This beautiful box is from Varanasi, my favorite city (so far) in India.

It carried a vile of sweetgrass essential oil that a young local named Mogley gave me after he be'd with me at the outdoor crematory along the ghats in this most holiest of cities, explaining how death is not taboo in India...that only us Westerners think it's distasteful to see someone's head melting over a fire in the great wide open, or the local pack of stray dogs fighting over human bones.

It is - as Mogley pointed out - the natural order of things...

Even though the vile of oil has been long gone, I can still smell the sweetgrass on the box.

I can still see Mogley, sitting with me on the floor of his family's tiny apothecary, him explaining what oils would be best for me and me giving him energy-work, clearing some pain from his heart, in exchange for his warm and trustworthy hospitality. Both of us smitten with gratitude...

I can still feel myself getting lost and happily surrendering to his leadership as we weaved past cows and around piles of shit down the thin back streets of the City, where parades of mourners carrying their loved ones' coffins towards the ghat to be burned and I seemed to be the only tourist around...

I can still see the lassi shop that Mogley took me to. I can feel my ambivalence to the shop owners' offer of some Bhang.

As I stopped tonight to marvel at this beautiful box, I can feel India stir in my blood.

I can feel the level of aliveness that I felt in each and every moment there...Always something new to see or experience, always a little on edge because I was traveling alone and therefore always so present with everything and everyone around...

There is a certain level of trust in the chaos of India. A deep knowing that Spirit's got it covered there...and tonight Mogley's box is a beautiful reminder that Spirit's got it covered Everywhere.