, you can do that math about how many public nursings and breasts there are at any given moment in Morocco.

It is at once a country and culture of contradictions. By near mandate a strict dress code for women requires complete coverage and loose-fit for torso and limbs. Feet may show, but no ankles. At all times I am covered from shin to elbow, and in the most asexual, formless garb possible. Yes, this can vary greatly depending on geography or other factors, but the point is that conservative dress is the code.

Yet women, toting newborns and toddlers, can be found in any public venue, breasts exposed and nursing. While waiting at taxi stands or post offices, passing roadsides, even beside you in a bus seat. This lesson in unsqueamishness and respect for natural reproductive practice would do Western women (and men) well. Also, what does this say about a culture where tank tops and Daisy Dukes are revered but nursing mothers are relegated to breast pumps and sterile "lactation rooms." If even that.

In this way Morocco has mustered yet another self-realization about how I want to raise my own children in particular, and how I engage with the natural and healthy experiences of human life in general. At the same time we Americans do not support or maintain a system that allows mothers to nurse openly and bottle-free for 2+ years. So how to go about creating that? Not only that, but every other paradigm shift and "alternative" practice that actually aligns with our natural expressions of human animal and human spirit?

I'll go ahead and tell you about it. After all, it seems safe to do so. (Though isn't safety, like control, illusory?) Yes, I am as settled and committed in this Peace Corps service as I have ever been; a mid-service crisis was instrumental in creating that.In November the endless days of grey rain and absence of work prospects (and thus purpose for my service) muddled my spirits. A close family friend wrote "We're happy it's a safe, rich & loving environment.” But it suddenly and clearly wasn’t any of those things. I researched yoga communes and fellowships across North America, applied to a few, even got accepted. I was looking to end my service. I conversed with my sisters, parents, friends, finding wise words in unlikely places. Other moments I was struck with the well-intentioned but ill-mannered cheerleading appeals to stick it out. (No, sometimes the struggles aren't worth it and there's not much honor in suffering.) Why stick out two years for anything, ever? That's not a life of choice and freedom. And then all those yogic meditations, Skype dates, journal entries, and be-with the upset moments paid off; I surprised even myself by choosing to stay. Without words, which in the end fell short. Relief? Relief!I believe we do ourselves a disservice by not sharing these rougher moments. Surely they have proven part of my journey, a piece in the great personal transformation I have undertaken. Am undertaking. Present progressive; not past.

TONIGHT: January 14th

ABC News will run a special on Peace Corps.

10pm. I encourage all to watch it!

Late nights like this one. No alarm clock for the morning, no pressing matters on the agenda. In fact, little in Morocco ever seems pressing, a sharp contrast to my America. I am reminded it is a luxury to wake up, every day, when my body’s rest meter reaches full. Dare I admit that 10-12 hours is, well, standard? But am I rested? Surely Peace Corps abounds in such luxurious expenditures of time. There’s the uninhibited sleep, endless hours for concocting elaborate meals or for the simple acts of squeezing fresh orange juice or kneading dough for fresh tortillas. Oft overlooked and hurriedly bypassed acts of measured attention. Surely bearing more, and more delicious rewards. Yes, this service offers up an abundance in that precious commodity: time. It can be a burden for us untrained in the fine art of leisure. Which is not to say that there aren’t projects or purpose to a volunteer life-- there are and we do them. But I’m not writing about work. What is the equation here? Is there a conversion for what we give up in proportion to what we gain? Is a regular full-night’s sleep equivalent to, say, a regular morning Starbucks vanilla latte? I would have to vote not. And I didn’t sign up for an even trade. The currencies are different and don't convert. What I do believe, and experience as true, is that I couldn’t do Morocco with an alarm clock. Not without fresh-squeezed orange juice. Nor without my two-bedroom apartment, running water and electricity, DSL Internet, cell phone reception, site mate, regular transportation. Where is the cassava diet and mud hut, you ask. I imagine this wealth of time is true for most of us volunteers out there. But not the orange juice and DSL. Truth is, I envisioned more cockroaches, more parasites. Surely less bathing. My Morocco is vermin-free, but it is the culture—the gender inequality and oppression I have so lamented here, the Arab machismo, the unrelatable foreignness that wears down a person. It is this that adds hours to my nightly rejuvenation, to my body’s yearning for well-prepared, vitamin-rich meals. And do I come out balanced? These days, more and more, I think so. I am (finally!) learning my own currency conversion, not a moment too soon.

The real voyage of discovery consists not of seeking new lands, but in having new eyes. - Marcel Proust

Truth is, I am out of plans. Or am I full of them? I certainly have a wealth of beautiful ideas about life post-Peace Corps, which is as far as my post-college itinerary had in store. Yeah yeah, I have a solid 16 more months here and renewed committed to them. Don't roll your eyes when I share my ponderings of post-PC life. There are scare few (if any!) volunteers who are not flirting with the same ideas. In fact, I am delighting in this opportunity for dreaming up and creating. Curious?

Wanderlust Festival (Lake Tahoe, CA). To warm-up those downward facing dogs, take in CA sun, and get groovy to live jams.

Bay to Breakers (SF, CA). To get back to play!

Power to the Peaceful Festival (SF, CA). And music! In a city of family and friends!

Whole Earth Festival (Davis, CA). To be home. And in harmony.

Gesundheit Institute (West Virginia). To be among gifted and great healers.

Salt Spring Centre of Yoga (British Columbia). To get real and intentional with my yoga.

Yes! (Santa Cruz, CA & worldwide). To explore and share with fellow activists and change makers.

Patina Floral and Design (Orcas Island, WA). To learn from and live among talented artists like Leslie and Jenny... on the magical Orcas Island.

I have become something of an accessory. Like a handbag, by extension of my handbag, in fact. My host mother and I will set off for market and like clockwork she hands over her cell phone, house keys, wallet. Sure, I am happy to carry her stuff, but wouldn't it be easier for her to carry a purse? What does she do when I'm not around?

After a dozen such interactions she explains that people of the village consider it a pretentious act to carry a handbag. Word gets around that the purse-possessor is posing as a wealthy foreigner. Who knew the practicality of a handbag bore such implications! Since I am a blue-eyed, jeans-wearing, bag-carrying foreigner, I am exempt. Though I am far from wealthy and not at all interested in the chatterings of social taboos concerning handbags, applicable or not.

It's hard to imagine a place where the pressures of social conformity and adherence are more pervading than, say, an American high school hallway or an Orange County shopping mall. In other words, Anywhere, USA. Perhaps because of my unassimilated perspective on Moroccan culture, though, I see the costs of conformity as more devastating than a $200 haircut or new pair of Uggs.

My friend has a boyfriend. He's from El Kebab, works and lives most the year in France, and when home courts my friend. Yesterday they went on a drive, she tells me with excitement. It's just the two of us, and as is our tradition in these rare moments of privacy, we tell all. In a minute, though, her smile fades as she admits they could never be a real couple. She's been married twice, had a child by both men-- a ruined woman. "It's not like Europe or America," she says. "This is our Morocco."

By day I listen to these stories, carry the essentials of my woman friends, and at night read Half the Sky. A wearing redundancy at times, for the stories of the page are played out before me, most often in lesser measures. It has me grappling with the big issues of oppression and inequality, and the littler, passing moments of real life here. And guess what? This has me more committed to all measures of non-conformity than ever before! Yesterday my neighbor informed me that the scarf I was wearing is only worn by men. More reason to wear it! Besides, it goes well with my handbag, for now made heavy with the key rings and impositions of my women friends...

Exactly ten months. Roughly 290 days. In Morocco.

Sure, I am not quite to the half-way point, though have undoubtedly passed a mid-service threshold. My big mid-service crisis has come, ostensibly passed. Hang-ups and bang-ups are certainly to come, their magnitude yet unknown. Good times, too.

Today, walking back from souk, my favorite neighbor girl kissed my cheeks and helped carry my veggies up the slope. My vegetable vendor invited me to Friday couscous with his family. I am teaching the hanut guy English, first in sundry vocabulary -- soap, lightbulb, eggs, flour.

I realize -- a wave of understanding I can honestly feel wash over me, permeate my being -- that I am settled in Morocco. The prospect of life in America, however near or far, is daunting. Laughter-inducing! I mean, will I ever unlearn the etiquette of stopping in for afternoon tea and expecting to be served a freshly prepared snack? Will I stop bringing along a liter of milk and bag of oranges as gifts? And when will I give up my every-ready kit of toilet paper, hand soap, and wet wipes when I leave the house?

Then there's the more serious, like learning to feel safe again. I never venture out past nightfall, nor travel in the dark. I rarely speak to men, look passerby in the eye. Guard's up, ever ready for the worst.

Just as I became a part of the landscape here, I can too unbecome. Right?

After an extended Christmas celebration in neighboring Khenifra, I returned to my mountain town. When I finally got around to visiting my host family again, my mother cried. Where had I been? Why didn't I come sooner? Why did I ever go?

It's a funny and strange thing to create two worlds, two lives. Leaving Morocco will be leaving one for another. A small voice laments that I ever created another at all! Yet here I am, vigilant and afraid of the dark, a neighbor and makeshift English teacher by day, balancing the less and more joyful moments of a volitional, foreign life.

My beautiful host mother.

Me and friend, Siham.

A trip to Rabat and I am yet again audience and actor in a play of ironies, intricacies and, well, absurdities. This morning I wait to see the dentist, taking in the plain room of lacquered walls, French magazines, a television (I recount that none of my American doctors have tv in their waiting rooms). Another patient switches seats, asks me in French what time is my appointment. 9:30, I reply in Arabic. He starts in again and the nurse calls my name. Thank God. I am saved. After, I stroll to Juice, the volunteer breakfast joint, and as the name suggests, home to fresh-squeezed deliciousness. My panache arrives just as the man a seat away asks if I am American. I nod without making eye contact, and he rambles on in French. He asks if my juice is inexpensive compared to in America and I shrug, clearly not interested. He doesn’t even pause to register that as a now-established American I do not speak French. Norms of Moroccan etiquette have worn through their welcome with me, among men in particular. Here it is customary, even expected, for a person to divulge themselves to a curious, albeit complete stranger. It's rooted in complexities of cultural and gender inequalities. Perhaps the hardest part is knowing where this culture is in violation of my own, and holding the line there. As a conspicuous foreigner, Moroccans look at and already assume they know something about me. I must at least be a bit like the celebrities in American movies, right? Friendly, smiling, and sexually promiscuous. Maybe even a free ticket to America? The thing is, I am not often friendly or smiling in the public view, and certainly not promiscuous anywhere (have you seen my wardrobe for starters?!) If anything I am cold and serious; what I call “the bitch face” comes second nature. So here I am at yet another act in a series of realizations, clarities, revelations—It is the growing out of and away from a need to be liked. In my first 5-6 months in-country I would bend over backwards for my neighbors, host family, shopkeepers to like me. And the cost? Doing more than I wanted or could really give – overeating, getting my hands hennaed even though it dries out and cracks my skin, exhausting myself at all-night weddings of distant relatives. The physical, emotional and mental tolls of playing a part not written for me is depleting. And so I am calling off the show. No more appeasement. No more inauthentic, ingenuine expressions. In Morocco, in America, and the places in between.... Leaving Khenifra for Rabat I waited for the final two passengers before we packed in seven-people deep. A big Moroccan man with beefy smoker hands and wide brow walked over, waited. You are beautiful, he said. I gave him nothing. Then, Are you married? I turn my head, wearing the exhaustion of this act on my face, and state simply, It’s none of your business. And just like that, it isn’t.