It's been a week since I've arrived back in the comparatively arctic city of Toronto. It's cold here, real cold, but it's the Toronto-in-winter I know. I'm happy to be back.
I've had a bit of difficulty trying to bring the blog - that is, my India experience - to a close that can be summed up in one post. I could probably write a post everyday about the pervasive influence of the stories and lessons learned from the trip. A lot of people were worried that I was going come back an entirely new person, maybe like, totally devoted to the cult of the limp left hand or something, sportin' a shaved head and a t-shirt that says "Do Not Disturb - I'm Precious." Surprise! I'm still me. Awesome and supercool me. All I did was level up. In one more level I evolve into an entirely new pokemon. Poophandrea. I'M SO CLOSE.
It's hard to say whether anything's "changed." Somehow that word is profoundly static. You've CHANGED. Oh god! You've changed and there's no going back, it's a done deal and everything is DIFFERENT now. What actually happened, so far as I can tell a week later, is validation - of my ideas, values, and the way I've chosen to live my life. I feel like nature gave me a big high five and said, "Yeah man! Touch your butt! If it feels good, do it!" And what felt good was heat, and sashaying around the house in a "nighty" with the other women, and watching geckos, and beating laundry, and eating fresh food - particularly bananas. Every morning I made a concerted effort to eat a banana. If you know my history with the very phallic fruit, it may come as a total shock that I was able to consume bananas without wincing or making scenes of indignation or slapping people around for my own amusement. Real life.
I'll reveal the roots of my banana woes. When I was younger, maybe around pre-school age, I went to camp. As part of a complete breakfast I had a banana packed for me, but that day I wasn't feeling it. A camp counselor, a female, asked me to eat the banana. I told her that I didn't want to eat the banana. Well, Camp Abuse counselor Janet McBitch took it upon herself to peel the banana for me and shove it down my throat! I threw up immediately. No more bananas after that.
Well, this summer it was actually Nitya who got me to eat my first consensual banana. When I told him I never ate them, he was shocked - "we grow them at my house," I remember him saying. "We eat them everyday." He happened to have a couple sitting in his kitchen. He took one for himself, and one for me. I looked at it for a while. I wanted to get over it, this deep-seated trauma that had prohibited me from enjoying all that potassium and fiber-y goodness. It was time. I took a bite. I disliked the texture. I disliked the taste. I wish it tasted more like banana medicine (sometimes I would wish to get sick so I could get some more of that florescent yellow deliciousness) or banana popsicles, or banana bread, all of which I could eat without a problem. But I ate the whole thing. I had eaten maybe two more after that, before India.
It was true what he had said. There were banana trees all over the property, and I figured that if there was any ideal environment to condition my body to enjoy bananas, it was here. Fresh off the tree and free of charge. It was perfect. So I took advantage of it, of course. I think my training went well. I ate bananas like it was nothing - like I'd been eating them my whole life. I'd say that's a good change.
The cool thing that I gathered from life in India was the immediate connection people had to others and to themselves. By eliminating toilet paper and forks, we eliminate layers that detach us from certain sensual realities. Food is different when it's squished in the fist before stuffed in the mouth. The hand says hello, how's it going, you're pretty cool, wanna go on a psychedelic journey into my buddy the MOUTH and feel yourself transform into goo of all different sorts, then maybe into a smelly brown substance (if the Dukoral allows it) where we can meet again? Well not me, ol' Righty, but my counterpart, Lefty. He'll treat you real nice, see you on your way out. Then who knows where you'll go. You've got a whole life ahead of you! We should keep in touch. Do you have Facebook?
Forks are so cold and perverted. I won't even get into that conversation.
When people who haven't read the blog ask, "so, HOW WAS IT?" my general response is "pretty cool." "Pretty cool, she says! That's all you can say about INDIA!?" That's all I can say in a couple of words. I think it's pretty clear by my never-less-than-2000-word posts that a couple of words just doesn't cut it for me. I've articulated the experience as best I can here, and I hope you've all gotten a kick out of the journey too. Thanks for coming along! Maybe we can do this again sometime. Wink wink.
:)
I've had a bit of difficulty trying to bring the blog - that is, my India experience - to a close that can be summed up in one post. I could probably write a post everyday about the pervasive influence of the stories and lessons learned from the trip. A lot of people were worried that I was going come back an entirely new person, maybe like, totally devoted to the cult of the limp left hand or something, sportin' a shaved head and a t-shirt that says "Do Not Disturb - I'm Precious." Surprise! I'm still me. Awesome and supercool me. All I did was level up. In one more level I evolve into an entirely new pokemon. Poophandrea. I'M SO CLOSE.
It's hard to say whether anything's "changed." Somehow that word is profoundly static. You've CHANGED. Oh god! You've changed and there's no going back, it's a done deal and everything is DIFFERENT now. What actually happened, so far as I can tell a week later, is validation - of my ideas, values, and the way I've chosen to live my life. I feel like nature gave me a big high five and said, "Yeah man! Touch your butt! If it feels good, do it!" And what felt good was heat, and sashaying around the house in a "nighty" with the other women, and watching geckos, and beating laundry, and eating fresh food - particularly bananas. Every morning I made a concerted effort to eat a banana. If you know my history with the very phallic fruit, it may come as a total shock that I was able to consume bananas without wincing or making scenes of indignation or slapping people around for my own amusement. Real life.
I'll reveal the roots of my banana woes. When I was younger, maybe around pre-school age, I went to camp. As part of a complete breakfast I had a banana packed for me, but that day I wasn't feeling it. A camp counselor, a female, asked me to eat the banana. I told her that I didn't want to eat the banana. Well, Camp Abuse counselor Janet McBitch took it upon herself to peel the banana for me and shove it down my throat! I threw up immediately. No more bananas after that.
Well, this summer it was actually Nitya who got me to eat my first consensual banana. When I told him I never ate them, he was shocked - "we grow them at my house," I remember him saying. "We eat them everyday." He happened to have a couple sitting in his kitchen. He took one for himself, and one for me. I looked at it for a while. I wanted to get over it, this deep-seated trauma that had prohibited me from enjoying all that potassium and fiber-y goodness. It was time. I took a bite. I disliked the texture. I disliked the taste. I wish it tasted more like banana medicine (sometimes I would wish to get sick so I could get some more of that florescent yellow deliciousness) or banana popsicles, or banana bread, all of which I could eat without a problem. But I ate the whole thing. I had eaten maybe two more after that, before India.
It was true what he had said. There were banana trees all over the property, and I figured that if there was any ideal environment to condition my body to enjoy bananas, it was here. Fresh off the tree and free of charge. It was perfect. So I took advantage of it, of course. I think my training went well. I ate bananas like it was nothing - like I'd been eating them my whole life. I'd say that's a good change.
The cool thing that I gathered from life in India was the immediate connection people had to others and to themselves. By eliminating toilet paper and forks, we eliminate layers that detach us from certain sensual realities. Food is different when it's squished in the fist before stuffed in the mouth. The hand says hello, how's it going, you're pretty cool, wanna go on a psychedelic journey into my buddy the MOUTH and feel yourself transform into goo of all different sorts, then maybe into a smelly brown substance (if the Dukoral allows it) where we can meet again? Well not me, ol' Righty, but my counterpart, Lefty. He'll treat you real nice, see you on your way out. Then who knows where you'll go. You've got a whole life ahead of you! We should keep in touch. Do you have Facebook?
Forks are so cold and perverted. I won't even get into that conversation.
When people who haven't read the blog ask, "so, HOW WAS IT?" my general response is "pretty cool." "Pretty cool, she says! That's all you can say about INDIA!?" That's all I can say in a couple of words. I think it's pretty clear by my never-less-than-2000-word posts that a couple of words just doesn't cut it for me. I've articulated the experience as best I can here, and I hope you've all gotten a kick out of the journey too. Thanks for coming along! Maybe we can do this again sometime. Wink wink.
:)
2 comments:
*applause*
those cold, perverted forks. man i love eating with my hands. let's do it sometime.
love. i'm glad this happened for you.
Beautifully told Andrea. What a great experience. You knew what you wanted and went for it completely. You should be very proud of yourself.
But don't be offended shake your hand when I see you back at the office!!
Good to have you back!
Parent number 4
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