Rainbow Gathering, part III

Sunday, very, very early morning:

I wake up first. In fact, I haven't slept: drum circle never ended, the entire night punctuated by people yelling back and forth across the meadow, hakas, changes in tempo. Puck is agitated, so I let him out. I can see all of our breaths. Even Harrison's, and he's huddled down under his sleeping bag. I engage in that unique ritual of backpackers: attempting to pull on warmer clothes INSIDE a sleeping bag. Step outside, rummage for a cup or bowl or something. All I come up with is a camp pot with a collapsible handle. Good enough. Whatever. I take Puck and we venture across Main Meadow toward Montana Mud, where they serve coffee (YES). The terrain, in daylight, is ridiculous. I'm amazed none of us broke an ankle last night.

Here's my first taste of what ultimately will shape my experience: dozens of dirty, cold people passed out around the cold ashes of the main fire pit. Some are leaning on logs, each other, or bent forward over their own laps. A few are awake (more likely, they never slept), passing around a pipe. I see a couple of kids curled up under just tarps, or thin blankets, asleep in the meadow. It is barely above freezing out here. This I don't understand-the counterculture that's so reviled by newspapers, onlookers, etc, because it's so clearly governed by drug use, by what most would term 'freeloading'. I wonder how many of these kids are homeless. How many came here because they knew they'd find drugs and alcohol. If Rainbow Gathering is about intentionality, community, peace and love, what do these pockets of people represent here?

The Montana Mud crew hollers, and the coffee line begins. This is a routine here. Each kitchen has its own call to food/tea/coffee; Instant Soup blows a conch shell, if you can believe that. And then the madness ensues. Because Rainbow Gatherings are run through trade, barter and free exchange, everyone's on the lookout for grub. Food lines can stretch the length of hundreds of people, some with nothing but their bare hands outstretched. No one's up yet, so I'm lucky, and the benevolent gargantuan dipper at Montana Mud expels hot coffee into my camp pot. A girl I'm standing near has on a fantastic wool cloak, clasped with a set of bronze leaves. I mention how rad it is. She mentions that she has extra dog food-even Puck gets fed for free here. Standing around sipping the hot drink, talking to a small group of folks with puppies, I start to warm up, though my apprehension isn't gone: I can feel myself glancing around, with a running list of worries in my head: where the HELL is Sushi Camp? Will Harrison wonder where I am? I know my partner is here, somewhere; when will he crop up unexpectedly? Can I handle it? And, since now all I can think of is what it feels like to snuggle up to him, to laugh when he laughs (because his laugh is contagious, the essence of who he is), Oh, god. Please. My heart.

I try talking to a few folks to determine where Sushi Land might be. Stumbling across a small fire, I belly up to it, pressing my hands together and invoking "Namaste" to an older guy standing there. He introduces himself and then says immediately that he knows where Sushi Tribe is camped. Apparently it's all the way across the far side of the gathering, but in the light, it shouldn't be hard to find. We stand around watching his dog chase Puck around and around Trade Circle, and the guys pass around a joint, which I'm not super-excited about, having just woken up, over-caffeineated and eaten very little. But it's a huge, huge relief to finally figure out how to get to where I'm hoping Bellingham Zac and Abbey arrived-Harrison's tent is supposedly in Zac's backpack, Abbey's clothes are in mine, and the food is scattered between us. Organizationally, we're a shit show; it matches my current mental state. Some guy clad in a sarong, hair threaded through with feathers, grungy, rolls up, sits down, pounds the ground, laughs, and talks to himself. "He's just high, brothers," says the older guy, "High on testifying."

Over the next 2 days, I see this so many times. It begs the age-old question of who's saner. Who sees more clearly. We who are sober, tied to what we call Reality by duty, material and 'routine'? Or people like this guy, the archetypal shamanic crazy, apparently so connected (through psychedelics or who-knows-what) to a world outside himself that he's channeling it straight out his gibbering vocal cords into the air. Personally, I treat him as one might a nervous, hackles-raised dog: I leave him alone, save for when he stares at me briefly. Then, hoping it will calm him down, and so he won't do anything rash against me, I give him a "Namaste, brother", as well, holding his gaze. He seems to approve, because it makes him start laughing, shaking a gnarled finger my direction. Then he goes back to speaking to Yahweh, bobbing his head; he leaves me be. Phew, I think, Crisis averted.

Harrison wakes up and wanders over. We eat oatmeal doled out by Montana Mud, me from the coffee-flavored pot, Harrison off the pot lid. There are sweet chunks of apple in it, but I lose interest in eating after just one small serving. Puck is off playing with a bunch of puppies in the mud. We wander across the marsh without our things, concerned that Zac and Abbey took the same tack we did last night and camped wherever they could find, but upon arriving at Sushi Land, we're told that they've both stepped off to use the restroom and should be back any time. So we sit. We wait. Now that we're reunited with the tribe, things seem as if they should have been so, so much easier: there's a tipi set up, a big kitchen area with a firepit, and a bluegrass band harmonizing with each other. The sun is coming up, ground steaming all around us. It all seems bucolic and peaceful. Eventually, both Zac and Abbey wander back over-it's another ritual here, having to meander sometimes half a mile or more away from everyone to find a spot to pee in peace...

We lounge in the sun, which, by 10 am is as high as it's going to get. The temperature tops out that day at above 80 degrees, inconceivable when, at night, it drops so low. The band switches out members from time to time. Abbey and I wander back and forth between Sushi Land and other camps, people-watching, checking out others' set ups. At times, we bop back and forth between Sushi Land and Granola Funk camp, where my neighbors Tim and Andrea are, as well as a handful of new friends. I'm a little confused, though. There are stages and platforms and meeting areas set up, but for the most part, little activity. Perhaps that's just my hyper-motivational brain speaking: I'm used to attending music festivals with schedules, or community fairs with speakers, kids' activities, booths full of local organizations' pamphlets. Maybe something's wrong with me, I think, 'cause whatever this energy of community is, I'm not feeling it. Then again, you know, what the hell do I know?

Saturday, late afternoon:

Abbey and I wander back to our tent, which I've left pitched by Rainbow Crystal Kitchen mostly out of sheer laziness. We take a gander at the central message board, erected by Info Tent, to see if there's any chance of someone offering lifts back down the hill: Zac and Harrison's bikes, along with the rest of their gear, are still in Abbey's car, and none of us can fathom making that epic trek back downhill to get it, then potentially leaving Zac and Harrison to walk it all back in. I turn around to yell for Puck, and just as I do, it happens.

I start shaking. I'm shaking as I write this. I know him without even blinking: same hat, same posture, same fuzzy Mountain Hardware jacket. I don't have a chance to think about it, calling his name even as I think twice. He turns to me with that familiar, warm grin and calls out, "You came anyway!", walks toward me, puts his arms around me. I can't help it. I can't stop shaking, can't stop holding him, can't control the tears that come into my eyes. We stand there for a long moment, with our foreheads pressed together, and I'm trying. I'm trying so, so hard, pushing my energy out toward his, striving to feel connected to him, and my heart is breaking, because I'm not, anymore. Something in me that's more realistic than the shivering, winking, emotional mess I know I'm outwardly presenting just KNOWS. Maybe I'm not who I was. Maybe he's not who he was. Either way, there's an integral piece missing, the way a table has a single leg that's missing its caster. Off balance. Missing a chunk of hope.

We agree to meet up and talk later on. I know who he's there with, and that his energy is with her, just as it's always been. This isn't any different than it's ever been, though; me hoping beyond reason that this time the conversation will be different. That he'll make some gesture, give some word, follow through on even the tiniest of actions and show me that he cares enough to meet me halfway there. I don't even know where there is, anymore. He asks me, as we part, if everything is OK. My voice breaks, and I feel as small and strained as it sounds. "I just missed you," I say. I don't know what else there is.

I decide to wander back up to Montana Mud for water. I barefoot it, as I've been doing all day, since it's warm and I can finally see where I'm stepping. To do so, I have to pass directly by Main Meadow, where he's playing with hoops and poi and fire fans with his friends. I don't know how I look to him, but I know he sees me. Finally, I decide to man up, walk over, and tell him I'm going to take a nap in the tent-why doesn't he just come wake me when he's done practicing? He agrees, and because it's awkward not to, we kiss. There's nothing there. A peck on the lips. Probably because he doesn't want to embarrass me by declining in front of everyone. Or because it's just what you do here...After all, it's Rainbow Gathering. People are kissing all over the place. I go back to the tent. Curl up. Put Puck inside with me. Try to clear my mind and get some rest.

I can't sleep, thinking that the second I do, he'll be there by my side to wake me and smooth things over and finally have a calm, happy conversation. Instead, an hour or so later, I wake myself up. It's alternately stifling in the tent and a little chilly when the wind picks up, so I step outside. Abbey is sprawled out on her stomach facing the creek. "He's sitting right over there," she says. All of a sudden, I don't know how to act again. He's sitting with her, talking to some other friend, and that's when I know that his intention was never to come see me. Once again, I'm the small one. Puck goes running over to him, because he recognizes him, of course-after all, for seven months he took Puck on just as many walks as I did. He waves Puck back over to me and straightens, and I don't know what else to do but just look at him. I'm sure my face isn't right. I'm sure it's not very welcoming. In any case, he walks away. Oh my god. My heart.

Saturday, early evening:

What happens later is a bit unclear. I've been sitting behind the tent near the creek bank for a while, trying to write. Trying to absorb a little more sun, a little positive energy from somewhere. Abbey's gone back to Sushi Land, or so I assume. After a bit I see Zac and Stepha coming up the path-I remember that we still haven't organized how to get Zac and Harrison's bike gear to them, so I sprint barefoot up the way to greet them. At first I start babbling about how we need to meet in the morning, take the shuttle back down to the car, get the gear and...Stepha asks me how I am. One moment I'm leaning toward her, making some pathetic, incoherent noise. The next, I am sobbing. Stepha wraps her arms around me from one side. Zac, who's nude (come on, it's a hippie gathering in the middle of nowhere. What did you expect? Victorian dress required?), puts his head on my shoulder from behind and gathers me in, and I can't stop crying. All I remember saying is, "I don't know why this is so hard, you guys." Having heard at least the gist of the story, they both know what I'm talking about, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that I am hurting, and they are there to both heal and be healed. Stepha starts with deep breathing, then Zac picks it up.

Some long-grey-haired guy in a tie-dye tshirt sees us and hollers, "Rainbow Hugs!!!". The floodgates aren't closed yet. I pick my head up from Stepha's chest, gulp, and let out a sentence that sounds like a wail: "You can come join us if you really want." Tie Dye Dude clucks sympathetically and comes running over, arms outstretched. His multi-colored beer belly is against my left ear. From it comes a resounding, gravelly, "Om." That sacred, sacred syllable, and soon it's being echoed all around me, vibrating my entire body. Stepha's alto comes in, her chin on top of my head. Zac breathes deeply once, then intones the "Om" against my spine. All three of them are holding me as tightly as they can now, and oh my god, it hurts. It hurts to breathe. It hurts not to. It hurts to feel so lovingly, tightly, unassumingly cradled by these people I just barely-or in the case of Tie Dye Guy, not at all-know. They are breathing in with all the force in their bodies and exhaling the sacred tone with even more, all because they recognize another being in need, and are trying to help. To heal.

I am in the center of the Selflessness outside the Self that is the center of the Universe. These people are my friends. They are telling me I am not alone. They are channeling something larger than all of us so that I may feel I am not small.

And no one looks at us twice. Except for the few people passing who saw me crying instead of shining with the giddy light one is supposed to exude here, no one says a thing. Some even pick up the "Om" themselves, Doppler effect trailing it behind them as they walk past us.

And here I am surrounded. Trying to not only be, but to take in, the center of all things. Tie Dye Guy's breastbone feels like it will shatter against my temple, he is chanting so loudly. Zac's body is heated by the sun, bare skin all up and down my back. Stepha has draped her shawl over my head and presses her lips to my forehead, pushing the breath of her "Om' into my Third Eye.

They love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs*

And oh, my god. My heart.

(*from "A Blessing" by James Wright)