A vingette of our two week stay at Yakabagh farm. It only scratches the surface.

Unfortuantely, many of the still images in this clip are quite blurry. I haven’t been able to determine why yet, but I’ll repost this video when the problem is solved.

Wait, where are we going again?A tribal circle. In honor of the full moon. To pray for world peace. Right.I saw a bad moon rising. Earlier.That day. After picking olives and finding the abandoned, hard-shelled houses of turtles and snails in the earth. Scraping my skin against the metal of the tree markers. Combing the tree as I do my hair, tugging at the knots of olives and waiting for the satisfying plop. Smashing olives with my bare feet. My purple-tinsel scarf wound around my head like a gypsy.

But trouble was not on the way. Tonight there will be nothing but a tribal circle in the round, stone wall dwelling in the orchard. The smoke of burning sage will be tossed into my fleece. I will sit, unspeaking, on a mat, staring at the well-tended fire for hours. I will meditate. I will struggle to get settled-I mean situated. I will see faces in the coals.What do you see?

There was no earthquake. No lightning. Not nasty weather. Nothing all that dramatic. But there was the sound of palm to drum and a child’s cough. The rhythm of shoes in the dirt. The music of a far-away Turkish wedding. The rooster’s insistent cockadoodledoos. The sound of Michael’s breathing.

Don’t come round tonight. And I didn’t. Not there. It wasn’t my time. I had both feet on the ground. No floating or zoning or rising. I was merely an observer, looking in. Others stared into their own possibilities. I just kept staring at the moon.

It’s bound to take your life. No, but I can see how they thought the moon might. I was giving it power with my own energy And receiving. . .something back. Staring like I’d never seen it before. It was no longer the moon, but the perfectly round polka-dot-on-a-dress sized window to another world. The pure white light of another galaxy. I felt so small, but part of something so big. Humbled and empowered. In one moment. And the gravity of my thoughts drug me to the ground. Kept me there. Clutching the earth.

There’s a bad moon on the rise. It was still going up when we left the circle and held each other’s soft, gloved doll-hands down the orchard path at 1AM. That’s when we saw the Yakaba horse. Calmly eating grass in the moonlight, shimmering olive branches between its head and the sky. A creature of the universe. Like me. Like Michael.And I. . kkkkk. . .kkkk. . . . I felt the energy kick in. The connection. The current through all of us. For just a few seconds. Before it slipped through my fingers once again.

Shades of Rockwell shine through as a backpacker gets a shave–one of many Middle Eastern grooming traditions for males.

Dorm bed at the Haramain Hotel, a centuries-year old home in Damascus.

Mother and children stroll the gritty souk of Aleppo, Syria on market day.

Well, almost colorless. . .this shabby facade, part Hollywood haunted house and part soda-shop-wafer, was everywhere in Aleppo.

At the Al Gawaher Hotel in Aleppo, Syria, we spent nine days (and Christmas) recovering from the past three couchsurfing episodes. In this city, when not gazing at its black-wafer-cookie-architecture, authentic bazaar, frequent stares and intimidating citadel-with-moat, we sat in our 50 degree room and enjoyed an Arabian network of satelite television, including four English-speaking channels! Pure gluttony with CNN, Seinfeld, Rocky and dumb Christmas movies followed. Anything to remind us of America.

But sitting in the heated (!) lobby on our very first day was what did me in. We caught a special on American football, a special which by some miracle had chosen to focus on a team called the Denver Broncos and present a photo-music montage (code for tearjerker) of 1995 Super Bowl clips as Cher sang the national anthem.It was quite a moment.

Thanks to fellow travelers, we are sometimes grimly reminded of America’s downfalls. We get shit for our fast-food, our “fake football”, our allegedly difficult border patrol, No Child Left Behind test-score-obsessed teachers, tawdry exports like Brittany Spears. . .and of course, Bush.

Yet, still. Despite ALL of that, what we most often find ourselves saying is: You know, America’s not such a bad place after all.

The most common site on the Syrian street. . .

Snowflakes in stone at the cathedralic ruins of St. Simeon, an eccentric monk who, after seeking seclusion and then attracting unwanted visitors to leer and peer, climbed and lived atop ever-higher pillars for years on end.

Smiling Syrian children waving at us from the back of a pickup truck. . .

The sheep run EXTREMELY fast in Syria. . .