The Sion Valley, Switzerland: Immersing yourself in a village....

"You need a village. . . . Your own village of you and the people and the plants and the soil, that even when you are not there, it awaits to welcome you back again."    --Cesare Pavese

My daughter and her husband at a yodeling festival near the Lausanne Valley

My daughter and I are both expats. I live in Doha, Qatar, and she resides in a small French speaking Swiss village with her husband. My new home comprises dozens of languages, dialects, cultures, and traditions here in the Middle East. Wafts of pungent spices and seeing people pray five times a day are my rhythm of life now. I meet people from Yemen, Tunisia, all parts of Africa, Morocco, India, Bangladesh, Nepal every day. Last night a man from Comoros (I responded, "Where?" when he told me his country--learning yet another place I have never known) visited my house. Conversely, my daughter, a non-French speaker (learning to speak French), is living in a charming village where people have inhabited for centuries--tucked next to the French Alps. Everyone speaks French--a place where chocolate and cheese reign. The Swiss French culture dominates every sliver of life. Her valley is a lifestyle that requires you to immerse yourself in one culture and language. Whereas, my life is a mosaic of many colored tiles from remote and faraway places. 

As her mother looking on, I am proud of my doggedly determined, yet fun loving daughter who is embracing a new language, life, and village. I tried to give her that village when she lived under our roof. But now she is submerging herself into a rich culture that is beckoning new friendships and mentors. I tell her it will be worth it--to leave the unfamiliarities, the solid ground. The only way to absorb a new place, a new home, is to walk out to the deep water. and then plunge in. That's right--just dive in with unabashed pride that you can do it--even when you make an embarrassing faux pas learning French. You gotta leave the shore to learn to be a part of a village. No dangling toes on the shoreline.

Being in a village is learning the traditions and customs that never die there. It's talking to the shop owners, and asking them what cut of meat would be good for a recipe you are making. In her case, it is learning about all the cheeses of the valley, and why every cheese is delectably different. It's being stopped on the street to see how your family or dog are faring. It's going to a village play or concert and see your friends and fellow villagers perform--just because you want to support them. That's what new friends do for one another. It's about admiring someone's flowers, beehives, orchards--and then telling them so. And when we see the beauty of our new village, it becomes more lovely to us--more a part of us. Because it is our own village now.

Thank you Sion Valley for letting a new villager into your home. Everyone needs a sense of place. As Wendall Berry, one of my favorite poets reminds us, "You don't know where you are until you know who you are." But I will offer that villages and beloved places help us become who we were meant to be. And when someone new comes in trying to learn your language and culture, invite them through the gate....

On a delightful walk through Sierre where there was a path opening to everyone's personal orchards and vineyards

Everyone has their personal vineyard and orchard here--often times with beehives and gardens.

Looking down into the village of Sierre on a walk down the mountain

If you go to the Sion Valley, of course you must go to a chocolate factory. We went to the Cailler Chocolate Factory in Vevey, Switzerland. Here is a German family learning about the nuances of making chocolate. It takes more training than you think to be a chocolatier. This is Margarite. She had been a pastry chef for about 15  years, and then decided to be chocolatier, which required a few more years of training. She speaks French, Italian, German, and English. Our class was combined of several nationalities. She could speak to all of us in the class, except the tourists from Hong Kong (Luckily, they spoke English). Margarite told me that her father had been a pastry chef, and that "chocolate just ran in her veins." She then added, "I mean, Who doesn't like chocolate? I get to make people happy all day here. Chocolate is the endorphins of life." It's worth going to Vevey--even to smell the chocolate aroma that encircles the town.

Making our own chocolate bars in the class at the Cailler Chocolate Factory.

The quaint medieval village of Greyeres, Switzerland, the town where gueyere cheese is made and produced. Every village is proud of their own distinctive cheese.

Since I play the cello, I was fascinated to be able to go into a luthier shop where there were three men being taught by a master luthier named Dietre Hllewaere. Go visit him. https://yellow.local.ch/en/d/Sierre/3960/Violin-makers/Atelier-de-lutherie-Dieter-Hillewaere-hT4Sm9kYAuNz8fbe-HQRyQ?dwhat=Music+shop+musical+instruments&dwhere=Sierre His shop is on a windy cobbled road in Sierre, Switzerland. People come from far distances once a week to be taught by him. It takes about one year to make a violin. The man in the picture above is retired, and makes the round trip from Zurich once a week to learn to make a violin. He told me when he finishes it, he will give it to a lucky musician in Bolivia where there is a youth orchestra, and they cannot afford to buy or rent violins. Needless to say, I was impressed by his talent and generosity of spirit. 

Dietre helping another man make a guitar for his son. Here is a link of a beautiful video of  a luthier's thoughts on making violins: Violin maker and video

Every village has not only their typical, flavorful cheese that is unique to them, but also every village has a certain shape and size of bells for their beloved cows. At the end of the summer, you can hear the bells chiming from different villages as they walk down the mountains, ready to come home for the winter. Each fall there is "cow fighting"--a long tradition that shows which cow is dominant. The winner is called the Queen of the Cows.

In the market in Sion heating up the raclette cheese to put over potatoes or bread--a traditional food of Switzerland

At the Chateau de Villa restaurant you can taste five different kinds of cheese for your raclette dinner. They give you a map of the villages in the region before the dinner. And then you can see which villages's cheese you are eating from. They are both subtly and uniquely different--depending on the village's soil and grass that the cows eat.

A crew of special needs adults who were trimming an orchard in Sierre.

My own son who has autism shaking hands with the "professor" or teacher of the group. We all became friends very quickly, although we speak little French. I was impressed with this group of hard working individuals who were able to work and contribute in the community village.

It seems that a well groomed, tidy woodpile is an important part of being Swiss. 

In early February in the Sion Valley, the weather was uncommonly warm this year. But as we climbed higher up the mountain, we could make a snowman. These are the paths that people run up all year long to get ready for the skiing season.

Maranda skiing in Saas-Fee, Switzerland Ski Resort   Skiing is the alpine way of life there.  

One way my daughter is learning French and the culture is knitting in a rest home with some of the older people. They are teaching her how to speak French and about their village as they click the needles together. An amazing yarn shop in Interlachen, Switzerland

Qatar: Parables in the Desert

In the Zekreet area of Qatar where there are amazing rock formations, a tranquil, emerald sea, and endless sands in all directions. You feel far from the world, and almost expect a caravan of travelers to ask for water from your oasis.

And yes, you can find a fellow traveler (his sheep in the background) that brings you back hundreds of years....

After the rainy seasons in parts of the Middle East, you can find a flower called the Cistanche Tubulosa. It has been used for medicinal purposes for about 1800 years. We found them all over the desert yesterday. With no roots, the flower emerges out of the sand in the springtime. Such a glorious wonder of beauty that grows out of the hot sand.

Sometimes there are stories you hear or read that make a mark on you, that change you. You are never quite the same after hearing them. They continue to unravel in your mind, creating images and analogies for years that awaken resolve and will to trudge on--go forward when things get confusing or murky. Long ago in my early 20's I heard this story that I can say honestly changed some trajectories in my life. I think I would be a different person if I had never read it. It happened when I was asked to work in a refugee camp in Thailand while I was living in Taiwan. Now that I live in the desert, I refer to it often in my mind. Yesterday on our "desert adventure" to find flowers after the heavy rains in Qatar, I found myself musing on this tale by F. Burton Howard--that has mentored me all these years:

At a recent campout that my husband and son went on in Zekreet, Qatar

In a desert region one day, a number of travelers set out on a trip. It was hot and the journey was long. They had little in common except their shared desire to arrive at a distant city. Each carried provisions and water expecting to replenish their supplies along the way. Not long after leaving their homes, a great storm arose. Dust clouds darkened the sun, and the wind brought swirling sands which quickly filled the low places in the road. What at first had seemed a pleasant outing suddenly became a hazardous undertaking. The travelers soon realized that the question was not merely when they would arrive at the city, but whether they would arrive at all.

Sunset in Qatar, making the view hazy and dim. When the sand blows in, you can't see ten feet in front of you. Sandstorms are alarmingly dark. You might as well be in a blizzard. No one can see anything, and the sand nuzzles everywhere--in eyes, ears, and gritted teeth. 

Confusion and doubt affected the company. Some sought shelter, while others attempted to turn back. A few moved onward through the storm. The end of the first day found them scattered, with inadequate provisions, wanting water, and lost in the desert. A new day brought hunger, thirst, and despair. The storm still raged. Hope was in short supply. Familiar landmarks were gone. The road, which had been narrow and hard to find, at best, was hidden by silt and debris. No one knew where to go to find it. Many claimed to know the way, but as they could not agree, each traveler wandered in his own way in search of water or the shelter of a settlement.

At the end of yet another day, two of the group, half-blinded by dust and with their strength nearly gone, came unexpectedly, with something more than good fortune, upon an inn and way station. There in the sanctuary of walls and roof, they refreshed themselves and counted their blessings. There they replenished their stores and contemplated the remaining portion of their journey. The weather remained unsettled. The wind continued to blow. The poorly marked road wound ahead through hills where the sand piled deep and where it was said that robbers sometimes preyed upon unsuspecting travelers.

Keep your fire burning bright on the journey.

One of the two was anxious to reach his destination. He had important business in the city. He gathered his supplies and water and paid his account. Early in the morning he set out in haste in an attempt to cross the hill country by nightfall. But the windblown sand had blocked the road. He was forced to dig and detour. When night came, he was far from the city, exhausted and alone. When he fell asleep, thieves found him, took his supplies, and left him without strength and without water to face almost certain death.

The second traveler was also desirous of reaching his destination. But he remembered the others in the desert behind him. They were lost and would soon perish without water and without hope. He alone knew where they were. He alone knew their condition and their need. He likewise arose early and paid his account. He glanced at the hills with their promise of the city beyond, and then turned back down the road whence he had come. The sky was a little lighter now. He recognized some of the landmarks. He knew about where he had left his traveling companions. He called out to them by name, for he knew them. After hours of patient searching, he found many of them. He shared with them life-giving water from his own containers. He told them he knew the way. He spoke as if he had authority, so they followed him, and he brought them to the way station with him. There they rested and regained their strength. They were given directions regarding how to reach the city. They renewed their provisions, filled their water containers, and went out again to face the storm.

The journey was still difficult. The wind still blew and clouds obscured the sun. The road still wound through the sometimes deep sand, and thieves were still in the hills. But this time the traveler was not alone. The group was large. When sand blocked the way, work parties were organized to remove it. When some faltered, the strong shouldered the burdens of the weak. When night came, there were watchmen to man the watch. After many days, the second man and his friends arrived safely at their destination.

Footsteps to the Persian Gulf in Qatar--going from a wilderness to a paradise....

When they arrived there, those who had been rescued and given water gathered around the second traveler and said, “We could not have come to this place without you. We shall ever be grateful to you for searching for us, for finding us, for sharing your water and your bread. We know that you put aside your own journey and submitted to the hardships of the desert in order to help us when we were lost. What can we do to repay you?”

Conversing on a mountain of sand....

And the second man replied, “Thank me not, for by no power of my own did I find the way station. The water there would have been bitter had I not shared it with you. I know that I could not have arrived at the city without you. Your strength and encouragement enabled me to continue on. Your presence prevented robbers from attacking. I have come to realize that in order to save my own life, I had to save yours as well. I know now that it is not so much the haste of one’s journey but rather what he does along the way which determines whether he will arrive at his destination. Thank me not,” he said. “In truth, I have not brought you to this place, we have brought one another.”  

The desert reminds me: In our quest for self-actualization and checking off bucket lists (to get somewhere and fulfill our own desires), the most authentic and pure joy is to lighten the packs of others along the way. Pleasures and excitement are thrilling to be sure, but there is no replacement for the knowledge that you tried to help someone on their path. And then there is the humble realization that you would not have kept on the path without their light, provisions, and friendship. If I am honest with myself, any time I have tried to help someone else, they have only brought me to a better place than I would otherwise travelled. As we always say about our son/brother who has autism, "He saves us from ourselves." Any delay on route is worth it....

I have learned so much in the desert: packing and preparing your previsions for a journey, trying to find an oasis in the expansive desert, remembering the wilderness comes before the promised land, carrying your own water to replenish in the heat, you need a fellow sojourner to protect you from some obstacles along the way, and sometimes you have to trust a stranger on route. But more than anything I have relearned here in Qatar that trekking on your own path is never enough. When you try to assist others on the journey or in the sandstorm, you only save yourself. Other people, strangers and loves ones alike, save us from our petty, isolating concerns. The purest joy is to arrive together.

How many love languages do you speak?

Joakim, Karolina, and their amazing 11 year old triplets. How I love them!

Anyone who knows me is aware that I am very proud of my Icelandic heritage. Blog on Icelandic Family Bonds One of my cherished joys is to meet and learn more about my relatives who still live in Iceland. Although we share a distant relative, a great-great grandfather, Eggert Vatnsdal, generations in time dissolve when we gather. Chapters of time fall away, and our stories, laughter, and interests intersect. We are family--no matter what side of the Atlantic Ocean we were born on.

One of my Icelandic relatives, Karolina, who currently lives in Sweden, her husband, Joakim, and their triplets came to visit us in the Middle East last fall. I took away many lessons from their visit. One of them was a fascination of how both of them effortlessly speak different languages (Joakim speaks five, and Karolina speaks six). Learning languages is a way of life--the way they show their love for one another and others they meet. In fact, they have spoken four languages to each other, in various chapters of their relationship.

Playing on the beach in Qatar

Joakim, who is from Stockholm, and Karolina, who is from Reykjavik, met in their early 20's in Munich, Germany. Each of them was there for one of their first jobs, away from home and familiarities. Both were learning German at the time. They met through friends, and continued to speak German together in the first phase of their relationship. When they got married and moved to the United States for graduate school and more employment, they spoke English to one another.

Fast forward some more years. They decided they wanted to move closer to family so both of them found a job in Reykjavik--Karolina's hometown.  Most people would be intimidated to learn to speak Icelandic, but not Joakim. After all, Icelandic is a North Germanic language, and he wanted to communicate with Karolina's Icelandic family and friends. When people spoke to him in English, instead of Icelandic, he showed his resolution to learn Icelandic. They lived and worked in Reykjavik for about ten years. While living in Iceland, Karolina gave birth to triplets--two girls and a boy (yep, she is amazing).... The children learned Icelandic at home and school, and then Swedish from their father.

Joakim with the triplets on the seashore in Qatar

When the triplets were about six years old, Karolina and Joakim decided it was time for them to move to Stockholm to be nearer to Joakim's famly. That meant that Karolina would have to learn Swedish. Although Swedish is also a North German language, it coincides more with Danish and Norwegian--not Icelandic. But just like her husband, Karolina was not daunted to learn her new country's language. They enrolled the kids in the ESL language at their their school, and Karolina and the triplets began to speak fluent Swedish with Joakim.

Recently she said to me after a business trip to Brussels, "I just love people." As I thought about her love of languages, there is a deep connection of a love for people--especially for Joakim--who was her friend, boyfriend, and now husband and father of her children. Nothing was too difficult to speak to her beloved. To be with a couple who have spoken four languages to one another, and seamlessly interweave four languages in their conversations, is nothing but remarkable. It is evident that the love they have for one another runs deep. Neither has balked at the inconvenience or challenge. Learning a language for the other is just adding another layer of love--a beautiful history that connects many chapters and periods of their lives.

Getting ready with Joakim, Karolina, and the triplets of our annual ice skating party. The triplets are, of course, learning English, to speak with their family in Qatar!

                     Lessons of Learning a Language:

1) There is an underlying friendship shown when another attempts to speak (even a few words) in someone else's mother tongue.  When I worked in refugee camps in Southeast Asia, sometimes I would call out words in Vietnamese, Cambodian, Thai, English, Chinese, or Tagalog. Smiles erupted. Bonds of friendship were connected. Maybe not every word was pronounced absolutely correctly. But the effort was appreciated.

2) I have noticed that people who speak different languages or at least attempt to try to speak with others whose language is not their own are risk takers. The weight of fear is tossed away. The learner prefers to try to have a connection or friendship--than to be precisely, absolutely correct.

3) Learning a language is like a pleasant series of fireworks going on in the brain. Sometimes the light of learning a new word can illuminate a whole sky. As Jhumpa Lahiri says in her book, In Other Words, "What does a word mean? And a life? In the end, it seems to me, the same thing. Just as a word can have many dimensions, many nuances, great complexity, so, too, can a person, a life. Language is the mirror, the principal metaphor. Because ultimately the meaning of a word, like that of a person, is boundless, ineffable." 

4) Keep a notebook of expressions or vocabulary. When I would pull out of my brain a very fitting chengyu (or Chinese saying) when I lived in Taiwan or China, I would see people take a new glance at me, as if they were saying, "Ah, now I know you not only get my language, but my culture, my history, my humor. Nuances are important to you." As Lahiri states, "A notebook contains all my enthusiasm for the language. All the effort. A space where I can wander, learn, forget, fail. Where I can hope." 

5) Never let go of that rope of hope. Don't let it strangle you or don't let anyone else repress that desire to learn a language. It will open new friendships, new worlds, new connections. For those of us who are from the United States, it erases misconceptions that we do not learn languages. It gives cause for another to smile, to bond. 

6) Sooner or later, learning a language is about friendship--desperately wanting to speak to someone who you find interesting, someone you want to inspire or to laugh with. Ultimately, learning a language is about love. 

Switzerland: Building Your House in the Sun

HoHow

On top of the Simplon pass, going into Milan, where Hannibal crossed over with elephants to surprise the Romans. There were very few houses or hamlets, for that matter so high. But we did see a few that gave me some comfort if anything happened on a stormy day. Another post about light: http://trekingonward.blogspot.qa/2015/11/the-year-of-chasing-light.html  You can see I am fascinated by light....

How glorious a greeting that the sun gives to the mountains! --John Muir

An old home and hotel on the top of the Simplon pass, in case anybody needed rescuing....

One of my dear friends grew up in a little village in Interkerken, Switzerland--not far from Mieringen (where meringue was supposedly invented). As a child, the looming Alps cradled their village, hugging it tight, as if to keep it remote and unknown to the outside world. In between the crag-edged cliffs, there is a small valley with fields, farms, scattered houses, a few stores, and of course, a steepled church. The mountains, she thought, were always there to keep her safe and protected. But she later told me, those majestic cliffs also delayed the sunlight from coming overhead to the valley. The Alps are so close together on that pass, clinging to the narrow valley, that it sees little sunlight. Every sun ray is precious. It's like you want to capture it in a bottle and seal it up.

When I recently went to see my daughter who lives in the French speaking part of Switzerland, we hiked, tromped, and drove along the steep mountain passes--with the mighty Alps beside us. If you drive in Switzerland, plan on going through dozens of tunnels and winding around steep descents. The expansive terrain of sun and sand that I am used to now in the Middle East seemed far away. There are no vertical drop offs in Qatar. I am accustomed to an ever present sun that explodes every morning, and shoots out its rays all day until it droops off the horizon. No need to bottle up sun here in the Middle East; it is seemingly ever present.

In the Sion/Sierre valley of Switzerland. You can see the "Toblerone"mountains in the distance.

My daughter pointed to the villages on our walks, almost hidden between the crevices of the Alps. She said, "Some houses are almost always situated in the fog or mist. But see how those people build their houses in the sun. Look at the villages nestled up there, and how they catch every possible sunlight." I then noticed that most every house plot was chosen purposefully--selected with meticulous forethought and care. Finding the right location meant receiving the maximum sunlight--in every direction. The house owner had strategically planned where they built their home so that on the dark, cloudy days there would still be some shrouded sun--maybe even a rainbow. She told me that in some villages the real estate is much more expensive because the sun shines more on one valley than the other.

Being in Switzerland reminded me of how we all need to cling to light--in our fogs and clouds. Engineers can build tunnels and nifty trains that carry cars through long, dark passageways. However, ultimately, it is critical to choose a sunny, cheery place to perch your spot. And when the storms inevitably appear, we would have soaked up enough light to survive any tumble. Mists gather on all mountains so we need to be like a prism in a sun drenched room. With every sway or touch, the crystal catches colorful rays that lights up our surroundings. Switzerland taught me to build my house in the sun that scoops up all the light in every direction--no matter what valley or mountain I have chosen.

A painting I found in a restaurant that captures the desired spots on the mountain to catch all the sun rays.

Another perfectly situated house, with orchards around it.

A house built on the right side of the valley to get as much sun as possible.

More homes that are strategically placed in the Sierre/Sion Valley

Egypt: Time and Immortality

My view of the expansiveness of the human spirit was widened in Egypt--what we humans are capable of building and creating is staggering. But more than anything, the tombs, temples, and pyramids reminded me of our common universal desire: to be remembered and to live forever.

The immense scope and vision of the ancient Egyptians amazed me every day. Their aim to be architects for the passageways to paradise was remarkable to behold.

Several weeks ago I lost a dear friend to ovarian cancer. I had planned to attend her funeral, but was on a trip with my family in Egypt during the holidays. It was impossible to leave with my family around me. I knew her death was imminent, but the news still wrung my heart. I just wanted to laugh one more time with her or hear her insightful reflections. Thoughts streamed in: Had I done enough to comfort her in her suffering? Had I learned the lessons from her that I needed to implement in my own life? Did I understand her wisdoms that she unfailingly shared-- to love boundlessly and bring lightness and laughter to every room? I realized then she knows passageways and portals I have not entered yet.

Tresa and I at a Girls Ranch, about to have a barn dance. She was always up for a laugh. But more than anything, she was someone who loved without any borders or obstructions. 

When I heard of her death in Egypt, I shook off my tourist eyes. Instead, I saw the pyramids and temples from another angle. Everywhere I looked I saw deeper meanings in the tombs and temples-- of the yearning to live forever. My scope was widened. As I gazed out at the sands who had known prophets, priests, and pharaohs, it was simple to visualize Napoleon's armies, Cleopatra, the eleven Ramses, and hosts of others parading across my view. Whispers of their echoes filled the corridors. Dynasties swooped by like a bird overhead. Time, like rushing wings, flew by as in a panorama. The walls of hieroglyphics, thousands of stories and people, voiced their cries to be immortal--to reunite their mortal body with their 'ka' or soul. Ancient armies and cities had built these wonders. And none wanted to be forgotten in their ephemerality.

Here is a collage of portraits from the Roman times in Egypt (lasting about 700 years, after Alexander the Great). The portraits are on a temple in Luxor, painted over some hieroglyphics--about 25 feet above the ground. To stare up at them, I was reminded again of our universal desire to be remembered, memorialized, and live forever.

In the tombs of the Valley of the Kings and the Sphinx, there were long entrance channels cut deep into the rock, begging to be explored. In a few corridors, I became a little teary-eyed, seeing these paths, so fastidiously engineered and built (and covered floor to ceiling with instructional hieroglyphics). These stones were designed to be a map of the stars--a map to go to another world where there is no death. The corridor was a book of instructions on how to reunite the body and soul. There were hieroglyphics chiseled on the walls, with signs and symbols to help the deceased to enter another world or paradise--just in case they forgot the words. Egypt is a constant reminder of how all civilizations earnestly try to bridge life and death--to find that elusive path to immortality.

In the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, there is a wall of Greek portraits from the tombs--of all ages and genders. I stood in that room for a long time, gazing at each portrait--people who had lived over two thousand years ago. As I looked into their gorgeous faces, both young and old, I was again astounded at the inescapable ache to live again after death. I was also struck that this woman could be my next door neighbor. Each seemed so assessable--despite the passage of two millennia.

At the entrance of the Sphinx, there was another long narrow stony passageway. The stones in the walls were carefully placed to represent the sky, with the exact distance of the constellations in place. With the knowledge of these stars, the sojourner could travel from this mortal life to the next world through the cosmos. Likewise, in the tomb of Ramses the IV, there were cobalt blue clouds and bright yellow stars swirling above me, as if the navigator were on a quest to find the greatest of treasures--immortality, resurrection, 'ka.' Descending down the sloping pathway of Ramses 1V's  final resting place with the stars above me, I felt the perennial yearning in the walls to live on--that this earth life of several decades was not nearly enough for them. Immortality beckoned.

Showing the wall to wall hieroglyphics in a tomb.

At the Saqqara, the first known pyramid that was built. I like the fact that it was a "practice pyramid." Just like anything that is build that is auspiciously grand, there must be diligent workmanship and discipline to make the edifice.

Surprisingly, in this desolate Egyptian wilderness so far across the world from my friend's funeral, I was enlightened. even comforted. In the dusty sand, time stood still for a few moments for me. With pyramids, temples, and the flowing Nile close by, it was wondrous to see these memorials of an ageless quest for eternity, of having life without end. It made me remember that someday all of us will walk the portal to another world, where light, brighter than the sun of Egypt will shine. And that we will all stand in a judgement of our heart--to measure the weight that has been shed in our lifetime. The aim? For our hearts to be as light as one single falcon feather.

The Day of Judgment: Here is a picture of the process to to reach paradise that was known as the afterlife, what the ancient Egyptians had been striving for their entire life. They believed that the deceased spirit came to the Hall of Judgment, and had to stand before 42 judges, reciting words to them from the Book of the Dead. These specific words provided access for them if their innocence was not complete. Next their heart would be measured with a ceremony.--to see if they had been virtuous and upright. If their heart measured light, they were able to pass to the next world. You can see the symbol of ankh in the gatekeeper's hands.

This is a symbol that is ubiquitous everywhere in Egypt: a cross with a handle on it called the ankh. The meaning of this token in the mummy who receives it is eternal life--never to die again. The ankh is a key obtained at judgment (after your heart has been weighed), which unlocks death's portal for the departed one.

I love this picture of Elias, with the symbols of the ankh in the pharaoh's hands. The idea of eternal life, knowing the right words and signs to give at The Day of Judgement is what they earnestly aspired to in their mortality.

A picture of an anonymous Egyptian friend or you could even say "rescuer." When he saw that I was paralyzed with fear when the rest of my family ran across four lanes of speeding traffic (no crosswalks to be seen), he came from the other side of the road to stop all the traffic to guide me across. He bravely, resolutely began walking across the lanes, looking like he was an angel stepping on air, and held up his hands to motion the drivers to stop. If I am at the The Day of Judgement with him, I will vouch that he has a heart that is the weight of a feather.

The striking image of the falcon feather and The Judgment Day reminds me that we do not come to that final judgment alone. Our hearts are infinitely carved and sculpted by the myriads of people whom we have known in our own panoramic view--our mortality. A slice of forgiveness here, a jot of acceptance there, a large portion of mercy given at necessary allotments. The final desired product, a weightless heart, representing a feather, as the Egyptians believed, was casting off all those suffocating human feelings that weigh us down. Egypt was a reminder after my friend's death--to use mortality to discard the rubbish that can cling to our human hearts. Hearts were not only meant to be mended, but to be lightened.

Thanks, dear Tresa Chamberlain. for leading the way down the corridor, for teaching me to keep a light heart, free of  needless weight. And to remember there are other worlds to venture, shiny paths to cross. You are just a little further ahead in the passageway.... It is a noble journey we are all on. As one of my favorite songs exclaims, "There is no death above." And thanks to Egypt for stopping the fleeting, dizzying pace of time--for just a moment.