Nonhuman

I’ve found a home, a warm quiet place to lay my weary head. But still I sit, as an outsider watching from a far as the winds blow the marsh grasses, the hawks encircle their next meal looping lazy rings in the sky, the periwinkles tidaling along the grasses. The fish move under the surface of the dark tannic waters pushing up on the sheet that separates us, giving me a small hint of what’s happening beneath it. I sit on the railing with my feet hanging over the edge of the dock ready to answer when my name is called again. I feel as if I’m supposed to have gills, or wings, or a lizards tail. I feel as if once in another life I would have dived in and seen the world from behind the curtain, or fence, or tank glass. But I am cursed in this life to sit on the edge. From the outside looking in, the butterflies flip through the atmosphere, the white egrets battle bounding in the air like a seesaw, the marsh birds chiming away for a mate. I can only be part of this puzzle from the edge, I desperately want to be at the center. Every time I step out into the most remote wilderness I feel as if I’ve come home. My family is here to greet me, although a bit indifferent. I’ve found a quiet place that fills me full and overflows beyond my reach. It’s rooted so deeply behind my ribs I feel as if they’ll crack and split me open. Yet—an aching feeling, like something greater is missing—a vital organ that has become diseased and swells taking up room but no longer with purpose. Something is missing. I long to be wild, to be free. I can hear it always. A far away call beckoning my whole life but I’ve never been able to answer it. And I feel as if I’m the only person who hears it. And that no one else will understand I’m not supposed to be human. It’s the worst feeling to come home and find you can’t stay.

Guest Post: A Non-Hiker Goes Hiking, and Other Short Stories

By my sister Maura:

I don’t hike. We have to start with this fact. I do not hike. The extent of my interactions with the great outdoors is typically limited to the distance between my car and whatever building houses my destination. Sometimes, if I’m feeling adventurous I’ll ride my bike to the library that’s 2 miles from my house.

So, that fact well established, what on Earth am I thinking hiking some of the most strenuous hikes in the American Southwest? That answer is actually very simple: I’ll regret it bitterly if I don’t at least try.

 (You’d feel the same way you know. I make Hana stop the car in the middle of a deserted stretch of highway somewhere between Utah and Arizona at one in the morning because the waning gibbous moon is turning the walls of the mesas to silver and grey. Looking my fill at those sights, the cold wind cutting me to the bone while I gap unattractively I think to myself: Yea. Let’s do that.)

 Anyways, my first attempt at this hobby happens in Bryce Canyon. I’ll be honest, this hike nearly killed me. (And I’ll never forget asking Hana, at least 4 dozen times if we were almost to the top. And her, cheerfully lying to me every single time.) But Bryce Canyon also taught me the most important lesson that a non-hiker can learn about these hikes: your body dictates the pace. Start as early as you can, because you are going to need every second between sunup and sundown. Seriously people, the canyon probably took at least 10 million years to make, you’re allowed to take 8 hours to hike it. Stop. Rest. Breathe. Don’t die.

 Observation Point in Zion was another one that almost killed me. I earned the nickname ‘turtle’ somewhere on that trail, which ya know – fair enough. (Besides, I think to myself as I plod along on switchback number dear-god-make-it-stop, the loggerhead turtles back home are starting to come ashore to lay their eggs. They crawl from the sea, drag themselves across the loose, wet sand up into the dunes to dig their nests. If they can do that, I can do this.)

 But again, it’s a simple matter really. I look up at the sun kissed tops of the mountains and instead of thinking: No fucking way, I think: You’ll regret it if you don’t. (You know regret. It’s a fishhook under your skin, tethering you painfully to a point of your past. The flesh heals around it eventually, it’s not always going to be a raw, bleeding thing – but oh – how it pulls at you always. You drag those lines behind you all the days of your life.) Observation Point was the hardest, but it was also worth the most to me. Words to not cover that view.

 Angel’s Landing was the last. (Understand please: this one is dangerous. Research this thoroughly before attempting.) It’s called Angel’s Landing because it is so high and so hard to reach they say only angels can get to it – and only if they fly. Well, a determined non-hiker who is not squeamish about heights owns sturdy boots and a reckless streak can also make it. (A lack of breathing and/or heart problems also helps.)

 Sitting on the rocks, feet kicking out over the drop I look at the backs of flying birds who dip and hover below me. The sight of the mountains curled lovingly around the river is something that is hard to leave behind. I keep turning back to look one more time. Just once more. Once more. Once more. (More, more, more, more. Angel’s Landing teaches me why people can be passionate about this. When you’re up there, it makes perfect sense.)

 So! Some final bits of advice from a non-hiker to my fellow non-hikers thinking about giving it a go: 1. Sunscreen. (And then double it.) 2. Sunglasses. 3. Hat. 4. Water (Dad always said there’s two things you can never carry enough of and that’s water and ammo. Since the prevalence of bears in the southwest is thankfully low, I passed on the ammo and doubled my water.) 5. Dress in light layers. 6. Athletic socks inside your hiking socks. (Lessens the chance of blisters!) 7. Get actual hiking boots. (And break them in before you take them hiking.) 8. A decent camera. (If you bring a selfie stick I will judge you. Harshly.) 9. Map. (Always take the freebie that the park gives you at the entrance. They are usually equal parts informative, fascinating and hilarious.) 10. Snacks. (Mushed, lukewarm PB&J sandwich? Yes, please.)

 There. You’re ready to get started.

 I’m no more of a hiker now than I was at the start of this adventure. Not really. I hiked those trails, and enjoyed it at times but the desire to pursue more trails still doesn’t exist in me. I’ll join you, laugh with you, tackle those mountains with you, but I’ll never be the one to lead you there. For that, dear readers, I must return you to my sister.

Rose Cliffs Trail

I started my hike cold and uninspired. Isn’t the desert supposed to be hot in May? Am I crazy to have assumed it wouldn’t snow while I was here? Even under my layers of clothes my delicate southern thermostat did a downward plunge. I hiked up the road from my bunkhouse towards the mountains. There was rumoured to be quite a nice hike up this way: past the last house on the right and around the cemetary. It took you up near the top of the mesa (spanish for ‘table’ but in this context meaning big stone mountain). No one else staying on the grounds with me had been up this way. We’d all been told about Amber, a young woman my age who’d nearly died on this trail last year…almost to the day. The story had put out ghosts in the air and the mesa appeared menacing looming over us with great heights. 

My mind had become clogged—writer’s block—like too much beauty had been witnessed. All that I could possibly put into words about this land had become bottlenecked. I wasn’t used to this. I was used to the prose falling out of my head like water out of a bucket. The amount of inspiring things I see while traveling is usually so boundless. So on this trip I’ve become frustrated because I am finding zilch to write about (despite being exposed to views that have inspired people like Theodore Roosevelt and Frederick S. Dellenbaugh). Factor in too that all my plans for hiking for the day were postponed due to snow and ice. After a few hours of Count the Dots on the Cabin Ceiling and after the rain finally let up, I went for a walk. I put on every clothing item I brought, laced up my boots, pulled my beanie far down over my ears and went…aaaand immediately came back inside. Damn, it was cold. 

When I managed to actually leave my bunk and build momentum, my brain clog instantly grew smaller. The sky was marbled with contrasting colors; the dark snow clouds against the sunlight that desparately wanted to peak through. They hung low around the peaks of the mesas heavy with snow. I trudged up the steep dirt road until it gave way to the mountain. This was as far as I had planned to go until I saw a small trail that had been etched in the mountain’s side by those before me. I thought to myself I’ll only follow it for a bit. It wound itself into tight narrow switchbacks that were loose from the recent rain. Every few steps or so there would be shards of bright orange pottery, we call them ‘birds’ in the south. Near each of the exploded remnants of the clay birds were the plastic intestines of a shot gun shell. Great, target practice. I looked around trying to ensure I was alone. I continued up the trail, the whole time I wondered what Amber could have seen. What would have made her climb to the top? She started the hike near the same time I did, only slightly later. She would have known she only had an hour or two of light left. Perhaps she underestimated the darkness of a desert night. Even I had, I spent one evening out on a nearby reservation to see the night sky. After I turned off the headlights and let my pupils adjust it was so dark it was disorienting. In fact, I was too afraid to get out of the car convinced I would fall even though I knew I was on flat ground. Before I turned off the car, I had made sure nothing was around me that could harm me while I stumbled around under the stars. But the darkness was so thick it frightened me and distorted what I knew to be true. It pressed itself up against me and made itself the only thing I could see. 

Each switchback I’d tell myself that was far enough but something pushed me farther up the mesa. It’s like something called to me. At each point I would say stop but then I’d continue up even farther. I went near to the top about 600ft up the mountain, where the trail ends and you have to climb the remainding 200 ft of shear cliff face. The call stopped and I knew this was high enough. Amber continued up, maybe her call was louder, higher. But it got darker and colder and she fell 100ft. She then spent 28 hours stranded in the cold desert weather with several serious injuries. Fortunately, she was rescued and survived, read more about her experience click here. 

The wind had a sharper voice up at this height. It whispered to me and I didn’t feel alone. It was peaceful to just sit and see the road from this view and feel like I had the world at my finger tips. From here my brain was clog free. I wanted to stay in that oasis of clarity forever but the snow clouds were getting closer and it would be dark soon. I knew that I needed to make the climb down while the light was still peaking through. I climbed back down the steep bit. It was so much harder to get down than to go up which is also how Amber had described it. I slid with the small stones and often had to squat down to go from level to level. When the land finally evened out I sat down again to grasp the clarity once more. The wind suddenly howeled from atop the mesa as it began to rain and it struck me. The mesa had pulled me up whispering her calling. She brought me to her level so she could see through me. And then she let me stay and rest and be one for a while. Her lure wasn’t malicious or menacing from here, it was beautiful. 

But now it was time to go. The snow clouds had caught up with me and the air was ice cold. It howled around me and I knew I couldn’t stay. I stood and quickly tried to memorize the colors of the desert as if later my mind’s eye could ever recreate such a palette. 

I trekked back down to the dirt road. The rain was at my back now pushing me away from the trail. I turned to look back at the mesa and a gust of wind met my shoulder spinning me forward. Go home, she seemed to say. She was protecting me, the desert climate was relentless and I was already too far from home. She knew the exact time I needed to get back to my cabin, for the minute the door was behind me the desert unleashed the freezing sleet. The ghosts of the mesa vanished, she protected me as she had protected Amber after her fall. I sat by the heater inside, damp but wide open. The mesa called me to visit her rocky abdomen and then she brought me eye to eye and unleashed me.

Arizona, do you have the time?

I have 45 minutes to sleep in the car. It’s 6:45 am Arizona time but really all that means is it’s 7:45 am anywhere else. I’ve been up since 4:30 am Utah time. That’s 3:30 am Arizona time but the sun came up an hour later across both states. Arizonans slept through it, some Utahans were on the road to see it. Otherwise, I was alone. The only car, the only noise, only human for miles around. The sun was still tucked beneath the ridges of the horizon as I flew across the Kaibab Indian Reservation towards Fredonia. A left turn would take me to Utah, to Kanab, leaping ahead in time. A right turn would keep me in Arizona, heading straight into the north rim of the Grand Canyon, still safe in the early morning hours. 
The haze of dawn is a new mask upon the area I’ve come to know as Cane Beds, AZ. I’ve seen it at 2 am when the moon was my only company, at mid day when the mesas are their reddest, in late morning, in late evening, and at night before the moon rises when it’s so dark it’s disorienting. But once your pupils dialate—oh man—you’ve never seen so many stars. 

But despite all the before mentioned beauty, the mesas at dawn has been my favorite. With light peaking over the horizon it casts a glow upon the land like a black light. The scrub becomes fluroescent the way the ground at home looks when it’s early and everything is wet with dew. But here the earth is as dry as bone, water is far too precious to cast upon the surface of the leaves like a cloak. The desert vegetation creeps half way up the mesa until the mountain takes a sharp vertical incline. The glow rests around the waist of the mountain and becomes its pleated skirt flowing out around it. The top of the mesa is still jet black against the morning light. The rocks cling to sleep not ready to wake yet. The whole landscape is sleepy and quiet. Jack rabbits and desert mice skip across the path.

I push toward the Grand Canyon, Arizona time. The landscape shifts again, it flattens out and the mesas turn behind me. As I climb in elevation, the tempartures drop and the world becomes green. There are no more reds and desert browns. Everything is green and dark, snow is on the ground, and the deer are alert and playful. They gather in wide meadows with their graceful necks down sloping towards the ground. Maybe this isn’t Arizona, maybe I fell asleep and headed north. Surely this landscape is more akin to Oregon or Seattle. It is May but I can’t keep warm, the snow skirts around evergreen trees and the edges of the ponds are ringed with ice. But the landscape is alive and moving and it’s comforting to move through it–with it. 

The Grand Canyon National Park doesn’t open until 8:30 am Utah time or 7:30 Arizona time. People say no one uses Arizona time, they don’t use Daylight Savings so half the year they’re an hour behind their neighbors. It seems silly to not use Arizona time while in Arizona but so close to the border of Utah you can easily time travel 3 or 4 times a day. To be honest no one really ever knows what time it is. But the sun comes up hours before I wake, it heats the earth before I step out of bed. The fauna and flora see it everyday before I do. They have the morning to themselves before we, a noisy human group, take it from them. Arizona or Utah time, I can wait. The park will open and I will see the canyon when it does. It’s waiting for me, 7:30 or 8:30 it doesn’t matter, it will be there. 

Me (right) and my sister (left) at the North rim!

Mike’s Map

“Pavement ends here” a bent yellow sign casually states. And it does, it gives way to red sand and gravel for as far as I can see. Michael said it would, but he also said I would be okay cause “you’ve got front-wheel drive.” Actually his direct advice for driving over the desert sand was “just don’t slow down.” He had given me a few suggestions on how to beat the crowds and gain a scenic view. He drew a vague map in blue ink on the back of my rental car agreement telling me what to look for and when to look for it. So far everything was where he said it would be. And here I am at the end of the pavement wondering do I dare go forward? 

I did, rental car agreement be damned! I drove through Eagle Canyon (not its real name, I am sworn to secrecy–the catch for Michael sharing the secrets of his lands) and cut the driving time in half to meet our destination. I stopped where he said to traverse sand dunes that look alien in contrast to the climate around it. Like someone had hung up a poster of the Sahara Desert in envy. The road Michael suggested is how I pictured the American Southwest: vast and expansive with nothing in sight but nature’s bounty. It was like a postcard and the best part was there was no one around. The right hand turn he mentioned “Hamilton er, dunno, something with an ‘h'” was there. The junctions, the markers, the crossroads I saw them all. 

Michael had asked when he first approached me why I had come here. And then he asked what was it that I wanted to experience? I told him I wanted to experience the quiet. The sound of the mountains only; the call I’ve desparately chased my whole life. The call to something greater, bigger, grander than anything else I’ve ever experinced. 

He told me I have crazy eyes; wild, funny but readble. In our conversation he could tell when he lost me before I asked him to slow down. He could tell he’d mentioned something I was interested in immediately by the twinkle in them. When he started talking about “off the beaten path” items on my cosmic to-do list I began to really pay attention. And that’s when he started drawing Mike’s Map: a list of things just for me. As he drew he told a story about his experiences at each of the locations. I didn’t entirely trust him but he was likeable. He possesed a childlike quality but was still clouded by mystery. He dropped me off at a trailhead, pressed a piece of ancient potery into my hand and was gone with his little dog. As he walked away he mentioned he had more he could tell me but that he first wanted to make sure I could survive. I laughed at this, it never occured to me. Despite all this nonsensical fog around him, I followed the map anyway. And sure, maybe he is crazy (a little off) but no matter what, the pavement still ends there. 

Miami to Las Vegas

There is no room here. From every side I am pressed together tightly like the numerous pages of a heavy book. I am too grand for this plane; my knees merge firmly into the seat in front of me and no position is comfortable for more than a second. I shift again and again throwing up a white flag.

But none of that matters; out the window, 30,000 feet below me the sun is sinking west beneath the pleats and rugged folds of a land I’ve never seen. Which mountains are these? Which state? Which world? I may never know. I’ve traveled back in time, jetting from the setting sun and pushing back fiercly at the seam of darkness. At such a great height, I am here and there at the same time. I am a thousand different souls united, hurling through space, picking up pieces of my ancient being one by one.

Here, there is plenty of room. Here my soul can unfurl and stretch out its limbs grasping anything foreign and yet familiar. Like a crowded seedling erupting from its soil prison into the new atmosphere above. It straightens its spine, growing taller and confident with each second. My soul expands in the twilight and inhales. All of this before the fiery star slips beneath the mountains and I am again on the ground. 

The Challenge of a Woman Alone

An English assignment that I recently had to do and loved. I had to write an alternate ending or elaborate on an ending from my choice of Short Stories. I chose “Eveline” by James Joyce. All prose in italics belongs to him, the rest is mine: enjoy!

____________ . _____________

All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing.

“Come!” No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish.

“Eveline! Evvy!” He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.

She remained frozen as the sea of nebulous bodies swept Frank farther away and waves of relief crashed over her. She floated there for a minute longer, clutching the iron framework contemplating whether to listen to the diminutive voice raging inside of her, urging to follow him. Her life, from this very moment, would forever be divided into two parts: before and after Frank. Perhaps in another universe they are together, peering over the rail of a transatlantic ship as it splits the ocean in two, laughing that there could be another world where they are apart. And with that thought, Eveline took her first true step away from him, away from everything. She could no longer see him or feel any trace that he’d left behind; the crowd vastly separated them now. Though, they had never sincerely been together at all.

Eveline walked dazed towards the nearest train station thinking about poor Frank. She did love him–surely she did, thought Eveline. How was she to know for certain? She had never been in love before and had no experience or understanding on how it was all to end. She remembered the night that he took her to the opera and it seemed that she had clambered through a window into someone else’s life. Somewhere where things were fine; where she was a proper lady to be cared after and protected. Had she any say, she would have lived in that lavish house forever. How she hated being cast back outside, the window shut firmly in her face as she returned home that evening to her turbulent father. Frank had offered to take her away from the destruction her parent always seemed to create in his frenzied path. All of her life, her decisions and opportunities had been tainted by the venom that seeped from the shadow’s of that man. She had never been more conflicted as she was with the decision to leave her father behind. She had waited and planned for her future to be without him; she had dreamed of the day she would be free of his incessant scrutiny. In all the days before, something consistently propelled her back to him as if his misery were magnetized. Before Frank, no matter how much distance she put between her and her father, their polarity was insurmountable. Despite all this, buried beneath years of resentment and offense there was love. Compared to how she felt about Frank it was of a different kind, however similar in one regard: neither feeling was enough.

She boarded a train without determining where to it was going. Neither direction seemed to bother her at this particular moment, she was simply satisfied to get a seat alone by the window. She began to worry what her life would be. Without her father or brother to claim her she would be an outcast wherever she ended up. Where would she live? How would she work with flocks of ladies gossiping about her around town? How would she support herself, she wondered. She questioned why the world made it so challenging to be a woman alone. The train suddenly lurched forward quieting her roaring mind for a brief moment as the scenery before her began to blend together. She heard her mother’s words brush against each other again and again derevaun seraun, derevaun seraun, derevaun seraun. As comforted as she was by thoughts of the beautiful woman that bore her, she was overwhelmed with confusion. It had been so long since Eveline was happy. She thought back to the days before her father was a wretch, while her mother and Ernest were still alive, and her days were filled with naive play. They had been so truly happy then, until the loss of her mother created a tremendous void Eveline desperately tried to fill. When she failed, her family collapsed in on each other and they lost all resemblance of that blissful family far off in the old fields. At the end of pleasure, there is pain. With the memory of them, she could now see clearly what her mother had meant for Eveline to take with her. It was time for her grieving to come to an end and her suffering to lessen. The sweet waves of relief wrapped around her once more and the train began to lull her to sleep. She no longer needed to tie her sinking ship to anyone else’s happiness; she would swim. She wouldn’t go back to Frank or for her father. She wouldn’t go back at all. The train pushed her beyond the reach of both of them into a world of her own.

A Frog Passes on a Life Lesson

You just have to laugh when you find yourself squatting over a toilet in the middle of nowhere. Laugh to keep from crying. Laugh, because there just may not be anything funnier than finding myself hunched over trying not to touch the seat of this outhouse.

I’ve only just arrived here. I don’t know where I am or really who I’m with. It’s pitch black; the only light I have is whatever’s illuminated from my headlamp. And the only thing I can see are ants…everywhere. They’re crawling around the base of the toilet and over the seat. I try to pee quickly and jump back before they have an opportunity to crawl over my feet. When I do, a giant frog leaps up from the drain in the floor and onto the toilet seat. Our eyes meet, and after a few minutes of taking each other in I reason with him.

You stay over there.

I’ll stay over here.

No sudden movements or all bets are off.

If you know me well, hearing that I’m on a farm, in the rural area that is the Burma-Thai border, having a tête-à-tête with an amphibian, you’d probably be like ‘eh, that sounds like Hana.’ I love being outside. I can rough it with the best of them. But even when roughing it, there’s something comforting about sleeping in the dark and knowing what’s out there. Here in Thailand, I don’t know what’s out there. Despite, a biology degree I can only make vague guesses as to the fauna that lay beyond my doorstep. That, unfortunately combined with vivid imagery of the bugs that seem to be a delicacy around these parts, frightens me. I’ll go charging into the woods at home because I know the worst thing I’ll find is a bear or mountain lion. Even more likely I’ll just come home with a nasty case of poison ivy. Here, I’m shit out of luck. I’m just another stereotypical dumb American.

So, standing in the corner of an outhouse I begin to reevaluate my choices. Where in my life was the turn that led me here? Here to the dimly lit concrete block with just a toilet and hose for showering. Where was the fork in the road that would have led me to the life that everyone else has gone on to lead? Maybe I do want the secure job, the picket fence, and the family. Maybe I do want to join the masses. Where is it in my genes that makes me so prone to situations like this? Why do I always seem to find myself negotiating with frogs in the middle of the night?! And the hardest question of all why do I seem to enjoy it?

I tell the frog all of this and he just stares unblinking at me. Somewhere though, on some level I know he understands me. Or at least, he sees me. But even he doesn’t want to hear me gripe. I open the door to the outside world and he leaps out making the turn in his road to continue to be a frog. Outside of the tiny brick house is a whole other land. I can’t really see it but I know it’s there. It sounds different in the wind than home. The trees are more tropical and are heartier in their movements. But the stars, oh, the stars are the same ones I’ve always known. They come as a set with the same moon I’ve seen every night before this one.

I know there was never any fork in my road. There was never the option of studying some practical subject and sitting behind my financially secure desk and white picket fence. There was never the off ramp to business school or 401Ks. There was never any other real option than to become a vagabond. That path in life that everyone else walks won’t fulfill me. Time has come and chipped away at my soul; and only standing in places like this, where I can see every star for a million miles, can begin to fill some of those cracks. I wish that I could make this more clear to those at home waiting for me to return. Sometimes I wish for them, that I would stop moving around and sit still and let them love me. But I am too selfish to sit still for anyone but myself. So until I’ve filled every crack in my life with something greater, I must keep moving.

A Dirty Hoe and a Handkerchief

From a dead sleep, I’m jolted awake. The haze of my unconsciousness hangs around clouding my vision. There a noise behind me. Wait, no it’s above me. It’s my roof. The roof is caving in! No, wait. I shake the sleep from my eyes and try to concentrate on the noise again. There’s a sudden loud scraping noise on my thatch roof.

It’s chickens.

There are chickens on my roof.

Simultaneously, my whole hut shakes like from an earthquake. The wood seems to shift under the pressure of this movement. Pumpkin, the pig, has stood up from underneath my hut causing the floorboards to buckle. She, also disturbed by the noisy chickens, takes the opportunity to shift in her wallow. Torn from my slumber I now hear everything. Horses in their stalls next to me, sheep bleating, turkeys wobbling around in the fields. Confused roosters crowing in the middle of the night. There’s a kitten that sneaks through the floorboards to sleep under my bed; I can even hear her purring having slept through the onslaught of farm noises. Too exhausted to shoo her out of my hut I roll back over, letting her be hoping that I too will find it easy to sleep.

Kitten sleeping under my cot

Pumpkin’s wallow under my hut

For those of you that don’t know. I’m currently stationary in Thailand. I’m WWOOFing. WWOOF is the World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms. Basically in exchange for my sweat and tears I get a roof over my head. Even though in the summer Thai heat I often feel stupid for ever agreeing to do this, at the end of the day–I get the better end of the deal. I get to meet people from all over the world and see how others live their day to day life. Which was basically the whole point of my trip. Yes, I wanted a break from the U.S. and to explore an opportunity to see part of the world I’d only ever dreamed of. But truly the whole point of why I love to travel is to experience something different. Something totally opposite to my day to day life. The more uncomfortable I am, the better. The harder it is, the stronger I will be. And believe me, it’s hard.

It’s easily 125 degrees by the time we take our first break. Work starts at 6, sometimes earlier, to beat the morning heat. No need anyway, by 7:30 the sun is up in the sky beating down on everything. By mid morning we are all dizzy with sweat and fatigue but we press on until our task is done. We begin at 6:30 by taking care of the animals, we muck the stalls and the pins of the horses, sheep, deer, and chickens. We give food and fresh water and grass to everyone and then we, in turn, have our breakfast in our open air kitchen. Mama, always makes us a fine meal. She is the mother of the farm’s owner Arnon. They, along with the rest of the family and volunteers run the farm year round. They are up even earlier than we are and go to bed long after.

After breakfast, we begin our daily task. This could be anything that needs to be done around the farm, like maintenance or construction. Currently, we are clearing out an area over run with weeds to make a garden. Armed with a hoe and a handkerchief I get work. It’s easy to settle a restless mind when you’re weeding a garden in the sun. You can’t really think about anything but getting it done so you can puddle, naked in front of the fan in your hut. Determined, the group of volunteers has managed to weed a surprisingly large area so Arnon can grow pumpkins. ‘Sexy pumpkins,’ as he calls them.

Arnon is a kind man always wearing a smile. He speaks English very well and I am convinced he understands more than he alludes to. His favorite word is ‘sexy’ and he always reminds us not to ‘worry, be happy.’ This followed with his giddy laugh brings a smile to everyone’s face. He amazes me with his strength and determination. When it gets too hot in the afternoon he demands we get water, take a shower, and rest. We all do this gladly. But after my shower, I find him still weeding in the garden underneath the brutal sun. We take a lunch break, Arnon cuts more grass for the animals. We rest during our midday siesta (when it’s far too hot to do anything else), Arnon drives fence posts into the ground for the new cow pin. He never seems to stop and he never loses his positive attitude (and the man never sweats). It’s contagious, everyone here has different backgrounds and different outlooks on life but we are all happy to be in the company of such a brilliant person. We all congregate in the kitchen and chat about what our lives are like back home and why we’ve decided to put all that behind us and sweat underneath the Thai sun.

After lunch and a quick nap we are back to work at 3:30. We muck the stalls again, change their food and water. We put the animals back in their pins after letting them wander around all day. They reluctantly meander back into their stalls and seek shade.

For the rest of the day Arnon makes sure we have something to do. Chatpawai is a small town on the Burma-Thai border. There isn’t much to see but always something to do. He’s taken us to markets and into town. He lets us volunteer at the local school to teach English and at a refugee camp on the border (more on those later). On Friday, our only day off from weeding, he’s promised to take us to the local hot springs to swim and relax after a hard week at work. At the end of the day, the farm sounds lull me to sleep like a bizarre lullaby. Too exhausted to let them keep me awake, I drift off to sleep hoping no chickens crash land on my roof.

How Ruin Can be a Gift

It’s so refreshing to be out of the city. The fog and cacophony of Bangkok and Krabi seeped under my skin and weighed me down. Do not misunderstand me, both experiences were incredible but they take a toll on the soul. Sometimes you need to be somewhere quiet and green. That’s how I feel about Ayutthaya. It’s lovely here. The city is calm and unassuming. In the middle of it lay ancient ruins: the remains of Siam’s old capital. The ruins are the very heart of this town and Thai pride rings from them. As a UNESCO World Heritage Site they humble you and cause your mind to spin. Was this really the finest area in Asia? A grand capital of a powerful kingdom? As you wander aimlessly through corridor and step over broken misplaced bricks you wonder what life would have been like. Headless Buddhas are placed everywhere; some even at their original alter. The bricks in front of them are shiny and concave, worn away by years of faithful. How wonderful it must feel to have something to cling to when fire and destruction are at your door.

The Burmese army invaded Ayutthaya in the 1700s and reduced it to ruble. They destroyed all of the temples, beheaded the Buddha icons, and set the whole golden city on fire. Today time has weighed on the faces of the temples.The bricks are painted with black char and the prangs that are still standing lean over tired from their journey to here. The whole city seems like a burdening heartbreak you won’t let go of because it hurts too good, as Elizabeth Gilbert says.

It’s silent here; tourists have all returned home, shying away from the monstrous heat that the summer brings. It seems almost as if I have Ayutthaya to myself. I sit at the feet of Buddha, the only part remaining of a once great statute is his lap. Severed hands are atop hinting to a meditation pose. It represents serenity, his hands comfort me. How beautiful they are. How useful they are. They can take but more importantly give, they can comfort, and they can reach for more. I sit and place my fate in his hands. Ayutthaya speaks to me. I feel it silently blowing in the wind around me. I don’t know what it was, could have been the universe, God, direction, or light. Whatever it was it filled me and for a split second I knew peace.