Llamas, Yoga, and Chanting in Spanish Fork, Utah: My First Work Exchange Program through Workaway
Perhaps it’s a new appreciation for the present moment or my practice in grounding techniques, but when I think about my first workaway experience, what I think of is pure sensory: the sound of my own breath, the taste of Indian spices, the feel of the earth in my fingers, the breathtaking sight of sunsets behind mountains, and the smell of . . . llama poop.
For frame of reference, there is a website called “workaway.info” where you can find hosts all over the world willing to house you (and usually feed you) for free in exchange for about 20-25 hours of volunteer time a week. The rest of the time is yours to explore the area. As I set out on my journey this past June, it’s been my plan and dream to travel from cool place to cool place, volunteering as I go.
My first workaway experience was at a Krishna Temple in Spanish Fork, Utah. After a summer of being in such a remote location (see my love letter to the Sawtooth Mountains), it was odd being in the city again. But the opportunity was a wonderful way to refocus and spend some time exploring the self. In addition to free room and board (including a vegetarian Indian buffet, yum!), they provided yoga for free to the volunteers four nights a week and invited us to participate each week in their Kirtan service (chanting songs of Hare Krishna with a small lesson). I fell into quite the rhythm.
Each morning, laying in the dark with my eyes not yet open, blankets pulled up to my chin to cut the chilly air, I’d hear soft footsteps patter into the kitchen, the click click click of the igniter on the gas stove, the rattle of the kettle as the water began to heat up, and then the soft padding of feet retreating back to bedrooms. Scratching, scratching above me as the peacocks walked across the roof, occasionally squawking like small kittens looking for their mother. Eventually I’d be up stretching, moving, feeling into my body before 9 a.m. or risk being woken by Rada the macaw, screaming out for attention should Vai, our host, not pay exclusive attention to her.
After a short meeting, I’d spend mornings with six or so other volunteers digging into dirt, unearthing what was left of tomatoes, squash, melons. Pulling out weed blankets, preparing for winter. Sweat pooled at the tips of my new bangs despite the cold air, a new sensation after years of a bare forehead. Arms spread wide to wrangle the llamas, the tang and disgust as they spat. Soft backs like petting clouds.
Two of the many llamas that lived at the temple. We also had peacocks, parrots, cows, rabbits, a cat, and one chicken.
Washing vegetables, cutting, peeling, processing. The sweet smell of tomatoes simmering, starchy potatoes (never garlic, never onion). Ramu, the parrot, talking in the other room with his robot voice: Ramu need water (he never did).
Afternoons were reserved for solo-exploring the mountains nearby, taking in the scent of wet leaves and earth. I’d marvel at the views but be thrown off by the sound of the highway, reminding me that no matter how high up I got, I couldn’t escape the rush of the city. On rainy or cold days, I’d spend hours at the coffee shop, drowning myself in pumpkin spice chai lattes and memories of high school as I listened to my old iTunes playlists. The click click of my keyboard as I wrote, exploring what I wanted to say by just by starting. Sometimes, falling deep into reflection, cutting off the outside world, crying in the middle of the coffee shop if it’s what I needed.
Shoutout to Joe’s Coffee & Espresso Bar in Spanish Fork that I spent way too many hours in the afternoon at.
Then emerging once more to return to the temple for a quick bite of dal, rice, and puffy chapatti. Upstairs, quieting once more as I lay on my yoga mat, we’d begin the evening class, the cold marble tile supporting my back. Each yoga class, I’d return into my body, feel each movement, hear each inhale and exhale out my nose, smells of patchouli and rose petals. It was such a change of pace for me to practice yoga with other people and be the student instead of the teacher. Again, sometimes I’d cry because when we start our shadow work, release is good and needed.
It’s hard to really capture the beauty of the temple, because you really have to look all around up and town to truly appreciate it. So grateful to practice yoga in such a beautiful space!
Back at the house, all of us in a cloudy daze from yoga, the other volunteers and I would stand around the kitchen island, heating up water for more tea, baking a pizza, munching on oreos. Someone would inevitably bring up an inappropriate story (such as the time they had to help the llamas mate), and we’d be sent into roaring laughter, so hard I’d start snorting.
Sooner or later, conversation would peter off, and we’d retreat once again to our own corners of the house as before, hot cup of tea in hand. I’d write or read and slowly drift off, the sound of the Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krisha Krishna Hare Hare chant echoing in my head.
The Hare Krishna mantra is written in sanskrit and is recited to cultivate awareness of a higher power and come into what is known as Krishna consciousness.
This morning as I left the temple, shaken from my new routine, I felt unsteady. Here I was, off into the world once more without a bed to rest my head or even a temporary place to call “home.” It’s then when I remembered what one of the yoga teachers reminded of us this week. When I sit still, when I take deep breaths, I remember that my body is my home.
