The Imperial Zen Caterpillar

On my way to Chattanooga, on the day of my campground story, I stopped by the side of the road in the Nantahala National Forest, in far western North Carolina, to watch kayakers traverse down the foggy river rapids. Almost right away my attention was distracted by a little white caterpillar walking along the railing. I wish I had a better close-up camera at that moment - it looked as though it had just walked out of beautiful silk Japanese tapestry. It had a red eyes and white horns both front and rear. The Imperial Zen Caterpillar.


Sycamore Tussock Moth - Probably the same caterpillar, but the one I saw was more lovely

A lovely young woman sitting on the bench noticed the caterpillar, too. We ended up talking about it, and its beauty, and about a number of other things, including drowning, or not drowning, in the river below us. We connected best when we talked about God, and all the wondrous gifts of the Divine Creator that surrounded us. She finally asked me the question, “What does God mean to you?” Well, I answered the best I could. Maybe I said some profound things, maybe I said some simple thing - maybe I didn’t make sense at all, around a subject I’ve been consciously focusing my God navel contemplation on for 45 years. I suppose right now I could scratch my head and compose some sort of beautiful God is Love poem or go on about how God is the marinara that makes the pasta spaghetti, or the olive, oil. Or maybe I could dig up one of my God discourses in the archives of past pontifications . . . but, but, but . . . that’s not it.
As soon the question is asked, as soon as one word of opinion is spoken,
one explanation is given . . .
the living answer,
the breathing “It” in,
the oneness with the unexplainable “You Know,” (you really do know)
the unfathomableness of all that was, is and ever will be . . .
is lost.
It disappears from being One With, (the trees, the caterpillar, the misty river)
to thinking about it.
And that’s usually where all the trouble begins.


Large canvas from the Hunter Museum in Chattanooga, Tennessee

As soon as I wrote the blog about being on this journey of innocence, about letting go of judgments that lead to separation, the testing began. This I knew was a given. The very sweet young woman I met besides the river had graduated from a Bible College, and works in Christian Outreach on the Knoxville campus. I remember back in my first years of “spiritual knowing” (spiritual arrogance), in my early twenties - I would get into the Jesus debate with women on Christian crusades. We’d both work up an “I am right” zealot frenzy, with no possible point of surrender on either side. We would profess our unquestionable belief based on “facts,” and always walked away thinking the other was just plain ignorant. A micro reenactment of the prelude to war.

Thank God I’ve wised up over the years. The prelude didn’t happen. I won’t go there anymore. To tell the truth, it took me at least 60 years to identify and let go of my spiritual arrogance; to finally begin honoring the freedom any person has to express their faith in any religion they choose. How or why a person builds and expresses a belief about God and their savior is none of my business. And of course what I just said illustrates my religion - zen - (not zen Buddhism) which by its very nature allows everyone to express themselves as they so choose. I watch the misty river flow and the caterpillar as she quietly strolls across the wet wooden plank.

What I relate to, and deeply felt at the beginning of this journey, is the void, the not having of a “spiritual” home and family. I think we are all, in one way or another, wanting to be blessed with a “spiritual” family, a home, with that “something” that will glue it all together, that will give our life purpose and meaning. Figuring out purpose and meaning is not an easy thing. It’s confusing. It’s so much easier to surrender - and turn to an enlightened someone who will give life meaning and lead us “Home.”

And most people do surrender to that outside One. That’s why we have churches, and mosques, and synagogues, and temples. Faith relieves the confusion. It’s like a stepping stone home, for all those who find comfort in being guided on a clearly chartered path.

The South I’m experiencing is a bastille of Christianity. Stepping stone churches are everywhere. There are probably more churches per capita in the South then there are Coffee Shops/Starbucks per capita in Seattle. Southern folks love their Jesus. I get the feeling that Christian religion here is somehow unconsciously tied in with the Civil War - you took our land and there is no way you’re going to take our religion. God and Jesus and church is deeply ingrained in the culture, and there’s no getting around it.

I’m simply a witness - a roving reporter. It’s really none of my business to interfere, to think I might know better or to judge. I’ve concluded that people simply need their faith, and there is absolutely nothing I or anyone else can, or should say that will stop a convinced believer from believing. (unless they believe they have to force it on me or those I love).

So I will be zen. A hummingbird at the window, a rose petal blooming, a ray of sunlight through the pines. A royal imperial caterpillar and then the Monarch butterfly. I will be guided, not by the mind, but by my heart. And I will let my heart be drawn to love, to all that is pure and good. So be it.

Blessings, Dakan

“I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. Goo-goo-j’-joob.”

Also, on the day I drove through the mountains of Appalachia I realized I was low on cash and decided to stop in at the Bank of Walmart. I’ve come to realized that with my debit card I can buy an avocado for 88 cents and get $100 cash back, no questions asked.
At the check out counter the middle-aged hillbilly woman behind the register said, “I’m going to have to try myself one of these someday.”
That took me aback for a second. “You’ve never had an avocado your whole life?’
“No sir,” she answered, not ashamed, “but I heard they’re pretty good.”
I smiled. “I think you should get one and try it.”
“Well, I think I will one day,” she said with a grin
“That’s the spirit,” I added, walking away with my avocado and cash.

Hillbilly Culture

On my way to Chattanooga, somewhere in river rapid kayak country between Ducktown and Ocoee, I turned at a sign that said Campground, 7 miles. I headed up a park-like drive, winding up the mountain. Here is a view from halfway up:



After I found my spot in the perfect campground at the top of the mountain, the couple who run the place came to greet me.
“Want to let you know about the rattlers and the barrr.”
“I saw a rattle snake hanging on a sign down the road,” I answered.
“I put her there,” he said with a grin. “I just don’t want you steppin' on one.”
“And the bear?”
“They’re all around these parts. Don’t leave your food out. Cept for the food they don’t want anything to do with you. To them, you stink.” The couple giggled about that, and I decided to change the subject.



My campsite

“Sure is a nice place. What’s it called?”
“Why this here’s Chilhowee Campground.” He fumbled through his loose dungarees and finally found his wallet, and handed me a business card.
“You’re Clinton,” I read, shaking his hand. “And you’re Glenda. Cricket must be your dog.”
“That’s right. That’s my dog,” Clinton said proudly.
“She must be some special dog to get her name on your business card.”
“Yes sir. She’s a part of us. When they put Cricket down they’re gonna have to put us down too.”
“You really do love your dog.”
“She’s a real care-aka-tour.”
“What kind of dog is she?” It was fun talking to a genuine hillbilly.
“She’s a Jack Russel terrerie.”
“No kidding. My dog’s a Jack Russel. They’re great hunters.”
“Yes, sir. Once she’s done with the squirrels she goes after the cockroaches.”
I decided to change the subject again, so they wouldn’t leave to continue their rounds. “What a wonderful place to work. Way up here in these mountains. They probably pay you too.”
“Well, a little bit. We got our trailer over yonder and they give us enough to buy some grits.”
“That’s good. You’re retired?”
“Yes, sir. I was forty and a half year with the lectric company.”
“Forty five years?”
“No, forty and one half a year. My boss negotiated with me. Wanted me to work a full year. Said he’d give me every other Friday off.”
Then the wife broke in. “I said, the hell - if you just stay home I’ll give you every Friday off.”
They laughed and he concluded, “And here I am. Retie-ard.”



Glenda, Cricket and Clinton

In the past it was always so easy for me to stand in judgment of those I labeled as slow. Now I look at the same people as innocents, as childlike, as uncomplicated, yes blessed, and usually very friendly. For example, It was a wonderful sharing of time and space with the old hillbilly and his wife. We talked some more about the bear and rattlesnakes - and we agreed how precious the wildlife is and how blessed we are that they are still here. We got to telling stories - and they both joined in a story about a local boy who froze to death up in these hills one winter and nobody knew who he was for many years. There was no point or moral to the story, and I don’t know why they had to tell it to me, but I loved the cadence of their speech - the way they said barrr for bear and Vrizon - you know - the tower on the other ridge for my whyrrrless. I appreciated all the time they took hanging out with me, and that we could share stories while the sun went down . . . up in the mountains of Tennessee.

This morning, after a wonderful nights sleep, I decided to stop in and meet Cricket and say goodbye to Clinton and Glenda. They invited me for a cup of coffee and asked if I had breakfast, and when I said ‘no’ they offered me a day-glow pink Hostess Snow Cone, which I declined. We talked story a bit, but mostly I came to get their picture.

Clinton and Glenda were all friendly when I left. “You remember where we are and come on back, ye hear?”

Innocence, humanitarianism vs. the hillbilly culture

About a quarter mile outside of the camp I came upon a car in the middle of the road. A woman waved me down to stop. This couple were real hillbillies. If hillbillies had a caste system I believe they would be the untouchables. The woman was just plain ugly. She had a crooked face and about two teeth left in her mouth, and both of them appeared to be about an inch long. “We’re broke down,” she said with a slow drawling backwoods accent. “Can you give us a tow?”
“No,” I answered. “I can’t do that.”
“Well, we’s broke down. We need a tow,” she pleaded.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said, not really wanting to be bothered, but realizing that these were people in need. I felt I had to do something. “I’ll go back to the campground and see if I can get you some help.”
I drove back up to Clinton and Glenda’s trailer, which I had left less than five minutes before. They were surprised to see me back.
“There’s some local folk down the road who need a tow,” I reported.
“Do they have a small blue car?” Glenda asked.
“That’s them.”

And that was it. I was interfering with the hillbilly culture. Clinton and Glenda looked around like I wasn’t even there. They didn’t say another word. It was like they were indeed in a caste above these “untouchables” and wouldn’t have anything to do with them - and now by default - me. I waited another uncomfortable minute - I wanted to know what just happened - what they were thinking - why they were ignoring me, but I got the message loud and clear. They didn’t want to talk to me anymore. They wanted me to go away.

Back on the road I stopped and rolled down my window. “I told the people up at the campground that you needed a tow.”
“That you, sir. Appreciate it.”

I did the best I could do. But driving away I wondered if it’s better for me to just witness, and not get involved. One of my teachers would have told me to leave them alone, even if they were bleeding. We argued a lot on that subject, me always taking the humanitarian side - “We have to help our brothers and sisters in need,” I'd say. To which she’d answer, “Some things are just not your business. They belong to someone else’s world, and it’s best that you just leave it alone.” She was probably right in this case.

With Blessings, Dakan

Divine Guidance?

From the beginning I called my journey a “Return to Innocence.” I had been mentally exploring this theme for many years - innocence was what propelled the characters on in the books I’ve been writing. I left Kauai in full knowing that it was time for me to experience this return to innocence first hand; no longer theoretically, but to actually let go and fall into the trust of innocence - and see what happens. One of the definitions of innocence is “not corrupted.” So, this journey became a challenge to Let Go of everything that was, has been, or is corrupting my thoughts, and the natural flow of my well being. This includes old habits, learned judgments and prejudices, and also genetic, cultural, societal and habitual responses that may have nothing to do with my “soul calling,” with my experiencing what it is like to be genuinely human.

I have come to realize that this “soul calling” doesn't have to be some grand "master plan" or "life purpose." It may be just a “now moment” gut feeling, possibly the mastering of simply living in the present moment. In order to hear that now moment calling, I’ve learned from my “Human Design” study to actually take my consciousness down to my gut, to my hara - a place about an inch below the navel, and allow a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ response to come. And just listen. "Should I go?" The answer is immediate - loud and clear: “No, stay. Don’t do anything,” or “Yes, Go now!.”



Teddy Bear on a Kentucky coal pile overlooking Virginia

When I planned this trip my destination was Montreal. I was excited about going there, and truly looked forward to the time I would spend with my French/Canadian friends. I got all the way to Detroit, and when I thought it was time to continue on to Montreal, my gut said, “No. Don’t go. It’s not time.” I have no idea what that meant. There was no other warning or communication that told me otherwise, just the following voice inside that said “Go south,” followed by the question, “Is it best for me to go south?” My gut said “Yes.” I listened. The innocence was not corrupted by “I should,” or “how will these dear Canadian people feel if I don’t show up” and a whole bunch of other stories I could make up.

I called my friend Mary in Kauai and told her I was heading to Asheville. She sent a message out to her “Circle of One,” and received an immediate response from Buffy and Jimmy, welcoming me to their home in Maggie Valley, about 22 miles from Asheville and not that far from Cherokee, the location of my novel Two Crows. This was the perfect hub point to explore the whole Asheville area from. Buffy and Jimmy proved to be wonderful hosts; their country home upstairs room was private and spacious - it was the ideal and perfect place for me to be. I love this country and without reservation planned to spend a second week, at least. I was invited to stay as long as I want - for $100 a week.

I woke up Friday morning with this strong voice in my head saying, “It’s time to go!” I asked my gut and the answer was “Yes. You need to go.” For a moment I felt panic. I didn’t know where to go. I was comfortable here and didn’t want to leave. I sat up and asked myself, “Where do I go?” The word "June" came into my mind.

June was a neighbor and good friend of mine in Anchorage, Alaska when my son Alan was born in 1977. That was 33 years ago. June was originally from Georgia and later moved from Alaska to Seattle around the same time I moved from Alaska to Kauai - in 1990. I remember being at her house in Seattle when Bill Clinton was elected President in November 1991. I haven’t seen her in 19 years and had no idea where she was or what she was doing. Friday morning I emailed my brother Rick and asked if he knew where June was, and how to get in touch with her. His immediate response was, “She’s in Chattanooga, Tennessee and this is her phone number.” That’s a four hour drive from Maggie Valley.

Now, I have to back up a bit. There’s a story here that illustrates the perfection of “letting go,” of being in innocence, and the miracle all wrapped up in that allowing. Jimmy had previously offered to teach me how to shoot a rifle. Friday night would be the last opportunity before my departure on Saturday. I’m surprised, but not surprised in being a pacifist, surprised that I went a whole lifetime and never fired a rifle. I pretty much figured that I perfected the rifle in many other lifetimes and freed myself from having to do this ever again. But, I’m letting all that silliness go, and in my innocence I was like a kid with a new gun, “Yeah, what do I shoot?”



Maya Warrior 300BC Detroit Institute of Art

Jimmy showed me how to load and fire. We placed a box about 75 feet away, and in the middle of the box was a little black felt pen circle, with about a 3/4 inch white bullseye. I loaded the single bullet and fired one shot - it hit about 3 inches from the circle. Then I said, “OK, I got it.” I aimed and fired again. Looking at the box Jimmy said, “It looks like you missed the whole box,” then, “Wait a minute, look here.” My bullet went right through the black felt tip line, 3/8 of an inch from direct center. Past life memory? Anyway, it was a bit difficult to do, since it was very hard and painful for me to lift the rifle in the first place, with my torn rotator cuff shoulder muscle.

After that Jimmy brought out his bow and arrows and showed me how that worked - firing four arrows right at the bullseye. He was good. I wanted to do it too, but couldn’t physically pull the bow string. We talked about my torn rotator cuff and I told him that I really want to find someone to help me fix it - now. I’m tired of being in pain and limited to what I can do physically.

Immediately after that conversation with Jimmy, and my expressed desire to find a way to fix my shoulder, I called June and she answered. The last time I spoke with her she was hanging wallpaper for a living. I had no idea what she was doing now. She told me that she has been married for the last nine years, and they have a big house south of Chattanooga. So here it is . . . what happens when we let go and listen . . . when we allow ourselves to be “divinely guided.” (which is a whole other conversation)

Linking innocence with direct manifestation:

June now owns and runs two body therapy clinics. She not only had a room for me to stay at in their country mountain home, she has all the best lazar and sonic equipment and massage therapists, and sauna’s and so on, to help me heal my rotator cuff right now. I was invited to stay as long as it takes to heal.

I’m on my way to Chattanooga, Tennessee. Blessings, Dakan

The Seven Clans

There’s a certain comfort living out in the country. No traffic or neighbors to disturb the peace, only the sounds of crickets snoring and stars twinkling at night. The dense forest climbing over the high hill in back is like a green fortress of protection. The two cows who roam the front perimeter, keep guard around the sides of the house, or so it might seem to aliens. Several horses graze in the lower pasture, between the lower highway and the red gate entrance into Happy Acres. Five or six chickens who freely roam the yard are like pawns guarding the castle . . . at least there used to be five or six chicken pawns when I arrived a week ago. Let me correct myself . . . and five or six not so happy dead chickens and a couple very well fed bobcats. I guess Jimmy was out on the other side of the house practicing with his bow and arrow, when the wily cats plucked their prey out of the yard without a whimper, or a buck, buck, buck. Bobcats are about twice as big as ordinary house cats, and way faster. They mostly come out at night, and therefore are rarely seen. I’m sorry for Buffy and Jimmy’s loss, and at the same time I rejoice with the fact that wildlife such as the bobcat, cougar, deer, bear, fox, and wolf still thrive right here in the backyard of the house I’m staying in. Not to mention little critters like squirrel, chipmunk, muskrat and groundhog, which the bobcat also enjoys nibbling on.



I took the tour of the Cherokee Village the other day. The whole village was compressed into about 1/4 acre of land, so it was like a walk around a big house. For $20 the Indians sure know how to scalp the white man. Pay back is a motherf@#$%^r. (in contrast, the Henry Ford was at least 100 acres, filled with authentic houses and factories, with costumed guides everywhere - $21 admission) I arrived just in time to join 20 other pilgrims - sort of like a turkey walk around the barn yard. It was nice there - lots of trees and running water on the sloped terrain.




A 19th century Cherokee cabin



Running Bear, (not his real name), our young buck real Cherokee Indian guide with the black painted face, took usfrom the old yarn weaver woman, who was bloated from too many white man hamburgers and fries, to the old basket weaver woman, who was bloated from . . . to the old potter woman, who was bloated . . . to the old man blow-gun maker, who was . . . to the old maskmaker, who . . . I wouldn’t say anything about tribal fat, because Running Bear looked like he would have no problem rearranging my hairline, except he probably couldn't dig a hole in the sand with the fat wooden knife tucked in his sash. He dispelled any doubts of his warrior ability with a blow-gun demonstration. He picked up the blow-gun, which is a bamboo looking reed around ten feet long - and without hesitation sent three handmade darts forty feet to the bullseye - one after the other - dead center. I was impressed.

The most important reason I was there happened in the Clan’s round house. The Indian woman giving the talk was impressive - explaining the Cherokee Seven Clan history with power and conviction. She was solid and beautiful - in her 50’s, and judging from her passion and physique, she probably only ate Indian food. She was from the Wolf Clan, the warriors, one of the seven clans that make up the Cherokee tribe. She was one of the Beloved - the name for a highly honored woman warrior. 300 years ago this woman would have been the Indian Queen, no doubt.

In the round house there was a central fire, the eternal flame that was traditionally kept alive by two warriors, their only job in life. Radiating from the fire, the sand below was separated into seven sections, in which the seven clans brought seven different kinds of woods to feed the fire. Each clan had a name that corresponded to the seven levels of spiritual progression of the human spirit as it grew and evolved on the path through life.

In Cherokee society, the language, social structure, and interaction with the natural world were viewed as an interwoven tapestry that were inseparable and that existed this way to preserve the balance of forces between the two worlds, the world of physical reality, and the world of spirituality.

There was a strong belief that all the elements of nature were in balance, and that this balance had to be restored if disturbed by the human element - by "The People." The seven clans were 1. Long Hair Clan - they were the peace keepers and never cut their hair, 2. Deer Clan - they kept the deer and were the swift runners who carried messages, 3. Wild Potato Clan - they collected potatoes and protected the earth, 4. Bird Clan - keeper of birds and feathers, 5. Blue Holly Clan - keeper of herbs, 6. Red Paint Clan - keeper of the Medicine, 7. Wolf Clan - largest of the clans - it was the warrior clan and keeper of the wolves.

There was a Peace Chief, usually a Long Hair, and a War Chief from the Wolf Clan. Time of Peace was represented by the white feathers and Time of War was represented by the Red feathers. People knew were they were in Peace or War by what feathers were displayed.

But, traditionally the Cherokee were a matrilineal society. Family kinship ties in the Cherokee tribe are determined by the mother's clan. Children are automatically members of the mother's clan at birth. I’m not sure how men and women from the different clans met, but it was against the law, punishable by death, to “marry” someone from your own clan. All children were raised by the mother’s clan, and their father was the wife’s brother. Blood father’s never raised their own children. Each matrilineal clan was run by a council of grandmothers from that clan. The decisions and rulings of the Grandmothers were not to be questioned.

The clans never interacted with each other - they just did their particular function that kept the whole of the tribe functioning properly, except when they joined together in battle. When village decisions needed to be made, the grandmothers and representatives of the seven clans met in the round house, but it was divided so they never saw each other. Each clan spoke and a decision was made for the good of the whole.

All this worked perfectly well for probably thousands of years - until the white man came and screwed everything up. But that's another story. Here's a picture from the Cherokee Museum - of Cherokee Chiefs in the late 1700's when they were first beginning to take on the white man ways. (where were the Grandmothers?!)

Cherokee Story Teller

I finally made it to Cherokee, North Carolina, the setting of the modern day part of my parallel lives novel, Two Crow. Beginning in January of this year, the story of an 1876 Crow Indian named Two Crows and the modern day Cherokee Indian Lucky Two Crows almost effortlessly flowed though me. By May, 42 chapters with 260 pages were complete. I was about ten chapters from the ending when I got caught up in my move from Kauai. I wasn’t sure how at the time, but I hoped that somehow I would find my way to the Great Smokey Mountains and be inspired there to finish the novel. And here I am. Still looking to be inspired.



I headed down Highway 19 through Maggie Valley, a long stretch of many motels that cater to summer tourist and winter skiers, and onto a curving mountain road through a rich forest. After several miles of forest the road opened to a valley clearing, which was dynamically punctuated by the 16 story Harrah’s Cherokee Casino Hotel. Beyond that and all the road construction was Indian tourist happy hunting grounds - a highway mall of souvenir shops. It was still morning and I was relieved to discover Tribal Grounds Coffee, a most comfortable lounge to enjoy my latte and meet with Cherokee elder story teller Lloyd Arneach.

Lloyd is in his mid-sixties. He walks with a cane, and appeared quite comfortable with his Santa Claus belly and easy smile. We spent a long time just talking story, getting to know each other. I wished I would have recorded some of the small stories he told, but I reminded myself that this first meeting was about building trust.

I want to say some things about Lloyd, but before I do, the fact that I was even there, in Cherokee, North Carolina, talking story with a tribal elder, is in itself a huge accomplishment. There was a whole lot I needed to let go of to get here. Even though I thought I wasn’t like most people, I shared one important thing - the fear to totally Letting Go. Like most of us, I was resigned to a stable life. I knew pretty much what I was going to do day to day, week to week, month to month. Like most of us, and contrary to what I thought about myself, I don’t do change well, unless it was well planned change. Truth is, I’ve been wanting to take this trip for years. Things, more important things or so I though, mostly lies, mostly revolving around money, prevented me from leaving. And of course things happened because I didn’t go - I met people I wouldn’t have met and so on, but in retrospect the last two years were limbo years, avoiding change. It was almost like the house was on fire, the sirens were screaming, the hoses gushing, flames ready to engulf me, friends yelling, “Go! Get out! Move! Now!”

I had forgotten, money or no money, that life is good, and I would have landed safely on my feet no matter what.

After two hours of wonderful sharing, Lloyd agreed to meet again - today - to digitally record one or two of his stories. This I believe will be an exciting new chapter in my life - interviewing and writing the stories of wonderful people like Lloyd. I want to record the dialog, as if each interview were another chapter in a continuing story. I’m very excited and curious to see where all this will lead me.

There was a point in my time with Lloyd when he changed: he surrendered to this new friendship with a fellow story teller. He began telling me about Ray Hicks, a 6 foot 7 inch white Appalachian story teller, who he had the great fortune to meet before Ray passed. As Lloyd talked about Ray, tears began rolling from his eyes. He wasn’t embarrassed. He was simply showing the love he had in his heart for his story-telling hero. More tears came when he talked about the aunt of Billy Mills, the Cherokee runner who won a gold medal at the 1964 Tokyo Olympics. The memory of the aunt of this remarkable man, not Billy Mills showing up, but his aunt, showing up to hear his, Lloyd’s, story, moved him to tears. Life can be that simple, that sweet. That good.

I’m off to Cherokee, to take in more of the sweetness of Lloyd Arneach, and his stories of his people - hopefully a story about the mysterious mountain “little people.” He gave me his book when we said goodbye: Long-Ago Stories of the Eastern Cherokee. www.arneach.com

Before I close I want to slip in a little bit of Asheville color - the photo I would have taken if only I had my camera. He was a skinny white man - maybe around 35, about 6’2” and wore a black mini-skirt. He had extremely long legs with gross black hair. From the waist up he wore the full nun’s habit - the hood and all. Before I could reach him to ask, “What the @#$%%^&*,” he was off on his bright red Vespa. A picture I wish I could share.

Blessings, Dakan

Asheville Chocolate

The home of Buffy and Jimmy - where I'm staying on Happy Acres in Maggie Valley.

A friend of mine just wrote suggesting that she compile my travel blog writings into a potential book. Honesty, the idea excites me. I would totally love traveling around this country, and possibly the world, talking story, recording the tales of locals, and somehow getting paid for it. What a life that would be!

Yesterday I sat on a rocker in downtown Waynesville, talking story with a good old Southern Baptist. It was such a good indication of how much I love listening and sharing story, and how good I am at it. The fact that this 68 year old man couldn't leave me (he stayed on long after his wife, his daughter and then his grandchildren begged him to come on), that he just wanted his story to be heard by this perfect stranger, was a sign that this is joy-filled "work" for me. He told me that he spent his career teaching 8th grade social science in Charleston - and his summer Christian missionary outreach took him all over the world. I'm not here to agree or disagree with Southerners preaching the gospel to people in Africa, or the Amazon or Peru. The religion doesn't matter to me - it was the stories of wonders he saw traveling the world that kept my attention. We didn't go anywhere near Jesus. We focused on a common denominator - the overwhelming beauty of this planet earth. Bottom line - people want to be heard! I know I have both the ability to guide people to what their hearts wish to say, and the talent to record their stories.

Also while in Waynesville I got into a long conversation with a historical writer named Graham, who is a strong advocate of Dixie succeeding from the United States. Still. In 2010. Of course this is a deep subject and could cause tension if not handled properly. I'm not interested in taking sides, in agreeing or not agreeing. I'm an investigative reporter with enough information about this and that to keep conversations going. I totally defused his Dixie charge by talking about Hawaii and how it was stolen from the Hawaiians in 1896, and about the current Hawaiian Sovereignty movement, 114 years later. This man was 1/4 Cherokee and we talked about the same issue with the American Indians. Nobody can argue that as the United States expanded West the native Americans were removed from their ancestral lands - and eventually confined to relative small reservations. He didn't see that as just or fair, and believes the whole Great Smokey Mountain region of Tennessee and North Carolina should be returned to the Cherokee Nation. I can't help but agree. Then he talked about how the South was stolen by the Imperialist North which led to the Civil War. They could have left well enough alone he said, since the Southerners were a peaceful people. But the industrial North saw economic gain by owning the South, bringing it into the fold of "corporate America" - and used the slave issue to rally the people of the North against those horrible Southerners. Graham wasn't arguing the right or wrong of slavery - only that the history of the South which led to the Civil War and the consolidation of American States is a fascinating story to tell from the 21st century Southern Native son Dixie Successionists point of view. (the book he wants to write)

Also, from my point of view, there are always "good" business owners who treat their employees with honor and respect, and "bad" business owners who abuse and dishonor those who work for them. At the Henry Ford in Dearborn they showed two examples of slave owners. The bad business owner who abused his slaves (they all scattered after the Emancipation Proclamation and his business then failed) and the good business owner who taught his people skills, gave them homes to live in and rifles to hunt with. (they all stayed after the Emancipation Proclamation, got paid a decent wage, and his business thrived). I'm not advocating slavery. I'm advocating the decent treatment of human beings by other human beings. And there is something to say about the benefits of a communal society - where nobody gets paid - and everyone is well fed, well housed, well clothed, and they join in a shared vision or at least an extended family bond. The story teller at the Henry Ford talked about how the slaves of the good slave owner and his family were one big extended family. He gave his slaves time off to create crafts to sell in the public market, he lent his workshop and tools so his workers could make furniture for their homes and to sell, and he gave them all rifles so they could hunt for good fresh meat to feed their families, along with the gardens he encouraged them to plant and grow. She said that this was more common in the South, than not.

The Civil War was fueled by the Bad Slave Owner point of view, and this Media driven point of view lead to the death of 700,000 men. A very sad chapter in our American History, and a good reason why people like Graham want to separate themselves and the South from what Graham calls the Yankee propaganda machine, which he sees as still directly leading to the deaths of so many American soldiers - a great many of them his Southern brothers and sisters.

A slice of life in the South.

Right now I'm sitting in a lovely bricked coffee shop called the Chocolate Lounge, in downtown Asheville. My not-so-slim belly is in open conflict with all that delicious looking chocolate in coolers in front of me. So far my belly is winning. This wasn't so true in Dearborn, which by the way has more Arab/Americans than anywhere else in the U.S. Karen took me to this giant Arab bakery - a sugary heaven with hundreds of confectionary delights. They had mouses, and cheese cake, and napolean's and you name it - all for $1.40 a slice. Baklava for .90. I could spend $5 there and puke. And it was all so good! Really, the hardest thing I had to do before leaving Dearborn on my way to Asheville, was to not go back there and load my cooler with delicious cakes and pastries. And I have to confess, I am readjusting my attitude. The KiEarth Journey is all a part of my surrender -my learning to partake in and enjoy all the wonderful things that life offers, including that slice of carrot cake over there in the cooler that keep calling out to Dakan, "Eat me!"



The carrot cake is on the far right middle shelf. With love and blessings, Dakan

Return to Innocence - Columbus discovers Dakan

I began this journey looking for a home. After three weeks on the road I’m wondering if home may be nothing more than Self love. Maybe I’m looking for lost personal parts - you know, bits of what started out as Self love that went wondering off and got lost in some scary otherworld . . . the otherworld of wounds that turn into loneliness or sadness, or feelings of abandonment and then fear, and so on. The underworld of loss . . . I think I lost my voice a long, long time ago. The voice that says, “this is who I really am.” I want to re-find, redefine my voice. My voice as a writer. My voice as a genuine human being. My voice as a communicator of the love I feel in my heart for all people, places and things.

I think my aloha got lost in the Kauai cost of living. Here I just give people plastic and don’t think about it. It frees me up to finally “live aloha.” With every passing day the people and places I see are more beautiful than ever. I’m running out of adjectives to define what I’m seeing. I need thirty more words for beautiful. You won’t believe what I now call beautiful - check this out . . . I got a room the other night in a Super 8, located in a little brand-name cluster f@#$%&* next to the highway outside of Louisa, Kentucky. I had a choice for dinner: McDonald’s, Taco Bell, Wendy’s or Pizza Hut. Hard decision since they all looked so beautiful (I’m mocking myself) and I could only guess on how my body would re-act, since I hadn’t eaten at any one of those in at least ten years. OK, Wendy’s because I like Dave. (the owner . . . in the commercial . . . ) Anyway, as soon as I got in the door two ‘fifty something’ big burly Kentucky rednecks looked at me like I was some sort of alien who needed crushing. I loved it. To me they were beautiful in their own way. Classic Billy Joe Bob’s. I wanted to take their pictures and interview them - find out about their world. Find out why they looked like they wanted to kick the shit out of me. But I forgot my camera and my tape recorder . . . and my fearlessness. BTW - the fried fish sandwich was gross. But she gave me a free baked potato - smothered with VELVEETA cheese. And the southern white girl said . . .

The Ki Earth journey I’m on is without a doubt my return to innocence. The hard-wired Self-love reconnected. The more I let go and let God, the more beautiful and wondrous, and divinely guided it all seems. From the beginning I had planned a trip to Montreal, but while in Detroit I decided to return to Seattle to get a more fuel efficient vehicle, before coming back East to Montreal, and down the East Coast. But then at the last minute this past Tuesday I was inspired to go South to North Carolina. So I planned my route from Detroit to Toledo, in Ohio's northwest corner, east over to Cleveland, and then down the picturesque east side of Ohio. But then, south of Toledo, I was guided by a rest stop helper to head straight down US23, in the west to central part of Ohio, through Ohio, Kentucky, Virginia and Tennessee, to my final destination - Asheville, NC.






So the day I would have been driving down the east side of Ohio there was a major storm there with 80 mph winds and flooding. Divine guidance? It was sunny and beautiful down US 23. In fact, except for an evening torrential downpour in northern Minnesota, the US has been nothing less than a land of sunny days for three weeks. At least from my experience. Anyway, this new route 23 took me straight into Columbus, Ohio - and the unexpected reason for this blog.

You thought I should be done with this blog by now? I’m actually just beginning . . .

Most of my life, before my father was transferred to Columbus in 1959, was spent outside of the United States - the Philippines, Japan, Okinawa and three years in Germany prior to Columbus. (we never stayed more than two years in one place before I was 12) Now I was like a new boy in America, in a new American house, and to make it all more shiny, I was entering 7th grade in a brand new freshly built and finished Junior High. Every kid was new there. Sure some kids went to elementary school together, but for most of us it was all about getting to meet new kids and create new friendships.

So, coming into Columbus for the first time since 1962, I set my GPS to Johnson Park Junior High, not knowing if after 48 years if it was still there or not. It was. Below is a picture of it today.




To get an edge on meeting new friends I signed on as the Panther varsity basketball manager. I loved helping the coach in that brand new gym. It was so big and perfect to me back then. On Thursday I walked into it for the first time, like I did my first time 51 years ago, and quite unexpectedly, found myself overwhelmed with emotions. It was old, but just as I remembered it. The current Principal was in the office and we had a wonderful conversation - her meeting and talking to a man who first entered her brand new school before she was even born. She told me Johnson Park was one of only two middle schools in Columbus that hasn’t been remodeled or rebuilt. Everything was the same.

Walking down the halls, so many memories flooded back into my consciousness. My first love Terry, (jumping forward to 8th grade) whose locker was over there, broke my heart for the first time, choosing the basketball star over me. The fool.

I was so, so innocent back in the fall of 1959. So green behind the ears that it was declared a national forest. I now remember that November day when this cute girl invited me to a party. I didn’t know the rules. I took a bunch of my well earned money, maybe a buck and a quarter, and bought a box of chocolates. I dressed up. I had no idea what I was doing. I was sooo nervous ringing her doorbell. She was really cute - accepted the candy - a bit embarrassed. How was I to know it was just a party? A party that turned into a bunch of cute girls and a few guys down in her basement playing spin-the-bottle. OMG! That was the first time I kissed a girl - four or five girls in one night. I was in 7th grade heaven.

I drove away from Johnson Park, looking for the route I walked every day for three years - almost two miles each way. I found it, and started recognizing houses along the way. Suddenly I was there - I remembered - turn right, then left . . . there it was: 4731 Dundee Drive. I think my Dad paid something like $16,000 for it in 1959. I thought he planted some trees in the front yard. I imagined it would either be gone, a ghetto shit-pile, or at least under big old trees. Maybe the siding changed, but it looked just like I remember it looking 50 years ago. I was beginning to think I entered the Twilight Zone.



It wasn’t long after I drove away when I realized that I was there to collect a few of those lost parts. Suddenly I loved the Army and my Dad for being transferred there - for being placed in a brand new house, in a brand new school, with brand new kids including more cute girls then I had ever seen in my whole life - all in one place! It was the most innocent of times when everything was brighter than bright and newer than new and everything that happened was more important than anything else in the world. Columbus, Ohio was the center of the Universe and I was the basketball manager in the newest most perfect Junior High in the whole world. Could it ever get better than this?

Today I say Yes. Today everything is again shiny new and beautiful - right here in the center of the Universe - in the room I’m renting for $100 a week on Happy Acres Road in Maggie Valley, between Asheville and Cherokee, North Carolina.

With love and blessings, Dakan