Aubrey B

The old woman with her fingers in my hair is wearing an orange shirt, matching the garish walls and gold spandex leggings, looking like something from a figure skater's wardrobe. Her fashion sense is almost as questionable as the green sloppy goop she slaps into my hair and scrapes across my scalp, making it oily and shine. It could be anything from guacamole to bat guano and I wouldn't know the difference, apart from actually tasting it and though I do love me a good batch of guacamole, I'm not confident in the odds it isn't excrement. I'm put under a dryer to presumably heat the goop, though either I'm too short or the drier no longer lowers because I think only my cowlick can feel the heat. As I'm cooking, she massages my neck and ... read more

"Look as long as you can at the friend you love, no matter whether that friend is moving away from you or coming back toward you." -Rumi, "My Worst Habit" Living as a backpacker is different than traveling as one. When you travel from place to place, new faces and new friends are a dime a dozen. You meet, exchange stories, make brief connections (that might transcend all time and distance, but still, might not) and you move on. The distance between strangers and clubbing buddies can be covered by the end of a bottle of wine and in the morning when the bus comes, well-wishes and Facebook requests mark the end of a moment. Living as a backpacker you get some of this too, with those travelers who are still, well, traveling. Nights out vary ... read more

It's been a while, a long while. Where to start? I've left New Zealand behind, ending my trip surrounded by the love of new friends and the golden kiss of sunset off the Christchurch shore. I remember the chill warmth on my face and the sweet taste of wine on my tongue and knew, way down deep where all true knowing lingers, that despite the hardships and the disappointments I'd faced during my stay, this country would forever be a part of me, both of who I am now and the woman I hope to become. They say the sword remembers the heat of the fire and the pounding of the hammer and in the same way I see New Zealand as the forge that broke me and reassembled the pieces. It stripped me down whilst ... read more

I've watched the ferry go by a hundred times, seeing the white crested waves crashing against its hull as it pushes through the water. I've followed it's slow progress away from the harbor, a snail on the ocean desert inching along at a steady, unhurried pace, and I knew I'd never be able to catch it. I was a statue to its passage and each time I wanted to cast a line and hook onto it, have it pull me out of the quicksand I'd fallen into and free me from the this self-created stagnation. But it passed first in front and then beyond my sight and I knew that once again I would stay behind and wait. But now, finally, my turn has come and I can feel the rumble of the engines beneath my ... read more

"In this drumbeat moment of red flowers opening and grapes being crushed, the soul and luminous clarity sit together." -Rumi, Medicine out of Pain I went for a walk today in the rain in Featherston, a rather unremarkable place. The main street is littered with buildings in various degrees of disrepair, the local market dissected down the middle by a long construction scar, lights dangling like loose teeth, and the windows of bars and cafés dark and dusty with disuse. The info center wasn't quite the treasure trove of fun things to do. The old man behind the desk stared at me like I was an idiot for asking questions on a rainy Sunday afternoon, like I should have known better than to get off the train here. After several minutes of gruff mumbling (on his ... read more