Why do we do this to ourselves?

It’s a question that’s been running through my life and work this week, and I thought it was worth pondering here: 

Why is it that even though we know what’s good for us,

it’s so hard to do the right thing?

For the past week, Helena and I have been working around the clock to re-launch of our website. So when we hit a wall on Friday night, the two of us said, “Let’s go out to celebrate!”  We’ve been eating really, really clean—living off our land, filling ourselves with juices and fresh greens. But suddenly, the stress hit and we both thought:  pizza.

The entire time we ate, we tried to convince ourselves that it was absolutely fine to have a pizza every once in awhile.

“Why not? We almost never do this, and it’s fun!”

“Exactly! We can go right back to eating the good stuff…this is SO not a big deal.”

Three hours, two caipirinhas, and one pizza later, we were both sick. Stomach cramps, headaches, and generalized crankiness. The next morning Helena looked at me through swollen eyes and asked, “Why do we do this to ourselves?”

It’s a good question.

If you’ve read my story, you know that the reason that I eat the way I do has nothing to do with wanting to be a supermodel. It’s about saving my life. If I want to remain on this planet, it’s what I need to do.

I decided to pose this question during this morning’s meditation. The answer surprised me. I’ll try to translate it here:

As souls in physical form, we’re meant to enjoy physical pleasure:  food, sex, intoxication, natural beauty, and so on.  For the soul, it’s one of the most exciting things about returning to physical life again and again. As luck would have it, as souls develop from one lifetime to the next, they often choose addiction as a soul challenge. Why? Because it’s a barrier to ascension. If we can get past it, we grow as souls.

The challenge we face is that in order to receive Spirit’s direction for our lives more clearly, we need to be clear channels. After all, our bodies are really just the vehicles that drive our souls while we’re motoring around the planet.  So the more stuffed up we are with gook, the harder it is to hear the messages.

A recent green smoothie convert wrote to me last night to say:

Green smoothies are transforming me, I really mean it. Interestingly, if I have the wrong foods I feel totally crummy…even more crummy than I would have otherwise, so I’m convinced! Thank god for Trader Joe’s organic spinach…

If we listen, our bodies will tell us what’s good for us. The reality is that no matter how long I eat the way I do, I will always crave pizza, red wine and chocolate. I love the buzz, love the taste, long for the thrill of the chase…

…but what I seek is something different. I crave a deeper connection.

So each morning, I ask:  “Help me to stay true to my soul’s purpose. Help me to remain a clear channel. Show me the right path.”

Then I fill up the tank and wait for miracles.

Mischief Making

It’s been awhile since I’ve given you any updates from Shangrileigh (my self-appointed psychic nickname! ). I’ve been giving 4-5 Intuitive Readings every week for the past couple of months, and I absolutely love this work. The response has been wonderful…thanks so much to all of you out there who have been referring your friends and loved ones. It’s such an honor to work with all of you.

It’s common for people to ask questions about their children, and last week was full of parents who were at loose ends with some busy little souls.  Before Shangrileigh, I worked in public education and education reform for 20 years, so I love having the chance to connect with kids. The two stories I’m about to share have common threads with very different outcomes:

The first reading comes from a woman who was tearing her hair out over her very hyperactive toddler. He’s literally climbing the walls…completely uncontrollable, unable to even attend preschool because he can’t sit still for more than a minute. She was in tears because she’s been to every doctor to try to find a solution but has no answers.

My immediate thought was sugar. I checked in with my Guides, and they said, “Yes, it’s partly sugar. Especially at breakfast. But this is about something much bigger.”

As I listened, they showed me that this little guy’s soul was feeling unwelcome in his new family. He felt unwanted and insecure, and his frantic behavior was a reflection of his unconscious desire to escape and find somewhere that he belonged. This was really difficult information to pass along, so I cautiously asked her about the circumstances of her son’s birth. Was the pregnancy planned?

The woman looked shocked. “No…it wasn’t. I wasn’t ready to have a baby.”

 With tears in her eyes, she went on to explain that she suffered from an eating disorder and the idea of giving birth terrified her. She was panicked about what the pregnancy would do to her body, so she cried through the entire 9 months.

My guides directed her to take her son aside and tell him how happy it makes her to have him as her child, how much she loves him, and how important he is to the family. She should tell him this as often as possible, whenever she thinks of it. She understood, thanked me for the reading and said she’d check back in soon.

My next reading came from a lovely woman who was curious to know whether her children had any guardian angels. She was concerned because she couldn’t feel the presence of angels with her son Caleb in the same way that she did with her other children. They’ve been butting heads and she was worried about how to find a better connection.

As I tuned in, I saw that Caleb did have a guardian angel—in fact, two. One of them was his great uncle, his grandfather’s brother.

“Did your father have a brother?” I asked.

“Yes, he did,” she responded. “He’s no longer alive.”

I saw that Great Uncle-Angel would be on the job when Caleb was 14 or 15. Caleb has the potential for getting into some mischief into his teens and would need the guidance of this angel.

“You know, this is amazing,” she responded. “My dad’s brother was known to be a troublemaker, especially in his teens. So it makes complete sense that he would be the one to look after Caleb. He’s so mischievous!”

This morning, I received the following note:

Something tremendous happened from your connection…the biggest change. It was exactly what I needed was to snap me out of my butting head dilemma with Caleb. He and I have an entire new understanding/respect for each other…he’s my baby again.

This is what’s so gratifying about this work. It’s my belief that as souls, we’re given all kinds of different challenges before entering each life. The challenges we experience in one life can follow us into the next. Our job as souls in physical bodies is to unravel the mysteries and do our best to do better each time around.

It’s crystal clear to me that we have all kinds of help available to us, whether they’re Spirit Guides or guardian angels walking around in great-grandma’s clothing. All we have to do is ask.

To schedule a reading, please contact me at leighopkins@gmail.com.

It’s not you, it’s me

Today marks 120 days without a TV.

Sorry, Anderson…it’s not you, it’s me.

Eat Fresh, Forage Local

Inspired by Barbara Kingsolver, we’ve taken on a challenge. Any food that enters our kitchen must come from our garden or from one of our neighbors’ gardens or we’re not eating it.

We’ve allowed ourselves a few exceptions:  brown rice, Nama Shoyu, flax seed, and raw nuts—none of which we’re able to grow on our own and aren’t willing to live without.  With the cold we’ve been experiencing, we decided that we’ll eat mostly raw, which means supplementing our meal plan with brown rice, steamed or lightly sautéed veggies, and soups.

On Monday, we told Gilvania and Sr. Tião of our plans, and their eyes lit up. “Muito, muito bom!” Sr. Tiao nodded excitedly, “very, very good!”  Today’s Thursday, and it’s been better than good. We learned that not only can we feed ourselves off our own land, there’s nothing like eating food so fresh you can still taste the sunshine.

I’ve gotten to the point where I roll out of bed, wrap a sweater around my shoulders, pull my big rubber boots up over my pj’s, and head for the upper garden to pick the kale for our morning smoothie. We’ve gotten Gilvania and Sr. Tião hooked, so we make a pitcher big enough for the whole family.

Here’s what’s been on the table. Except where noted, everything came from our organic garden:

Green smoothie breakfast: 

water

3-4 large kale leaves, deveined

2 bananas *

2 carrots

1 apple

1 thumb-sized piece of ginger *

ground flax-seed *

*purchased at our local farmer’s market from organic vendors

Asian Slaw:

• large bunch of Bok Choy, chopped
• large bunch of mustard greens, chopped
• 2 grated zucchinis*
• 3 grated carrots
• 1 cup cashews
• 1 avocado, sliced *

Dressing:

• chopped parsley
• 1 1/2 tablespoons curry powder *
•  2 tsp. garlic *
• olive oil
• ½ cup Nama Shoyu
• lemon juice

*avocado and zucchini from Gilvania’s tree and garden; recipe inspired by Matt Amsden’s Raw Revolution

We’re finding new surprises in our garden every day. This morning, Gilvania came back from the lower gardens waving a huge bunch of lemongrass.  All I could think about was the coconut lemongrass soup that I used to eat in my favorite Thai restaurant in Philly, so I immediately went to Epicurious to find the recipe. Instead, I found an amazing looking recipe that included pureed pumpkin…but our pumpkins are still green. We decided to improvise, and as I write, I’m finishing my second bowl.

Gilvania’s Coconut Lemongrass Soup

• 5 carrots, grated
• 2 stalks of lemongrass, crushed and chopped
• 1 large onion, grated
• About 2 cups of filtered water
• One 200 ml. bottle of coconut milk*
• chopped scallions for garnish

*local, organic

It’s become like our own little competition to figure out what we’re going to eat for each meal. Yesterday morning Gilvania showed up with 2 big shopping bags full of broccoli raab, which she sauteed with garlic and served over brown rice. The best surprise? Our neighbor Manoel showed up with two bags full of spinach. He smiled shyly, saying, “I stopped spraying this corner of my farm…I thought maybe you’d like some.”

Last night as Helena and I chopped up more greens for dinner, I said:     “You know, if sh*t really does go down in 2012, these are the people I want to go down with.”

Garden Angel

Sr. Tião has been promising to take us for a tour of the untamed areas of Muitas Fadinhas. The emotion had already been building, but after our tour, I’m officially hopelessly in love.

Indio Carajas

Sr. Tião is our 73 year-old casseiro. He’s been working our 4 acres for over 10 years, so he knows every tree, every stream, every animal like the back of his own hand.  His grandfather was a Carajas Indian, born in the Amazon forest. He later moved to Minas Gerais, where Sr. Tião was born (and coincidentally, the state where Helena’s family owned a coffee farm). Even after he left the Amazon, his grandfather’s preference was to sleep in a hammock tied between two trees. He died at the age of 104.

My admiration for Sr. Tião grows every day.  He knows when to plant broccoli, kale, arugula and watercress (now!), how to identify edible wild plants, and when to rotate crops that are out of season. I mentioned to him last week that I wanted to start an herb garden, and by Friday afternoon he’d cleared a spot outside the kitchen window. His understanding of our new world is incredibly exciting, and something that we’ve come to depend on in just a few short weeks.

Enjoy this footage of Sr. Tião’s tour ofthe wilder side of Muitas Fadinhas, and watch out for the stinging ants!

Garden Angel

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After the tour, Sr. Tião told Helena in his gentle way: “When I first saw you two, I saw your smiles and I knew that you were special. My guardian angel told me that he gets along with your guardian angels.”

My angels agree.

Three Wishes

I took the weekend off from blogging to go to a Festa Junina party with Caren and Dani, where we partied like it was 1929. Festa Junina literally means “June Festival.”  It’s a tradition that honors the Catholic Saint John the Baptist, who it turns out is the Candomblé religion’s Xangô (Shan-GO) in disguise.

Here’s the back story:  when the people of the West African Yoruba tribe were brought to Brazil as slaves, they brought a rich religious tradition with them. Candomblé has been compared to the Greek’s many Gods and Goddesses, full of stories of jealousy and passion. Despite the Portuguese Catholic’s attempts to convert the Yoruba, the people found a brilliant way to hold onto their roots. Every Candomblé God (or Orisha) was assigned a Catholic Saint. So when the Catholics were celebrating the Feast of St. John, the Yoruba were really celebrating the Feast of Xangô, the Orisha of Fire and Thunder.

Brilliant. And a huge part of what makes Brazil so beautiful and intense and decadent and delicious.

Over the decades, Festa Junina parties have morphed into something more like a harvest festival. My first Festa Junina party was sort of like a Candomblé/Bonfire/Hoe-down/Lesbian Dance Party. The hostesses hired a forro band complete with accordion, and Helena and I surprised ourselves and everyone else by picking up the steps during the first song.

Lorena, a true Bahiana and modern day Candomblé goddess in her own right, spent the night setting off fireworks and simultaneously thrilling and terrifying all of the guests. She and Thelma built a 10-foot high bonfire, and at 9:oo sharp (9:42, Brazilian time), the torch was lit.  We gathered around the bonfire, laughing nervously as the flames spread quickly through the many layers of wood.  Just as it seemed that the fire couldn’t get any bigger, a huge gust of wind blew down from the sky.  With an enormous “whooooosh,” the flames leapt higher, swirling sparks and smoke into the crowd. 

“It’s Xangô!” someone shouted.  As if on cue, we all grabbed hands and began dancing in a huge circle around the fire, singing “Ai Xangô, Xangô menino! Da fogueira de São João!”  

Helena called above the music: “You have to make three wishes! Three wishes to São João!”

I lifted my arms into the air:

May I always be this happy…

May every day be a miracle…

May each minute be better than the next…

Grass Roots

When we went to last week’s Aipim Festival, the local community organizer Robson invited us to the monthly Rural Producers Association meeting. Helena and I agreed that if we’re going to be productive members of our community, it was important to show up.

When we walked into the Rural School, the 2-room cinder block schoolhouse at the bottom of our hill, we were greeted with stares and looks of shock.  We quietly took our seats on the bench across from the board table. After a few minutes, one of the elder board members said quietly to Helena: “In 12 years, the previous owner of your sitio never attended one of these meetings.  You’ve only lived here for a week.” Helena pointed out that to be fair, the previous owner used our home as a weekend house, and we’re permanent residents. He nodded, as did others, but it was clear that we’d made a good first impression.

After more people arrived, the meeting started. They began by requesting an introduction, and in halting Portuguese, I told the group that I moved to Bonfim to be closer to nature, and that I was interested in organics and education. Helena told them about our work and our interest in helping the community in whatever way we could.

The meeting had some really fascinating dynamics going on, particularly from some of the older members of the association. One man, in particular (in hat, glasses and mustache sitting on the left in the video, below), spent much of the meeting pacing back and forth in front of the board table, pounding his fist into his hand. Sometimes, he would stand with both fists leaning on the end of the board table. At other times, he hovered in the open doorway, smoking. Eventually, he decided to take a seat at the board table, despite the fact that he’s not a board member.

We all sat shivering in our coats and hats, trying to stay focused despite the unheated room and 40 degree temperature.  When someone sitting near the door tried to close it, he told them, “Go get under the covers!” Meu Deus, que saco!  

Rural Producers Association Meeting

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We discussed everything from our relationship with the National Park System to how we were going to get the light company to install street lights on our pitch black road. It’s clear that if anything needs fixing or doing in our valley, the collective power of this group will work to make it happen.  Helena and I agreed that there’s a lot of potential to do good work with such a close-knit group.

Finding the Way Home

Yesterday afternoon, Gilvania invited us for a Sunday walk up the mountainside to meet her family.  We walked along the dirt road from one house to the next, waiting as Gilvania called inside, “Oi! Tia Patricia!”  Sometimes people would invite us in, while others leaned out the kitchen window and chatted while stirring a pot of beans or rice.  We met Gilvania’s mother and grandmother, her cousins and aunts and brothers and sisters and more cousins—even the aunt whose sister was married to her mother’s brother (or something like that!). 

As we walked home from our visit, Gilvania laughed that she’d only introduced us to the “nice ones.”  Then she described how one of her cousins, in particular, had been awful to Gilvania when her 16-year-old daughter became pregnant. 

“You know,” Gilvania commented quietly as we walked along the steep mountain trail, “I don’t understand how people can say they love God and have prejudice. If they really understood God, they would understand that God loves everyone, no matter who they are or what they’ve done.”

She looked at me and asked directly, in Portuguese: “Why is this? What happens to people that they act this way? What makes them be so cruel?”

I thought about it for a bit, and then I answered,  “I think that when people become judgmental or angry or depressed, it’s because they’ve lost their sense of connection.  They see themselves as separate from others, but really, I think this is because they’ve lost their connection with God.”

“Sim, sim. It’s a horrible way to feel,” Gilvania agreed. “But then what?”

 

“Well,” I mused, “I think it’s as simple as being aware that the connection’s been lost, and choosing to find it again.”

 

 

 

Our conversation made me think about all the times in my life when I felt lost or lonely or out of place.  At those times, I know that my fear was based on the feeling that I was all alone—that everything in this life was up to me to handle on my own. With a lot of soul-searching, I’ve come to the realization that I’m never, ever alone. This is what keeps me feeling happy and hopeful despite all the bumps in the road. It’s an incredible feeling of peace.

And yet, when I have my sad, irritable or gossipy moments, I know that I’m in need of refinding my connection. It’s easy to blame my blue moods on external sources (like how unbelievably cold it is in this farmhouse right now!), but truly, these are the moments when I know that it’s time to take a deep breath, find my Center, and reconnect.

Try this meditation:  Light a white candle, close your eyes, and imagine a golden cord extending from the top of your head.  As you focus, imagine that the cord is extending high overhead, connected to a brilliant white light.  Breathe in and imagine a large transparent ball encircling you.  As you breathe out, imagine that all of the unwanted feelings are being pushed out of the ball, sent into the cosmos to be tranformed into Light.  Breathe in again, and imagine that the ball is filled with that Light, completely enveloping you in its glow.  Breathe in, and say:  ”Thank you.”

Festa do Aipim (Yucca Festival)

June is party month in Brazil.  To be fair, June takes a backseat to February’s Carnaval celebrations, and soon after follows December, which is school vacation, Natal (Christmas) and New Year’s Eve.  June sits very comfortably after February and December, but most certainly before the holidays of the saints, which seem to give Brazilians at least one day off every other week.

June, by tradition, is a month of harvest festivals. In our village, Last Sunday night was the fourth and final night of the annual Festa do Aipim. We’d been hearing forro music echoing around the valley all weekend and decided that it was time to join the party. Here’s what we found: 

Festa do Aipim

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Gilvania had told us that people were curious about us;  they refer to us as “As Meninas” (The Girls), and have been wondering how we’re going to find life here.  Based on the stares as we arrived, we got the sense that people were surprised to see us at the festival.  They stood in circles with their friends and family, looking at us from the corners of their eyes.

In a situation like this, my instinct would be to walk up to people and say,

“Hi! I’m your new neighbor, Leigh. We just moved into the sitio up the street. Have we met?”

Fortunately, Cross-Cultural expert Helena warned me that unlike Americans, Brazilians don’t typically go out of their way to introduce themselves to strangers without an introduction. Such a bold move would be considered impolite.

Graças a Deus, Saint Gilvania left her post at the Bolinhos do Aipim tent and started making introductions.  We met Robson, the local community organizer, who invited us to the Community Association meeting at the Escola Rural (Rural School) on Tuesday night.  He’d already heard that we were interested in organics and education and was ready to enlist our help.  We waved to our neighbor Renato’s wife and she introduced us to her two boys, who smiled shyly, extended their hands, and kissed us on both cheeks. Before long, people were walking up to say hello, introducing their children and grandchildren, pointing out their cousins and step-uncles and grand-cousins and explaining who to call if we needed anything or wanted anything fixed.

With the help of our patron saint and a splash of cachaça, we received our official welcome to the neighborhood.

Jaguars and Cobras and Quatis, Oh My!

It’s Friday night and we’re about to host our first dinner party.

We spent most of the week sorting out all kinds of things, from getting the new refrigerator down the stairs to hiring an electrician to fix the shower to rethinking our composting strategy after a pack of quatis broke in and ate some of our corn.  At the moment, an honest-to-goodness dinner party is feeling downright glamorous.

Helena asks if I’ll get some salsinha for the dish she’s making, so I pull on my raincoat and big black rubber boots, grab a flashlight, and head up the hill to the horta.  It’s a new moon and a good five minute walk to the upper garden.

Dark. Very dark.  I use the flashlight to illuminate the path in front of me, but then I hear a sound in the bushes. I swing the flashlight up into the papaya tree, half expecting to see a pair of eyes looking back at me. Nothing.

“Keep it under control.” I coach my adrenals. “You’ve got this.”

My brain scans the possible critters that could be nearby. Quatis? Definitely. But mostly harmless, even when roaming in packs. Onça?  Possibly, but maybe not this time of year (???).

My ears strain for the slightest sound and I turn past the corn and muck it uphill toward the verduras.  The flashlight sweeps over the broccoli patch on the left, kale, lettuce and arugula on the right.  As I head for the parsley, my right boot makes a sucking sound as it pulls out of the mud.  My brain picks this moment to remind me why we bought calf-high rubber farm boots:

Helena to Sr. Tião:  “Have you ever seen any snakes on the property?”

Sr. Tião:  “Sim.“  He shows her the carcass hanging in the shed. ”But we don’t have so many of the bad kind here.”

Helena:  “Bad kind?”

Sr. Tião:  “If the bad one bites you, you’re dead right away. But with these, you have at least an hour to get to the hospital.”

Even though logic tells me that the snakes have long since slithered to bed, I grab a big bunch of salsinha and hightail it back through the corn, past the acerola and peppers and the avocado trees. I give the woodshed a quick flash with my light and sprint down the steps to the house.

In the kitchen, Helena has poured the first glass of wine and has the disco cranking.

We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore.