Greenbelt Festival 2005

I thought I would post a few photos of Greenbelt Festival 2005. This is kind of like a “20/20 in the morning hindsight” post, since really, it’s actually March 25th 2006 and I’m sitting at Eliza’s in Rochester, doing a few days of intense website updating. I remember wanting to tell folks about this festival because I was so impressed with it, but I’ve lost some of the vibrancy of the experience in my brain, so maybe the photos will help tell the story. By way of introduction, Greenbelt festival is Britain’s “… Youth festival, music festival, political festival, evangelical festival, development festival, broke festival, harvest festival… there’s something in all these myths about Greenbelt that is accurate, but nothing entirely true.” (Quote taken from www.greenbelt.org.uk ) Chris’ band, Aradhna, had been invited to perform there, so I got to check it out as a relaxed patron.

It’s been around for about 32 years, and shifted locations (I think) at least once from its original spot. I don’t know how long it’s been hosted at the Cheltenham racecourse, but that’s where it’s hanging out now. I was excited to see a festival that was a) recycling b) inviting speakers and artists with very differing opinions to speak or perform c) encouraging a wide range of musical styles, including some known musicians and some more “unknown” ones. It also had a great mix of food vendors offering a lot of great vegetarian food from all over the world at pretty great prices. Some fantastic art exhibitions, AND there was a vibe- happy beer tent. Nope, we weren’t in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. This was Gloucestershire!

It was chilly and just on the cusp of rain when we pulled in and set up camp not too far away from this lovely crop of teepees, which folks could rent for a fee.

My favourite place to hang out was the meditation yurt, wonderfully located only a minute walk from where we were camped. Hanging from the beautifully constructed roof opening, was this lovely mobile made by some kids, which was constantly in motion.

There were a few organized sessions during the day, but folks could just walk into the place and sit in silence, or browse through books as they pleased.

One of the many “perfect, right down to the retro luggage” VW vans enjoying the extra special attention of gawkers like us.

Pete (guitarist for Aradhna) and his enchanting British wife, Fiona, at the campsite.

“Life-style matters” reads Chris’ mug of coffee. Sleep matters also. I remember some kid goofing until almost 5 am, yelling nonsense rhymes about 15 feet from our heads. I still don’t know how someone can manage to do that for over 5 hours.

In awe, I explored the tiny tea tent that served a lot more thantea.

A drum circle that really did sound good!! (As you know, some drum circles can go terribly wrong.) A few steps towards the right put you smack in the middle of a rustic tea house scented by some of the nicest burning frankincense I’ve ever smelled.

The bubble guy kept even the adults entertained from the moment his booth opened up in the morning til closing hours. This is the trick where he blows bubbles into a bubble. The man has got to be a marketing genius. Not only have I just posted his website here, (since it’s on his shirt) he was probably the guy who sold the most stuff at the festival. You know where the kids were flocking to…every time I passed by, there must have been about 20 or more, running gleefully around, trying to pop as many bubbles as they could.

I’m not sure I could get away with wearing this hat in Toronto, so I didn’t buy it, but it sure felt nice to be a pixie for about 20 seconds.

Another favourite booth of ours was the candle powered steam boat place. Chris used to have a toy like this when he was in Nepal. What you’re seeing is a clever little gypsy home built by this guy into the back of a truck. He finishes off the place with a funky roof that hangs off the back (where he displays his merchandise)

The back door of the “candle powered steam boat” gypsy house

The steamboats run on a little bit of wax and some wick, motoring themselves around in a bucket of water.

I was extremely pleased with a tour of his living quarters in the back of the truck, featuring a cosy bed, and a small efficient kitchen. I also liked his pirate costume.

Pete and Chris, joined by their tabla player gets ready for one of their shows.

From Greenbelt, we left for India, headed for a month in Varanasi, which is where I really started to journal in earnest….. at least for a little while.

A love note from somewhere in England

There’s a gloom to the English weather, when the sun hides, that goes against everything I packed in my suitcase. Which wasn’t much. I’m sitting in an internet cafe, wearing a hot pink man-made-material sari, bright as a zinnia. The only thing else I brought to wear was another sari. I lay in bed this morning and thought about the fact that I am here in England for a week, prior to moving location to Varanasi, India, and the only thing I really packed beyond that was:

• a brilliantly stocked first aid kit
• two small Indian cotton blankets
• one red Indian khadi shawl
• a pair of underwear
• a little black notebook that I filled with recipes, a calendar,
• my tabla notes, and extra paper for lyric writing
• a handmade stack of cue cards in the Hindi alphabet
• two Hindi language books
• a pair of bed sheets

I suppose I could wear the bed sheets if push comes to shove.

But I miss my steel-toed boots. What a person wears sometimes helps them to remember who they are and what they need to be. I get dressed in the morning based on what activity I think I’ll engage in that day. I think this is common for most people. If I think I’ll be needing to make some tough business calls, I throw on a pair of pants.

This idea reminds me about a story I once read about a woman tourist in Argentina. She needed to purchase underclothes, and was going to go with her typical choice of the plain, white, stoic cotton variety. In the end, when the counter lady convinced her otherwise, the woman writes of how she found herself with a new sense of confidence and vitality. She carried herself differently. She took chances. And this was simply because she was wearing sexy underwear. Go figure.
I will have to fight for a sense of what is still in me.

There’s a book by an Afghani woman named Latifa called “My Forbidden Face.” (Info can be had about this book at www.virago.co.uk) It’s the story of a young girl growing up under Taliban rule, and I finished reading it last night because I couldn’t sleep. After I finished the last chapter, I laid awake some more, thinking about the nature of freedom and free will.

I’ve spent more than the last six years in a wrestling match with myself about why God allows bad things to happen. My brain has always understood the logical arguments, the simplified answers that claim that the choice to love or hate is the only way a human can be human. I find it hard to accept that one person’s free will can cancel out another person’s free will. I see the pain in the eyes of a friend who has suffered at the hands of her father’s abuse. Many times the abused becomes the abuser. I end up feeling answerless and frustrated.

The sound of my eyelashes against the pillow makes a loud sound in my ears. Chris is sound asleep beside me. I am thinking about life in Afghanistan. My heart feels more and more like God wove free will into our world because he had no other choice but to give us ours. I discover this as I read about a people that have experienced more suffering than I may ever know. I pull this conclusion from the writings of Latifa who has spent her entire childhood not being able to live in the freedom that I have known for my entire life. At the end of the day, I am not forced to wear a burqa or chador to cover my face, even though I feel as if I have forced a certain kind of weird purdah on myself in packing only Indian clothes.

Life is like a Mary Poppins bag. You think you are pulling out a small handkerchief to blow your nose, and your hands grasp a roaring tiger instead. Do you think about the choices you make? I wonder if we could be more aware. I need to be more thankful. Isn’t it crazy that someone else’s hell reminds me of this?

I hope we can both think more about all these things, and that we’ll turn the thoughts into something we actively do. Keep growing in the direction of love and the choices that bring more of it to the people whose eyes will meet yours today.
peace to you
m.

Algonquin Park Canoe Trip

Here’s some photos from our four canoe trip to Algonquin Park, August 3-6th.

We woke at the ungodly hour of 4 am so that we could be ready and waiting to pick up our rented canoe at Algonquin Outfitters, and hit the lake by 9 am.

A quiet cove, right before a portage. It rained almost non-stop on the second day.

These are Chris’ Indian sneakers (circa grade 10) from when he was a student at Woodstock School, in Mussoorie, India. This was their last voyage. They completely fell apart on the first day, and Chris did the rest of the trip in his bare feet.

Chris, with his Nepali-childhood-calloused-feet happily handling portage after portage. Tough guy! YeeeHH!