“We have fish. Very nice fish. I can cook for you with corn, wheat corn.”Fish sounds dreamy but is usually way beyond our budget. We exchange concerned glances.”How much?”"I make whole meal for $12 together. We have very nice wine here in Anamure.”"How much?”Ten lira for you”(Alcohol is a big splurge for us. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a beer. We don’t say anything.)”We have breakfast here in morning.”"How much?”"Ummm, 3.5 Lira”(We consider. We just bargained the pension for 20 lira, down from 30, because we skipped breakfast and heat. Now he wants 7 lira for breakfast?)”You are American?”"Evet. Ben Americaleem,” we say in Turkish.”Because usually America my best customers, spend lots of money, (he pantomimes throwing money into the air). Where are you from? Homeless part of America?”"No,” we say, looking at each other and realizing just how cheap we’ve become. “We’re from Denver.”

Do you feel the oppression here in Turkey?I choose not to feel it. We have a word, created in the last few years “Mahalle Baskisi”. It means the pressure a place exerts on its inhabitants.

Where do you feel it? In my wallet. Turkish identification cards require a religion. In my opinion, you might as well put your star sign or your favorite color. Why should your religion define you?There was a survey and most people in this country defined themselves first as Muslim, then as Turkish, then as male.

How would you define yourself? Well, my father was from Albania. He died when I was seven. My mother is from the Caucuses. But I was born here in Turkey. I guess that makes me Turkish, but I prefer to define myself as a member of the universe. A creature of the natural world. A human. I don’t like to define myself with a group, because this creates exclusion. It builds walls and boundaries. It means I’m NOT something else.

Do you feel Turkey’s oppression in other ways? Well, if a woman who is wearing a full birka sees my bare arm, she instantly views me differently. As if I am a stranger. As if I am an alien. Not one of her kind. That sucks.

How old are you, Rana? 22. Just.

******************************************************************

This made me think: I do like defining myself in different ways. But if I had to choose, which comes first? My ethnicity? My religion? My gender? My family name?How do you define yourself? And in what order?

*********************************************************************

I think I just figured it out. How to reconcile the conflict between ambition and Buddhism. For a long time, I’ve read about this spirituality. There is a sense that one should allow “flow” to happen. To give and receive. To be a vessel. To end the struggle. Not engage in duality, by fighting the universe, fighting the circumstance, but to follow and embrace it.

And I see the value in this. I do.

But I’m a go-getter. A goal-setter. And I believe this is what makes me successful, passionate and interesting. Purpose. Definition. Decision. I decided to start a business and so I did. I decided to run a marathon and so I did. Those goals and results are primary points of my happiness and fulfillment.

And so, because I am always confused about this, I asked Sinan, the owner of the olive farm, a Buddhist-ish and generally spiritual fellow.

To allow my ambition, desire and decision-making to live harmoniously with my flow, I needn’t diminish either. I simply plant the seed of what I want with intention and specificity. But then allow the path toward my grand vision remain flexible.

I see.

************************************************************************

Here at the olive farm/hippie commune/bed&breakfast where we are volunteering, there is the occassional conversation-killer guest. Someone who likes to rant in the opposite direction of the current. These people often keeps our food circle conversations from being pleasant cultural exchanges.

But last night, Sinan told us when talking about the Yakabag Farm (the G is silent), without reference to anyone in particular, that he has never asked anyone to leave. He knows that not everyone contributes in a positive way and that some people abuse the system. But he accepts each guest as part of the path.

Yes, still, I thought, if it was my house, why would I put up with someone I truly didn’t like—someone who clearly exuded a negative energy? Wouldn’t I let reality take over? But here we go headlong into the practice I just learned. Part of my specific goal in coming here was to engage in cultural exchange at this farm–and meals would be a great time for this. But this challenge is part of my path toward that goal. I must accept that breakfast, lunch and dinner will not be what I expected. And that if social enlightening between two people or a group are meant to be, another, more suitable scenario will surface.Am I trying to make lemonade out of lemons? Yes, desperately. And we’re all out of sugar. Again.

But I’m receiving, I’m receiving. . .I am flexible on the path.

In the back of my mind there is this stack of worries that I sit on. They’re like books. That’s how much I love them. They are always warm, because I am always sitting there. Always comfortable, because I spend a LOT of time there. It’s where I plan, where I sew together bits of resentment to form blame, guilt and carefully constructed frustration. It’s where I find reassurance, confidence and security. And if I am drawn away for awhile, into an experience, a conversation, up a new trail, I am quick to return upon finishing that little project. I have to admit, I really don’t consider sitting anywhere else, despite the array of rugs, pillows, cushions, desks and even beds in this little imaginary room of my mind.As my friend, the goddess of wisdom, Maury, once told me, we don’t get the challenges we want, we get the challenges we need (Which makes me think of a certain song and my forever friend Leslie, who, I just now realize turned out to be completely right about something she said in 1997). What I happened to need was the courage to turn away from my well-varnished worry stack and choose an ottoman instead. Named for Turkey’s former empire. You know, a piece powerful and confident enough to just float out there between the East and the West, between the sectional and the chair, all on its own. Can you imagine?Whereas some challenges give you every little gory and exhaustive detail of your journey over a mountain of issues, this one just happened yesterday. Without dramatic consequence. I went to find my bench, and it was missing. I didn’t panic. But I talked about it with Michael and I think he was as astonished as me. Because worrying is just something I do.But I never did find it. I just kept wandering around, worrying and wondering where the hell it could be. I guess the transformation isn’t exactly complete.

I look thrilled don’t I?Maybe I’m not into rocks. Maybe my history-obsessed friend Nicole drug me toward too many ruins when we backpacked in Greece. Maybe I’m just ignorant. But once you’ve seen a bunch of columns, you’ve already seen a few too many.This was a latrine. That was a slave quarters. Over here was where the Romans had sex.I actually DO like history. I adore antiques. I hear there are seven wonders worth seeing. The Acropolis was cool. So was St. Peters. I have romped through many a castle and monument with fascination. And I can honestly tell you that if I found a genie in a bottle I would go back in time.But a field of rubble and ruins, with sometimes English-translated facts that I will soon forget just doesn’t do it for me.When they unearth new treasures, new tombs, new teeth, I always think about what my husband once said after reading an article about recently discovered dinosaur bones:Put them with the rest.