Monday, ungodly early:
The chill wakes us. Puck is still asleep, having finally gotten so exhausted that he can't muster the obnoxiousness to whine to go out. Abbey and I sit up, still wrapped in our sleeping bags. There's a total hush over the meadows, which compels us to speak in whispers, in the manner of kids at a slumber party telling secrets. Somehow, inexplicably, the calm around us lulls me into a sense of peace. Maybe all this soul-searching and crying is finally over...
Someone wearing a sarong and an off-white, natural fiber poncho arrives out front of the tent, which scares me for a brief minute, until I realise it's Bellingham Zac. I had no idea he'd be awake this soon, since generally, Sushi Kids party late and sleep even later. But here he is, motioning us to keep the silence: it's July 4th, the pivotal day of Rainbow Gathering, when everyone observes the silence from dawn til noon. It's a devotion of respect and energy to peace, on a day when most gatherings involve fireworks and chaos.
Although we'd expressed some urgency about getting downhill and reorganizing the gear, at the moment none of us is really in a hurry. Zac ends up falling asleep curled up on the welcome mat, and is soon snoring. Abbey watches Puck run around with his brindle friend. I sit half-in, half-out of my sleeping bag and meditate, saluting the hazily-rising sun from inside the tent, seated, drawing my arms up and over my head, hands pressed together, then forcing all the confusion, insecurity, love and grief out away from my torso before finally bringing my palms together in the center of my chest. Enough., I tell myself, It's enough now. Om shanti, shanti. Find prana.
And it has to be. I've given of myself with love and utmost hope for so long, to so many things. This is no longer just about him, or about how betrayed I've felt. It's about myself, about the drive and desire to find purpose in the world. About place. And where that really is, within and without the Self. I can feel myself pulling deep breaths in, deliberately increasing the space between my heart and pelvis, straightening. I don't know how long these pseudo-salutations last. From somewhere, I acknowledge the air warming with dawn.It is enough now.
When I come back to the tent-for I've never left my Self, this much I can be sure of-a string of people with bowls and spoons tells me Montana Mud is serving something from their gargantuan pots. Abbey and I gather up the remnants of our food: some overripe bananas, a little dog food. The idea now is to expel our leftovers into the various kitchens we've gleaned meals from; partly this is so we don't have to carry it back down the hill. Partly, the practice adheres to another tenet of Gatherings: share what you've got. Trade, barter and the supplies hucked in by various kitchens can only go so far; distribution of anything anyone's got to spare offsets the number of times a tribe has to make a trip into town. On reaching Montana Mud, we see that they're offering a strange brew this morning. It appears to be spaghetti noodles cooked down with canned tomatoes. Although many people will disappear after today's Peace Prayer, there will be clean-up crews in the forest for days yet. I can't help but wonder how they'll subsist on meals like this.
Harrison finds us at Montana Mud. I'm still amazed he and Bellingham Zac are awake, but here we all are, freezing in the shade and gradually warming in the sun. Since Zac has taken the vow of silence for the morning, we write back and forth on pieces of cardboard with a ballpoint pen. Cereal boxes. Of all the things. We've woken him up from his nap on the rug, and he and I stand in silence together, saluting the sun. This time we do it right, Zac facing away from the sun, my face turned up to his. The sky is a streak of white light across my field of vision. It takes a long, long time, pushing this anger and helplessness away from me. Within my Self, I know it's working. Outwardly, I'm really not sure. My shoulders crackle with the weight of what I'm leaving in this clearing. Under my own weight.
The boys stand around while we break camp. It doesn't take long. And this time it's wordless, folding tarps, rolling the rain fly, throwing everything into my pack at once. I find myself unfurling to the necessity of a schedule again, needing to be somewhere to do something at a certain time, or in specific parameters. Am I really this anal-retentive? It begs the question. Nevertheless, as I sling the (much lighter now) pack around and over my shoulders and we begin our trek out of the Gathering, I feel a deep sense of relief. Perhaps it's this that keeps me traveling, this palpable lightening: we've been happy here, and comfortable, but now we're really going home.
Monday, post-sunrise:
Reaching the shuttle drop-off/pick-up point, we discuss that we have 2 options. Raised at the mention of option #1: hike all the way back out to the car is a resounding, epic "Fuck no!". Personally, I can't face that 10+ mile walk again. So we all agree to sit and wait. I do some more yoga, twisting my torso around to either side, arms outstretched. A girl seated nearby joins me. The sun is high, and the antics of the parking guy amuse us all. Cars are already lining the pull in, everyone on edge as they wait to see which pickup truck full of hippies is the actual "shuttle".
My friend Robert joins us. Having run into him the night before, I offered him a ride home-he's from PT also, and seems fairly desperate to leave the Gathering. Here we are then, a set of pilgrims who haven't found exactly what they're searching for, squatting in the dust waiting for deliverance. It seems wrong somehow; thousands of other people have discovered exactly what they need here. Why haven't we? Then again, I can't speak for everyone else. And there are dozens of people around us talking about just that: attainment, fulfillment, regeneration. Listening to their stories with half my attention, stretching and rejuvenating with the other, I start to gather the happiness of others around me like a kid does in a game of wilderness hide-and-seek, piling the branches and grasses of the contentment rising from everyone else around me.
Each of these people came with something to give, and since I can feel little bits of myself crumbling off from time to time, I pass around the rolled-up, newly-battered Moleskine book. To avoid interrupting the morning vigil, I write at the top: "Looking for blessings. I go forward from here striving for an authentic life."
Harrison writes in it, then some kid named Ryan, who's looking for a ride back down to Stevenson, then a woman who calls herself Raven. Jaidee. Matt. I keep on burrowing my soul into the kindness of these strangers.
Parking Guy gets frustrated: cars are double-parked, some people have blatantly disregarded the "Don't Park Here, Hippies, Or We'll Tow You, Park On the Other Side" signs put up by Parks & Rec (Yeah, ok, they don't really say that, but the bright orange paper they're printed on speaks volumes). He ushers everyone sitting in the pull-in to walk up further to wait for their rides, hoping to clear some of the crazy congestion and allow the shuttles to come in and out. Abbey has managed to haggle a lift back down the hill: she'll go get the car, then bring it back up to meet us so Zac and Harrison don't actually have to bike back uphill to camp, a task we cannot conceive of them doing. It's a pretty steep hill.
Along the way, I acquire more hitchers. Ryan and his guitar are with us, and, out of nowhere, I recognize a CouchSurfer from the Seattle lists, Sherman. He and his traveling partner Kevin opt to hitch back downhill with us to get their own car. A tall man in a wool sweater has his young daughter with him, who's rightfully complaining about the shuttle taking too long. For a little kid, she's been awfully patient thus far, so I offer them a lift as well. Robert starts walking, entreating us not to leave him behind. We'll pick him up somewhere along the way. We all wander up another half-mile or so before settling into a shady spot where the road widens out.
Ryan pulls out his guitar and starts to play. Zac settles himself in a patch of sun across the street and meditates, bandana pulled up over his face. Harrison stretches himself out and closes his eyes, while Mary, the little girl, curls up against her dad and starts to sing us the thanksgiving songs she knows. One about giving thanks to all things, another about human beings answering their calling, being like bells. We are all bells. Ryan drops the key and picks up the melody with his low voice. Across the way, all I can see of Zac is his bearded jaw and mouth (he's trying to keep the dust out of his eyes); he is smiling. Kevin and Sherman prop themselves up on their packs, and we all listen. We keep our Selves still, and just listen, to this bright little girl teaching us all something about harmony and thankfulness and love.
Abbey finally manages to make it up to us: with so many people coming and going on bikes and on foot and in overloaded cars, it's taken a while. We set to work unloading Zac and Harrison's gear, along with 3 extra boxes of gleaned food. We offer produce to anyone who walks by: mandarin oranges, bell peppers, apples, bananas, even pineapples. It's hot, and dusty, and they're all incredibly grateful. I trade some mandarins for a handful of ripe apricots, and stop a moment to savor tanginess, juice in between my fingers. To everyone we see, I give a quiet "Namaste" or "Lovin' you." Why not, right? When in Rome...Some guy in an old Cadillac drives by, cussing us out for having the car in the road; Ryan yells right back at him, "You got plenty of room to pass, brother, plenty of room to pass."
I've seen this too often this weekend as well: altercations between people who've never met before, all because of a too-narrow foot bridge, or a cut in the food line, or a dropped cigarette. It leaves me questioning how strong the sense of community really is. In miniature, each camp is a model of peaceable living, but for the most part, these camps consist of folks that already know each other, or are acquaintances, or friends-of=friends. Out in the larger Gathering, however, things have sometimes seemed like a free for all, overwhelming with the vibe you get from dudes like Cadillac Speeder, who are in such a hurry to attain their own experience that they shit all over someone else's. It's only disheartening for a moment though: I look down, and Mary is standing beside me, taking my hand. This child trusts me. Not only that, she's perfectly content in this motley assortment of people, crammed into the car with her pink backpack on her lap, singing about birds and flowers.
We say goodbye to Harrison and Zac. Zac pushes his forehead up against mine, third eyes together, and for a moment, we are one. He's donating all his love and energy to restoring mine, when I need it the most. And yet it's still his thanks I'm receiving, for bringing them all this way, for dropping off their stuff, for being who I am. We leave them happily sorting through their things, and the hippie wagon is on its way home.
I throw on the iPod and rock out some bluegrass, managing to get us turned around without blocking the roadway, in a stunning 4-point turn. (I have to brag just a little here...). Sherman is folded up in the hatchback with all the crap. Ryan, Kevin, Abbey and the dog share the backseat. Mary's little feet are tapping time on the dashboard. We're all exhausted, dirty and overheated, but as we crawl down the road, waving at everyone we see, thumping rhythms out on our knees and car doors, I am happy. Because, in saying a heartfelt goodbye to Zac, it's finally hit me:
I made this happen.
This trip isn't the result of some completely spontaneous impulse, nor is it something I've waited for and planned for my whole life, both of which scenarios others can claim as their own. Rather, two people were in need, and I brought them here. And now, having picked up this string of hitchers and wanderers, I'm making sure some of us get home, too.
I can stand firm here, now, knowing that above all things, I have the capacity for Selflessness, for that renunciation of Self required to truly disseminate one's being out into the world without regard for one might be "getting" out of it. There is nothing else to 'get', for me. It seems utterly misguided to some, and is completely unfathomable to others: why would you ever give your Self up in this fashion, knowing it might suck, and it will probably hurt? Knowing that you'll be left vulnerable.
The only answer I can give to that is: This is who I am. More than anything this weekend, I've cemented that. When and where and whomever I'm with, I can honestly say that I give of myself without reserve, and without regard for what might be "in it for me". I know this. I know how treacherous it is, how painful and how hard, but if I can without doubt say anything of myself, it is that I move through the world with devotion to whatever I'm doing, to whomever I care about. I may never truly have left him back in the forest, but I accept now what I must carry with me, what I must bear the burden of in favor of never turning my back on who I truly am, what my purpose will ever be in this world. What a dear friend and spiritual teacher once told me: There's always a conversation going on, between you, and your needs, and who you are in this world. THIS is who I am. And I made this happen. My tribe arriving in this place that's so sacred to them. This carload of people, no longer worried about how to get home. This is enough. This will always be enough, now.
Monday, afternoon:
After dropping Kevin, Sherman, Mary and her dad off, and picking Robert up at the shuttle stop halfway down the hill, Ryan, Abbey, Puck and I are finally on paved road. The essence of granola is with us all over the car. Everyone's cracking jokes about it. "You know, for like the first day, I tried to keep a lid on my funk," Robert says, "And now, I just don't care. I give up, man."
That's about the shape of it, too. You can only control the eau d'hippie for so long...We're still rocking the bluegrass as we pull into Woodland, the first town with gas stations and diners outside the forest. And we're all starving. Under-caffeinated. It's time for a break. Robert opts to hang back with Puck and eat whatever's left in the car. The rest of us, probably erroneously, seeing as we've just come from a trade and barter society whose constituents claim they have no money, hit the doors of Rosie's Diner just before they close. I'm fairly certain all three of us are uttering silent thanks to the gods. This place has coffee. And cheeseburgers. I want to kiss the feet of every single waitress we see right now.
We settle into a vinyl booth and pound down a cup of coffee each. Ryan tightens the bracelet he's made me, out of a dusty black bootstring we found up in camp, around my wrist. We order ridiculous things: bacon cheeseburgers, onion rings, chocolate shakes, chilli-cheese fries. We eat. And drink more coffee. And keep eating. At some point, one of us wipes ketchup off a mouth-corner and just says, "Dude, I'm so happy right now, you guys."
And it's true. Somewhere on the winding road out of Gifford-Pinchot, I sense that we all shed something. An old skin. A bad memory. A little of the weariness. Robert is walking Puck back to the car-I see them through the window. I gather together a doggie box of burger scraps, and for long minute, we all just lie replete on the curb, looking like exactly what we are together: a rag-tag band of travelers in the sun, sated and content to be exactly where we are, with the friends we're with, right here, right now.
Ryan needs a ride to Vancouver, instead, so we pile back in the car that now seems so spacious without Kevin, Sherman, and the others. The windows are all down. Ryan and I have the backseat, Puck slouched between us. Robert offers to drive, letting Abbey and I have a break for a while. I settle back, petting Puck. Ryan's hand touches mine across the dog's back, and we smile at each other.
The road is long. It's hot, and we still have miles to go before we each sleep. Before we're each settled back into whatever routine or normalcy awaits us. But for now, I'm lulled back into the familiar, comfortable turning of the wheels on the road. And we're all still here, aren't we?
Because this is what we've learned to do. Because it's just what we know.
How to keep on driving.
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