Under A Spell

I have returned once again to my beloved Venice, where cars do not exist and church bell towers lean precariously close to falling. Although I have lived here and visited often, I still get lost in the maze of passages that connect various parts of the city. Perhaps, getting lost in Venice is not so bad. Watery canals are everywhere, and over 400 lovely bridges to cross. Gondolas float languidly by, as they have for centuries. It is easy to get lost in reverie. Time seems different. I have been here a week and already dread leaving. The more I look, the more I fall under a spell.
Thank God I have friends in Venice. They open my heart, and especially, I feel fortunate to be able to converse. Regretfully, learning a new language is exceedingly difficult for me. I don’t remember words, and feel frustrated when my mouth struggles to speak in a foreign tongue. Thankfully, others make up for my inadequacy by sharing their own language skills in English. Then, we sit in café’s and share thoughts, or walk through this magical place and tell the wonder of being conscious together.

Inspiration To Fly

It occasionally happens while I am painting that there is a moment of impasse and I must choose to either continue working in a way I know but that is not proving successful, or else, go into the unknown. Choosing the unknown is fearsome, and yet frequently, something happens—a fresh impulse comes through and a new experience is born. It is like a young bird forced out of the safe nest it has always known. Suddenly it is falling through the air and must fly, never having known what it is to float on currents of air, but a deep yearning takes hold and flight is born.
The first days in Corfu were like getting acquainted, and then came an impasse. Corfu Town is lovely, with cobbled streets, and many reminders of the Venetian culture that occupied it for centuries. Yet I wanted more and decided to rent a car and get out of the city. The first day, I drove in rain and could only look through the windshield. When I returned to my hotel, I flopped down on my bed in frustration. The next day, the rain stopped and sun arrived. Heading north, I became lost on winding mountain roads, and decided to go into the unknown, where THE DREAM lives. Although I was lost, every turn held a surprise, and somehow I felt I had found my destiny. Villages dotted the hills, with roads through them that can barely accommodate two tiny cars to pass by each other. Olive orchards abounded, standing as they have for centuries. Spring flowers bloomed magnificently in the wild, so that I could not pass by, but rather stopped and walked among them. Then, as I came around a bend through wooded hills, an old wall covered in vines and a half open gate made me stop. Peering through the gate, amid an area of tall grass and wildflowers, a old stone building stood empty and open. I felt like a gift had been given, and walked gingerly, aware that I could browse undisturbed and would not bother anyone. To my amazement, the place was an abandoned church over a thousand years old. Inside, in the half-darkened room, I could see hand hewn beams supported the intact roof, while the cracked and damaged plastered walls showed remains of Byzantine Christian images. It felt incredible to my American eyes, unaccustomed to seeing artwork 600 years old except in museums. The more I lingered, the more I felt a special experience unfolded; I stood suspended between centuries, and THE DREAM provided me the inspiration to fly.

To Honor The Gods

THE DREAM is taking me backwards, away from my destination of circling the globe. Instead, I am now circling the Mediterranean Sea. How could I be so near to Greece and not visit? The journey brought me to Athens, and now I am on the island of Corfu, off the northwest mainland. Athens felt cramped, with block after block of plain building facades. The National Garden, downtown, needs some serious pruning and tender, loving care. Underwhelming until my walking brought me to the foot of a hill overlooking the city and sea. On top stands the Acropolis. My tired legs pushed on and healed quickly as I stood next to the marble columns of the Parthenon (begun in 447 BC, and the building was substantially completed by 432). Even with the crowds, and restoration work underway, something told me I was having a peak life experience. It was the same feeling I had when I saw Michelangelo’s sculpture of David in Florence. Awe. How could it have been humanly possible to create? The site is dramatic, and impossibly difficult for the fantastic, grand and beautiful buildings that were erected by hand. It was all done to honor the gods, and the gods must have helped because man alone could not have accomplished it.
Now I am in Corfu, away from big city noise. I hear birds outside my window, and footsteps on ancient stone streets. The six-month tourist season is barely beginning. Shops are sleepy, yawning toward the full awakening of the high season. I flew in from Athens, and learned from the taxi driver that the island practically shuts down for six months; the airport closes during the off-season.
Some loneliness comes and goes. Mostly, it is from being rootless, changing places often, and not having the easy pleasure of conversation and association. The last four countries have spoken Arabic, Hebrew, Turkish and Greek. Anyway, I am experiencing so much . . . and only begun! I have my ticket for a boat that sails all day and overnight from Corfu on the 19th of April to Venice, Italy, where I have a good friend, Cristiana who is waiting for me. And she speaks English!

Adrianople

Edirne, near the Greek border, is the last city in Turkey where Baha’u’llah was forced to live in exile outside of His native Persia. During His time, it was called Adrianople. I took a three-hour bus ride from Istanbul and stayed for five days. As we cruised past city and farmland, I sat in a comfortable seat next to a big picture window, and imagined the hardship Baha’u’llah and His family endured in 1863 during a bitter, harsh, winter while traveling on foot for twelve days with little protection against the elements. Baha’u’llah’s son, Abdul-Baha, nineteen years old at the time, suffered frostbite on his feet that caused him pain the rest of his life.

In Edirne, very near to the house of Baha’u’llah is a wonderful mosque called Selimiye, built between 1568 and 1574 and now considered one of the highest achievements of Islamic architecture in the world. As it is at every mosque, shoes must be removed before entering, and women must put scarves over their head. Standing inside, I felt a bit like an observer since I am not Moslem and people were praying. I pray as well, but do not know the proscribed practice of Moslem prayer to be followed. It includes facing Mecca, saying a verse, bowing, turning the head to face left and then right, kneeling and prostrating with forehead to the ground.

I am now back in Istanbul, in a wonderful part of the city called Sultanahmet. Rug shops are everywhere, and little bistros, anchored by the Palace Topkapi, Hagia Sophia, and the Blue Mosque, also called Sultanahmet.
I have made more friends, and as sometimes happens, offered all kinds of delights, high and low alike, but I choose to be careful and not lose my head in pursuit of every pleasure. THE DREAM gives me the best satisfaction, and it unfolds astonishment that is pleasure enough for lifetimes.
Each day, the weather lightens, and now, as if all of sudden, bright tulips are blooming everywhere. Turkey claims that tulips are its own native flowers, and only later arrived in Holland. I am grateful I have seen them here in their eye-catching beauty. Tomorrow, bright and early I go to the airport to catch a flight to my next stop—Athens, Greece.

An Authentic Turkish Experience

Early in life, I always pictured places in my mind’s eye by the images I gathered from books; especially art history books. New York I associated with the Empire state building, Paris, with the Eiffel tower, and London with the Monarchy, and Westminster Abby. Later, in Art College, I added other associations, such as Barcelona and the eccentric, grand architecture of Antonio Gaudi, and Istanbul with the Hagia Sophia.


THE DREAM has given me a flat in Istanbul that looks across the busy Marmara Sea waterway to a distant hill, where the domes and spires of the Hagia Sophia stand as they have for 1000 years. Istanbul is one of the world’s largest cities, about the same in population as all of Greece, and sits between the Black Sea and the Marmara Sea. It has been the seat of empires and was once called Constantinople, where the Roman Emperor Constantine established the capital of the Holy Roman Empire. It has served as the capital city of the Roman Empire (330-395), the Byzantine Empire (395-1204 and 1261-1453), the Latin Empire (1204-1261), and the Ottoman Empire (1453-1922). It is the only city in the world to straddle two continents: Asia and Europe.
I find the people more taciturn than in Egypt, and for the most part, more upwardly mobile. Nonetheless, I’ve made friends in only a week. Bahri, a father of two young daughters took me along to visit a nearby Turkish bath house. We arrived in the morning, and once inside were greeted in a small courtyard. We took off our shoes and put on sandals, then went upstairs into tiny private rooms to undress. Wrapped in a towel, we went down to a large room with a flat marble slab in the middle and domed ceiling. Portholes letting streams of light inside punctuated the dome. Several men were already lounging when we went into a dry sauna, where we worked into a sweat. Bahri had only come for the sweat and bath, but I got the full treatment. A husky man took me aside and had me sit next to basin of running water where he proceeded to rinse me. Putting on a mit with mildly abrasive palm, he rubbed vigorously over my entire body. After a few minutes, rolls of dead skin were gathering. Evidently, he was quite satisfied with his efforts, since he made sure I saw the amazing amount of skin that was coming off. He rinsed me again, brusquely massaging as he went, with a surprising smack in the middle of my back that could be heard out in the street. Under the dome, I lay on the slab, and was thoroughly soaped from head to foot, getting massaged at the same time. A rinse, and one more soaping next to a basin, then rinse with another whack on the back before I was wrapped from head to knee in towels and headed to my little cubicle to lie down and rest on the bed. Later, meeting Bahri, and striding into the clear light and beautiful spring weather, I felt like a new man . . . with an authentic Turkish experience.

Read interesting facts about Turkey.

Fragrant Breezes

If sometimes the streets of the world are hell, I have found heaven on a mountain in Haifa, Israel. Being on the grounds of the Bahá’í world center is about as close to paradise as I am going to feel in a physical place. Bahá’í’s are expected to visit on pilgrimage at least once during their lifetime. This is my second visit and it is more beautiful than ever. Both the Bahá’í’ prophets, Bahá’u’lláh and the Báb are buried in this area, and the seat of the Bahá’í’ world governing body, called the Universal House of Justice is here. Each day I have been rejuvenated and uplifted, as if my spirit drinks from heavenly streams and my feet do not touch the ground. People from all over the world are gathered under one tent, as one family. Just looking at the diverse humanity is a feast for the eyes.
Bahá’u’lláh gave Bahá’í’s their own calendar, with March 21 marked as the beginning of each new year. This year, the full moon is in conjunction with the spring equinox. Refreshing and fragrant breezes have blown over me, and I feel revitalized to carry forth my trek into Turkey, and Istanbul.


From the writings of Bahá’u’lláh:
"The world is but one country, and mankind its citizens."
"Let not a man glory in that he loves his country; let him rather glory in this, that he loves his kind."
"Ye are the fruits of one tree, and the leaves of one branch."

THE LIFE OF BAHA'U'LLAH; A PHOTOGRAPHIC NARRATIVE

Travel In An Unfolding Dream

To travel in an unfolding dream is to live every moment within mystery. Egypt is mysterious and inscrutable as the hieroglyphics inscribed in the stone walls of its temples and buried for millennia under desert sand. I hear Arabic, see it written, and don’t understand, yet feel connected by THE DREAM. As often happens when Egyptians on the street see me, someone says “hello, welcome,” and then the solitude of my travel is broken and although for the most part, we cannot understand one another, a bridge is established and it is as if an oasis opens before me. Since my arrival, many Egyptians from all walks of life have spoken this word to me and smiled. With a few, I have become friends, and then the bond is great and they share everything.
Alexandria is the nations second largest city, and I have been here 1 week. In ancient times, it was renowned as a center of learning and housed the world’s largest library. It eventually fell into decline and the library vanished, but recently through international efforts, a gleaming, ultra modern library, called Bibliotheca Alexandria, has opened with over 8 million volumes. It is almost an anomaly in this country of crumbling and unfinished buildings, with donkey carts sharing the streets with taxis.
Next week I will be in Haifa, Israel, and will also have many photos available from my travel thus far.

What I Want And More

THE DREAM is giving me what I want and more. Here in Luxor, along the Nile River, where the Egyptians built vast temples and tombs 7000 years ago, I find myself amidst a family in their mud home in a little village, playing with four children, and lounging on a straw mat over the earth floor with my friend Abu. We drink tea his wife has brought and he smokes his water pipe. It is the end of the day, and the family cow is brought in from the pasture and goes right through the house into the back, next to the donkey, amidst ducks and hens. Pigeons that are raised for food flutter about, pecking crumbs from the dirt floor at our feet. There are flies from the animals, no shower or bathtub, a single toilet sunk in the earth, and a single fire pit for cooking all the food. The children, two boys and two girls, all sleep in one bed, sometimes amid hordes of flies. The woman dressed in a long robe with a scarf over her hair, keeps with the children, except to bring us a delicious meal of steaming food. I feel entirely relaxed and safe, lost in the matrix of the earth.

Abu is the captain of a felucca, a type of sailboat common on the Nile, at present, mostly used to take tourists for rides. We became friends while he was working on finishing a new coat of paint on his boat and I offered to paint the name of his youngest daughter, Amira, in English on both sides of the bow and on the cabin. In Arabic, Amira means princess. Through Abu, I have met his two closest friends; both named Ahmad, and joined for the time being their tight circle. One drives a taxi and the other hires his felucca to take tourists sailing. They are poor, barely scraping by, but as Ahmad said, “we are so close that we keep nothing from each other.”
Here is a funny thing that happened to Ahmad the sailor: Two Japanese were aboard and spoke poor English. They tried to explain their ages, thirty and thirty two, but instead one of them said, “I am dirty, and my friend is dirty too!” Ahmad replied that if they wanted to clean off in the river it would be okay.

Welcome to Egypt

The news from the Middle East has been mostly violent for many years, so I built up some trepidation about visiting. I pictured myself getting nabbed off the street and ransomed as American booty, maybe tortured for good measure. Thus far, my experience in Cairo has been just the opposite. Strangers, who do not know how to speak English, see me and smile, often saying, “welcome.” In THE DREAM, what matters is the heart, and this is the universal language. So I throw myself into the crowded streets, taking pictures as I go, jostling with the common men and women, smiling when someone eyes me in my cowboy hat, grins, waves and says "welcome!”
Women are often covered from head to foot in flowing robes. Younger woman too, have scarfs over their heads. Females do not show flesh. Men sometimes wear loose fitting gowns. Middle-aged and older men often have permanently bruised foreheads. The discoloration is from prostrating so often in prayer. At regular intervals during the day and early evening, chanters from mosques send calls to prayer over loudspeakers into the street. As one prayer subsides, others farther away can be heard continuing the melodic drone.
I joined up with four young Canadians at our hotel and went on a tour of some important places in Cairo. The most exciting part was riding a camel to the foot of the Pyramids in Giza. At that point, our guides were two young locals; Mohammed, the leader, and his protégé Hassan, a youngster who was incredibly nimble around the camels. Mohammed kept a jovial banter in broken English, and occasionally got the camels to kneel down so we could dismount and walk around the incredible expanse surrounding the Egyptian world heritage “wonders of the world.” He was good at taking pictures and skilled using our cameras. Once, as I stood at the base of a pyramid and gazed toward the faraway Cairo skycaps, I faintly heard the call to prayer begin all across the city, drifting like an ancient wail riding upon a magic carpet across the desert sands. It all felt like another part of THE DREAM.

Fragments From THE DREAM

Fragments from THE DREAM: I am on Tobacco Key, a tiny Belize reef island, 45 minutes boat ride from Dangriga. I have come to snorkel in the pristine Caribbean water. Stopping to chat with a couple workers under the shade of Coconut trees, I look up and jokingly wonder if the coconuts ever fall on people. One guy says yes, and that he had been hit on the shoulder, and knew a little girl who had been severely injured. The next day, as I sat by a dock waiting for the first boat back to the mainland, suddenly I heard a thud, and loud cry from a man in a group nearby. A coconut had fallen from a tall tree and hit him in the shoulder. Ouch!
I went with Windell, a native of Belize to see his house in the jungle, and make a painting. His Pontiac is a complete mess held together by wire, but he is a mechanic and loves it nonetheless. The windshield has cracks going every direction and the front hood is wired down. To start the ignition, he touches two wires together under the dashboard. A butane tank behind the back seat provides fuel, and as we drive, he cranks up the volume on the CD player, which skips every time we hit a bump. We listen and sing along to the blues as we drive through the jungle, waving to people as we go. The car slows to a crawl going up hills, and I joke about the story of the Little Engine That Could, and say, “I think I can, I think I can.” Windell shoots back, “No. It is: ‘I know I can, I know I can.’ ”
In Belmopan, I spent a couple nights at the lodging of Christine, a friend of Windell’s who rents rooms. It’s relaxing except for noise from a house next door, and a rooster in the back that belongs to a neighbor and that crows loudly at dawn. Christine says the rooster is a nuisance and that she has complained to city hall because it disturbs her guests. Friends have suggested poisoning it. Jokes go around about the possibility of it’s demise. One night, I have strange, violent dreams. At 12:30 AM, in the midst of deep sleep, I wake from vivid dreaming and hear a man’s voice saying, “I am going to fuck with your brain!” Immediately, the rooster crows loudly. I am dazed, and lay paralyzed, wondering if I am hallucinating and maybe have been drugged with something like LSD. I hear many noises; dogs barking, party sounds, and cars. Getting up, I go downstairs, where another guest is on the patio. Disoriented, I ask him if he heard the rooster, and he says, “Yes, it is crazy!” I can’t go back to sleep, and think, well, I’ll go to the party. Getting up, I get dressed and go out on the street, but by this time the party has toned down and I can’t find it.
Today, I went to a big Baha’i gathering celebrating Ayam-i-Ha in Belmopan. People from all over Belize were there, and I enjoyed being in the crowd of mostly brown and black people of all ages.

Wind And Waves

I am growing accustomed to the ceaseless sound of the wind and waves on the beach outside my room. One morning it was quiet when I awoke, and felt strange.
Dangriga folks are the most relaxed group of people I have ever been around. They seem to be absent of anger, and it is remarkable how open they are. There are also regular beggars, and at least one woman said I could live at her house.
I have friends, and often someone will see me and call my name hello. One guy took me to his shack tucked into the woods at the end of a beach. He lives with his girlfriend in a place thrown together with boards and tin. There is a garden, and chickens and dogs. I looked at the holes in his ceiling and asked did the place leak during rains? He said yes, and that then his girlfriend and he scrambled to find dry spots, and fought over them.
There is very little glass in Dangriga . . . most windows stay open all the time.
I am a bit bewildered these days since I do not feel driven or impelled to succeed. I wonder, have I lost my bearings? Where the heck am I and what am I doing? Is my life important while I do not oil the capitalist machine? What if I become a barefoot native, and play dominoes under a thatched roof every day?