4//8/2012 A week later. Smoothies. Juices. Salads. Cultured almond milk. Oatmeal. Quinoa. That’s what I can digest. Has that stopped me from cooking? Nope. Things I have made to share with the sangha: Banana-chocolate-walnut bread; Cranberry-pistachio-chocolate biscotti; Focaccia bread; Low-gluten spelt bread; Apple bread; Pierogi stuffed with peas, carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, onion, squash; Hummus; Baked scarlet runner beans in brown sugar and vinegar; Granola. Simply, I’m obsessed with food. I’m kind of annoyed that I can’t even digest brown rice; It goes right through, a gopher in a landscape. But there’s avocado and bananas and fresh greens from the garden and, even papaya and oranges coming in from the trees. I’m getting what I need. Weighed in at 121 this morning for a 6 pound weight gain in 7 days. I’d expected it to come back a bit faster, water-weight and all, but it looks like its just gonna take some time. The first four days was a constant blur of preparing juices and smoothies and salads, eating all of the time – and toilet time. Unrelated to food… I took this last week off from meditating and despite the absence of ritual, I feel calm, serene, and present. Saying my prayers at least once a day, usually in the morning, makes me feel connected with the divine and reminds me to give all to all throughout my day, unattached to outcome, merely being open for giving. I still haven’t reached out to my friends, enjoying the community I’m in, the lack of crowding, the positivity, the high vibration of living off the land (with a trip to Costco), and the stillness of the nights interrupted by feral cats fighting for territory in the nearby cane-grass, but it’s getting to be time. I miss them, the familiar sounds of their laughter, the mischievous looks in their eyes when they tease me and each other, their warm, accepting love. Soon. And the tree. I miss the wind that rustles the leaves, the television-static sound of rainfall, birds hustling from branch to branch under the canopy that sing so brilliantly, the wafting smell of flowers, the thundering sound of waves crashing against the landing. Sometimes, most particularly in the evening as the sky turns lavender in color, I gaze past the mango tree and let my mind just stop, breathing mindfully as I recapture the peaceful feeling that was my companion for the last three weeks of my stationary journey, and I feel into the universe for the connection that never seems at all far away.

Day 49 The dawn rises with birdsong. The “Free, Free, Free, Free, Free!” of the cardinals are the first notes to lift the morning’s symphony. My banyan tree comes alive with appreciative rustling. It isn’t long before the other birds have whet their reeds and joined in the celebration of morning and, for an hour, as the light changes in the sky from a blue laden with hues of night and spoil to the blushing cheeks of dawn, the mynah, the cardinal, the finch, lead innumerable unknown others – little yellow ones, an iridescent green one whose under-wing feathers look like gasoline on muddied water and others – others in a crescendo that slowly fades to a murmuration that will remain throughout the day. I’ve been up most of the night, turning myself over and over to find comfort. No longer padded comfortably, my bones grind into my bed-roll, find the small rocks under the tent canvas. If I were complaining, if I had anything to complain about, I’d be the pea-cursed princess, pained and persecuted by the merest morsel of malcontent, but I haven’t gotten real sleep in almost a month, getting along on a few measly hours each evening; I’ve become accustomed to the rock and roll routine although, when the weather permits, I’ll take dark strolls out under the starlight to gaze into the darkness and let my food-fevered brain rest, overwhelming it with the magnificence of a cosmos bigger than the interior canvas of the tent. But, the rain has been falling intermittently through the night and I’m too enervated to move, besides. I smile at the cardinals. It’s the last day. Free, free, free, free, free. But not, yet. This trip of mine isn’t over and won’t be until the sun sets. Dawn means the day has just begun but the end is close. The local community elders have requested to meet me and the crew, to find out what we’ve been up to, to discover for themselves our motivations and purposes, to give their blessings or their harsh opinions. Joining them for a couple of hours of conversation, that began in seriousness and ended in blessings and well-wishes, the crew and I delighted in their stories of Haleakala, of Kahoolawe, of growing up in the islands before statehood and we joined together with their smiles in cigarettes and laughter and relaxed conversation. Parting, they wished us luck and gave us their blessings, ready to return to their community with the message that we were good and sincere people. Then, back to the tree for a final interview and loading out. Packing the site took some juice out of me, but, afterward, down on the landing, as the sun went down, they put juice back in me: fresh juices from Paia: apple-ginger, carrot-beet-celery, strawberry-pineapple. Tory, our sound tech, brought warm, delicious, exquisite. homemade, broth for me to drink, too, my first nutrition, other than coconut water in forty-nine days, the tastes overwhelming on my palate. The flavors… indescribable. The joy… unparalleled. Back at the house on the hill, they sent me to bathe and gave me lotions and unguents, soaps, shampoos, and conditioners. Soaking in the tub for an hour, turning the water knobs with my feet to heat the bath, enjoying the feeling of the moisturizing bubble bath on my skin, I shed the dirt and molt of seven weeks, and after examining my unfamiliar body in the mirror, emerged from the steamy room feeling like I had returned, a triumphant Alexander, a Hannibal, a returning Caesar, a skinny conqueror. Final weight on the scale… one hundred and fifteen pounds. Sharp scapulas. Prominent ribs. I’m ready to go home.