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Every Day Acts of Peace

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Sunday, September 19, 2010

Zanzibar 2006: Head Above Trees

Zanzibar tapioca lies on the ground, heavy.
It is easy to be a root vegetable, uprooted.
I travel from Kenya to Tanzania to Zanzibar to Ethiopia.
I travel from Ethiopia to Zanzibar to Tanzania to Kenya.
This week borders were closed into Sudan and Eritrea.

As I fly, I notice no January snows on Mount Kilimanjaro.

In the international media coverage
more people are concerned about bird flu -
than human cargo or families of refugees.
I do not believe in hope,
I believe in simply being what I am, to be.

In my pocket I have a list of endangered fish.
No one I have talked to has heard of this list.

I read it to restaurant cooks, managers, 
patrons and fish sellers in open-air markets.
More people are concerned about bird flu than ocean health.
I calculate that birds are tired of high attitude, 
while the ocean is simply exhausted.

To be fair to the birds 
they are fatigued 
of flying high enough 
to survive being targets -
being the prey of bullets
from hunters hunting,
and being the collateral damage 
of Heavenly aimed friendly fire, 
from cheering soldiers celebrating their Self proclaimed wins.
I have grown tired of hearing gun fire and fire works.

This latest round of West African victories 
did not reach the front page of the daily news -
most news deserving readership 
seldom travels the length of any page,
particularity the international parched-mental tabloids.

Every time I go swimming,
the flying fish brake the surface tension, 
wings spread as I trail my hand, 
in the turquoise waters of Zanzibar.
My hands become covered in shiny silvery fish scales.
These jewelled waters are transparent mirrors of life.
Time does not travel here, but remains calm.

I touch the schooling jelly fish,
and I enjoy being shocked.
The tiny electrical shocks become predictable–
a useful occurrence for me to rebel against,
or submit to, depending on the day-
depending on which way currency travels.
Depending on if my inner peace is full of peace.

Either way, the currents evokes images
of what is inside me 
that is not still.
The restlessness of not I,
not mine to carry 
around my neck,
yet my energies are weighed down
and baggage my body
handsomely tiresome
ionically cumbersome.

I travel from Kenya to Tanzania to Zanzibar to Ethiopia.
I travel from Ethiopia to Zanzibar to Tanzania to Kenya.

An Elder, takes me to the church 
in Zanzibar's old town square.
This pink coral Stone Town used to be 
the central slave market for West Africa.
The church's cellar 
housed the slave cells, 
the incubative rooms, 
which divided mothers 
from children 
and husbands from wives.

My guide, 
in a body of an older man, 
asks me to read and help clear 
the energy from this space -
this time encapsulated misery, 
which still holds this island 
hauntingly captive, 
in grief stricken poverty consciousness.
Yet, Zanzibar has always been spiritual rich,
a wealth of wisdom 
from transforming 
the knowledge of the ages.

I stare at my breakfast,
hot and spicy in this heat and humidity.
I eat on the roof of the last Sultan's guesthouse.
Below me the Masai Warriors sell their red coloured crafts.
The bright fruits, perfumes and spices
growing on the ancient plantation mix smells,
white jasmine smells mix with vanilla flowers,
and each morning newly-awaken minds mix,
while smells entrance emotions and enslave senses. 

I stare at my breakfast
served to me just the way I like it,
with a smile and heavy on the spices.
I meditate on the history of being part of history.
I consider what it is simple to consider.
I simplify what is complex about life, and living one.

It is easy to break open the shell of an egg
already cracked from the drop at birth -
even cosmic eggs 
are fractals of fractional history -
unified at source in a solitary individual cell, 
yet coded at it's core to Self replicate, 
divide and conquer multiple singularities -
the human is the oddity 
with illusionary desires 
to enslave and control 
the uncontrollable.

The extent of heat within
the spicy sauce 
smothered onto my fried eggs
is amazing and delicious -
but there can be no explanation
for the astounding price of eggs in restaurants –
unless eggs are honoured 
and seen for what they truly are -
an incalculable soft layer of protein
birthed from the bottom 
of a chicken’s womb, 
exiting via the out door.

I meditate on
what is the price of humans 
birthed from women -
incalculable value for their soft layers 
of protein-enhanced 
water-based matrix,
enshrined for months 
within the temple of her Soul,
birthed from the bottom 
of a mother's heart.

In Kenya I saw a herd of giraffe, 
standing heads above the trees.
The sun highlighted their ears, tail twitches,
many spots of different colours.
While there I closed my eyes, 
and felt like I could
feel the fir on their necks –
smell their breath, 
and be warmed by their body heat.

I remember they moved with grace –
a swagger and sway 
that balanced 
their truck of a neck 
with their suitcase body, 
all held up 
by four legs 
hoofed and rooted 
into ancient soil,
heads and shoulders 
above the rest.

Giraffes give birth standing up, 
and are silent 
except when looking for their young -
then they cry ...
long sobbing cries.

My eggs cracked open laying before me, I feel.
I feel the wind on the bottom of my feet.
Now, if only I could see
the reflection of their giraffe Soul,
in their eyes and tear drops,
when their young go adventuring
head above trees.


~~ Other People's Fingerprints ~~
Sometime after 1929 Martin Luther King Jr. said;
 “Take the first step in faith.
You don’t 
have to see the whole staircase. 

Just take the first step.”