Naturalist's Manifesto

Cars flash by,
Diesel and Gas,
Coolant and Rubber,
On Asphalt and Heat Scorched Sand,
All Pulled from Deep Bowels,
Of this Home,

Lights Flash and Flicker,
Synthetic Lightning Bugs of Defiance,
To the Turning of this Great Blue Green Ball,
Gnats and ants on our secure, seductive flotilla,
In the midst of an ancient plan,
That continues to roll and roil and revolve,

Above the mayhem of confusion,
Cumulus rolls with a fury,
The sleeping fatalistic giant,
With a wall of wet torrent,
Sheeting across a dark sky,

Our tiny egos and racing and raging and ruckus,
Reduced to slippery, invigorating coolness in an instant,
Trees cower and printed bits of our madness blow,
And the gnats turn their heads to avoid the fury,
As fierce winds breathe,
And soiled tears fall,
This power of eons rakes across the landscape as if to say,
"Remember me; time still belongs to me,"

Crevasse

Walking, crawling, scraping,

Through an ancient streambed,

The hum of water is gone,

And the drip, drip, of sustenance has dried,

Riffles have since flowed to the ocean,

And every sign of life is lost, evaporated into eternity,

All except for me. 

 

How far have I walked in this void?

And how far must I continue?

Without answer,

My legs propel me further,

Bone and cartilage with tendon and sinew,

Unrelenting, forgetting their frailty and age,

Looking for something, feeling, groping for something.

 

I sing to myself,

Reminded of my own thoughts,

And all I hear are my footsteps,

And the ringing of rivets on an old carabiner,

Plod…..plod….crink…crink.

 

The sounds of biner on cave pack persist,

To remind me of another trip,

And another streambed,

And other riffles that have since disappeared,

To the ocean,

 

Everything is gone in this dark old channel.

Everything except for me. 

Tyler Derden

I always think back to the fight club line, where Tyler Derden and the Edward Norton guy (can't remember the character's name) are on a bus, speaking of all of the misconceptions in life, and Tyler Derden says, as a beautiful model on a billboard passes, "Self improvement is masturbation."  Now, we'll forego the irony that this was said by none other than Brad Pitt, who probably had to 'improve' himself at the gym for months before the filming of the movie, and we'll skip to the existential question of whether or not there's any truth in it.  I figure, the lines that ring in my head over and over are few, and the ones that stick may have some importance.

Well, I was born in the Shenandoah Valley, where the verdant hills put forth a swell of life in the spring time, karsts bubble all around with clear spring water, and where piety, simplicity, and the conception of humility are thick as molasses on a January morning.  I think all of us who came from the culture of piety and humble acts would agree that self improvement, for lack of better words, is masturbation.  All of the chestbeating and body toning and self aggrandizement are for the birds, and the real truth of life comes from acts of charity and our protestant hard work, the same hard work that brought early church members across an ocean just to find freedom to choose their personal spirituality and work hard, believing, the rest of their days.  These weren't Carnegies or Vanderbilts or Rockefellers ruling the world and monopolizing wealth, but instead were Showalters, Stauffers, Knicely's, and Hesses, all looking for a piece of land to build on and live out their faith simply, for the rest of the time they were alotted.  Recently, while doing some work in the library of congress, I came across the census and tax records from Rockingham County in 1789.  My great grandfather 7 times over was listed there.  Daniel Stover, Dayton, 17 cows, 0 negros, 1 dwelling, 3 mares.  That was all he had, and probably all he ever expected to have.  While other founders of the nation were banking oil wells and steel, Daniel Stover was tending 17 cows.  I would gamble to say that the wealth of these two classes was inversely proportional to their eventual satisfaction in life.

I'm in the process now of retraining myself, though, to find a balance between the oil barrons and the pietists.  The maximum simplicity, although nobel, will not ever have appreciable effect upon the actions of those who will rule this tiny world, and I don't think that it is responsible to have such a vibrant hue of enlightenment, and choose not to share it with the world outside.  I choose self improvement, in health, and education, and in the joy that I try to bring to others.  The key is finding the balance.  You can't see very far if you're on one side of the fence or the other, but only when you are sitting on top, teetering between extremes and risking collapse, only then is the horizon truly clear.

Breathing

Saturday afternoon, I crammed rope, ascenders and a couple trustworthy carabiners into my old canvas bag and threw it into the back of the truck.  My caving suit was stained from the mud from the last trip, the red faded slightly to pink, and the blue darkened with fine clay.   I stuffed my old backpack with the necessary clothes and food, and set it on the backseat.  Shortly thereafter, Andy and Matt, (two good friends from work) rolled up and loaded their gear along with mine and climbed in.  Andy, with two half sleeves of colorful mystic tattoos and a snarling beard, Matt, with his intellectual circular-rimmed glasses and manicured beard, and I, with chaw and sunglasses and unshaven scruff started on our way, and the three of us unlikely comrades lit into the mountains of the Alleghany Plateau to find cave known as Breathing.  We found a quiet campsite beside the headwaters of the Calfpasture River Saturday evening and set up, with chairs, fire ring, and tent to enjoy the evening.  As the sun set on riffles and leaves gave way to evening breeze that swept through the hollow, we cast fly rods in hopes of luring fish to our plates.  Andy was fortunate, and caught two chubs and a native trout, all of which we ate around our little fire.  When that was gone and the evening gave way to night, and the dew set on litter, we sat and smoked, listening to the remnants of this year’s cicadas, eating sausage and trail mix, before retiring to the tent.

Upon waking in the morning, we tore down the campsite and left nothing but our fire ring, in hopes that someone else might enjoy this place where we dined on fresh fish and gossip.  The truck loaded again, and we set off for Breathing Cave.  After searching for a marker for a while, we came upon a small 4x4 post planted in the earth with a metal box and arrow, and knew that we had found our trail.  We parked, crunching chicory and thistle under tires, and dismounted, throwing on our rugged jeans and shoes, ready to peer inside the skull of mother nature, where the axons are trickling waterfalls and the synapses are ancient streambeds of clear water.  A two-mile hike among sinkholes and forest brought us to the mouth of the cave, and we ventured inside.  I had been before, but, as always, I reveled in the firm grasp that the cave had on me.  We squirmed through a belly passage to the first room where we took in complete darkness.  It was incredible.  For the next few hours, we looked around, navigating passages and holes and fissures and climbs the best we could.  Everyone would navigate obstacles differently, just as we all do life.  Eventually, we exited the mouth of the cave and walked back to the truck, a bit more weary than before, but more invigorated for the excitement that rushed in our veins, and the experience of a new place.  At the end of the day, we wound up a bit dirtier and with a few more pictures to show for the trip.  But we had seen and shared a great campsite, a beautiful clear night, and we all now know the cave called Breathing.

To Live

Yesterday, aimless on a breezy August day, wondering what to do, I went outside.  I was at my home place, the house where I spent countless hours growing up, looking at my reflection, learning my roots, and sprouting new fruit, and it has become the house where I go for solace on weekends.  It is a place where my mom sits and reads alone, without the comfort of my father, who is losing all of his memories in a nursing home.  As I walked outside though, I strode past my truck, the chainsaw, the kayak, and the bike, through some orchard grass and weeds to the garden.  

Messy with the spoils of unfettered loam and rain, the garden was overwhelming in its disorganization, but I grabbed a splintered handle of a shovel and began to dig potatoes, finding the dead stalks, and heaving at earth.  As I turned the first clod of soil, the smell of soil hit me, and took me back to childhood, before uncertainty of school, the toil of work, lost love and disappointment had arrived, and reminded me of what it felt like just to live, just to feel the earth under foot, smells of life asphyxiating every pore.  For a moment, my worries faded behind a wall of joy, separating me from the unnecessary worry that plagues me as I navigate my nomadic life between the city and this green valley, the place I want to call my home. 

For the past 18 months I have been working in Arlington Virginia, and living in Northern Virginia.  It is a far cry from the place where I lived just 2 years ago, and much different from the life I knew as a child while I dug potatoes in that same soil.  Although just 2 hours from the house I first knew, this place teems with a life that is foreign to me.  I don’t belong here in the middle of the city hype and discord, I know that, but what well-adjusted soul would?  Who am I to have any more disdain for this sprawling life than the Venezuelan immigrant who hangs sheetrock for minimum wage?  How much worse is my discontent than his, and what makes my ultimate happiness any more urgent?  These are the questions that I ask myself, and I am left knowing my own personal truth from yesterday, that the soil will always smell better than money, the rat race, or this ill-conceived civilization that we have created for ourselves. 

The past two years, since writing on this space last, I have grown in monumental ways, but, as with any incredible growth, that growth has given way to discouraging atrophy in others.  Now, as I begin to write again, finding happiness in all of the silly unknowns of life, I have seen that this is not my home, nor is the small town where I grew up, nor is Babatngon, or any of the other small places where I have laid my head.  My home is wherever my soul rests when it is weary, and wherever my mind finds peace.  The peace from within, as we all come to find out, is what makes our lives bearable, not the vestiges of our wealth.  That truth, though easily spoken and written, is much harder to live out. 

Life, I have found, will devour the soul if we are unable to accept it unconditionally.  Take the good with the bad, they say, and live, live, live. 

Thanksgiving Spoils

This will be my last post on this blog, at least for the forseeable future.  As I look back on where it started, it seems like this post will bring a lot of things full circle, and conclude my narrative on the Peace Corps Experience I've had.  Thanks to everyone who has read the blog from time to time and all of the wonderful comments.  I'll have a new blog soon, either Patriotic Renaissance, or some other title, I'll keep everyone posted and invite you to follow if you're interested.  Again, thanks for reading.

It's been a month now since I returned from the Philippines and all of the familiar faces and places there.  I haven't found work yet, but am appreciating the slower pace of things while it lasts, because I'm sure that soon, I will be busy with something, and wishing I weren't.  I've made lots of pies with some extra pumpkins I made for cheap, and just finished up a couple apple pies for the thanksgiving feast.  When it comes to food and family, I'm making up for lost time, indulging in cheese, milk, always putting creamer in my coffee just because I can :)  and talking with cousins, parents, uncles and aunts about all of the changes that have occurred over the past two years.  I have 2 new little cousins, and, since some kids were too young to speak when I left, 5 new personalities that I've gotten to meet and know.  It's really something to see all that has changed.  Some family members have fought disease and aging in excruciating ways, and I'm seeing the toll of those battles for the first time.  While others here have been on the sidelines for the duration of the pain, I am coming into the game at halftime, trying my best to catch up on all of the battles that have been won and lost.  I spend my time hunting, hiking, running, and hanging out with family.  It's been great to be back.

The other evening while I was walking through the living room to watch Jeopardy! on TV, the phone rang.  I picked it up, and I heard a familiar voice, strained, and a half a world away.

"Hello!! Ada hi Peter?!, Ini hi Ben Ben"

My mind switched gears as I thought how to respond.  It was Mano Ben Ben, the man who I fished and ate and laughed and drank with all those times in the tropical shade as we watched the water lick the dirty sand.  The reason for Mano Ben Ben's call was because the men had just harvested 5000 of our 10,000 fish, and were preparing them for sale at market.  He excitedly told me about the harvest celebration where they consumed lots of the fish and drank coconut wine, where the mayor had presided along with Nimfa, my old supervisor and Department of Labor and Employment officials.  He said that the men had drank a couple rounds to me, and that he wished me a happy christmas (Malipayang Pasko), his daughters got on the phone to say hi, then his granddaughters, some of the other fishermen, and then we said goodbyes, and hung up. 

Later, I received an email from LiliBelle, a Department of Labor and Employment official, who gave me more details, telling me how the men had marketed the fish at 100 pesos per kilogram, and that the Bureau of Fisheries and Aquatic Resources, after seeing their success, vowed to provide the men with their fish fingerlings for the next stocking of the fish cage.  If all or most of the fish are sold, the men will have around 200,000 pesos or $4500.00 to split up between all 31 of them, which is a few months wages for these families.  I can only imagine the difficulties they're facing with accounting and evenly dividing the spoils, but the money is in their hands, not with a politician, or a business person, so that's a start.  As for the seaweed, the rainy season has been hard on it, and much of it was lost, but it remains growing, and 500 kilograms of seedlings have also been assured to the men by the provincial government through the Bureau of Fisheries and Aquatic Resources as well. 

 Ben Ben called me again one evening, and this time he was more prepared.  He sat at the shoreline where we had hung out so many times, surrounded by the other fishermen in the organization.  He said hello, and then one-by-one, the fishermen said hello, first Don Don, then Romeo, Mano Ali, Mano Robin, Edgar, etc., passing around Ben Ben's tiny phone.  It was great to hear their voices and know that they are well.  Just like here, time marches on in Babatngon, Leyte, Philippines.  Despite their many hardships, the men keep plugging away, and the project is serving its purpose.  As I celebrate thanksgiving this year, I have a renewed understanding of all I have to appreciate, family, friends, virtually unlimited coffee, freedom to drive and explore, great music, choirs, all my 'stuff.'  I'm also extremely grateful for those 31 men, and all of the wonderful children of the Philippines who I got to know, for all of the lessons that they taught me, their inspiration to slow down, take a breath, just laugh at life's challenges when there's nothing else to do.  I'll not forget them, I couldn't if I wanted to.  The experience was a beautiful scar.  Ginhihigugma ko hira.

Getting back into the rhythm

View to the North from our house

I’ve been home for a little over a week now, and am using a snowy Saturday afternoon to catch up on my blog and tell about how it has been for me to transition back to the way of life here in Western Virginia from the way of life on the Island of Leyte, Philippines. It has been odd, because, as with Peace Corps Service and the unexpected changes that life in the Philippines entailed, the things I expected to shock me haven’t been that earth-shattering, but I am caught off-guard at times by small things that I wouldn’t expect to hit me.

Me, incredulous at the unexpected weather

As I was taking a run around my community here in Dayton, Virginia yesterday, I cut across a corn field and stooped down to pick up an edible mushroom when the black spores on its underside stained my hands like the ink of squid I was eating just two weeks ago in the middle of the ocean with the fisherfolks. I didn’t break down or anything, but it caught me off-guard, the divide between my home in Virginia and that in the Philippines.




Friend from the Philippines,
RPCV, Leah Ettema

My Cousin Clair
As the snow fell today covering the eastern and western mountainous horizons with a sheet of shiny white, I was taken aback at this beauty that many of my friends at site would never see except in pictures. Don Don and Ben Ben and Jimmy will never know the sting of winter cool on their fingers, or the smells of crunching red and yellow oak leaves underfoot as they walk through millions of acres of shared public lands.

I miss the fresh tropical breeze that is felt from the top of a jeep hurtling through an expanse of rice fields, and I miss the togetherness of those awfully huddled vehicles as we would ride to town. The constant sunshine and the lazy way of life as a volunteer already feels like some sort of dream, because things feel so much different here now. As is our human nature, the hard parts of life, the constant barrage of mosquitos and sweat, fear of bad water and lack of entertainment fade to the back of my mind as I’m reminded of all the good parts of being in the Philippines. My failed projects and frustrating conversations take a backseat to successes and friends I made.

Sunrise over the Massanutten Peak

Since I’ve been home, I’m had a lot of fun catching up with family. We’ve gone out to catch concerts and sit by rivers and picnic and walk. Everyone seems really busy, distracted from the fun of life by a sense of responsibility to keep going, working, striving for stuff.

The ‘reverse culture shock’ that Peace Corps often alludes to in literature about reentry to the country is real. Returning from the independent way of life that has become the norm abroad back to the politically correct, regimented, often stymied way of life in the states is hard, and should not be underestimated by returning volunteers. I’m afraid I did to some extent.

I look forward to all of the new things that are going to be happening as I (hopefully :) ) get a new job, and move to a new place. However, I will try to take with me the lessons learned and the new perspectives from service abroad, as they are priceless and were hard-earned.

Mom and Dad on a Picnicing Trip

View from Shenandoah River State Park