At the Rainbow's End

One of the greatest gifts my grandfather and parents gave me was to expand the borders of my physical world through international travel, and of course, what followed was the further expansion of my mind and ideals. What do they say? Once a mind is stretched beyond its original space, it can never return?

The cost of this expansion is that the expanded brain fuels a wandering soul that never is contented unless it is seeking new terrain. Home becomes anywhere, anyplace, and the people that populate the spaces become family (Photo: Me, on the road to Hay-in-Wye, Wales).

Tonight, I find myself homesick as I return to Atlanta from eight days away on international soil, a loop that seems to be upside-down as I crawl into my own bed and light the candles that smell so familiar.

Perhaps it is because everything feels so new and unworn, and the building so crisp and stark in their infancy. I find myself echoing the words of Thomas Moore as I find enchantment in the worn, the aged, and the organic within the crumbling walls of the pastoral land in Wales, and Gothic cathedrals that have held worshippers for a thousand years.

As the lilting voices of the cherubic boys in the Westminster Abbey choir sing the same text that has echoed in these walls for a thousand years, I find that the enchantment of the old is the glue that cements us. (Photos: Westminster Abbey at dusk with Tower of London in the distance.) Perhaps it isn't homesickness that I am feeling tonight but disconnection from a world that feels far to familiar as it sits an ocean away.

I consider this tonight as I ponder the steps that my brother, sister, and I tread in the winter dusk around Chepstow Castle on the River Wye at the border of England and Wales, a site all our own as the sun set in winter. I fingered the dirt as I stooped low and then collected rocks from the earth cradling the castle since 1042. A gift from my family provides the deep magnetism I feel. Roots have been traced on my paternal grandmother's side connecting me to this world and rarely so, directly to the man that built the castle - William the Conqueror. I feel blessed tonight, blessed that such roots have been traced, but even more blessed to find forgotten trails near the River Wye that lead around the backside of the castle where I envision long ago relatives stealing a first kiss, or wiping tears shed over a loss due to illness, or a face breaking into a smile as they viewed the sunset that even now, I am viewing from my perch on a tree root erupting from the ground on a trail next to the castle. (Photo: Chepstow Castle at dusk)

I breathe deeply and feel free as our wanderings are blessed by three rainbows within the first two full days of travel. Odd, isn't it, that the last three international trips I have taken have brought a beautiful rainbow on my first day within the country? - South Africa, Romania, and now England? It is as if my wanderings are being blessed by the universe.

Further blessings appear in conversations late into the night with locals - the warm familiarity of tongues that speak different words from my own and the mutual enlightenment we shed on one another as if we are holding hands across time and cultures. It seems appropriate at this time and away from the U.S. that I witness the swearing in of the first African-American President while in London. A man of many cultures and places that understands the shrinking of the globe.
There is so much to relive through the memories of the trip: the crisp cold from the ocean spray breaking at St. David's point in Wales (Photo: St. David's Point); the echoes of the sages in the alleys of Oxford; the bleating of the sheep near Stonehenge as they gaze on a wonder never to be understood by them (Photo: Pastureland at Stonehenge); the hot mist of the steam from a bath still holding water encased during the Roman Empires; a perfect cup of tea in its milky sweet warmth that touches the stomach like magic; and the bells, the bells of Westminster Abbey calling worshippers for a thousand years as my sister and I race through the cobbled streets to enter before the doors close to the sounds of the familiar liturgy echoed by ancestors.

Tonight, I write this in the familiarity of my bedroom with the candles flickering. I am indeed homesick. Homesick for the connectivity of the generations that seem so present and understood in the countries where the terrain is deep with its echoes.

The Parade of Nations - England in Five Days

The close of 2008 walked a parade of nations across the minutes leading to the turn of the clock and a year in in my life. It seemed appropriate as more and more of my colleagues and friends hale from disparate places on the globe. I find myself in equally as many conversations with people who hold dramatically different life stories from my own and what they offer to me and my path is vibrancy and the opportunity to expand my thinking into new terrain that we carve together.

Christmas was spent quietly here in Atlanta with my sis. Quiet, because we couldn't find a single homeless shelter or soup kitchen that needed volunteers (there is goodness in the world after all). Intent on uplifting the spirits of the working Waffle House wait-staff, we headed over to the local square box they call a restaurant in sweatsuits and glasses. Bellying up to the counter, within moments steaming coffee was pushed my way thumbing across the surface with fingers sporting long fingernails glittering with color and jewels and an equally vibrant face to go with them. Backs were being slapped, chuckles and laughs exchanged, and plenty of "honeys" and "babys" to go around. A perfect start to Christmas Day, but admittedly, I think we walked away more loved and honored than what we could put out as we stuffed our faces with waffles dripping with syrup - like as a child on Saturday morning sporting bedhead. Good ole' America.

We marched into Europe for lunch as we tried our hand at the famous Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking "Cassoulet de Porc et de Mouton" that required five hours of cooking and preparation and outlined itself within a total of six full pages of the cookbook. (Photo: The remnants of my Cassoulet on the dining table.) Thankfully, the trusty international farmer's market near my house supplied all of the goods, including the loads of fat that Julia laidens her food with (not to mention the wine and brandy she calls for!), but it is Christmas, right?

The afternoon brought a drive and a walk to see the skaters at the Centennial Olympic Park's fabricated ice rink. We laughingly call it the UN iceskating rink now because we clearly saw at least 25 different nationalities represented in the short span of time that we were there and Caucasians were possibly 25 percent of the group. Every language imaginable was being spoken by ages numbering from 0-100 and skates were being sported by sari clad women, sikhs wearing turbins, Mexican migrant construction workers, and Asian computer programmers.

Amazingly enough, the parade of nations skated to the music in peace, wobbling on their skates and sliding often ungracefully to rush to the rescue of an unknown fallen soul in distress. Hands were being held, engagements for marriage made at the center of the rink, and bashful teens expressing their love for the first time. All in unison, because you can't but help yourself given the precarious way in which you wobble on two blades and hope to God you don't kill yourself in the process. Humanity, humility, and honesty - all wrapped into one. I told my sister that perhaps we could have peace in the middle east or in Iraq, if the key players were forced onto an ice rink and required to skate together until they came to a peace agreement. What I wouldn't give to see Dick Cheney on skates with Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. So now, my sis knows my mantra well whenever I hear a news report that details negotiations breaking down -- my cry is "ICE SKATES, ICE RINK!"

We left the UN skating rink in a rush to make our 7 p.m. reservation to eat the most scrumptious Bangledashi food coordinated under the watchful eye of Meerza with his staff. (Photo: Meerza's amazing Naan - watch out, it grow in your belly!) In fact, I have never looked at the menu in the years I have been going there, but instead, when I walk in the door, Meerza declares that he will cook for me and to settle in. Plates brim over with chicken tikka masala, tondoori lamb, baashmatee rice, and korma. A dream with the most amazing Naan to fill any crack still remaining empty (impossible!) and the check comes and you wonder how they can cook this way for the prices of McDonalds!

After an enchanting viewing of the movie "Mystic India" a few days after Christmas, in a wild spree of luck, Emily and Susan landed gifted tickets to the dramatic showing of Cirque Jungle Fantasy and invited me to join them for the matinee. (Emily at the age of five, already adept at networking skills on airplanes! - way to go girl!) After a tour through the well-appointed renovation well-underway at their beautiful new home, we headed to the show. Nothing could have prepared me for the drama, spectacle, and breathtaking acts that continue to be unforgettable. Most of the troupe originate from Mongolia, Eastern Europe, Ukraine, and Russia. Flipping and fluttering through the air in the most passionate colors and fabrics, they defied human understanding with their balancing and contorting. Emily was mesmerized and I think both Susan and I had our mouths open as well. Not to mention, some of the men were just fabulous to watch! :)

A glorious end to 2008 and a perfect entree into a January that sees me off to England for 8 days. I love my work, I love international travel, and I feel the magnetic pull of the amazing souls that I will meet on the other side of the sea. It can't come soon enough -- the parade did not end at December 31 - in fact, the parade of nations in my life is just beginning!