Siwa Oasis

We spent close to month in a true desert oasis in western Egypt. It is a 9 hour journey by car from Ciaro. We arrived at 3 in the morning and woke to a world that was very bright, dusty and lush. So Much of the weather, landscape and buildings made us feel we were close to home. Oasis's are curious things, surrounded by diverse dessert they sit flooded with water. Siwa receives less than 2 millimeters of rain a year, yet they are extracting far more crops from the ground than I could dream of in our home in NM. Water filled springs are everywhere under a dense canopy of date palms. I have often wondered what an oasis would be like. I am very happy to have spent time in Siwa. Here are a few of my renderings of the experience.

Oasis:

Oasis giver of water.

Water for date palms, for bathing and swimming.

For sweet tea, and livestock,

water for mosquitoes to breed.

Water for ablation.

Water to pull crops from sands voids,

water to return life to where it began.

An ocean of sand surrounds a sea of underground water,

the inverse of the beginning of life on earth.

Surround me in sand, or water either way, I end up drowning.

Kittens:

Kittens are some of the fiercest animals on planet earth. Swatting and hissing at abandon. Cleaning up mothers milk from her tits. Laying in the shade of the great palm tree. All life has been cleared of from the sands of the garden floor by the cats. Now they beg for food at the door. (I am unsure if this is a positive thing.) There desire to bathe after a good meal inked in their DNA. I wonder what it would be like if my off spring shared this trait, rather than scrubbing themselves with greased stained hands. Untrusting of anyone who doesn’t smell like chicken, back arched like a loaded spring ready to unleash at the slightest side eye. Surprised by their bodies ability to leap. What gives a mother cat the confidence to take her babies out in the world, or is it merely boredom.

Butcher:

The butcher has two lines of customers waiting for there turn. Some ease in and out, sipping tea as kilos of meat are skillfully hewn with a machete. Some meekly wait for the knife. I wait in the heat of the sun and watch the flys inability to settle. I know nothing of their frenetic energy. I was born of wobbly feet made for being planted firmly on the ground. Contemplating the roles of man and goat, to feed to be fed upon. I am tied still. Each step closer the blade seems keener, and the order much clearer. We are all a cog in a line, sun to grass, grass to goat, goat to flesh, and flesh to man. Overlapping in the need of the growth of flesh, we’ve met with reverence. The Sun kisses both our skins and dries out those of my kin hanging in front of the shop.

Reordering the importance of time 

I visited a house of a woman in the village where my keen eyes trained by another land tried their very best to convince me was poor. The house did not posses running water or glass pains for the windows. No bed on the floor, no couches or chairs. Just rugs covering an earthen floor in a house made of salt and mud and stone along time ago. Rabbits graced her outhouse scampering all over her floors burrowing under her foundation. Goats and sheep and chickens lived in an enclosure attached to the house. Soft light pours in along with feral cats looking for bones. An old plastic table cloth was spread on the floor. No furniture or table just a few pillows to sit on.

She filled nine tummies with a feast of elaborate dishes, rabbit and chicken dressed with fresh herbs, squash stuffed with rice and the most sumptuous potatoes. All Washed down with pots of of fresh lemon grass tea. Sisters came to visit, along with cousins, and children, too many to count with smiles and a warm hearts. Happy to take a dish to wash, happy to sit and sip some tea. Time slowed down no rushing or fussing, just being. Being for the presence of company, to swap the news, to watch the children grow. All the time to simply sip the tea, together. I asked if it was just Friday that afforded them this luxury of time and togetherness. And learned that pretty much every afternoon they have time to sip tea.

In this response I witnessed a world that rewarded time instead of things, and I questioned who is the poor one. Is it I who slaves for luxuries, comfort and shiny things. Who’s eyes are custom to a world where time is scarce, and calendar is king? I pay a price for doing it all alone. I am poor in time spent with loved ones yet rich with things, that serve no purpose when I am alone. What good is a couch that no one comes to sit on. Have you ever tried to drink a pot of tea by yourself? It goes cold by the end. My heart has me ask who is really the poor one. Dare I say, my eyes deceive me? I dare.

If god where right now:

I saw a donkey cart pulling baskets of chickens along the road, it stoped to serve a customer, leaving nothing behind but the head in one hand and the rest of the bird in the other. The only one left feeling out of place was I, who knows nothing about where we go when we die. But, I do know that life is full of tasty chicken and hungry mouths to feed.

Market:

The market is colorful, and loud, and not like anything at home. Standing in a sea of transactions, men shouting from stalls in Arabic. Children younger than mine holding live chickens by the wings with one hand and potatoes with another. You know where that story ends.

Flys cover anything that is not moving, even me when I linger to buy some sugar cain. Raw milk is served in old 7up bottles. Cheese is stirred by hand. Donkey carts with children driving roll through the tightest corners. Tuk Tuk’s full of young children dangling off them are left in the most precarious of parking jobs.

My mind wants to say stop, slow down, this is not how things are done. Where is the order and who is in charge. Until I remember that I am the foreigner, the outsider the one who doesn't belong. Everyone else in this tumbling scene is home. They have no need to be like me, and yet?

Adjust my eyes, open my heart, what I see is the same within. We are all just people looking for treasures for the soul, for love and connection. Breath deep stay grounded this is an exercise of life. Awake to the scene aware of my own absurdity, aware to the instinct of their comings and goings. Do you still see your treasure your self hunting for truth? Or do you get swept up and carried on the rip tide away far away from what you seek.

Questions:

Did you ever realize furniture would prohibit the amount of people you could fit in the house. What good is couch that no one comes to sit on. Why does time have to fly? Why can’t it be slow like molasses on a cold day. Do you have set of fancy plates that you are saving for a special occasion, too? Or fine silver that stays in velvet box. Good whisky or a bottle of wine that your waiting to drink for the “right occasion”. How about two living rooms for separate occasions or to separate kids and adults. Why do we always separate the kids, push them away from adult spaces. When was the last time being serious brought about bouts of laughter or feelings of wonder and awe? When did we forget that wonder and awe are the currency of happiness.

Learning from the dessert:

The desert sky is stiller than its sands. Broad and open the stars rotate more than clouds. The wind is continuously sorting sand by color, size. An endless task, but not a thankless one. All that travel the depths of the dessert know that white sand packs hard, red sand soft. Its these waves that shift each day by the wind that allow travelers to cross with ease. Red sand soft, white sand hard, a map of enormous consequence. The wind can reshape a dune, but it never completely dissolves. It just shifts a few degrees, like a cover bands rendition of “ Hey Jude”.

One day millions of years ago the earth shifted on its access and the Sahara was born. From the ashes of great grasslands grown atop ancient sea beds comes dust storms so strong they can reach the stratosphere. Tiny particles of clay float 1/2 way around the world to fertilize the amazon. I like to imagine it as a pilgrimage of sorts, barren nutrients making their way to spread the gospel of phosphorus.

BLOOM ( for indigo)

I hope you eat a flower and bloom,

I could be a bee and ride the wind with your pollen.

Your brilliant yellow grains exploring, along side the howling of the wind,

Listening to all its sorrow as you settle back down on the ground,

mixing with soot, and making filagree doors on all the burrows.

I hope you stick to a rabbits fur and race along paths in the sand until you tumble from laughter and get picked up once again by the wind

Never settling, until you remember how bright your petals can grow when you decide to take root.

What its like to stay with Camila and Dan, Daniel?

Staying with Camilla and Dan’s family in Siwa is barring witness to a family that epitomizes “slow living.” Time with one’s self, and time with each other seems to be a key tenant to their philosophy of life. They are masters of teaching the art of slowing down. And my family is better off having dipped into this way of life. Its no coincidence that there are so many stories of people coming away from Siwa with a different perspective of time, and a deep reordering of their value system.

Camilla and dan generate an infectious drive to explore curiosity and dive deep into passion. While sprinkling in tidbits about time being your most valued asset. You witness a life where sharing time with each other goes beyond the riches of labour, and a community that heads to the call of prayer over the time clock. Never Have I witnessed such Surender in a people to “what is” as I did in Siwa. Its experience ran deep through me.

Watching my kids experience Siwa’s magic along side their children took my children leaps and bounds ahead of anything we could have provided them as adults. Often times as a parent traveling with my kids I joke that my dialogue is “see this over here, you better appreciate it. See that over there, appreciate it” but, having young competent friends to explore Siwa’s spaces with allowed my children to soak in the community and carve a deeper connection to Siwan people, craft and culture than I could ever imagine possible. I can’t thank them enough for welcoming us all in.

Secret spring :

I went to secret spring, and danced along its keyhole shape under clouds who traced the horizons arch.

Verga in the distance.

Water destined to repeat it’s history has no lineage it only knows reincarnation.

I dinned on yellow pillows spread deep in the shade of a palm, swatted flys who donned my lips, a constant constellation buzzing across my face.

I dug my toes into soft weathered sea beds sands long abandoned by their maker.

I sipped tea ripe with sugar kissed by smoke of palm fronds.

Amongst the reeds that hide the secret spring. Egrets bathed.

The sun dipped, reflecting of sky on earth. I wrapped my self in the cool pool of the secret spring, and whispered back.

The drive to town:

The dirt turns to asphalt as you round the corner to town, Shalie house glowing in the soft liminal light. Trash becomes apart of the beauty you see. A visible tension between the old and new ways of life. It smolders in piles heavily guarded by dogs, who survive with little notice. Salt trucks drive by along with Tuk Tuks driven by kids, the ocasional donkey cart clopping down the road. Mosques calling you forth 5 times a day. Its all so loud at first, before you give in to its flow. A flow that mimics water, each driver an oars men steering round there own obstacles.

Rumblings

Remember its okay to go slow, you don’t need achieve mile stones on the same day. You need to follow your heart. Remember that not everyone dreams in the same way, not everyone believes the impossible. You need to follow your heart. Remember that magic is only magic if you know it to be so, wonder and awe are the currency of happiness , no one can take that away from you- only you can. And if you loose it find a child, laugh with yourself, believe something absurd for an entire day, tape your thumbs to your palms and try to eat dinner. Dance with the mundane. Until the cracks in your heart begin to shine light like cut crystal.

Power or sacred:

Why do the powerful always get the attention. Does power bring you closer to god? Or does it blind you causing you to seek out greater connections with god. I am sitting in a poor village, where no one has been forgotten. Everyone bathes each others needs willingly. Time and life are lent without question. I wonder how many people here say they are lacking true connection, what are their statistics on loneliness? I hear the locals once feared the oracle but pray 5 times a day to say how grateful they are for all that is.

At some point the oracle was forgotten. Lost to times past. The temple transformed into many things, a fortress, an animal barn , a mosque. It served each incarnation dutifully. No gods came and broke down the walls, or riddle the people with plague for filling the temple with cow dung. Each incarnation was set by the peoples greatest needs. The collective intention of the place made it what is was. I suppose that what I am trying to say is that it isn’t the artifacts of the place, perhaps it is the intention that you put into a place that contains the power. Its what you put into it.

An Oracle within:

An oracles chamber, shore up the sun. Quiet but twice a year. Channeling priestess when the suns rayed days balance equal to the night. Only ever answering questions for the most auspicious.

An oracle Who’s light shown so deep it penetrated into in the tunnels under Siwa. Connecting ancient thoughts with spring water, curing them together and thrusting them forth in deep pools.

And me stepping in tune with the rubbish strewn across Siwa today. Planting each foot in unity with an oracle who speaks of peace within my bones, and purity within my bowels.

An oracle who does not speak in tongues but rather in slow concentrated breaths of allowing ones self to step forth with clarity and belonging.

An oracle resides within me, an all-knowing dance partner who would like the honor of lead.

Tis I who sees an oracle, a peace maker, predictor of happiness. Tis I who speaks as oracle deep inside my soul, who fears not what is says for sand and seabeds both are hosts to the dead. Tis I who is an oracle possessed, by nothing more than the truth, seeping green tides of bile eroding to its core

Cleo old lass:

Cleopatras oasis is a bit miss leading, it is not supposed to be named that. It has another name, an ancient one, probably more than one. They say it is tied to the temple of the oracle of Aumum. The water was and is used for purification of the spirit. The oracle who famously gave Alexander the Great the rights to Egypt and declared him son of a God. But the oracle was famous before that, I wonder what they spoke of, where they a man or women or neither? Where there eyes a misty hue of green, where they frail and wrapped in white linens? Where their finger nails long and yellow? Cleopatras spring is said to have been linked to other springs via tunnels underground. Some think the tunnels form a geometric pattern that is sacred and holds connection to powers beyond human interpretation, and turn into energetics resonance of electrical fields. Who am I to judge what’s true. People have been here for thousands of years. An oasis in the desert can’t be passed by. Water bubbling from under ground is always magical. Stories tend to bubble too. Today cleopatras spring is wide with stones, some layed by the Romans, some at the bottom long before them. It is the main stop for tourist to swim and marvel at the water of the oasis, tourist shops and juice bars line the spring, it is still bath to those who lack running water, but mostly it is full of instagram shots.