The end of the second week carried me to Wanaka, New Zealand. The city is known as the Gateway to Mount Aspiring National Park since the tracks leading to the peak the conservation is named after start there. Graham and Giselle wanted to give me room to breathe as well as send me on some health business.

I already imagined the next few days of holiday would be worthwhile simply from the bus ride. If the fact that the driver was Bono’s bald twin didn’t suffice, it was definitely the views from where I sat. The landscapes on the other side of the glass would change nearly every 15 minutes. And dramatically: hills like Marama to begin with, then canyons with cliffs I’ve never seen more rocky, then flatlands with rows of fruit trees and vineyards, then river dams and historic gold mines with caves, and finally… the mountains. My quiet traveling mates and I bid hello and farewell to Rae’s Junction, Roxburgh, Alexandra, Clyde and Cromwell through our pondering glances before we stopped at the I-Site location right off Lake Wanaka’s shores. I remember stepping off, throwing the duffle over my shoulder, walking out onto the dock and standing in awe until the sun went down.

Mount Apiring National Park from Eely Point

The health business mentioned above was an appointment with a naturopath highly recommended by my host family. Her name is Margaret Balogh, and her occupation aligns in the holistic movement. Though I’m still digging into what this is, from what research I’ve conducted, practitioners in this “medical” field generally don’t agree with mainstream physicians and scientists. These could include the acupuncturists, massage therapists, zen masters, yoga instructors, etc. They put nutrition and natural, human wellness at the forefront of their work as well as recognize that each person’s body is different.

Again, prejudice followed me into the waiting room that Friday afternoon. I was socialized by a system to accept the diagnostics of those in white coats. It never occurred to me that medicine usually attacks the symptom(s) but ultimately, not the problem(s) which created the symptom(s); or how prescriptions constantly fight against our immunity. It never occurred to me that genetics has been, time and time again, used as an excuse (i.e. “Oh, well since your mother has a bad fill-in-the-blank, then there’s nothing really you can do if you have it since it was passed down to you” or “He died of a heart attack at 50, but it ran in the family”); could it be that through DNA, our bodies are prone to certain conditions if we follow the diets and lifestyle trends as our parents and especially if we are raised in the same environments as they were? Could it be that if I started focusing my finances towards good groceries now, would I need to worry so much about the necessity of health insurance later on?

Marg came out of her office and invited me inside so our session could proceed. From first looks, she had the wisdom in her gaze of someone middle-aged but seemed, physically, at least 10 years younger. Her voice was gentle and encouraging, and she answered questions firmly and with grace. She performed a vegatest on me, which sent painless electric currents throughout my body to determine a) intolerances, b) deficiencies, c) acid levels and d) how organs were functioning. I held a metal rod and she poked at my big toe. Apparently, I was too acidic. The worst organs were my intestinal lining, liver and thyroid. I lacked zinc, magnesium, chromium and boron. I didn’t respond well to dairy, sugar, wheat and coffee. Her feedback would require me to change what I ate and how I moved, like exercising three to four times a week, adding meat again because my blood type was O positive, consuming six handfuls of veggies and three palms of protein a day, going gluten-free, and taking a dietary supplement, a multi-vitamin, B12, detox clay, high-concentrated fish oil and zinc powder; she supplied the last three.

I should pause here to confess that my results were not what surprised me the most nor did they have the biggest impact. It was actually our discussion beforehand, as she filled out my profile sheet. We got the generic health information out of the way when the more personal inquiry came – things like my sexual history, family background, childhood, what I wanted to be, and if I supposed any problems/fears associated in these areas might have contributed to unwanted weight gain. After a brief and painful story few people in my life know about, this was her response: “Yeah, we tend to do that, don’t we? We use food as a defense mechanism. So we don’t really have to face what hurts us.”

Aspiration is such a funny term; it could mean ambition, goal, objective, aim, target, hope, desire and wish. You need it to get off your butt. You need it before every step. You need it so you don’t throw your arms in the air and wave surrender. You even need it to forgive and to just let the crappy stuff go. When Marg said that, it was exactly what I knew had to be done. No one had previously pointed out the sheer importance of strong mental power in the equation or that success had a particularly higher probability if I entered the race with a clean slate. I had to clear up the baggage in my head before I took on her suggestions. Mind before matter.

Wanaka was my gateway to aspiration and believing that with a combination of carefully-guided support, emotional release and self direction, I could achieve virtually anything. If I was entirely truthful (with no offense intended towards education or religion), four days there and one meeting with Marg taught what four years of college and two decades of spirituality failed to confront or counsel. Wanaka empowered me to make the choice; it presented the evidence, gave me the tools and said I deserved happiness.

Sculpture at Lake Wanaka

Sculpture’s inscription

Let’s fast forward several weeks. If you knocked on the cottage at 8:30 am, you’d discover I was already gone getting things done – and at a much faster rate than before. My hair grew like a weed, and I’d brush my fingers through it to show how soft it was. You’d find my acne about cleared and my skin tan from all of the daily sun I got. We’d be at dinner in the evening and talk about ourselves, and you’d notice my confidence freely displaying itself.

Oh, and as of yesterday, I’ve thus far lost four belt holes around my waist. Something must be right about the weirdos, as Graham would say.

 “The chance is yours for the taking, and everything depends/ On this transient moment that could turn strangers into friends/ The possibilities fill the air like a song played from far away/ Full of stories, hopes, dreams/ And laced with insecurity, scars, and pain/ The possibilities float like ghosts/ And theyre haunting my every thought.” ~Foreverinmotion

It wasn’t only the countrysides and creatures I grew accustomed to. Coming to Marama asked for me to adapt to a whole new routine and way of life. I had to give a little and get a little.

On eating matters…

Over 90% of the food I’ve consumed since my arrival has been locally or organically grown or both, even the meats (more on this and why I gave up pescetarianism later on).
The water comes from a nearby creek and is pumped back to the farm through a piping system; it’s safe to drink on tap without the aid of a purifier.
My interest of unveiling the magic of tea has quadrupled.
I get my eggs from the chicken house.
I get my dairy products from Missy, which would include milk and learning how to make butter, yogurt and various cheeses from scratch.
Many of the veggies, along with herbs, come straight out of the garden and/or greenhouse.
On any given day, I cook my breakfast and dinner. “Smoko” (a term for morning tea known by Kiwi farmers) and lunches are shared together with Graham and Giselle.
We daily bake our own bread usually combining ingredients exempt of gluten. Sometimes we add a variety of nuts or dried fruits into the mixtures too.
Food scraps can go to one of the following areas: compost bucket, worm food bucket or fed to the chickens.

On lodging matters…

I live in a three bedroom cottage that can hold up to 6-8 occupants.
It is as tidy as the residents keep it.
It doesn’t have central heat or air. If I’m cold, I must make a fire by putting paper down, then pinecones, then dry kindling after the cones are ignited – in that exact order.
If I’m hot, I open a door/window.
Space is not an issue. I have everything one would ever need. Lots of book shelves.
No locks on the doors. Turns out the world is not out to get me after all.
There’s a compost toilet separate from the house; it does not have plumbing.
To be mindful of water, I give myself no more than 15 minutes for a shower. I’m hoping to get it down to 10.
Trash is burned daily in a drum bin.
We recycle or re-use as much as possible – glass, plastic containers, metal cans. Cardboard goes to the worms.

 WWOOFer House

Kitchen area

Living & dining area

My bedroom

My bedroom continued

Washroom

Entry to outhouse

Compost toilet (I’d be lost without those feet prints...)

Creative toiletry rules

First successful fire, after 100 or so repeated failures 

All the change has been equally challenging and rewarding. I had to come to terms that nature and I couldn’t be separated. I had to trust that others would not invade my privacy. Until I went on top of the roof and wrapped chicken wire around the chimney, I even had to rescue trapped birds in the furnace; the first one chased me throughout the whole house! But with the new cycle in motion, I also began to catch on to the fact that trifles are celebrated here. Things I would’ve normally ignored were now brought in full, uncensored swings to my conscious.

Like the budding of a flower or the flight of a colorful bird; neither goes unnoticed. Or how sensational supper tastes at the making of your own hands, even when you did not get the recipe entirely right. The softness of soil. Riding the quadbike and the wind brushing your hair. Rain right after you’ve put seeds in the ground. Bentley’s obnoxious morning calls when you forgot to set your alarm. Work gloves hanging out of your back pocket. Standing on top of a pumpkin patch and knowing you are the king of the hill. Turning your cell phone off. Constant chuckles during newspaper quizzes, a Marama tradition after lunch, always facilitated by Graham’s hilarious remarks. Silence when everyone in the same room is reading something different. Giselle’s winks when she catches your eye. Just when you begin to think you aren’t doing good enough, a compliment comes or a message from someone you miss. Playing an original song on an acoustic guitar outdoors and looking up to find you’ve gained an audience of cows and sheep lined up at the fence. Hatch’s obsession for you to pet her. Clyde’s cleverness to escape any catastrophic situation. Dave’s and Tina’s (the farm managers) short fuses and profanity as plans go wrong. Cozy, comfortable light one lonely lamp can produce.

This and that and so much more. Amazing to see what happens once I widened my eyes and paid attention.

“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.”  ~Leonardo da Vinci

Should a circumstance arise when Giselle and Graham must leave the farm for a day or longer, I have the pleasure of caring for and spending quality time with the Marama animals (excluding the sheep and cattle in the paddocks, of course), which are all lovely non-humanoids. This means

Missy (house cow)

Mick (Missy’s calf)

Spot (female lamb in middle)

Sherlock (male lamb, whom I named)

Watson (youngest male lamb, whom I also named)

Rose (herding dog)

Kuna (Rose’s puppy)

Hatch (huntaway dog)

Ted (Graham’s mate)

Bentley (rooster) and his Ladies (hens; there are actually 16 now)

Clyde (female house cat)

Tiger (Clyde’s kitten)

Wizard (male house cat)

…and I rehearse our harmony together; and boy, our songs are long because of the schedule they require. This is how they are composed (original instructions from Giselle):

8 am – 1. Feed lambs; take their bedding out of their drum to hang out to dry on fence; check they have water.
2. Milk Missy; fill her water bucket up.
3. Let dogs out; put Kuna & Rose together with their chains, then onto dog lead which is hanging on kennel; fill up their water bowls (nearest door); use small shovel hanging up beside water tap to clean out any mess the dogs have made.
4. Fill cat bowls once inside.
5. Then walk all the dogs to the top of the hill (airstrip)! If hot weather, on the way back, there is a round water trough on the left hand side on flat piece of road near the horses; let them all drink and swim if they want to! Walk for an hour; they need it! Once back, tie the dogs up under the large tree if dry or in garage if wet; give them a bone or pig’s ear to chew on; Kuna can have milk or eggs or something! Make sure they can access water to drink and let off every two hours for break/toilet.

Have a cold drink, cup of coffee, play with the lambs!

Lunchtime – say 1:00 pm? 1. Let chickens out; put some food scraps into their netted outdoor area; collect eggs for house.
2. Collect our mail & newspapers from the letterbox; feel free to read the newspapers!
3. Take dogs for a wander but away from Missy!
4. Feed lambs their mid-day meal. 🙂

Around 4:00 pm – Take dogs for another long walk.

Around 5:00 pm – Milk Missy.

Around 7:00 pm – 1. Put chickens to bed!
2. Put dogs into their kennels with fresh water, some dog roll [say 3-4 inches wide] and biscuits [4-6 each]; take care to keep well away from Missy!
3. Ted gets fed once they are all done; he can have some milk, meat scraps or egg and some dog biscuits from jar in pantry (looks like dog food).
4. Feed lambs last time.
5. Fill cat bowls for night.

Needless to say, there may not be other people staying in my cottage at the moment, but I am definitely not alone or hardly ever catch a stroke of boredom. The animals keep me on my toes!

Some even come to visit.

“Our task must be to free ourselves... by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature and its beauty.”  ~Albert Einstein

Jet lag took the best out of me and woke my body after the noon hours had begun. Graham, Giselle and I drove through the dark from Dunedin to Waipahi the previous night, so I had no clue what to expect once the bedroom curtains were pulled.

The sun kissed green paddocks where sheep and cattle grazed. Trees danced with the wind. Dogs barked. Engines of four-wheelers and tractors roared. Human voices and clinging pots and pans filled the hollow space of the stairwell. Commotion was all around, yet they managed to be equally congruent and cordial. To give you an idea of the scenery I’ve described, please enjoy the following views.

Photo: Marama’s airstrip, looking southeast

Photo: Marama’s airstrip, looking east

You’d suppose I wouldn’t have been as eager as I was since I come from a state with a long agricultural history, but to sugarcoat the level of my enthusiasm would certainly be deceitful. This was a real, honest to god working farm, right before my own eyes. And because I had zero previous experience, I needed a new pair of boots, a new mind, a new everything, really.

Though instead of getting right to the labor, Giselle and I took things slowly. I was fitted into a warm jacket and hat to wear. Giselle then showed me the property, explained what had to be done on a daily basis and introduced me to all the animals, among others. When we came to one of their big, black and white house cows, Missy had created a spot under a tree and continued circulating until a perfect boundary of dirt formed beneath her hooves. It was explained to me that she was pregnant and as a part of the process, she had specifically chosen this area for the delivery. Her calf was due at any second.

I’d never witnessed the birth of anything before, so I approached the happening with caution. Stories of women having children generally grossed me out, so I sort of anticipated quite a messy process here. But to my astonishment, Missy was right on cue. I watched as her water broke and how quickly she spun her large body around and ate it up in order to keep the area clean; how the baby cow gradually pushed out from behind and came tumbling down; how mamma removed its membrane so no suffocation could occur. The entire ordeal was done with such grace, courage and intuition that I almost believed a part of me had abandon its old self and embraced a new one – that by the start of Mick’s life, coincidently on my first official day at Marama, it was also an invitation for me too.

Then, two short days later, Graham and Giselle bought me these…

 Photo: Pair of gum boots

Consider my initiation complete.

“Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear.”  ~Ambrose Redmoon

We know the saying, and for me, it rings true. Folks, I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore.

Because Kansas doesn’t have cinnamon-coated mountains (and some with frosting on top) nor river water so dark green the hunter himself couldn’t recognize; or the colors of the Maori; or pastures that seem to forever roll into infinity. Kansas can’t compare to the Kiwi phrase “Kia ora”. Nay, Kansas isn’t Colorado with a wrap-around beach.

After approximately 21 hours served at 30,000 feet, I woke to calm morning light pouring through the oval windows of an international aircraft. It was 10:00 pm on Sunday, September 25th as I set off from LAX and now Tuesday the 27th approaching 9:00 am. September 26, 2011 will evermore be recorded in human history as a day I never lived. The pilot announced we were starting our descent into Auckland and right there, among other passengers of multiple nationalities, I wept. A concerned flight attendant ran over, “Honey, everything alright?” And looking back to her with a grin which stretched from ear to ear, “Happiest moment of my life.”

Waiting for the boarding call to Christchurch

I had two more short flights, to Christchurch and then to Dunedin in the South Island, before I officially arrived to meet my host family. Graham found me soon after I claimed my luggage by a curious twist in his head and asked hesitantly, “Stephanie?”

Many of the farmer profiles I knew in the States, particularly Tennessee, tended to be men and women who wore frayed overalls with gloves in their back pockets, work boots, flannels that rolled up to their elbows and hats that always shaded their faces – even on public outings. But if I placed this expectation on them, it was a misguided mistake. He had on a sleek collar shirt with slim black pants and dress shoes. And Giselle, whom we caught up with later, was clothed in a blue-white dress with sleeves and dark boots; she got in the backseat of the truck, placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “Hello, Stef. How are you?” Once all together, my first impressions were they are a couple constantly on the move and didn’t tarry about breaking the ice with newcomers. I was immediately asked essential questions about myself: what I studied, where I was from, my hobbies, familiarity with farming/gardening, how the journey was, etc. This did not exclude more serious inquiry as well, like health problems, nature vs. nurture and other general conversation on subjects that are normally deemed sensitive at the dinner table.

We laughed and ate and spoke to each other without fear or judgment. It was as if the two of them simply had not known there existed a definition like stranger, as if they were champions at creating a tension-free environment for anyone willing to enter it. Their friendly gestures and admirable hospitality briefly tricked me into believing I was back in the Deep South, and the only evidence lacking was the accents. Because from minute one to the moment I fell into one of the farmhouse beds exhausted from travel, which they graciously allowed me to use for the first night, I could not help but already feel most at home.

So then again, maybe in that sense, I hadn’t really left Kansas at all.

“See the world/ Find an old-fashioned girl/ And when all has been said and done/ It’s the things that are given, not won/ Are the things you want.” ~Gomez

No one prepares you for this. Cramming your self-acclaimed and equally materialistic identity into two bags – one to be checked and the other to carry-on; to be so overwhelmed with excitement and anxiety that rest and nutrition are simply the furthest values from your mind; and gazing into the faces of your beloved and attempt at convincing them that despite the distance, you’ll manage and promise never to forget them.

Instead, most of us were taught how to brush our teeth, eat essential fruits and veggies, say our bedtime prayers and recite the infamous lines of the Preamble… We memorized multiplication tables and various biblical verses… We said please and thank you and ma’am and sir and tried not to ease drop simply because it was none of our business… We held the door open for strangers and shared our crayons with classmates. We even appreciated our siblings most of the time.

Let’s face it though. These were easy.

Not one soul mentioned to me what it would be like to leave the only world you ever knew of behind. Yet in a matter of hours, I will board the first of many planes set to depart out of Nashville and eventually be bound for the real Middle Earth, a place we call New Zealand. I feel like a young member of a tribe whose about to go on his solo hunt – that if successful, would become a direct rite of passage into his manhood. Or a soldier, fresh out of boot camp, parting for a tour on foreign soil. It’s a kind of sweet liberation and novel terror to experience the moment when you realize your childhood protectors will be half way around the globe. When you realize you are, in fact, on your own. And say to yourself “this is it” and “there’s no turning back now”.

Yes, the dangers are clear and very authentic. My project for the next three months is fair game for failure, emergencies, and health challenges which can only be imagined at this point. And the more I sit still, the more likely I will become psychologically vulnerable about the animosity of uncertainty.

But the only threshold, reasoning and purpose preventing me from dashing back through the Music City terminal and out the sliding doors, however, is to know what awaits me at the other side of the Pacific Ocean: 3,000 acres of natural paradise and an organic farming family who was more than willing to open up their home to me. Such great persuasion could never be produced by fear’s fiercest smite.

So I’ll swallow the knot in my throat and revere the mystery of ambiguity. I’ll endure the eighteen hour time difference and contrary seasonal period. I’ll rummage with a bow and an arrow. I’ll fly the flag from my shoulders. For this is the narrow way I have chosen to undertake, the way of freedom, how I will be present in my own skin. Hands, be untied; hot diggity dog, here I go, go, go!

“As I’m leaving/ A change comes on my eyes/ These streets persuaded me/ With mumbles, strange goodbyes. Through the water/ Through the ring/ To the soul of everything/ I throw my heart out/ On the stones/ And I’m almost gone.” ~David Gray