The Horse Latitudes

Departing from Taibei on an evening flight March 19th, I had the entire day to pack, prepare the tangible and intangible. Torrential rain and heavy winds had characterized the previous days, and only late morning did the skies clear inspiring a final hike in the National Park. For the last time I walked along the broad stone path entering the park, up through the azaleas and cherry trees stripped, by the rain, of their blossoms. Having ascended the steep path along side the waterfall I arrived at the lookout and stood in bemused awe of the vibrant pink floral carpet atop rough cement and surrounded by moss & verdant foliage.

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As if I needed a final gesture reinforcing my sense of being carried all these months, friends Ruth & Serena drove me to the airport. Such actions can seem elementary to the offerer. And yet can be so much more than a logistical gift. Serena, age 7, seized my invitation and filled that final drive with imaginative storytelling as we glided through the evening along Taiwan’s smooth and orderly roads.

With seating assignment and boarding pass in hand, I approached the immigration gate. I paused. Tears welled up in my eyes. My mind flooded with images. Initially the images were of those friends on Yangmingshan. However they expanded to encompass all of those who have accommodated me along the way, some for only momentary interactions others for days or weeks. People have extended such tremendous kindness to me, folded me into their lives with such generosity. As I fumbled to present my travel documents to Taibei immigration, tears streamed down my face, tears of humility and gratitude and awe…dumbfounded awe.

* * *

I was greeted at US immigration by an extremely tall, broad, African American man with deep, watery eyes. After a 5 second glance at my customs card, evidently lingering on the places visited on this trip he asked,

“So what’s the reason for the whirl wind tour?”

“Completion of a master’s degree,” I offered.

“You done now?” he asked.

“Yes,” I smiled broadly.

“Well, welcome home!” he offered with a brilliant smile.

* * *

Several days after my return to the US, as I lay with my head on a pillow I heard a soft rhythmic rustling in my left ear. It was only some days later, after encountering it multiple times in different circumstances, that I checked my pulse to confirm that the subtle rhythmic whisper was indeed my own heartbeat. The sound has diminished since, although is still occasionally present. In those initial days, it acted as the gentlest of touchstones; its slow steadfast cadence provided both a window into my own interior as well as a reminder to return to that stillness and listen. I have tried to do so during the process of reentry.

5 months might feel like a long stretch for some. However I have remained so intimately connected to this place during my travels, particularly through Ewan. Consequently it doesn’t feel as if it’s been so terribly long at all since I left. I have been moving and adapting rather continuously since moving out of my rental home the end of August. In one sense, my new home in Seattle is simply the next stop. My malleability is well honed.

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It is interesting to reflect on changes in myself since my last lengthy travels concluded in July 1999. That chapter was pervaded with that unique, effusive and exploratory 20 something energy; an age that seems almost intrinsically narcissistic and simultaneously a time of phenomenal openness to the world. Humans explore that territory in so many different ways through companionship, travel, books, study, creating a family, development of one’s skills and career. For me it was an extraordinary time of exploring the world and my place in it. Over recent years, I have observed a gradual transformation of that force in myself and those around me. By necessity, our attention pivots from discovering and initiating, to sustaining, cultivating, and deepening. Some people sustain verve and vitality in that transition and continue to learn, grow and explore. I find those who manage to do so some of the most inspirational people in the world.

I was only able to recognize and articulate long after the fact how that period had been one extended passive anthropological study. Into every country, home and situation I entered with the unconscious question, as enduring as the whisper of my own heartbeat, how do they do it? How do others grow and buy food, raise children, care for their elders, love lovers, share meals, revere and honor the spiritual, tend gardens, relate to the earth, travel by foot or bicycle or car or bus, resolve conflict, celebrate holidays, engage in leisure, adorn homes, find and love companions, grieve loss, honor the dead.

In this recent chapter I believe I have invoked a similar curiosity in the lives of my hosts throughout the world. It has been interesting to do so at this stage in life; a time when I am more familiar, self aware, assured than almost a decade ago. Again and again and again I have been blessed, indeed felt as if carried. My baggage has never once been lost or delayed. Never has any particular travel delay had delitirious effects. I have not encountered violence or even severe malevolence. Rather through hundreds of gestures, small & large, I have been carried, fostered and woven into the lives of many. The experiences of these months have only reinforced my enduring sense that human beings, at core, are truly good. Each one is doing the very best they can with their tool bag. Beneath interactions marked by selfishness, malicious intent, greed, and violence I almost invariably perceive pain or fear. And when we are able to support each other in ways which allay the pain or fear, the goodness arises.

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It is now one month since my return to the US. I have been composing, editing and deleting this writing since several days after my return. While I have had the desire to provide a bookend to this travel narrative, the words have not been easily forthcoming. It’s been interesting to muse on why that might be the case. In one sense, I am perhaps reluctant to conclude the journey. In another respect, I believe I have placed expectations on myself regarding this final entry, as if after it all I should have some substantial insight. Instead, I find myself recycling rather elemental, intuitive thoughts.

In recent excavation of a file box of important papers, including mundane documents like taxes and warranties, I discovered a stack of writing including a few college papers written while studying in Glasgow as well as some old poetry. One piece, entitled the Horse Latitudes, I must have written upon return to the US following lengthy travel in ’95 or ’99. I have no recollection of who introduced me to the phenomena, but it was poignant both then and now. As an explanation at the foot of the poem I wrote,

The Horse latitudes are an area of the Atlantic, subtropic latitudes between 30 and 35 degrees both north and south. In the era of colonial crossing, it was so named as it is an area where the trade winds die. More detail from wiki: it is a belt of calm weather where winds tend to lift off the water instead of blowing across it and additionally there is little current. The confused sea, muggy heat, and rolling and pitching of waves (variably stilled and aerated by winds) often slowed colonial ships for days to weeks due to lack of propulsion. Purportedly colonial crews would go to great lengths, including dumping their horses overboard in order to reduce the weight of the boat and consequently increase speed.

And so, after months of movement, I find myself in the lull of my own existential horse latitude. In my transition back into Seattle there are an inordinate number of tasks to attend to, mostly in the arena of establishing a Chinese medical practice, but also in easing back into my social community. While there are flurries of activity, there is also a surreal quality of stillness in the absence of structure. And I sit in the middle of it, as if on the edge of the boat I sailed in as a child, waiting for the wind to come whispering across the water in dark, textured patches. In this stillness I have contemplated the quiet murmur of my own heartbeat and have returned to words imparted years ago by my root teacher Zoketu Norman Fisher teacher. There is only ever one thing, whatever is at hand. There might be hundreds of things which need to be organized, followed up on, attended to, accomplished, but the reality is at any one moment, there is only that one thing immediately at hand.

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Nowadays, to denote a short prose piece in Japanese, you frequently encounter the English loanword ‘essei’, but the more traditional term for short writings on miscellaneous topics is zuihitsu – literally, ‘following {the dictate of} the brush…”

The word “essay” comes from the French essayer, “to attempt.” The writer’s attitudes and sensibilities flex and stretch as they grapple with some subject or concept. They play with it, wrestle with it, try to pin it down…The ‘zuihitsu’ is a more passive affair. The conceit is that the “brush” (that is, the writing implement, of whatever kind – including a word processor) has a mind of its own. Writers are supposed to let go of their conscious urge to control the direction of the piece and instead follow a meandering path suggested by the brush itself. Japanese literature finds this format congenial. Of course, even if you let the brush go where it will, the brush is not an automaton – it is still drawing from your own knowledge and experience. But rather than plotting out the path in advance, you let yourself be open to following a meander in which one subject calls to mind another, and that in turn may lead to something unexpected…

East Wind Melts the Ice

Liza Dalby

In crafting this travel narrative my primary intention has been to provide a window into this journey for those back home; that home inclusive of my extended global family strewn across the globe. While I have used the activities and encounters of my days as the spine for these writings, I have taken reasonable liberty to muse on a variety of subjects, my own following the brush. I’ve had a lovely time doing it. Having spent more time with this little Thinkpad than any other object or person since October, I’m not quite sure what will happen now in relationship to writing. If I do any revision or new writing about these adventures, those may appear on this site someday. However, I am clear that the story to be told on this blog is complete. I have tried to tread sensitively, sharing honestly about my experiences while attempting to be moderately discrete in writing about the lives of my hosts and friends along the way. I offer humble, awe filled gratitude to all those who have provided me with refuge, of so many types, along this journey.

amy catherine darling