Environmental Sustainability

Yoga Wasn’t Meant to Save the West

DISCLAIMER: The Woke Yogi is not an official site of the Fulbright Program or the U.S. Department of State. The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State, or any of its partner organizations.

The Promised Land

Every Wednesday night in Rishikesh, an organization called Bhakti Yoga Rishikesh hosts a kirtan and dharma talk in the loft of a local guesthouse. Spiritual seekers of all nationalities and religious backgrounds gather in this intimate space, seated knee-to-knee on floor cushions, listening in rapture as a guest speaker delivers a sermon on yoga philosophy. These speakers are as diverse as the audience to whom they speak, ranging from Brahmin monks raised in the Vedic tradition to German scholars who spent decades studying yogic texts.

Yet, despite their differing backgrounds, many of these spiritual teachers share a core message: that “the West” is a cesspool of materialism, capitalism, and individualism, populated by people who are overworked, wealth-obsessed, disconnected from their bodies, and out of touch with nature. By contrast, “the East” (India, in particular) is a spiritual place, characterized by collectivism, laid-back attitudes towards work, and a connection to the earth. With surprising regularity, the speakers of these Wednesday night dharma talks construct a binary of East vs. West to instill the value of yoga for ‘Western’ practitioners.

Bhakti Yoga Rishikesh is not alone in these ideas. Indeed, much of the yoga industry in Rishikesh rests on this messaging: that ‘the East’ is the moral antithesis of ‘the West,’ defined broadly by cultural practices, social behaviors, and spiritual beliefs. I have encountered many foreign yoga students who spout similar sentiments – that other people from [insert home country here] are too focused on money, too apathetic, too stressed about things that don’t matter. These respondents tell me that they’ve come to Rishikesh in search of an alternative lifestyle, and many of them seem to view themselves as *enlightened* just for having left ‘the West.’

Problematizing 'the East' and 'the West'

What is ‘the West,’ anyway? The United States and Canada easily make the cut, but Latin America usually doesn’t, despite being firmly situated within the western hemisphere. Often, when we speak of ‘the West,’ we mean wealthy, developed countries (what academia calls the ‘Global North’). But Australia and most of Europe are in the eastern hemisphere, so we can dispel any notion of ‘the West’ as a geographic locator. And if ‘the West’ merely indicates wealth or development, where does that leave underdeveloped countries in Eastern Europe, such as Ukraine and Moldova? What of the millions of Americans who live below the poverty line – does their socioeconomic status preclude them from ‘Western’ identity?

More confusingly, what is ‘the East?’ The geographic area suggested by this phrase is comprised of thousands of distinct ethnic, cultural, and linguistic communities who are united by little more than rough proximity. To group them together under the umbrella of ‘Eastern’ is to flatten their vast differences. Such homogenization was a tactic of early orientalists and colonialists in Asia, who deemed all Asians uncivilized to justify imperial control. In this way, the rhetoric employed by yogis in Rishikesh reflects a form of internalized neo-orientalism. They adopt overly simplistic language, reducing diverse individuals to a set of archetypal traits so they can more easily position themselves in opposition to an outsider group. It’s textbook tribalism: a classic “us versus them” mindset.

I might have expected such reductive discourse to be peddled within Indian circles, for many Indians are (understandably) keen to scapegoat colonization and Western influence for modern India’s problems. Quite to the contrary, however, the audiences of these talks are more commonly seas of white: foreigners from Europe, Australia, and the United States who, disillusioned with the ways of life in their countries of origin, are desperate for someone to blame – and some way to escape. This manufactured East vs. West dichotomy is a marketing strategy. It targets the woes of wide-eyed ‘Westerners’ to sell yoga in a neat little package.

But, as we know, neat little packages rarely contain the whole story.

Outcomes of Chaos

The glaring flaw in this East vs. West framing is the implication that ‘Westerners’ are the only demographic that stands to benefit from yogic teachings. But yoga first emerged around 3,000 years ago, well before British colonization and certainly well before globalization. If India really is this serene, spiritual place, a moral utopia with none of those pesky ‘Western’ problems, then why did Indians develop yoga in the first place? Why would they need yoga at all?

Contrary to what some yogis in Rishikesh would have you believe, yoga is a product of its environment. It was conceived to address a series of widespread societal issues that lower the quality of life in India. Yoga is a counterculture response to a set of uniquely South Asian problems – not a contrived remedy for ‘Western’ ones. Let me give some examples:

Cleanliness

India, like other industrializing nations, has a massive problem with environmental pollution and poor hygiene standards. Of the world’s 30 cities with the worst air pollution, 21 are in India. The country also suffers from poor waste management infrastructure. Open defecation remains the standard in rural areas, and littering is common practice everywhere – in most regions, trash clutters every street and clogs every waterway. As a result, contaminated food and water pose a significant threat to public health in India, causing millions of illnesses and thousands of deaths every year.

Taken within this framework, the classical yogic precept of Śauca, or cleanliness, reads as a practical public health intervention. This philosophy dissuades people from polluting their environment and, by extension, their bodies. Likewise, the yogic texts are rife with practices that claim to aid digestion, from herbal treatments to twisting postures to Nauli Kriya. While these techniques may promote digestive function in healthy individuals, it’s likely that they were originally intended to address serious gastrointestinal issues that arose from unclean conditions.

Silence & Solitude

As of 2023, India is the most populous country in the world, with a population of over 1.4 billion. That’s about 492 people per square kilometer (or 1,275 people per mi²). Unsurprisingly, India is plagued by excessive noise. Anyone who has visited urban India can attest to the constant cacophony of car horns honking, but it’s not just traffic that punctuates the morning air – it’s also the yells of street vendors, the howls of stray dogs, the tinny blare of political adverts over loudspeaker, and more recently, the baffling phenomenon of people watching Instagram reels on full volume.

It’s no wonder, then, that some texts suggest Ekānta, solitude, and Mauna, silence, as modes of yoga practice. These teachings are straightforward strategies for quieting people’s minds… by literally lowering noise levels on the streets. Yogis have always retreated to forests and secluded hermitages to engage in spiritual practice, but perhaps they were not intensely devoted so much as they were incredibly overstimulated.

Celibacy

Sexual violence is so prevalent in India that the nation has earned the moniker “the rape capital of the world.” In 2022, over 30,000 cases of rape were reported, and nearly 200,000 more were awaiting trial. I’ve written at length about this unsettling trend (read my articles on Durga Puja and Guru-Śiṣya Paramparā), and it’s worth noting here again: individuals who harbor misogynistic attitudes and commit sex-based crimes are not “a few bad apples” – they are products of systemic injustice, enabled by Indic philosophies and political theories that date back millennia.

Given this long history of sexual violence, it is possible that the classical yoga texts prescribed Brahmacarya, or celibacy, to curb libido and prevent sexual misconduct.

Contentment

In India, Plan B is Plan A. Indian culture operates on polychronic time, so meetings and events seldom start at the established time. Government corruption is rampant – many bureaucrats and law enforcement officers demand bribes before agreeing to perform their duties. Prices for goods and services are often negotiated, rarely fixed. Broadly speaking, life in India is chaotic and unpredictable, even for lifelong residents.

I wholeheartedly believe that this lifestyle directly led to the formation of Saṃtoṣa, the yogic doctrine of contentment. Yoga teaches us to accept things as they come, to relinquish expectations, and to live in the moment. Personally, I’ve found that this mindset is crucial to enjoying life in India.

Cleaning Up the Mud

Yoga wasn’t meant to save ‘the West.’ It was forged in response to the same suffering that many South Asians struggle with today. Pollution, overpopulation, sexual violence, corruption – these are very real, endemic issues with tangible consequences for the people who live here. And unlike foreign tourists, who can temporarily cosplay as renunciates before returning to the comfort of their home countries, most Indians have no escape. This is their only bed, and they have to lie in it.

None of this is to say that yoga can’t serve people outside India. It certainly can, and it does. Perhaps neo-orientalist narratives encourage people worldwide to open their hearts and their wallets – which has undeniable benefits for India’s economic and cultural capital. But yoga didn’t emerge from a vacuum. In mistaking yoga as a cure-all for ‘the West,’ we risk erasing the contexts that gave rise to its wisdom. And by collapsing complex cultural systems into tidy binaries of East and West, we’re prone to forget whose problems we’re trying to solve.

When I first arrived in Rishikesh, I too wanted a simpler life — one closer to nature, further from the challenges of modern life. But yoga isn’t about escape. It’s about presence. Yoga asks us to embrace contradiction, complexity, chaos. It teaches us to stay with the uneven ground beneath our feet. If we want to engage deeply with yoga, we cannot abstract it from its messy roots. Instead, we must clean up the mud from which it grew.

Ways You Can Help:

Advocate for policies and initiatives that aim to reduce particulate matter pollution, such as India’s National Clean Air Programme.
Talk to your Indian friends and family members about the negative impacts of environmental pollution. Many Indians are flippant about littering, car idling, and buying single-use plastics – explain how these activities lower life expectancy and quality of life.
Raise awareness about the adverse effects of noise pollution. In the meantime, carry headphones or ear plugs with you, and ask your cab drivers to lay off the horn.
Donate to Parichiti or MAVA (Men Against Violence and Abuse), two outreach organizations dedicated to ending sexual violence by empowering women and educating men.
Report all cases of corruption to the Central Vigilance Commission or to Lokpal India. If you are an Indian citizen, pressure the central government to enforce the Prevention of Corruption Act (POCA), 1988. Whenever possible, refuse to pay bribes and vote for representatives who support anti-corruption legislation.
While in India, adopt a chalta hai (“things happen”) attitude. Change takes time! Model the changes you want to see, and accept that most things are out of your control. You’ll be happier, I promise 😊.

Sacred Ruins in the Making

I was sipping chai and observing passersby at Sai Ghat, a peaceful spot in Rishikesh along the Ganges River, when a shrill scream pierced the soft sound of flowing water. I looked up just in time to see a group of giddy young people sling-shotted through the sky. They were strapped into a giant swing, dangled from a crane that read Thrill Factory. As I did a triple take, I wondered: how did this ancient yogic haven become an adrenaline junkie’s playground?”

For centuries, Rishikesh has served as a spiritual abode and a pilgrimage site for yogis. I was drawn to do fieldwork here not just by the rich culture of yoga and meditation, but also by the stunning natural beauty. The city is nestled in the lush foothills of Uttarakhand, atop the banks of the Holy Ganges River. Spiritual masters have long sought solace here, stopping to enjoy the region’s temperate climate and the river’s crystal-clear waters before they ascended into the mountains for months of meditation. Thus, Rishikesh earned its nickname: the “Gateway to the Himalayas.”

In modern times, Rishikesh has blossomed as a popular tourist destination for Indian travelers and foreigners alike. Newly rebranded as the “Yoga Capital of the World,” this city enjoys traffic from spiritual seekers as well as adventure enthusiasts and spring break vacationers. Now, it is not just austere yogis who travel here, but a full spectrum of householders – many of whom have little interest in meditation. They tend towards daytime activities like ziplining, trekking, white water rafting, and bungee jumping… and they spend their nights smoking, drinking, and partying in open-air venues. These tourists seem to defy the city’s yogic reputation as they indulge their senses and spend lavish amounts of money in upscale boutiques. Is yogic discipline in the room with us now?

Many visitors to Rishikesh are spiritual, to be sure. They come here to participate in yoga teacher training programs and spiritual retreats. The demand for wellness activities has skyrocketed since the Indian government inaugurated the International Day of Yoga in 2015, and especially since the COVID-19 pandemic. Yoga schools, studios, and shalas now crowd every gali, oftentimes stacked on top of one another to maximize space in this modest mountain town. Though Rishikesh still retains its quiet, peaceful ambiance – a real treat compared to most Indian destinations – rare is the day without sounds of drilling and jackhammering: the unsettling soundtrack of urban development.

The general sentiment is that Rishikesh is growing – both in popularity and in infrastructure – TOO fast. Through my research, I have found that many locals lament the amount of construction needed to accommodate the huge influx of tourists in recent years. Or, perhaps more accurately, they mourn the erosion of nature that results from such development. One gentleman bemoaned the near-constant construction: with the ruination of nature, he said, the spiritual atmosphere of Rishikesh would soon dissipate. He expressed these concerns to me seriously, sadly, even as he promoted his new business venture: a ten-unit apartment building, which offers easy access to major yoga schools and a homely environment for foreigners. He had only moved here himself a few months prior, and he did not seem to recognize the irony of his complaints – that entrepreneurs like him are prime enablers of these counter-spiritual schemes.

Indeed, outdoor activities are not just lucky bonuses in this yogic city, but in fact the very reason for its spiritual heritage. The swamis and monks of yore once congregated here precisely because of its pristine natural location. This is something of a Catch-22: people flock to Rishikesh to immerse themselves in its spiritual ambiance, but their presence paradoxically erodes the beauty and tranquility that make the city sacred. By visiting Rishikesh en masse, we encourage this destruction of nature. And by destroying nature, we are devastating the city’s spiritual core.

Of course, I am equally guilty. I am here, just as other outsiders are, enjoying amenities that are solely enabled by development. Worse, I spent the first month of my grant in a less-touristed part of the city, and I found myself frustrated, cooped up – I admit that in the absence of Wi-Fi cafes, I wondered how I would survive an entire year. Yet, since moving to Tapovan, the commercialized center of Rishikesh, I have delighted in my proximity to jungle trailheads, mountain vistas, and sunset river rides. I have also been able to engage much more heartily with the local economy and with the local people, who offer a diverse blend of yogic teachings from across India and around the world. Were it not for the widespread reputation of this sacred geography, Rishikesh would not exist as the prosperous global hub it is today – nor would it draw so many people into the sublime folds of yoga.

In the past, yogis would leave behind the trappings of the material world to commune here with Mother Earth. Rishikesh may not be the place that it once was, uncorrupted by manmade invention, but these spatial imaginaries from ancient times persist today. At Sai Ghat, people of all ages and nationalities still come to meditate. They perch on rocks rubbed smooth by the river’s rugged froth and breathe deeply in the sweet, clean mountain air. Between disruptions from the Thrill Factory, these modern yogis find inner peace on the beaches of the Ganga.

It may not always be this way, as my respondents warn. Rishikesh may soon succumb to the vacuum that is neoliberal development. But for now, so long as we relate to the land with reverence and deference, this place remains sacred.

Tourists in Tiger Territory

The morning air in Basanti was warm, with smog draped over the pink-orange sunrise like a thick layer of grey chiffon. After a 2-hour drive southeast from my Dadu Ji’s (granddad’s) house in Kolkata, we had reached the far edges of the state of West Bengal and indeed the outer borders of the country of India, but we had not yet escaped the ring of air pollution that surrounds the city center.

The streets of Basanti town were abuzz with shopkeepers preparing their wares, mother cows bellowing to their young, and tropical birds cheerfully singing the tunes for which they were named: papiha (Common Hawk-Cuckoo), kokila (Asian Koel), kowah (Crow). Their songs were underscored by the incessant thrumming of mosquitoes, menacing man and animal alike as they flitted in search of their next victims. Mosquitoes, I believe, were put on this planet to humble humans — after all, their mere presence reduces us from power-hungry predators to paltry prey.

We unloaded our car briskly, swatting the air vigorously all the while, then made our way to the waterside, where a sign welcomed us:

Sundarbans National Park & Tiger Reserve

A boat and its crew awaited us at the dock: the Delta Queen, captained by a majestically mustached man named Mrittunjoy. The Delta Queen was our ticket into the Sundarbans, the world’s largest mangrove forest situated within the world’s largest river delta. Spanning two countries (India and Bangladesh) and nearly 4,000 square miles, this region boasts a wide range of flora and fauna, with over 200 bird species alone. But the jungle, we were told, was full of terrible dangers—ranging from tree roots to tigers to territorial bees – and thus the water was the safest place for us to observe its biodiversity.

Mangrove trees are unique in that they have aerial roots or “breathing roots” that grow up and out of the water-logged soil. This incredible adaptation has enabled mangroves to thrive in extremely harsh, saline environments; however, these breathing roots are also very sharp and hazardous for land-dwellers.

Just as the sun began to peek out from behind its ashen curtain, the Delta Queen embarked on its 3-day journey into the Sundarbans Delta, where the sacred Ganges River empties into the Bay of Bengal. Mrittunjoy had a keen eye for spotting birds, and he promptly began to point out Kingfishers concealed in masses of mangrove roots. He soliloquized about the species of the Sundarbans; about the sea and its stringent saltiness; about the sweets that might be served at snack-time. Within only a few hours, we had seen deer, monitor lizards, birds of prey, and hundreds of mudskippers along the canal shores.

This amazing shot of a Black-Capped Kingfisher was captured by my incredibly talented uncle, Partha Pratim Saha. You can check out more of his photography on his Instagram and website.

Then, in the late afternoon, as our boat wove down a wider waterway, my sister leapt up from her seat and pointed excitedly towards land. I craned my neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of an elusive Bengal tiger. Instead, I saw…

A woman. She balanced a pot on her head as she retreated from the riverbank, the pleats of her sari swaying in time with her gait. I squinted at this sight, struggling to see what had attracted my sister’s attention.

“People live out here?” my sister asked in awe.

Despite the dangers advertised to us, people do in fact live out there: 4.5 million on the Indian side and even more in Bangladesh. Much of the Sundarbans is protected as a nature reserve, but this region is still one of the most densely populated in the world. The fertile floodplains surrounding the delta are ideal for agricultural production, and there are small fishing villages on the islands within the delta. These settlements are simple and extremely rural, sometimes only accessible by boat.

Discomfort settled over me as I realized that we had been observing these villagers with unabashed scrutiny, just as we had been observing the flora and the fauna. They’re not here for my viewing pleasure, I scorned myself. Yet, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The sight of this woman was jarring, I realized, because her life was so necessarily attuned and inextricably tethered to the patterns of the earth: the comings and goings of the rains, the cycles of the moon, the ebbs and flows of the tide. Every morning, while I stumble to my bathroom and turn on the tap, this woman carries a pot down to the riverside and fetches her water straight from the Sundarbans Delta. Though united by our shared humanity, I couldn’t help but feel species away from her, as distant as I felt from the exotic Kingfishers.

Over the remainder of our jungle cruise, Mrittunjoy pointed out local fishing boats and informed us about the villagers’ practices of collecting honey from wild rock bees. He explained that the locals fish the delta from June to December, then pause all fishing activities and collect honey between March and May to ensure sustainable harvesting practices. As he continued to intersperse facts about the local people’s customs with his commentary on cobras and crocodiles, my unease grew. I became acutely aware of the separation between us and them; between our tour boat and the Sundarbans – their home.

Indeed, from the safety of our tour boat, it was all too easy to view these villagers as another species altogether; to assume that they are somehow less susceptible to the forecasted dangers of the Sundarbans simply by virtue of surviving there everyday. This is not the case. The villagers enter the jungle at their own peril, for tiger attacks are common. Yet, they have no choice; aquaculture and beekeeping are the only ways for them to make a living. In this way, the villagers are equal contributors to the Sundarbans ecosystem; they survive on the offerings of the jungle, at any time prone to becoming offerings themselves – whether to tigers or to mosquitoes. Sometimes predators, sometimes prey, these villagers remind us that humans are but one species acting within complex, multi-species ecosystems. They challenge the illusion that humans are always, unequivocally, at the top of the food chain.

Some more breathtaking captures of the Sundarbans food chain by my uncle, Partha Pratim Saha.

But then, if the villagers are prey, what is it that seeks to predate them? Is it really the tigers, prowling innocently in search of their next meal? Or is it the tour companies that ferry paying foreigners out by the dozens, predatory in their promise of ‘exotic experiences’ at the expense of ecological peace? These tour companies are required to hold permits, and they are (in theory) regulated by strict legislation. But the laws prohibiting pollution are not enforced – I personally witnessed a great deal of waste during our three days onboard the Delta Queen. Though I remained firmly on the boat, I was drawn into this larger socio-political ecosystem of the Sundarbans, animated not by waters and winds but by neoliberal greed and corruption. We may have been safe from the jungle, but the jungle was not safe from us.

In climate change discourse, humans are usually positioned against nature — and for good reason! Humans have too often exploited nature’s balance to our gain. However, I reject the notion that humans are always and can only ever be antagonistic forces on nature. As we see in the Sundarbans, humans can be protectors and stewards of their lands; they, too, can contribute to ecological balance. We need only to remember that we are – despite our daily differences – the same species as the villagers of the Sundarbans. We are products of our environments, not just polluters of them.

Though protected as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the fragile brackish ecosystem of the Sundarbans is extremely vulnerable to climate change, and many of its inhabitant species are endangered—including humans!! Rising salinity levels, coastline erosion, cyclones, and floods threaten to disrupt the precarious natural balance of the Sundarbans and displace the millions of people who live there, triggering an environmental refugee crisis. We cannot allow this to happen!

Climate change is NOT inevitable OR irreversible.

We are ALL a part of this global ecosystem, and we all stand to benefit by saving it.

If you are interested in learning more about the Sundarbans, or if you’d like to donate in support of its inhabitants, please visit the links below:

Read about/ see maps of the Sundarbans UNESCO World Heritage Site

Read Misreading the Bengal Delta by Camelia Dewan

Donate to the Sundarban Foundation to support tiger victims and other humans in the Sundarbans through medical aid, employment, and education.

Donate to The Canopy Project Sundarbans to support environmental conservation and restoration.

Donate to AID India to support natural disaster relief and climate resilience infrastructure.

Photo by Partha Pratim Saha

Ten Things I’ve Learned from Mycelium

Happy National Mushroom Month, everyone!!!

I am a massive mycophile—that is, I’m obsessed with mushrooms! My passion started from a young age; a lot of kids despise the taste or texture of mushrooms, but I would happily devour them. As I got older, I learned that there are so many more options than the bland button varieties that you can find in mainstream grocery stores, and I began to experiment with gourmet mushrooms in my cooking. To date, my favorite recipes include oyster mushroom shawarma, lion’s mane “crab” cakes, trumpet mushroom “scallops,” ramen noodles in shiitake broth, and cremini risotto.

Oyster Mushroom Fried Rice

Lion’s Mane “Crab” Cakes

I developed a craving for gourmet mushrooms that could not be satisfied by my local Kroger, so visits to Asian grocery stores and Saturday morning farmer’s markets became a weekly pastime of mine. I loved arriving at the mushroom vendor’s stand early in the morning so I could have first pick from their discount bin!

Yet, I also love to hike, and every time I wandered into the woods, I noticed little mushrooms cropping up along the trails. For years, I wondered if it might be worthwhile to venture into the alluring, unknown world of mushroom foraging. Every time I brought it up, though, I always got the same cryptic, bemused warning: “every mushroom is edible once!”

For too long, I waited for an experienced forager to come along and show me the ropes of their dangerous hobby. I thought that I couldn’t possibly teach myself; I needed an expert to show me how to distinguish between the yummy varieties, the deadly varieties, and the mind-melty varieties. After all, there are thousands of mushroom-producing fungi out there—I would have no idea where to start!

Enter Skyler, my partner and self-proclaimed mycologist. Skyler doesn’t believe that silly things like “scientific qualifications” should dictate what a person can and cannot do. Early in our relationship, we bonded over our shared interest in fungi, and he encouraged me to get out there and start foraging. So, we did. Armed with our brand-spanking-new copy of Peterson’s Field Guide to Mushrooms of North America, we headed up into the foothills of Boulder, Colorado and commenced our search.

Our first major victory was a gorgeous family of oyster mushrooms piled together on a stump beside a creek. At the time, we still lacked confidence in our identification, so we left the bunch there for the next round of hikers to enjoy its beauty.

Several months later, we were visiting Sky’s family in Pennsylvania when we drove past a tree with a mysterious white blob growing on it. Personally, I didn’t give it a second thought, but Skyler’s mycelial senses were tingling. He insisted that we return to the tree the next day, and sure enough, it was a massive growth of the alien-like Hericium Coralloides, or Coral’s Tooth Fungus! We still weren’t positive about our ID, but our meager few months of foraging had taught us that there are no poisonous Hericium varieties; even if we were wrong about the species, it was still edible. I cleaned the mass thoroughly, sliced it into thick steaks, and fried them up with some butter. It was on that day that Sky and I tasted our first wild find. I lifted a forkful of the mystery mushroom to my mouth and took a cautious nibble. It tasted like…chicken? I waited a moment to see what would happen. When I didn’t immediately pass out, I took another bite, and then another. It had a crisp, woodsy flavor that I had never experienced before—similar to the button mushrooms I had grown up with, but stronger, more intoxicating. I offered a plate to Sky’s parents, who graciously declined; they were obviously not as confident in our foraging abilities as we were. Fair enough.

Well, I am pleased to report that I did not die from eating the fruits of that forage. Ever since that day, I have been honing my foraging skills and growing more confident in my ability to identify edible species. The mycelium have taught me many things over the past few years, and I am happy to share some of their wisdom with you, here:

1. Looks Can Be Deceiving

One of the trickiest things for new foragers to navigate is the many mushroom lookalikes. Sky and I often refer to this meme when trying to identify a new species:

Take, for example, the loveable oyster mushroom. This fungus is prevalent throughout North America and considered a “choice” edible—that is, it’s delicious and versatile! But it closely resembles the Angel’s Wing mushroom, which is deadly poisonous, and the two are not easily distinguished by visual markers.

Can you guess which one is the Angel’s Wing?

Similarly, there’s the sought-after chanterelle, identified by its vivid orange color and concave cap. Yet, it is easily mistaken with the toxic Jack-O-Lantern mushroom, which shares those very same characteristics and can also induce severe gastrointestinal distress.

This is a trick question; neither of these are chanterelles or jack-o-lanterns 🙂

Take heed, amateur foragers: even if you feel quite confident that you’ve discovered a well-known, safe species, you should always cross-reference between at least two sources. I prefer to compare my Peterson’s Field Guide, which has illustrated images, with my regional guide, All That the Rain Promises and More, which includes color photographs. If I’m still unsure, I take a spore print and turn to my trusted mycological Facebook groups.

Besides, looking at a mushroom is rarely enough to positively identify it. If you ever flip through a fungal field guide, you’ll notice that identification often employs many senses. For example:

The Gap-Tooth Webcap smells faintly of radishes, and the Ivory Cavalier has an odor of cracked wheat. The Beach Brittlegill smells like maraschino cherries!
The Orange Stump Mushroom, despite its name and corresponding color, drops purple-brown spores. The Lilac Bonnet has spores which are white or cream in color, even though its cap and stem are a light purple.

The Fragile Brittlegill will crumble easily in your hand, as its name suggests; the Scarlet Brittlegill has a thin layer of pink skin that can easily be pulled off its cap.
The Greenspot Milkcap has a tacky texture while young, which dries as it matures; the Almond Waxycap is sticky and smooth, but only when wet!

Too often, my friends send me blurry photos of mushrooms with their ID requests. Regretfully, I can rarely identify a fungus without investigating its texture and durability, the color of its cap, stalk, and bruises, the way its gills connect to its cap, the earth or wood which it grows from, or its spore print. Just as you should never judge a book by its cover, you should never try to identify a mushroom by a first glance.

Here, I must make a disclaimer: DO NOT EAT ANYTHING THAT YOU ARE NOT 100% SURE ABOUT! And please do not hold me liable for your foraging fumbles 😊 This article is purely for entertainment purposes: I encourage all aspiring foragers to first venture out with a more experienced hobbyist.

2. Water Gives Life; So Too Does Fire

The best time to go foraging for mushrooms is after a good rain. Mushrooms are merely the fruiting body of a much larger organism, the mycelium, which grows underground. Moisture seeping into the soil creates perfect conditions for mycelium to reproduce, indicating that NOW is the right time to push mushrooms out of the ground and spread spores, with the hopes of spreading or strengthening the mycelial colony.

Yet, mycelium is a complex organism that responds to many ecological factors, not just water. And of course, with hundreds of thousands of species of fungus out there, they each respond to a different set of factors during different seasons. Some need light, while some prefer to be shrouded in darkness. Some are particularly picky about soil pH, while others will literally grow out of concrete. An excellent example of this complexity is the coveted morel. Morels are notoriously hard to cultivate, hence their high selling price, but we mycophiles get quite a laugh every spring, when unsuspecting gardeners find massive patches of morels in their landscaping beds. They’re unpredictable, as mushrooms are wont to be.

NOT a morel! This is a stalked puffball.

Perhaps one of the most beautiful facets of the fungal kingdom is the Burn Morel. As its name suggests, this morel variety appears in burn sites in the years following a wildfire. The morchella fungus maintains a mycorrhizal relationship with conifer trees at any given time, just as other mycelium live in harmony with other types of forests. However, morchella (morel) mushrooms only fruit after a wildfire! Professional mycologists remain baffled by this phenomenon. However, it is safe to assume that wildfires return certain nutrients to the earth, such as carbon, which create the necessary conditions for burn morels to flourish. Unlike “natural” morels, burn morels are remarkably reliable and incredibly prolific in fresh burn scars.

Burn morels draw a striking parallel to one of my favorite aspects of Hindu/ Yogic mythology: The Destroyer. Unlike many Western philosophies, the Hindu tradition acknowledges death and destruction as an integral part of the cycle of life. There are two main destroyer gods: Shiva (male) and Kali (female). In their respective myths, both gods are responsible for burning the cosmos at the end of each age to make way for new creation. Much like the burn morels that surface after a period of great ruin, Kali and Shiva destroy the world so that life can begin anew.

3. Manage Your Expectations

Early in my foraging journey, I had such high hopes for every expedition. I thought that the choice edibles must be out there, if only I looked hard enough. I turned over every log, peered under every leaf, spent half of my searches clearing brush in the hopes that I would find just one morel.

Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how hard you seek—there’s simply nothing to be found.

As I mentioned before, mushrooms need precise conditions to fruit. Usually, it’s too dry; sometimes it’s too wet, or too hot, or too shady, or the mushrooms just aren’t feeling it that day. It pays to know where and when to look, but it also pays to manage your expectations. There will be days when you don’t see a single fruiting body, and there will be others where you can’t take three steps without seeing one. It all balances out.

Moreover, I have come to learn that a successful foraging journey isn’t always one that ends with a basket full of edibles. Yes, it’s nice to have something to show for my hard work (and to save some money on groceries!), but the fungal kingdom is a wild, whimsical world, full of plenty of fantastical species that are not meant to be eaten. Consider, for a moment:

A freshly emerged Amanita, the remnants of its veil stretching and tearing as it reaches towards the sky?
A velvety bolete, its stem bruised blue from close encounters with its forest kin?
An aged inky cap, its gills auto-digesting into pitch black sap that drips down in slow motion?

A razor-thin row of mazegills, curling themselves into a pristine Fibonacci rosette?
A series of fluted bird’s nest fungi, their tiny cups filled with impossibly small spore eggs?
A blood-red russula, its cap melting and disintegrating into grey ooze as it is reclaimed by the earth?

When you stop searching the forest for only the things that benefit you, you can start to recognize the magic inherent to the natural world. In this way, you are sure to be amazed by every romp in the woods, whether or not you come home with dinner.

Come roll in all the riches all around you, and for once, never wonder what they’re worth!

4. Strive to Be Misunderstood

Mycelium is the primary decomposer of nature; its role is to break down decaying matter and return its energy to the ecosystem. As such, mushrooms tend to get a bad reputation as being associated with death and decay. While that may be true, we could not survive without mycelium—toxins would build up, poisoning our planet with stagnant compounds and odors of rot. Energy cannot be created nor destroyed, only transferred. Mycelium is the OG recycling facility—it undergirds all biological transformation and enables all life to continue.

Besides that, mushrooms are neither plants nor animals—they’re a secret third thing: fungus, of course!

We humans have more in common with fungus, genetically speaking, than we do with plants. That is because animals and fungi evolved from a common ancestor about 1.1 billion years ago. We also have fungus to thank for plants; when plants were first migrating out of the oceans, they lacked the root systems necessary to survive on land. They enlisted mycelium to act as their roots, transporting nutrients from soil to foliage, until the plants evolved to do so on their own. Mycelium is truly magical!

I am totally and utterly enchanted by fungus, but not everyone feels the same way. Many people turn their nose up when I mention mushroom pizza; still others’ eyes bug out of their heads when they hear that I’m serving up my fresh wild finds. If I’m honest, I like it that way—more mushrooms for me!

5. The Devil is in the Details

Mushrooms are sneaky! You’d be hard pressed to walk through the forest and not spot a tree or a bird or a rock. On the other hand, you could easily hike for several miles without ever spotting a fungus.

Mushrooms thrive in the moist, shadowy undergrowth: some live lonely lives underneath the leaf litter, while others crowd together in cramped clusters on the dark side of fallen logs.

Sure, some mushrooms are divas, like these scarlet bonnets that appeared in the middle of the trail near my house in urban Seattle:

But most mushrooms are shy things, hidden away behind brush and brambles. If you’re looking for the good stuff, you better be willing to wander off the beaten path and get your hands a little dirty. Sometimes it’s all about the angles—you may not spot a ground-level mushroom from your usual standing height, but if you crouch down, peer through the vegetation, tilt your head, close one eye…okay, close the other eye, visualize it in your mind’s eye…and then, poof! You may just spot something that you never could have caught on your casual forest stroll.

6. Every Day is Precious

Beyond the gamble inherent to eating mushrooms, I know many foragers who avoid mushrooms because they prefer the longer harvest seasons of other edibles: 2-3 months for blackberries, 4 months for rosehips, and 6-9 months for dandelions, to name a few Washington natives. By contrast, mushrooms are ripe and ready to harvest for a much shorter period: typically 1-3 days. This, of course, depends on the mushroom species—some amanitas, for example, take 24-48 hours to fully unfold.

Two photos of the same mushrooms, taken 24 hours apart.

Polypores, on the other hand, may live many months to many years, but their tough, leathery form makes them unsuitable for eating. It’s best to leave these fungus friends to their important ecological roles: parasitizing and breaking down dead trees.

Regardless, after the first flush, foragers have a very quick turnaround to get to fungal fruits before the other critters do. Day 1 is prime time to harvest your finds, which is why you should always head out on that first day after a rainstorm. Day 2 is when various forest factors begin to take over: bugs, mold, and dirt, among others. By day 3, most mushrooms begin to decompose, their fragile parts overtaken by the elements. Spores scatter; stems splinter; caps crack; the fruiting body liquefies itself, all too ready to rejoin the pine needles and crisp leaves marinating in the morning dew. By this point, it simply isn’t worth your effort to harvest, and you’d be better off waiting for the next flush.

7. Never Mind a Hitchhiker

If you can’t handle a few bugs, mushroom foraging probably isn’t for you…

…’nuff said.

8. Not Every Mushroom is Magical

8. Every Mushroom is Magical!

I think I speak for every mushroom forager alive when I say…

Stop assuming that we’re searching for psychedelic mushrooms! Psychoactive mushrooms constitute an inconceivably small fraction of the entire fungal kingdom. While psilocybes are native to every continent, so too are thousands of other fungi, many of which have amazing edible and medicinal properties that oft go overlooked. Fungus is the future: from cleaning up oil spills to curing terminal illnesses to protecting honeybees to solving mazes to crafting sustainable materials, the benefits of fungus far surpass the mental/ emotional/ spiritual benefits that may be gleaned from psilocybin therapy—although I do not at all mean to downplay the incredible healing potential for psilocybin medicines!

What I mean to say is that all mushrooms are magical, not just the ones that make you see God. Besides, if I always went out searching for magic mushrooms, I would be disappointed nearly every time.

9. Trust Yourself!

You don’t have to go foraging with the intention of eating whatever you find. Why not just venture into the woods and see what you encounter? Trust that you’ll see something incredible, and you will!

If Skyler had never convinced me to call myself an amateur mycologist, I might never have gone out in search of mushrooms. If I hadn’t worked up the nerve to try that Coral’s Tooth Fungus from a random tree in Quakertown, Pennsylvania, I might never have developed the self-confidence to make my favorite meal, oyster mushroom shawarma, every time it rains near my house. If you never try, you’ll never know. Trust that you’ll learn as you go—and if you don’t, at least you’ll have gotten out of the house.

10. We Are All Connected

Mycelium is the largest organism in the world. It weaves neural networks in the ground, stretching and winding for miles underneath every step we take. We may only see it when it fruits, but trust and believe that there is fungus among us—literally everywhere we go, from the untouched old growth forest to the most densely populated metropolitan hubs.

Even more incredible is the wood-wide-web, a network of mycorrhizal fungi that maintain a symbiotic relationship with tree roots. Trees and mycelium live together harmoniously; the fungi feed on decaying plant material, while the plants use the mycelium to communicate, warning one another of pests, drought, disease, and even allowing mother plants to share nutrients with their offspring, thus ensuring the longevity of the ecosystem. Mycelium connects the forest just as it connects us; by learning from, using, and loving fungi, we enter into symbiosis; we partake in the massive mycorrhizal network that links forest to forest, region to region, continent to continent. Indeed, we are all connected, and my short stints in the woods are mere reminders of our implicit interconnectedness.

Just a few days ago, I visited Mount Rainier National Park in my home state, Washington. As I wandered along a low elevation trail in the dewy morning air, I encountered a small bolete. I was fascinated by the way its yellow stem bruised deep blue under my touch; I crouched to snap a picture of its brilliant polychromatism.

Just as I did so, a family of three walked up behind me: a mother, a father, and a young girl of about 10 years. The girl bravely asked,

“Do you know what kind of mushroom that is?”

I admitted that sadly, I had forgotten my field guide at home; I couldn’t be sure of its edibility without a positive identification. After asking her what she knew about mushrooms, I showed her the bruising on the stalk and explained the process of fungal auto-digestion. She listened carefully, wide-eyed, nodding along occasionally. Then, she turned to her parents and said, with an air of self-assuredness impressive for a girl of her age,

“I told you she was a mushroom person.”

I will carry this title like a badge of honor: mycelium has taught me so much, and I am very proud to be a mushroom person!

The Truth About Birthright Israel- Part Two

In my previous post, I wrote about my “Birthright” trip to occupied Palestine in 2018. “Taglit-Birthright Israel” is an Israeli government program that sponsors ten-day trips for all young Jews. I am Jewish on my mother’s side, so I decided to take advantage of the program.

Before embarking on my journey, I was quite unfamiliar with the socio-political controversies surrounding modern Israel. This ten-day trip certainly opened my eyes, and I was shocked by how viscerally I was confronted with conflict.

Yet, I had several Jewish peers who went on “Birthright,” and when they returned, they were enamored and entirely uncritical of the Israeli government. They spoke of forming lifelong relationships, connecting with their heritage, and of course, the delicious Israeli food. I was deeply disquieted by the differences in our experiences, which appeared to me as blatant indoctrination. Is a free ten-day trip really all it takes for young people to overlook human rights violations?

A Precursory Disclaimer on Antisemitism

Jews have been systematically persecuted since the advent of Judaism, circa 1000 BCE. Around 70 CE, the Romans destroyed the Jewish State of Israel, causing Jews to scatter across the globe. In the centuries to follow, Jews were pushed out of Russia, Austria, Germany, and many other countries across the globe, forced to seek asylum in foreign lands where they were despised due to religious conflict and ethnic stereotypes. The most obvious example of this hatred is the Holocaust, wherein 6 million+ Jews were murdered on the sole basis of their ethnic identity. These antisemitic biases and crimes persist today, as evidenced by the Pittsburgh Synagogue Shooting in 2017 and, more recently, the infamous hip-hop artist’s public hate speech towards Jews.

I provide this context to remind my readers that Jews have been and still are a targeted minority group throughout the world. For this reason alone, I felt it important to write a separate article on the beauty and complexity of Jewish culture that I experienced while in occupied Palestine. By splitting my travels into two separate articles, I acknowledge that I risk conveying a holistic view of Israel as entirely good or entirely bad. To the former, this trip taught me a lot about global politics and Jewish history. To the latter…well, let’s just get into it.

Some Quick Historical Context

Zionism — a nationalist movement that espouses the creation of a Jewish homeland — emerged in the late 19^th century. Jews yearned for a place to call their own; a spiritual center; a refuge free from discrimination, abuse, and violence. The new Jewish state, named Israel, was established in 1948 in the region historically known as Palestine. Zionists claim that this region, often regarded as The Holy Land, belongs to the Jews, for Jewish texts describe Jerusalem and surrounding areas as a sacred site for Judaism—the Promised Land.

One tiny problem: the Promised Land had already been promised to others—specifically, the Palestinian people, who had settled on that land for centuries preceding 1948.

This territory has been a source of conflict for so long that many consider it irreconcilable, and indeed, the conflict continues to this day. Since 1948, Israel’s military occupation has forced Palestinians into smaller and smaller areas in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip. Those who remain with their homes and communities in occupied Palestine face daily persecution from Israeli Defense Forces, which often culminates in destruction of Palestinian property or bodily harm. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict has consistently affected civilians and produced a disproportionate number of casualties from the Arab side, in large part due to Israel’s resources and military power. I implore my readers to research the continued violence against Palestinians in their ancestral homeland. Vox is a good place to start.

The "Birthright" Agenda

NOTE: I will continue to refer to my Taglit trip as “Birthright,” because I do not feel that Jews have any more birthright over that land than the people who have resided there for centuries. Furthermore, I use the terms “Israel” and “occupied Palestine” to refer to the same region; “Israel” in the context of the Jewish nation-state, “occupied Palestine” everywhere else.

Step One: Get them while they're young

In the wee hours of dawn, I stepped afoot an Israel-bound plane with forty other young Jews. In my first attempt to make friends, I struck up a conversation with a girl seated next to me—a fellow brown-skinned, dark-haired, Jewish girl who could, like me, pass for “ethnically ambiguous.” I must have mentioned that I speak some Spanish (studied in high school and later in college) because she exclaimed,

“Cool! I love Mexicans! I love your culture!”

She’s confused, but she’s got the spirit, I thought. Chuckling, I said, “I’m actually half-Indian, half-American Jewish.”

“Oooooh, so can you speak Indian?”

Um…. there are 22 scheduled languages and hundreds of regional dialects spoken in India, none of which are called “Indian.” My father speaks Bengali, and I study Hindi. Common mistake—I didn’t fault her.

Yet, this encounter set the tone for many of my future interactions with my fellow “Birthright” travelers. While many of them proved knowledgeable about Jewish customs and Israeli history, they also turned out to be uneducated, tone deaf, or even willfully ignorant to other cultures—especially Palestinian culture. For many of my peers, “Birthright” was their first time traveling outside of their home state, let alone by themselves or internationally. At age 20, I was older than most of the individuals in my group, who were primarily fresh out of high school and extremely impressionable to the ideas proposed by our tour guide and group leaders. I believe the “Birthright” agenda is heavily targeted towards those who have limited prior cultural exposures.

Step Two: Lure them to Israel

“Birthright” is a shockingly generous program. The Israeli government pays for thousands of Jewish youths to visit every year, and there’s virtually no catch, besides having to stay for the entire ten days. If you leave early, or somehow get kicked off, you only forfeit a $200 deposit. Many travelers take advantage of the free overseas flight and continue to travel around Asia or Europe after the trip ends—“Birthright” makes no conditions as to when you arrive or when you leave the country, so long as you participate in the ten days of organized travel. They’ll pay for your flight home–no questions asked!

Furthermore, the “Birthright” budget is by no means modest. We slept in 5-star hotels, gorged ourselves on gourmet buffets, and engaged in countless cultural activities that would have burned through a tourist’s pocket. The sheer luxury of this free program raises some questions, to say the least. Yet, if you’re Jewish, you would be stupid to not take advantage of this program. In this way, the “Birthright” offer is somewhat irresistible.

Step Three: Make them feel at home

Israel boasts a developed free-market economy, with modern infrastructure that rivals many Western countries. The country’s prosperous economy allows for sophisticated welfare programs, a powerful modern military, and high-quality education systems. As a result, many parts of occupied Palestine feel comfortable and familiar for many American travelers—perhaps even uncannily so. Indeed, the difference between Israel and its neighboring nations—Jordan, Lebanon, and Egypt—is stark. The Tel Aviv skyline, the developed roads, the thriving technology industry…these factors point to colonial power, not a young sovereign nation sequestered in the Middle East.

From my perspective, the logic behind this step is quite clear: shower the young visitors with lavish gifts so they won’t ask questions. At the beginning of the trip, I naively wondered if “Birthright” is an innocent ploy to boost Israeli tourism. As time went on, however, I started to feel as though I had been paid for my silence.

Step Four: Promote anti-Arab propaganda

My fellow travelers’ true colors emerged quickly. Upon arriving at our hotel on the first night, one girl became restless and irate. She began to shout about having to sit next to a Palestinian woman on the plane ride,

“I bet she thought she was going to Palestine, huh? Well, she’s not. This is ISRAEL!” She followed her angry tirade with a stream of obscenities, prompting one of our group leaders to step in.

“Hey now, I spoke to a Palestinian man on the plane, and he was actually very nice…” the group leader began weakly, but we all recognized the futility of his attempt. Even he seemed unconvinced. There was no further effort to counter her blatant hate speech.

From that interaction onward, anti-Palestinian rhetoric became commonplace among our group. Other forms of hate speech also went unpunished (the N word was popular among my group—needless to say, none of us were Black), but remarks targeted at Palestinians seemed to be encouraged, even rewarded. These sentiments were propagated by our Israeli tour guide and our American group leaders as much as my fellow travelers.

For example, the Birthright itinerary always includes a visit to Israel’s borders with Syria and Jordan so that travelers can “gain a real understanding” of Israel’s geo-political positionality in the Middle East. This “real understanding” turned out to be a slew of propaganda which cast Jordanian and Syrian people as uncivilized, violent warmongers. Our tour guide, standing with his back to the arid Syrian plains, gestured broadly across the farmlands and said casually,

“We always see explosions over there.” Inevitably, this remark prompted several ignorant questions: How often do they bomb Israel? Have they ever targeted a Birthright group? Are Syrian women educated? Are they all forced to build bombs? The conversation was unproductive once again, serving only to heighten fear and distrust. As for perspective gained on Israeli geopolitics, we were evidently meant to view Israel as a perfect victim, helplessly sandwiched between primitive Arab countries with no means of self-defense. Records of military spending will no doubt have a different story to tell.

At the Dead Sea, our tour guide declared that the Jordanian government is purposefully polluting the saline water to gain control over it. He conveniently neglected to mention that Israel is equally to blame for the Dead Sea’s lowering water levels and rising number of contaminants. In reality, the two countries’ refusal to cooperate threatens the Dead Sea far more than the pollutants of either country alone. Israelites have historically accomplished great feats in water management (see Part 1), but their inability to work with Arab neighbors may cause irreparable damage to their historical and religious landmark.

The anti-Arab discourse came to a head in Jerusalem. On a rooftop overlooking the Old City, our tour guide began to lecture about the Temple Mount, the Western Wall, and other sacred geographies. He recounted the First Temple and its fall to the neo-Babylonians, then the subsequent Second Temple and its fall to the Romans. Then he pointed to Al-Aqsa, the plaza beyond the Western Wall. Barely bothering to conceal his disgust, he sneered, “they stole our temple.”

Dominion over the Temple Mount, or Al-Aqsa as Muslims call it, has been central to global religious conflict for centuries. This location is a sacred site for all three Abrahamic traditions–Judaism, Christianity, Islam–whom all constantly vie for control. However, the claim that Muslims stole the Temple Mount is reductive and historically questionable. 500 years span the gap between King Herod’s Second Temple and the construction of the Dome of the Rock; if anything, the Romans should be on trial, for their temple to Jupiter was the first to replace its Jewish predecessor. Our tour guide’s accusation mirrored the broader Zionist ethic, which tends to ignore historical chronology in favor of spiritual entitlement.

All this hateful rhetoric against Arabs was underscored by a bizarrely cheerful spring break energy. Out of all the planned activities, my peers were mostly interested in clubbing in Tel Aviv, partying at the beach, and drinking in our hotel rooms. We were shuffled from marketplaces to gift shops to malls, urged to shop for handicrafts and try authentic local cuisine. Ironically, many of these uniquely “Israeli” dishes (shakshuka, hummus, falafel) are just shameless appropriations from Arab cultures. But my peers were far too busy spending their shekels at upscale boutiques to think critically about colonial exchange networks.

Step Five: Instill Zionist loyalty

Much like American education, the framework of “Birthright” is infused with an Israeli nationalist spirit that strategically penetrates the pathos. The “Birthright” itinerary takes young Jews through Israel’s national cemeteries, war forts, and great historic battle sites. These morbid locations work in conjunction to illustrate the endless plight of the Jews. Simultaneously, the educational core glorifies Jewish history to justify the creation of the Zionist State.

Through all of this, my group was drinking excessively, hooking up with one another, and attending “Birthright”-sponsored EDM mega-events that celebrated the founding of Israel. At the mega-event I attended in 2018, a sponsor implored the audience (thousands of Birthright travelers) to act as ambassadors and sway public opinion in Israel’s favor when we returned home. I was shocked by his bold request, but when I glanced around me, my peers were smiling and cheering—they had been drinking for hours by that point. I guess alcohol makes the propaganda go down easier.

There was also a distinct undercurrent of peace symbolism throughout the trip. I mentioned in Part 1 that we were each given a dove to release for seemingly no reason. Later, we took a tour of an olive oil factory, where the saleswoman really emphasized the olive branch imagery.

And then there were the IDF soldiers. “Birthright” includes a multi-day mifgash (encounter) with Israeli peers, who are almost always active duty in the Israeli Defense Forces. On my trip, our IDF peers traveled with us for six days.

For background, Israel mandates conscription for every citizen over the age of 18. Men are expected to serve a minimum of 32 months, women 24. Arab Israelis are notably and explicitly exempt from service, as are a few other groups such as religious women and married individuals. The Israeli Defense Forces is somewhat notorious with the United Nations for its perpetual war crimes in conflict against Palestine, so I was fascinated (and somewhat terrified) to meet the young soldiers in person and pick their brains.

As it turned out, my IDF peers had little to say because they had nothing to admit. One day, I sat with an American friend and an IDF soldier, a woman named Einav, for lunch. My American friend mentioned a video he had seen the previous week, of an IDF bombing of a Palestinian civilian area.

“Do you support this?” he asked Einav.

“That wasn’t us,” Einav responded immediately, impulsively.

“What do you mean?” my friend asked, puzzled. “You can see the soldiers in IDF uniforms in the video. You can see them, see?” He pulled out his phone and showed her his news source. Her eyes skimmed the screen and without hesitating:

“Video footage can be doctored. Don’t believe everything you see on the internet,” Einav scolded. My American friend looked at me, jaw dropped. Is she required to cover for her country? Or does she truly believe that Israel is blameless?

Further inquiries were met with sharp denial. Trying to convince her felt futile, so the topic was dropped, unresolved.

Step Six: Encourage marriage within the religion

Our IDF peers were not just there to make us doubt the media narratives against Israel. They were also there for our socializing and fraternizing pleasure. They slept with us in our hotel rooms, and our group leaders did little to discourage frisky co-ed behavior. In fact, I can recall several instances when “Birthright” organizers encouraged the development of romantic relationships between group members. We were each slept 4 to a room, but that didn’t stop my fellow travelers from…enjoying each other’s company.

Subliminally, I had known that this is the motivation behind “Birthright”—to promote marriage within the religion. An ongoing longitudinal study called the Jewish Futures Project shows that Jews who go on “Birthright” are significantly more likely to marry another Jew than those who don’t. What I did not expect, however, was their complete lack of subtlety. More than once, we were told to “look around you—your husband or wife is probably standing in this group!” Everyone told us in plain terms to fall in love on “Birthright,” marry another Jew, move back to Israel, and have Jewish babies.

The part they didn’t say out loud?

Those Jewish babies grow up to be Israeli citizens and, inevitably, IDF soldiers. “Birthright” is a soft power tool of demographic engineering and military recruitment, designed to insure the Jewish majority in future generations so that the Israeli state may continue to occupy Palestine.

Despite my tour guide’s efforts to portray the Zionists as innocent victims of Arab violence, Israel has blood on its hands. Israeli occupation of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, as well as the innumerable war crimes committed against the Palestinian people since 1948, have been solely enabled by Israel’s mandatory conscription law. By participating on “Birthright,” I was a gullible pawn in this master plan.

Step Seven: Lure them back

After everything I experienced during my ten days in occupied Palestine, I could hardly believe it when, at the end of the trip, my fellow travelers were heartbroken to leave. They shared teary goodbyes and sappy lectures about how the trip had changed their lives, how they would miss everyone so dearly, and how proud they were to be Jewish. Many vowed to move to Israel, while others promised to spread the good word when they returned home.

Frankly, I could not participate in their festivities; my feelings were the opposite of theirs. My “Birthright” trip had disillusioned me so completely that I did not ever want to return to Israel. I did not want to advocate for Zionism. I did not want to marry a Jew. When I left Israel, I didn’t even want to BE a Jew anymore. I felt deeply ashamed by the violence initiated by my ancestors and perpetuated by my peers. I could not believe that these geopolitical conflicts, seemingly so ancient and abstract, could manifest themselves before my eyes so tangibly. Furthermore, I could not believe that kids my own age were willing to overlook these conflicts for a free vacation.

Most of all, my heart ached for the Palestinian people—those who still live under apartheid rule, and those who have died in the fight. “Birthright” did not introduce us to those people, nor acknowledge their oppression. “Birthright” relies on the anonymity of Palestinians to tell its twisted tale of nation-making and justification. “Birthright” abets Israeli occupation in Palestine by spreading misinformation and indoctrinating thousands of young Jews every year.

“Birthright” is a violent colonial institution. That is the truth. And while I can only speak for my own experiences, I hope that my Jewish peers will also soon recognize their ethical obligation to speak out against Israel.

FREE PALESTINE!

If you are interested in supporting the fight to Free Palestine, please consider donating to one of the following organizations:

Medical Aid for Palestinians

Palestine Campaign

United Palestinian Appeal

Jewish Voice for Peace

If you would like more context on the Israel-Palestine conflict, please visit the following resources:

United Nations

The Iron Cage by Rashid Khalidi

The Israel-Palestinian Conflict by James L Gelvin

Arabs and Israelis: Conflicts and Peacemaking in the Middle East by Abdel Modem Said Aly, Shai Feldman, & Khalil Shikaki

Let the Good Times Roll

Did you know that there are no open container laws in New Orleans?

I didn’t. Frankly, I didn’t know what to expect when I flew into NOLA on the eve of Mardi Gras. I have always wanted to celebrate Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but only because of the living room in my childhood home. My mother painted the walls a dark, royal purple and hung feathered masks to match. I had a strong visual of the iconic event, but in my mind, it was completely distanced from its context. New Orleans couldn’t possibly be a city in Louisiana, not in the United States at all, but rather, a whimsical land outside of space and time where sequined fairies shower you with beads and court jesters dance in the streets.

My conception wasn’t entirely false. Sequined fairies do shower you with beads, and court jesters do dance in the streets. New Orleans at Mardi Gras embodies liminality. Everyone is either coming or going, yet no one has any real place to be. All other affairs come to a screeching halt. The laws and morals of everyday life needn’t apply—after all, it’s Mardi Gras, baby. At least, this seemed to be the attitude held by my friend Payton, who lived in New Orleans and hosted me for the week. His job gave him the week prior to Mardi Gras off, so he spent his free days attending parades and collecting festive paraphernalia. He proudly showed off his favorite “throws”—stacks of plastic cups and handfuls of fake doubloons—while boasting his tried-and-true method for capturing a Krewe member’s attention aboard a float. I won’t reveal his secret, of course; everyone must discover their own methods.

Unsurprisingly, the debauchery and chaos of Mardi Gras are steeped in age-old religious tradition. And who better than the Catholics, of course, to throw a raucous sin fest every year to commemorate the season of salvation?

Rather than tell you where it all starts, it’s easier for me to explain where it ends, and that’s Easter Sunday. Easter falls on the first Sunday after the Paschal full moon, and the forty days preceding the feast are called Lent. This is a time of fasting and religious observance, wherein Catholics honor the forty days Jesus spent wandering in the desert prior to his crucifixion. They will usually make a Lenten sacrifice (such as a food or habit) and/ or undertake a spiritual discipline (such as daily devotional or prayer) to honor Jesus’s ultimate sacrifice. Many Catholics also forgo meat. Easter, then, is a welcome respite; the breaking of the long fast; a light at the end of the tunnel. The period of grief is necessarily ended by celebration of the great miracle of Christianity.

But let’s keep winding the clock back. Lent kicks off with Ash Wednesday, when Catholics attend mass in the morning to formally begin the fast. If we go back one day further, we land on the Tuesday before Lent. This Tuesday is known as *Fat Tuesday* in honor of the gluttony that you’re meant to indulge in on the day before you fast. Traditionally, Catholics eat rich, fatty foods the night before Lenten season, then repent their sins one last time before the piety begins. It’s a classic pre-game celebration, and because it’s such a great idea, lots of non-Christians have joined in on the Fat Tuesday festivities as well. Mardi Gras is a literal translation of “Fat Tuesday” in French, and you don’t even have to be Catholic to partake!

France, a nation that proudly celebrates Carnival, is responsible for bringing the festivities to Louisiana. In 1699, on the eve of Lent, French-Canadian explorer Jean Baptiste Le Moyne Sieur de Bienville arrived on a plot near New Orleans and declared it the “Pointe du Mardi Gras.” I guess the people of New Orleans took that title and ran with it, because now the city is infamous for its rowdy pre-Lent party. Suffice it to say that the world has Catholicism to thank for this thrilling tradition.

Festivities

The NOLA Mardi Gras celebration consists mainly of lavish parades, hosted by exclusive groups called Krewes. The Krewes, usually named for Classical heroes and Gods (Bacchus, Sparta, Dionysus, etc.), build their own floats, plan performances, and design costumes, all of which are shrouded in secrecy until the grand Mardi Gras reveal. Unless you’re one of the lucky few privies to a Krewe gathering, you’ll have to set up camp on the parade route to see the resulting masterpieces.

Parades start as early as a month before Fat Tuesday and each follow different routes, though most of them travel west through the French Quarter. Festivalgoers stake out spots hours before the parade to socialize, dance, eat, drink, and generally cause a ruckus. I attended my first parade with some of Payton’s friends, who prepared an entire parade-side cookout. We hauled a charcoal grill and carts full of food to the street, where we commenced a needlessly elaborate barbecue. Our neighbors to the right blasted music from their boombox while the couple to our left danced in matching sequined outfits, and we offered hot dogs to both parties in the spirit of Mardi Gras abundance. I opted for a smoky veggie skewer, of course.

Most parades are still led by Flambeaux—a line of flaming torches that were once crucial for providing light for the festivities. Even after the advent of streetlights, they remained a symbol of the party to follow. The Flambeaux announce the arrival of the Krewe and its parade: gargantuan floats, costumed dancers, and showers of petty treasures—namely beaded necklaces and plastic masks. Attendees crowd the floats as they pass by, pleading and performing for a chance to catch the krewe’s exclusive throws. Some of my favorite catches included a set of plush dice and a Krewe of Orpheus coin.

Masks, the iconic symbol of Mardi Gras, allow wearers to temporarily transcend borders of class, status, race, and religion. They grant the wearer freedom to behave freely during the Carnival season. Masks lend to the liminality of the event; no one is who they usually are. You can find plastic masks littering the streets after a parade, but the best ones require exquisite craftsmanship and painstaking detail. I quite enjoyed perusing the mask shops on Bourbon Street, where each mask alluded to a different culture or time, from 18^th century Commedia Dell’arte to 14^th century plague doctors to ancient dramatic traditions all over the world.

Now, Mardi Gras doesn’t have to be all booze and belligerence (although you’ll see plenty of that!). In the name of contextualizing the chaos, I have some travel recommendations for my readers.

Food

Union Ramen: Japanese cuisine curated by a Vietnamese chef and a Filipino restauranteur—a true melting pot! Try the beggar’s purse dumplings, the shishito peppers, and the miso ramen with oyster mushrooms.

Juan’s Flying Burrito: Creole-tinged Tex-Mex with an emphasis on burritos. Chips & queso are great, of course, but the vegetarian options are numerous; order the tofu Juaha roll, the veggie punk burrito, or the BBQ mushroom quesadillas.

The Vintage: a classy little café bar with a tantalizing selection of beignets, baked fresh daily with rotating flavors. They also serve hors d’oeuvres and wine if you’re into that. I was extremely tempted by the truffle parmesan fries.

San Lorenzo: an ode to coastal Italian cuisine nestled in the historic St. Vincent Hotel. The lounge is spacious, warmly lit, and the dishes showcase the diversity of flavors in NOLA. I recommend the zucchini fritti and the arugula salad.

Creole Creamery: a local ice cream joint with a large selection of novelty ice cream flavors ranging from lavender honey to petit four. My favorite was chocolate doberge, but the flavors rotate regularly. Go check out the new menu when you’re there!

NOLA Caye: a contemporary take on regional New Orleans cuisine, which is a hybrid of European, Indigenous American, African, and Caribbean flavors. Unfortunately, creole food leaves something to be desired for vegetarians, but Caye has struck a beautiful balance. They’re known for their seafood, but I loved the crispy plantains and the jalapeño-cheddar grits.

Bittersweet Confections: a quaint café/ bakery on Magazine St. They offer delectable pastries as well as a full breakfast-lunch menu. I practically inhaled my veggie wrap (okay, maybe I was just starving).

Sucre Bakery: a pastry haven. If you’re like me, you’ll be craving a traditional macaron in this French-influenced city. This bakery has every flavor of the delicate dessert that you can imagine, plus coffee and other baked goods. Even if you don’t like macarons, you’ll love seeing the vibrant rounds stacked in cake form behind the case.

Magnolia Sugar and Spice: a hot-sauce-shop-slash-bakery in the French Quarter that specializes in a classic nutty confection: the praline. Incredibly sweet and impossibly good; I wish I could load a whole suitcase full to take some home with me.

HONORARY MENTION- Auction House Market: a stunning food hall that WAS in the Warehouse District. Sadly, this co-op closed shortly after my visit, but it was so adorable that it deserved a mention here. The central bar was adorned with trailing plants and provided a perfect workspace for local professionals. The back room featured a gorgeous moss wall—I sat there sipping my latte and enjoying the botanical view for hours.

City History & Culture

Café du Monde: OKAY, you caught me, the first one is just more food. I came to realize that between creole cuisine and French pastries, food is a large part of NOLA culture. If you’re wondering where to find a classic New Orleans beignet, look no further—this is THE spot. Their outdoor stand in the French Market offers the full experience: freshly fried pastry dough copiously coated in powdered sugar that is simply *impossible* to not get all over your clothes and face. You can also sip a chicory coffee while you people watch, which is sure to be an exciting sport around Mardi Gras time.

French Quarter: the historic district around which everything in New Orleans revolves. This area has something for everyone: upscale boutiques, restaurants and bars, horse-drawn carriages, voodoo shops, and ghost tours that tackle NOLA’s dark history of slave torture. Bourbon Street, a 13-block stretch of bars and neon, plays host to late-night gatherings and streetside parties. This neighborhood showcases the wrought iron balconies and lush courtyards that characterize NOLA architecture.

Mississippi River: the waterfront bisects the French Quarter and offers a bustling snapshot of the city, with commemorative statues and street vendors galore. Throughout history, the river has signified commerce, but large industrial complexes blocked the waterfront from public access. Since the warehouses were removed in the 1970s, visitors have enjoyed the river with beachside picnics and riverboat tours.

St. Louis Cathedral: the oldest continuously active church in the United States!!! Also known as the Cathedral-Basilica of Saint Louis King of France, this cathedral stands at the edge of the French Quarter and the Mississippi River, boasting jaw-dropping architecture and stained-glass art. The building undergoes regular renovations to reinforce the 200-year-old structure, but Catholics still attend Sunday morning service every week. Interestingly, the site has been a place of worship for even longer, but the original building was burned to the ground in 1788. The current cathedral has stood since 1793.

The Swamp: New Orleans belongs to a temperate deciduous forest biome with marshes all along its tributaries. These boggy inlets create one of the longest coastlines in the United States! Sadly, I did not encounter any gators while down in the bayou, but these forested wetlands play host to complex ecosystems with turtles, pelicans, mosses, and cypress trees, the latter of which play a vital role in protecting the swamp from soil erosion. The rough terrain of this fragile ecosystem has long protected New Orleans from Southern attacks, while providing access to important oceanic trade routes.

Buckner Mansion: built by a cotton kingpin in 1856, this mansion is one of many in the Garden District, featuring grandiose gates, stone columns, and not one, not two, but three ballrooms! The property is rumored to be haunted by the Buckner family’s slave, Josephine, which explains why it was chosen as the set for American Horror Story Season 3: Coven. Nowadays, ghost enthusiasts, AHS fans, and ambitious property buyers alike flock to the Buckner Mansion to admire the architecture and catch a glimpse of poor old Josephine.

Though I had no idea what Mardi Gras in NOLA entailed, I was so grateful to discover southern hospitality, amazing food, and ritual transformation, all steeped in fascinating history. If I were to celebrate Mardi Gras in NOLA again (which is something I definitely plan on doing), I would arrive a week or two before Fat Tuesday to experience more parades from the other prominent Krewes. I would also reserve a spot on a ghost tour because WOW this city has some dark lineages. I did not have nearly enough time to explore all this city has to offer. However, my first Fat Tuesday celebration was an absolute riot, and it’s all thanks to Payton and the friendly people of N’awleans.

11 Quirks of Seattle

Hello friends! As I am sure many of you know, I recently moved to Seattle, and it has taken every single one of my feeble brain cells to figure out this city. I traveled a bit before my move, but I’ll write about those adventures later—for now, I am completely enamored with the Pacific Northwest, and I thought it would be fun to share the first eleven quirks I noticed about this city.

Ever-Greenery (+ Pesky Ivy)

I was immediately struck by it on the drive up from Colorado. My Northwest-bound route was mainly monotonous: desert and dry shrub throughout Western Colorado, Northern Utah, Western Wyoming, and Southern Idaho. But as I wound down dark roads through Eastern Washington with a Uhaul trailer in tow, I found myself suddenly enveloped in lush forest. A light rain greeted me, alluding to the countless warnings I had received about Washington state’s climate. The towering hemlocks, firs, and cedars welcomed me in a way that Colorado’s flora never had.

After being here for a few months, the greenery continues to be the most comforting aspect of West Coast city life. I am incredibly fortunate to live half a block away from a forested park with over five miles of trails—my urban oasis with a surprising amount of foraging potential. I won’t even get into the insane greenery I saw on my recent trip to the Olympic Peninsula, which shall be a whole article of its own.

A good chunk of Seattle’s greenery comes from English ivy, which is quaint & cute cottage-core vibes….until you realize that it’s a rampantly invasive plant to this region. It takes over everything. I guess it’s good for the wildlife, though, because the ivy patch in front of my apartment is home to a family of large rats. Super fun for my cats, not so much for me.

Go Huskies!

Besides my unsatiable thirst for exploration, I was drawn to Seattle by a very exciting development: my acceptance to graduate school! Starting in the fall, I will study comparative religion and women & gender studies in South Asia. I am looking forward to building on my undergraduate research in Hindu women’s rituals and incorporating my new studies into my Yoga practice. The best part is that I’ve been offered a Foreign Language and Area Studies fellowship to complete this degree in exchange for studying Hindi (which I was going to do anyway).

I am also unbelievably lucky to have found an apartment near the university district in Seattle, so I live within walking distance of campus, and I am constantly surrounded by college culture. Though I don’t start classes until the end of September, I can tell that University of Washington (colloquially known as U Dub) students are full of pride in their school, and I am extremely optimistic about the faculty I will be working with during my two-year program.

Land Acknowledgements

Seattle occupies the traditional land of almost thirty indigenous American tribes, and the people here seem more aware of our continued colonization than most other places I’ve lived. I encounter land acknowledgments to the Coast Salish people and the Duwamish tribe almost everywhere I go, from natural landmarks to touristy urban destinations. I especially appreciate the ones at Snoqualmie Falls, which emphasize that sacred sites and resources were stolen from Indigenous Americans and commodified by colonial settlers. The Snoqualmie (meaning “moon” in Salish) region encompasses vast fertile valleys and a 268-foot waterfall, which was once coveted by indigenous Americans as a source of natural abundance and the birthplace of many formative myths. These myths speak of the Moon Transformer, Snoqualm, who birthed fire and trees from the sky unto the earth. The Moon Transformer receives offering from the falls’ water, so the land surrounding the falls served as ceremonial grounds and burial sites for the Snoqualmie people.

Unfortunately, the Snoqualmie land was settled by pioneers in the 1850’s, whereupon it was pillaged by loggers and later channeled into an underground power plant. Those hydroelectric generators still exist and operate today, appropriating the sacred energy of the Falls to provide electricity for surrounding areas. The natural marvel of Snoqualmie Falls, along with the power plant, continue to draw hordes of tourists that impact the remaining members of these indigenous tribes, as well as land back efforts.

While hiking at the falls, I was grateful to see plaques that were truthful about the power plant’s ugly history. Yet, written statements seem a feeble consolation for the native peoples’ loss of land, resources, and rituals. I wonder whether these acknowledgements are backed by tangible social action, and I must ask myself how I can make reparations to these indigenous Americans as I reside in their territory.

Water Water Everywhere

The wonder—and sometimes the terror—of living in Seattle is being surrounded by formidable bodies of water. Flanked by the Puget Sound to the West, Lake Washington to the East, and Lake Union in the North, there is never a shortage of water activities. I haven’t spent much time on the water since my summer in Tennessee, so I am soaking up my proximity to the ocean. Each morning, the tide recedes, making way for my newest hobby, the sister science to foraging in the woods: tidepooling!!! So far I have spotted anemones, starfish, hermit crabs, harbor seals, and sea otters all within thirty minutes of my apartment. I have never been an ocean girl, but I have a feeling I’m about to become one.

Lake Washington and Lake Union teem with wildlife, as well. Kaleidoscopes of swallowtail butterflies perch on the sandy beaches (fun fact: a group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope!) while beavers build dams and Great Blue Herons dive for fish in the clear waters. I’ve been channeling my inner duck when I paddleboard through swampy enclaves.

Seattle Freeze

Okay, ouch. People warned me about this phenomenon before I made the big leap, but I wasn’t prepared for the honesty of the expression. “Seattle Freeze” refers to the tendency of Seattle residents to be cold, distant, and unwilling to make new friends. This disconnect has obviously been challenging for me as I attempt to find my people in this city. Seattleites aren’t downright mean—no, the freeze manifests in subtle ways, like the total rarity of smiles shared between passersby. The grocery clerk never asks me how my day is going, which isn’t an earth-shattering tragedy in and of itself, but my inability to connect with strangers has certainly hindered my transition. I’m used to the welcoming warmth of Coloradoans and the sickly-sweet hospitality of Midwesterners, so I’m curious to know why Seattle hardens everyone here. I fear I’ll succumb to the freeze if I stay here too long!

Native Fruit

My mom grew up in Tacoma, Washington and I fondly remember picking cherries from a tree in the backyard of her childhood home. Growing up in sub-desert Colorado, though, I always imagined that a backyard cherry tree was an unusual luxury, even in Washington. I could not have been more wrong. In hunting for mushrooms, I accidentally stumbled into the cherished PNW tradition of native berry picking. It was impossible to ignore—as I reached through thick brush to harvest an oyster mushroom, my hand met with a bushel of orange berries. I soon came to identify these enticing morsels as salmonberries, edible native fruits that have long been enjoyed by indigenous tribes. The Salish people ate the young plant shoots and the berries (which resemble salmon roe) with dried salmon, hence the name.

Once I worked up the courage to put my fruit identification to the test (by eating them and not dying), I discovered that the PNW is rife with streetside pickins. I have since found native thimbleberries, huckleberries, salal berries, raspberries, grapes, cherry plums, and blackberries—OH, the BLACKBERRIES. They are everywhere. The native species, rubus ursinus, is harder to spot as it grows close to the ground, but the invasive and incredibly noxious Himalayan blackberry has taken over every street corner and city park. While most edible berries have now gone out of season, the Himalayan blackberries are just now starting to ripen. I plan to take this opportunity to perfect my jam recipe. I have also honed my ability to spot poisonous berries, including snow berries and deadly nightshade. A tip for foragers across the world: 99% of aggregate cluster berries (like blackberries and raspberries) are edible, so munch away!

Cultivated Fruit

Finding free fruit on the streets is a novel thrill for me, but I have also noticed that people in Washington are crazy about their fruit in general, even the non-native cultivars. I moved to Seattle in time for peak fruit season, July through September, during which grocery stores and farmer’s markets boast fresh, locally grown peaches, apples, cherries, and numerous other stone fruits. If you’re lucky, you can catch the fruit vendor just after his daily delivery and enjoy divinely juicy nectarines that were picked and shipped from Yakima that same morning! Rainier cherries are the main summer craze, hailing from Washington state and named for the region’s beloved glaciated peak, Mount Rainier. I never would have guessed that two species of red cherry could combine to produce a new fruit that makes every other fruit’s taste and aesthetic value pale in comparison. Nonetheless, I have hopped on the Washington fruit bandwagon, and I now indulge in melt-in-your-mouth white peaches every morning for breakfast.

Daily Commute

I knew Seattle traffic was dreadful, but nothing could have prepared me for the haphazard road infrastructure, which necessarily accommodates odd land shapes formed by surrounding bodies of water. The specifics of the driving terrors I have encountered are not important, but I have finally drawn a conclusion as to why driving is so frightening here. I have driven through more than half of the states in the U.S.., and I find the middle states to be the easiest to navigate. Driving in East coast states like New York and New Jersey can be intimidating due to urgency and aggression on the road, while driving through the American South can be mind-numbingly slow and boring.

Somehow, driving through Seattle encompasses the worst aspects of both extremes. For some downfalls, I question the urban developers—why do they hate turn lanes? Why don’t they understand what signage is relevant? Why is the speed limit 25 MPH on every road? Most of the time, however, I ask myself about the people that commute in this city. Drivers, pedestrians, and cyclists alike seem to have very little regard for their own fragile lives. Suffice to say that my Yoga practice has become even more integral to my daily commute.

Ethnic Cuisine

Seattle boasts diasporas from many nationalities (namely from Asia and Pacific islands), so it comes as no surprise that the cuisine of the city is likewise diverse. Yes, there are espresso shops on every corner, but no one talks about the boba tea shops, of which there are twice as many. Indian food, Ethiopian, Thai, Vietnamese, Mexican, Italian…I could go on. If you want it, you’ll find it in Seattle. I haven’t done too much foodie exploration yet, but I do enjoy living near Din Tai Fung, a tantalizing dim sum restaurant in University Village.

The Rain (or lack thereof)

Ah, yes, the dreaded Seattle gloom. Before my move, I met so many people who lived in the PNW and moved away because they couldn’t stand the climate. Some emphatically advised me to get a “Happy Lamp,” while others just shook their heads and said sadly, “you’ll never see the sun.” I heeded their forecasts and bought a light therapy lamp off Facebook Marketplace as soon as I got into the city. The previous owner told me she was moving out-of-state: “somewhere sunnier,” she bragged, referring to Colorado. Indeed, Colorado boasts 300 days of sunshine, which makes even the coldest, snowy winter mornings feel bright and beautiful. In the meantime, Seattle was prophesied to be dreary all winter without even a good powder day to ease the pain.

I worried that constant overcast skies would affect my mood and my spiritual practice, but I came at a good time. The daily rains subsided in early June, and since then we’ve had an *uncomfortably* dry and hot summer. Historically, Seattle summers haven’t even been hot enough to warrant air conditioning in private residences. It’s temperate here year-round, traditionally with highs in the 80’s and lows in the 30’s (Fahrenheit). Sadly, climate change has brought heat waves over the city for the past few years, and this summer was no different. For two weeks in mid-July, temperatures passed 100 degrees every day, and Sky and I scrambled to keep our cats and reptiles cool with only a couple of fans.

I know I’ll regret saying this come January, but I’m looking forward to the Seattle rain that I was promised. We’ve had the occasional morning shower, but the lack of moisture is seriously impeding my current favorite hobby, which is of course…

MUSHROOMS!!!

My love for mycology was undoubtedly the #1 driving factor behind my West coast relocation. Sky and I have been getting more confident in our identification abilities recently, so we were itching to test out our skills in new territory. The timing of our move was perfect because we had an excellent month of spring mushrooms before the forest dried out. The park near our apartment has proved fruitful for smooth puffballs (edible), scarlet bonnets (inedible, but stunningly beautiful), and fly agarics (poisonous and psychoactive). My favorite spot so far is an adorable mossy clearing that flushes with oysters (edible and choice!) almost every week. Though we haven’t found much during the dry season, September is sure to bring enough moisture for the mycelium to fruit. I’m hoping for chanterelles this autumn!

Have you noticed the trend in my observations? I’m not sure that I’m cut out for city living…driving is unpredictable, a dark winter is coming, and let’s be real—shit’s expensive up here. Unsurprisingly, nature has been my saving grace. Whenever I need to escape this urban enigma, I can venture into the woods or hop on my paddleboard.

My Yoga practice has also been integral for my sanity throughout this wild transition, and I am proud to announce that I began teaching at a new studio called Shefa Yoga Roosevelt! I am so grateful to have this studio and community as I get oriented in my new life. I also adore having students who are receptive when I share traditional aspects of Yoga such as mythology, philosophy, and subtle body attunement. If you happen to be in the Seattle area and would like to practice with me, I teach on:

Tuesdays @ 6:00 AM

Saturdays @ 4:30 PM

Sundays @ 9:30 AM

I get one buddy pass for each class, so please reach out if the drop-in cost ($25) hinders your ability to practice. I would love to move and breathe with you, as well as hear your thoughts about Seattle. What did you notice first? Do you like the rain? What’s your least favorite thing, and why is it the driving?

Thanks for reading, and stay tuned for more on yoga & adventures in Seattle!

Country Roads

Hello, friends! I apologize for being MIA…I have been applying for *grad school*. I won’t say too much, lest I jinx my chances at admission, but I am very much looking forward to moving to a new state and embarking on this new academic adventure. Now that the application deadline has passed, I can get back to chronicling my cross-country road trip last fall! Oh yes, we have several more destinations to cover.

We left off in Washington D.C., where I speed ran the National Mall and was left craving several more days in our nation’s capital. I left my parking spot in the city (that garage had started to feel very homey!) and made the short drive across state borders into Virginia. I camped in my car that evening, and the following day brought new adventures of the national park variety!

Shenandoah National Park: Virginia

On my days in the national parks, I got in the habit of starting early at the visitor center. I picked up a map, enjoyed the views from the accessible scenic overlook, and enlisted a ranger’s help to figure out which parts of the park would be best for mushroom foraging. Unsurprisingly, the ranger had to ask another ranger, and then another, until they all eventually admitted that none of them had any idea. But they pointed me to their favorite trails, which was a good start.

I ended up on a quiet wooded trail that eventually led me downhill to a gentle creek. I didn’t have much luck in my fungus hunt until I moved to sit at the edge of the water. As I turned to step over a tree’s exposed roots, I discovered that its North-facing side was entirely covered in fungus! I spent a long moment sitting on a fallen log and admiring the forest before heading back to my car.

I pulled off at a picnic area and broke out my camp stove for the first time on my journey. I prepared a simple meal of gnocchi and red sauce—the ingredients for which I had saved from Trader Joe’s in Columbus. As I enjoyed my lunch, I found a great deal of amusement in watching a toddler boy attempt to escape his parents by sprinting into the woods.

Then, I took a peaceful, winding drive down Skyline Drive, the road that runs 105 miles North to South along the crest of the Blue Ridge mountains. I pulled off at a scenic overlook near the middle of the park and camped out for a few hours to watch the sunset. Upon awkwardly crawling out of my Subaru’s moon roof, the top of my car offered stunning views of the Blue Ridge mountains, as well as a very good fluffy boy. I sat there long enough to discover that this little dog’s name was Leonardo Davinci, and that Davinci was not, in fact, the original inventor’s last name, but rather a notator of his hometown (da Vinci, meaning “of Vinci,” a city in Italy). I also befriended Leo’s owners and had an all-around lovely time watching the sun illuminate the hills in brilliant hues of reds and oranges.

New River Gorge National Park: West Virginia

The next day, I was on to another national park—the one most recently added to America’s roster! Having only been named a national park in 2020, much of New River Gorge remains private property. A railroad runs straight through the park, sectioning off natural landmarks in ways that are occasionally confusing and frustrating to navigate. As became my tradition, I asked a ranger to recommend a trail for fungus hunting and was sent to a short trail just across the highway from the visitor center. ‘Twas a lovely hike, but not so fruitful for my mushroom endeavors. I then wound down the highway, taking a discrete side road that led me many miles into the hills and away from cell service. The drive was somewhat disorienting; the views were beautiful, but at any given moment, I had no idea whether I was ambling about on federally owned land or if I was accidentally trespassing on someone’s private property. I did eventually make it to my destination: a trailhead/ picnic area/ stunning, secluded beachfront to the New River and its respective gorge. I recycled leftovers from the day before to prepare lunch out of the back of my car, then walked down to the beach and had the whole stretch of river to myself. It was absolutely one of the highlights of my trip.

After lunch, I followed the trailhead that led away from my private beach. It led me on a gander through the woods along the river, and I came to appreciate why this Appalachian oasis had been deemed one of our country’s natural treasures. I had been to West Virginia a few times prior to this trip, and admittedly I had come to view the state as unforgivably strange. Even still, my time in New River Gorge was incredibly introspective, awe-inspiring, and I would go back in a heartbeat.

Spiritual Materialism: Asheville, North Carolina

Night 3 of car camping in a Walmart parking lot completed, I set off for my most anticipated destination. I was greeted by Jess, one of my friends from when I lived at a marina in Tennessee. She had been dying to show me around Asheville ever since I expressed interest when we met in the summer of 2020, and her hype did not disappoint! The city gave me big Santa Fe vibes, with hordes of local coffee shops, craft breweries, and hippie dippy stores lining every street for blocks. We began the day with breakfast at Early Girl Eatery, where I indulged in spinach and potato cakes. Half of the menu was plant-based, excitingly, so I simply must go back to try all the options I spurned the first time.

We spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon exploring all the shops, from imported metaphysical goods to local artisan crafts. I’m typically not much of a souvenir gal, but even I was tempted by Asheville’s boho chic selection—I came away with a tree of life necklace, a vintage mushroom poster, some stickers, and a print for my goddess art collection. It took a looooottttt of willpower to not splurge on a cat tarot deck and a necklace fashioned from the skull of a tiny woodland creature. Inevitably, we closed out the afternoon with an adult beverage at Bhramari Brewing. I quite enjoyed the time spent chatting with Jess, sampling my beer flight, and ogling at the bastardizations of Hindu gods depicted in murals on the brewery’s open patio.

I will say, I think Asheville has a lot of spiritual spectacle and very little substance—similar to Santa Fe, at least in my opinion. I get the vibe that it was once a nice place for nature-oriented artists and spiritualists to live, but it has become so gentrified in recent years that those people can no longer afford to stay and draw inspiration from the breathtaking natural scenery. Besides a very persistent Hare-Krishna devotee who swindled us into buying several Prabhupada texts, I didn’t encounter any truly “hippie” beliefs or traditions. Just a lot of white folks bent on peddling their ‘spiritual’ materials—an oxymoron if I’ve ever written one. Nevertheless, I liked catching up with Jess and taking a short break from my normal lifestyle, which is usually quite minimalistic.

Kittens and Beignets: Johnson City, Tennessee

Jess lives a short drive away from Asheville in Johnson City, so I got to meet her roommate and her two cats, Echo and Love. Love was a tiny kitten when I visited—only 6 weeks old—and she took a liking to clambering on me in my sleep. I wasn’t mad. We also went to Babbette’s Coffee Shop one morning and I was delighted to see beignets on the menu. They were amazing, albeit a very messy car snack.

Great Smoky Mountains National Park:
Tennessee/ North Carolina

As the most heavily trafficked National Park in the United States, the Great Smokies were naturally a priority on my journey down South. The Appalachian Mountains are an entirely different beast from the Rockies, but no less majestic. I was taken aback by the lush greenery in the park, how the entirety of each rolling hill was enveloped in rainbow vegetation as the trees underwent their autumnal transformations. It was certainly perfect timing to see the park.

Again, I consulted a park ranger for help with my mycological quest, and for the first time, I found someone who knew what he was talking about! He recommended a short trail off Newfound Gap Road, where he claimed he had spotted a variety of shelf fungus. He did not lead me astray, as I saw a bounty of polypore mushrooms and turkey tails popping off the trees. This trail was a short stint of the Appalachian Trail, so I crossed paths with several hikers who were carrying impressive loads of gear and had clearly traveled long distances. It was so inspiring that I might have to go back and hike the whole thing one day 😉

In the afternoon, I began the drive to the center of the park, to the highest point on the AT: Clingman’s Dome. I intended to do a bit more hiking to reach the summit, but just as I turned into the trailhead’s parking lot, a frightening grey cloud descended over the park. Ultimately, the rain only lasted for a few hours, but it was enough to deter me from the solo high elevation hike, especially because I lacked proper waterproof gear. I decided that the views from the car sufficed, and I drove through the cute little town of Gatlinburg on my way out of the park.

Hot Gossip: Knoxville, Tennessee

Knoxville has a special place in my heart, as the biggest city close to where I lived in Tennessee. On our weekends off from our marina jobs, Payton and I used to drive down to Knoxville to enjoy the local restaurants and peruse the quaint downtown area. This time around, I was just stopping in for an afternoon to see my friend Taylor, whom I also worked with at the marina!

Bubbly and cheerful as ever, Taylor met me at The Tomato Head, a soup and sandwich place with tons of vegetarian options. We caught up over lunch and she dished all the hot gossip from this year’s crew of servers at Shanghai (the marina we both worked at).

Taylor had to head to work shortly thereafter, so I had some time to kill. I headed to the library at the University of Knoxville, where I posted up for several hours and got some work done. University libraries were my best friends on this trip—they’re one of the few places where people can sit for hours on end without being expected to buy anything. Plus, they are often open 24 hours!

Ceviche de Hongos: Chattanooga, Tennessee

The next day, it was off to Chattanooga, along the Southern border of Tennessee. I reconnected with my friend Michaela, another of my coworkers from Shanghai Marina at Norris Lake. I first met up with her at a skate park, where we watched some of her friends play a field hockey game. Then we hit up a hip little bar and grill called State of Confusion. Their specialty was ceviche—for those who don’t know, ceviche is a coastal South American dish that uses acidic citrus juices to “cook” raw seafood, culminating in a fresh and flavorful fish salad. It was one of my favorites when I lived in Yucatan. I was downright stunned to see ceviche de hongos (mushroom ceviche) on State of Confusion’s menu. Two of my favorite things, combined in a way I had ever seen before! The dish was served in an oversized margarita glass and far exceeded every one of my expectations.

Michaela had to work the following day, so I took myself on a tour of downtown Chattanooga. I walked through Coolidge Park, the city’s riverfront hang-out spot, and admired the water fountains and stone frog statues. As I ambled into the shopping area, I became enamored with the sidewalk decorations: gold plated footsteps arranged to emulate the step patterns of different dance forms. How fun, right? I ended up at Stone Cup Café, where I enjoyed a coffee, a scone, and peaceful riverside views.

Lookout Mountain: Georgia

On my final evening in Tennessee, Michaela took me for one last adventure, which turned out to be across the border in Georgia. We drove up the side of Lookout Mountain, then hiked a short distance to the summit. At the top, cliffs dropped off at steep angles, revealing a stunning panorama of the Tennessee Valley. We sat for a long moment on the rocks, watching the sunset. We also got to witness an engagement photo shoot atop the cliffs, conducted remotely via drone. I was impressed by the photographer’s maneuvering skills, and I wish I could find that couple to see how the photos turned out!

I spent one more night with Michaela and her cat, Lacey, before setting off again. As lovely as it was to see my old friend, I must admit it was quite the honor to meet her cat. Lacey was twenty years old. Almost as old as me. She was riddled with medical issues from her old age. One such issue was arthritic hips, which caused her to hover uncomfortably without ever fully sitting down. Instead, she would just slowly lower her chin as you petted her, ever grateful for the attention. She was also a bit…out of it because of an accidental poisoning in her youth. She would go to her litter box and simply stand in it, staring at the wall, seemingly using the litter under her paws as her own personal Zen garden. I have missed Lacey dearly ever since leaving Chattanooga.

A Random Coffee Shop in Nowhere, Alabama

Alabama was not a destination on my trip, nor did it become one. However, I did decide to drive south out of Chattanooga, which meant I had a brief stint through rural Alabama. I decided to stop at a random coffee shop on my morning journey, and I really wish I hadn’t. I am going to write this next section in play format, because that’s the best way I know to convey this baffling experience.

AT RISE: A quaint Southern coffee shop. KAYA enters and approaches the counter.

KAYA: Hi! Could I please get an iced mocha?

BARISTA (Monotone): Sure, I can get that for you.

Beat.

KAYA: Could I also have a bagel, please?

BARISTA (Monotone): Sure, I can get that for you.

BARISTA produces a bag of bagels from below the register. He opens the bag, retrieves one bagel with his bare hand, then offers it to KAYA. KAYA reluctantly takes the bagel.

KAYA: Uh…do you have like a little tub of cream cheese to go with it?

BARISTA (Monotone): Sure, I can get that for you.

BARISTA produces an 8 oz tub of cream cheese from fridge behind him. He sets it on the counter in front of KAYA.

KAYA: Uh…

BARISTA: Oh!

BARISTA produces a metal spoon. He hands it to KAYA. KAYA begins to use the spoon to awkwardly spread cream cheese on the bagel she is holding with her bare hand.

BARISTA rings KAYA out. KAYA pays.

KAYA: I’m gonna run to the bathroom, be back for my coffee in a minute.

KAYA goes to the bathroom.

KAYA returns from the bathroom. BARISTA is still standing in the same spot.

BARISTA: Did you want ice in your iced mocha?

KAYA: ….yes, please.

BARISTA (Monotone): Sure, I can get that for you.

BARISTA prepares coffee and gives it to KAYA. KAYA leaves coffee shop as fast as possible. KAYA leaves Alabama as fast as possible.

Hot Springs National Park: Arkansas

Hot Springs was the final National Park on my itinerary, and it was so unlike the other National Parks I had been to that I seriously doubted that I was in the right place. My navigation landed me in a parking garage in the center of Hot Springs, Arkansas, which is not a nature preserve at all, but rather, a small tourist town. I walked past a number of souvenir shops before arriving at the visitor center, which turned out to be an old bathhouse and museum.

Apparently, water from these hot springs were believed to have healing properties in the early 20^th century, and they were used for various spa treatments. However, these treatments were not administered by soaking in the natural springs, as I anticipated. Large, lavish bathhouses were built in this town to entice wealthy White guests into luxurious spa vacations. Black workers administered these treatments, which ranged from foot soaks to full-body steams. The museum in the visitor center gave guests a picture of this scene, down to the antiquated equipment used in the spa. I slowly pieced together this information as I perused the exhibits, which utilized unsettling mannequins to reenact various scenes throughout the bathhouse.

Besides the museum, guests to this national park can also stroll up and down Fountain Street to view the selection of bathhouses. There were eight in total, several of which remain open to the public. Unfortunately, I did not get to experience the healing water itself, as I did not make a spa reservation in time. I did, however, walk behind the bathhouses at the suggestion of a park ranger. I found myself on a nature trail, heading up to a mountain tower at the top of the hill. The tower had decent vistas, but I was still completely puzzled as to why this town is considered a National Park (as opposed to a National Historic Site).

Carrie Underwood’s Hometown: Checotah, Oklahoma

This one is an honorary mention. I did not stop here, but I was absolutely thrilled to drive through Checotah. I have long been a fan of Carrie Underwood, and I grew up singing the song off her debut album, “I Ain’t in Checotah Anymore.” As I drove through rural Oklahoma, I recognized all the landmarks mentioned in the song, like Eufala Lake! It was a fun little nod to my childhood and my long-lost love for country music.

I was a bit wary of venturing into the American South alone—after all, I wasn’t familiar with the region, and I had heard plenty of cryptic warnings (“if you hear banjos, run!”). In the end, though, I didn’t run into any trouble, and I was grateful to explore the natural beauty in this part of the country. It was wonderful to see so many old friends, and I look forward to exploring the Appalachian Mountains a great deal more in my future adventures!

Magical Midwest

I’ve been road tripping 😊 I got back last week, and I’ve finally had a chance to collect my thoughts. Eight weeks of traveling solo really took it out of me!

I had been wanting to do a big trip after I graduated last May, but COVID-19 wiped out my plans for the year, as I’m sure you can all understand. When restrictions loosened, my wanderlust mixed with continued skepticism about leaving the country. Then, I realized that the pandemic had scattered my closest friends across the Eastern United States, many of them to places I had never been!

My lease in Boulder ended in September, so I quit my job, packed up my new-to-me Subaru Crosstrek, and set off. I was fortunate enough to be able to stay with friends along the way, and I brought my portable camp stove so I could save money on meals. I spent the first three weeks or so in the Midwest, and what a magical three weeks it was! Ohio, especially, is the brunt of a lot of jokes when it comes to states that are “interesting” or “important” or “nice to live in.” I must admit, after finishing my undergraduate in Ohio, I do have a soft spot for this…ahem…irrelevant state. In my most recent travels, however, I discovered what Ohio is great for. Mushroom hunting!!!

The proudest day in my mycology career was the day I spent in Cuyahoga Valley National Park, Ohio. I saw hundreds of specimens while hiking just six or seven miles through the woods, including the prized amanita muscaria.

If you don’t recognize this picturesque toadstool from fairytale illustrations, you might know it from the Super Mario Bros. franchise. This one was hiding coyly under a leaf, not two yards from the trail. I’m so glad I looked in that direction because I’ve been hunting for one of these elusive morsels for years. The “Fly Agaric” mushroom IS psychoactive, though it is not the strain commonly referred to as “magic mushroom” (psilocybe cubensis). This specimen has a long entheogenic history in shamanic traditions all over the world. In Siberia, indigenous mystics would ingest the caps and relay their experiences as transcendental visions, prophetic communications from the world above.

No, I didn’t try it. It’s illegal to remove anything from a national park, and anyway, I didn’t have the materials to make a proper spore print. I decided not to disturb the forest for my own selfish curiosity. I still felt quite blessed to have seen the specimen at all, and I finished my forage with a newfound appreciation for the muggy air that I had always hated about Ohio. Thanks to the humidity, I saw more fungal growth that one day than I’ve ever seen in Colorado (hint: I haven’t been looking in the right places)!

Besides the treasured amanita muscaria, I saw several other gems on my adventure throughout the American Midwest. My first stop on the long journey was a music festival on the Kansas/ Missouri border, and that weekend alone provided enough stimulation to last me through a whole new lockdown.

Dancefestopia: LaCygne, Kansas

Dancefestopia Music and Arts Festival is a relatively small electronic music festival held at Wildwood Outdoor Education Center. Accordingly, the 10,000 attendees are essentially overgrown children covered in dirt and glitter, gathering in a field to dance, play, and trade tie-dye and other trinkets. It’s a very PLUR (peace, love, unity, respect) vibe and the fest falls on my little sis’ birthday weekend, so we always try to go.

My secret to affording music festivals is simple: I volunteer at them. Like many other fests, Dancefestopia offers a highly discounted ticket ($50) in exchange for a set number of hours worked during the event, and it’s a great way to make new friends. We saw artists with the likes of Jai Wolf, Troyboi, Rezz, and GRiZ. We also chilled in hammocks by the lake, got a treat from our favorite festival food truck (SPACE FRUIT!), and met up with all sorts of great people—the highlight of the weekend for me was seeing my old friend Cece. We originally met at Resonance Music & Arts Festival in PA in 2019. When we found out we would both be at Dancefest, we made plans to meet up, but inevitably, I lost service once we arrived at the campgrounds. It was purely by luck that we ran into each other because we did so past our meeting time and not anywhere close to our meeting spot. Ah, the magic of festivals!

Convergence Station: Denver, Colorado

After Dancefest, I left my car in Iowa and flew back to Denver for a short stint. I had a couple of appointments, but more importantly, the new Denver Meow Wolf exhibit was having its grand opening! Naturally, I snagged tickets for opening day. You can find my full review of Convergence Station in my post about Immersive Art, but suffice it to say that Meow Wolf is reason enough to travel 800 miles out of the way.

Morton Arboretum: Chicago, Illinois

I flew back to the Des Moines airport and began the car-only part of my trip, setting off for Chicago. I had never driven in Chicago, so I was somewhat unnerved to find myself driving long stretches in underground tunnels with stop lights lurking past every twist and turn. Tunnel driving is stressful enough—why further complicate it with surprise hazards?!

Buena Park, a neighborhood nestled along the Western coast of Lake Michigan, is home for Caleb, one of my dear friends from college, and his eccentric Maine Coon, Huey. I spent one evening with him, catching up and hearing about all the cats he watches in the city.

We had an early start the following morning, as he was off to cat sit and I wanted to hit an art exhibit before leaving the state. Then I was southbound, winding underneath the Chicago River once again as I exited the city.

I arrived at the Morton Arboretum a bit early, during members-only hours, but the kind lady at the visitor center didn’t seem to mind. This was the first time I had ever visited a sanctuary like this, and it wasn’t just for the trees—through Spring 2022, Morton Arboretum plays host to a five-part installation by one of my favorite multi-media artists, Daniel Popper. I first experienced his work in Tulum, Mexico, and again several years later at the Bellagio in Las Vegas. Human + Nature, as this installation is named, is my favorite of his so far; it is the largest in scale and beautifully complemented by the serene natural surroundings of the arboretum. The five sculptures were in five different parts of the park, each one the thematic centerpiece of the plants around it. Visitors were encouraged to touch and explore, although not climb, the life size sculptures. It is impossible to say which one I liked the best because they were all creatively stunning in their own ways.

Lost Lands: Thornville, Ohio

Upon completing my tour of Morton Arboretum, I made for Ohio, my ex-state of residence which I remember fondly (although I can’t say I would ever move back). I was on to the second music festival of my trip: Lost Lands. This festival is markedly bigger, heavier, and crazier than Dancefest, with a prehistoric theme that utilizes life sized animatronic dinosaurs throughout the grounds. In the past, I have considered Lost Lands “home,” but this year, the LL gods did not smile on me.

I drove into a nasty thunderstorm in Indiana that followed me all the way to Thornville. Catastrophically, torrential rain hit as the first wave of attendees were pulling into their campsites and unloading their gear. The downpour continued for several hours, transforming the dusty fields into saturated mud pits, and placing a bleak damper on the fun to come. Luckily, I was stationed in the information tent for my first volunteer shift, so I was shielded from the angry sky, but we had no power, no heat, and tragically, no service. Everyone else was hiding out in their cars, so we didn’t answer many informational questions that first night, but I did make friends with some lovely gals named Liz and Emily, who had come all the way from Massachusetts.

Sadly, the morning of Day 0 (the pre-party) did not look up from the night before. The grounds remained soaked to the point that festival organizers began turning attendees away. That mess was unbeknownst to me, for I had woken up in the backseat camper of my Crosstrek with a terrible feeling in my gut. What I initially thought was an adverse reaction to the tater tots I had eaten the night before quickly made itself known as a stomach virus—easily the worst one I have ever experienced. I was unable to keep even a sip of water down, and I was crippled by a grinding pain in my abdomen. I was camped by myself, on the outskirts of a muddy field, with my car tires completely sunk into the mud. As a volunteer, I had been placed in the farthest possible “worker” campsite, several miles down the road from the event grounds in rural Ohio. Food and water were a bumpy twenty-minute bus ride away; port-a-potties were at least thirty minutes by foot. In my condition, I couldn’t get more than five feet from my vehicle.

Around noon, I ran out of water and began to panic. I was still violently ill, the festival was in the early stages of last-minute cancellation, and I had no way out of my situation. I befriended a fellow staff member who offered me some medicine to get my nausea under control. When I could finally stand without retching, I was able to flag over an on-site tractor to tow me out of the mud. For the record, I have all-wheel drive and “X-MODE,” whatever that is. When I say I was STUCK in the mud, you know what I mean.

Miraculously, I got my car to move, and I got my organs to stop moving just long enough to drive to Columbus, just over an hour away from the festival. I sought refuge with Georgia, an absolute angel who was my roommate all through undergrad. I cannot understate how lucky I was to have her during this tribulation. She might have literally saved my life with her electrolyte mix. After a day of resting on her couch and cautiously sucking on ice chips, I was able to keep some fluids, and then some food, in my system. By the time music was starting on Lost Lands Day 1, I had regained enough strength to return to the festival and rage!

The lineup for 2021 was INSANE and I saw a ton of my favorite DJs who I had never seen before, including ARMNHMR, Crystal Skies, Trivecta, and Fancy Monster. Most people think of Lost Lands as a heavy dubstep festival (which it is!), but the lineup of artists is so diverse and so stacked that you can really pick and choose between genres of dubstep you like. For me, that’s melodic bass, so I hardly spent any time headbanging! Despite a rocky start, Lost Lands turned out to be an amazing weekend, filled with good music and good vibes.

Columbus, Ohio

On Monday morning after the festival’s conclusion, I set off for Columbus again, this time ailed by an acute case of post-festival depression. My digestive tract was finally feeling back to normal, and my spirits were high—up until my arrival at Georgia’s loft in the Short North, where I discovered that I had inadvertently passed my sickness to Georgia and her boyfriend. They were recovering slowly and luckily for me; they were only mildly amused and not at all upset that I had ruined their weekend. I stayed with Georgia and Aron for a week or so and tried to redeem myself for putting them through a forcible digestive cleanse, as we took to calling it. I can’t speak for them, but my intestines had been completely reset once the whole thing was said and done.

Georgia and Aron showed me around several parts of Columbus, including a bunch of delightful restaurants and eateries. My favorites were Fox in the Snow, a local coffee shop that served a souffle egg sandwich; Pistacia Vera, a French bakery that was just as pleasing for the eye as it was for the tongue; and Eden Burger, a plant-based fast-food joint whose fries were to die for. They also took me to the Columbus Art Museum and the Franklin Park Conservatory & Botanical Gardens—both stunning. The former destination offered a special exhibition on the work of Columbus artist Aminah Robinson, while the latter featured hundreds of breathtaking installations by glassblower Dave Chihuly.

While in Columbus, I also had a chance to stay with Margo, my friend and mentor from college, her boyfriend Jackson, with whom I was previously acquainted but never knew well, and their rather interesting cat Rosaline. Margo helped me infiltrate the Ohio State University library so I could get some work done, and I learned some fascinating things about the OSU mascot, Brutus. You probably know of the Ohio State Buckeyes, but did you know that the mascot is a literal buckeye? Not a squirrel or a groundhog or any other creature that might serve as an ambassador for a buckeye, but an actual nut with eyes and legs? Apparently, Brutus has had a long, dark history. The mascot suit has undergone many changes since the institution of modern college mascots, and I’ll let you all be the judge of which iteration is the creepiest. My vote is for 1975.

Margo is a member of CorePower Yoga. She encouraged me to finally cash in my three free classes and I had a blast, even though I hadn’t done hot vinyasa in a long time and thought I was going to die at times. The owner asked if I wanted to teach there and I had to explain that my own Yoga practice doesn’t necessarily align with the CorePower model, which tends to prioritize fitness and body image over stillness and intrinsic awareness. She seemed somewhat offended that I brought this up, but she agreed that, CorePower’s “whole shtick” is fitness. Still, I believe it is important to have conversations about the histories and cultural contexts of the practices we market for commercial gain. To me, it seems that CorePower uses the word “Yoga” to attract paying audiences to a practice that is, in many ways, antithetical to the philosophical roots of Yoga.

Eberhart Wedding: Northern Ohio (Rootstown/ Kent/ Akron/ Cleveland)

Around the second week of October, I bid my Columbus friends farewell and went North towards Cuyahoga County. I spent a day in the national park, making revolutionary fungal discoveries every few steps. That evening, my boyfriend Skyler flew in from Denver. He’s also an avid mushroom hunter, so I took him into Cleveland the next day, to a public park that is a part of the Old Growth Forest network. True to its name, the park was a wonderland of Ohioan biodiversity, featuring centuries-old vegetation, rare fungus, and cold-blooded creatures. Can you spot the critter in this photo?

The main reason for us being in North Ohio was that my good friend Olivia had asked me to be her bridesmaid. I spent a lot of time with Olivia and her then-boyfriend, Robbie, in college, and I always adored them together, so it was very exciting to be a part of their wedding. After marking off our finds in our field guide, Sky and I drove over to Kent to meet up with the other folks in the bridal party: Talon, Lexi, and Michaela. I was friends with all three of these people in college, yet I had seen none of them since before the onset of the pandemic, so it was wonderful to catch up over manicures. The rehearsal dinner went smoothly, and we concluded the night with a bonfire at Lexi’s house. Good dogs, great cheese, and excellent camaraderie made for the perfect precursor to the big day, and I even bonded with Lexi’s mom over puffballs, an edible fungus that often pop up in yards and lawns!

The Eberhart-Rocco wedding was a beautiful, love-filled affair. The ceremony, held at Olivia’s childhood church, was traditional and very sweet. The reception was at the Akron Museum of Art, and guests were invited to peruse the galleries as they waited for the festivities to commence. The entire menu—down to the cupcakes—was vegan (and delectable, if I do say so myself). I teared up at several points throughout the night, but Robbie’s reaction to seeing Olivia coming down the aisle was easily my favorite moment, closely followed by Lexi’s maid of honor speech. I got to see Caleb again, as well as some other great folks I know from college. The DJ played some bangers!! Now, I’ll think of Olivia and Robbie whenever I hear “Blinding Lights” by the Weeknd.

Marriages, mascots, music, mushrooms. Do you see why my time in the Midwest was magical? I must admit, I’ve never lauded Ohio with such a word, but aside from contracting norovirus, the first few weeks of my road trip were positively so. Which leads me to another story about norovirus—yes, someone else along my journey contracted the dreadful cleanse, but that is a story for another time. Check back next week for the next leg of my journey: the historical states!

The Microbiome of Mars

I recently discovered that I live very close to Mars.

No, I mean, Mars the planet is still dozens of millions of miles away. But as I drove southwest from Boulder, CO, mountainous forests quickly morphed into red deserts. Skies of pure blue were suddenly punctured by jagged rock formations. The colors, the shapes, it was all so jarringly different from the surrounding biomes that I couldn’t help but feel transported out of this world.

My roommate, Jacob, and I had long dreamed of exploring the national parks in our Westerly neighboring state: Utah! With five days off work, we set off for the two closest to us: Arches and Canyonlands. Both of us are avid nature-lovers; we hike/ camp often and always adhere to the principles of “Leave No Trace” as best as we can. If you are not familiar with this philosophy, the seven principles are as follows:

Plan ahead & prepare
Travel & camp on durable surfaces
Dispose of waste properly
Leave what you find
Minimize impact of campfires
Respect wildlife
Be considerate of other visitors

Before this trip, I had never thought twice about traveling on “durable surfaces.” I hike near my home in Boulder, Colorado often. There, it is easy to understand the importance of staying on designated hiking trails—when I tromp off into wooded areas, discarded pinecones groan under my boots. The startled cries of wildlife make it clear that I am intruding. In Mars—ahem, Utah, though, the unassuming rusty sand stretches for miles. I could wander for quite some time without seeing another animal, and I could go on for much longer completely oblivious to the quiet life forms in the ground itself.

Apparently, deserts throughout the world are covered with biological soil crusts. These crusts are teeming with micro-organisms such as algae, lichen, and cyanobacteria, which all play crucial roles in preventing erosion and retaining moisture. Though invisible to the naked eye, this complex ecosystem makes it possible for other plants and animals to thrive in the desert. Sadly, the microbiome of Utah, like the microbiomes of other deserts across the world, is incredibly fragile. Foot traffic hurts the cyanobacteria populations in the ground, which may take decades or more to fully recover. Increased tourism in Southeast Utah means increased risk of permanent damage to sensitive life forms.

We can, however, engage with nature in thoughtful and ethical ways that minimize these risks. National Park services encourage guests to stick to hiking trails and exposed rock surfaces while recreating in Southeast Utah. By doing so, we are helping to preserve the desert for future humans, animals, and microorganisms alike. I must admit that the rock structures in Arches and Canyonlands had an uncanny gravitational pull, such that I was tempted (on more than one occasion) to wander away from the crowds and into a rust-colored crag or crevice. I learned that the simple act of staying on trail can be an act of compassion and consideration.

The Promised Land

Problematizing 'the East' and 'the West'

Outcomes of Chaos

Cleanliness

Silence & Solitude

Celibacy

Contentment

Cleaning Up the Mud

Ways You Can Help:

Sundarbans National Park & Tiger Reserve

Climate change is NOT inevitable OR irreversible.

We are ALL a part of this global ecosystem, and we all stand to benefit by saving it.

1. Looks Can Be Deceiving

2. Water Gives Life; So Too Does Fire

3. Manage Your Expectations

4. Strive to Be Misunderstood

5. The Devil is in the Details

6. Every Day is Precious

7. Never Mind a Hitchhiker

8. Not Every Mushroom is Magical

8. Every Mushroom is Magical!

9. Trust Yourself!

10. We Are All Connected

A Precursory Disclaimer on Antisemitism

Some Quick Historical Context

The "Birthright" Agenda

Step One: Get them while they're young

Step Two: Lure them to Israel

Step Three: Make them feel at home

Step Four: Promote anti-Arab propaganda

Step Five: Instill Zionist loyalty

Step Six: Encourage marriage within the religion

Step Seven: Lure them back

FREE PALESTINE!

Festivities

Now, Mardi Gras doesn’t have to be all booze and belligerence (although you’ll see plenty of that!). In the name of contextualizing the chaos, I have some travel recommendations for my readers.

Food

City History & Culture

Ever-Greenery (+ Pesky Ivy)

Go Huskies!

Land Acknowledgements

Water Water Everywhere

Seattle Freeze

Native Fruit

Cultivated Fruit

Daily Commute

Ethnic Cuisine

The Rain (or lack thereof)

MUSHROOMS!!!

Shenandoah National Park: Virginia

New River Gorge National Park: West Virginia

Spiritual Materialism: Asheville, North Carolina

Kittens and Beignets: Johnson City, Tennessee

Great Smoky Mountains National Park: Tennessee/ North Carolina

Hot Gossip: Knoxville, Tennessee

Ceviche de Hongos: Chattanooga, Tennessee

Lookout Mountain: Georgia

A Random Coffee Shop in Nowhere, Alabama

Hot Springs National Park: Arkansas

Carrie Underwood’s Hometown: Checotah, Oklahoma

Dancefestopia: LaCygne, Kansas

Convergence Station: Denver, Colorado

Morton Arboretum: Chicago, Illinois

Lost Lands: Thornville, Ohio

Columbus, Ohio

Eberhart Wedding: Northern Ohio (Rootstown/ Kent/ Akron/ Cleveland)

Great Smoky Mountains National Park:
Tennessee/ North Carolina