Rainbow Gathering, Part IV...nearly the end.

Saturday Evening:

I could write so many, many things about the rest of the night. About how, just as I'm wiping the snot and tears away, and Zac and Stepha are preparing to head back to Sushi, he comes walking by again. With a big, trite grin on his face, bowl and spoon in hand. With herby his side-Great, so, now I look like a blubbering, insecure, unenlightened wreck; maybe that's exactly what I am. About how I have to pull him away from her to even get him to acknowledge me beyond the falsely buddy-buddy front that's being put on. About the hackles I see raised from my tribe, because they know just exactly what this is costing me. Just how little of it I'll get back.

Energy imbalance isn't something to be taken lightly by people like these, and it's the reason most of us are here: to pray for peace, to restore a flood of positive energy to the world, at least this patch of forest we're inhabiting this week. It's all over the gathering's web pages, official and not-so. Ask just about anyone who's attending, or has attended a Rainbow Gathering, and they'll tell you: it's an intentional community created with the hopes of promoting peace, but above all, of ridding oneself of anything negative, of meeting everyone you come across on ground.

But that's just it, I think, Moleskine notebook on my knee, facing the setting sun. I've never been equal here. At least, I've never felt like it. Why do I always feel so small? The ensuing conversation goes poorly. Lines drawn in the sand. I'm so tired of feeling like a little kid with a handmade paper heart. You know the type. The kind the shy, nerdy child draws for the one he loves, colored on with clumsy crayon-hands. The one he offers up with bated breath and the nervous words, "I made this for you." The one that's accepted with a genuine smile, or so he interprets it, out of admiration, out of gratitude for acceptance. Out of sheer love.

You know the one. The heart he finds in the trash the next day, half-hidden under an apple core, the daily paper's classifieds.

I could write an entire novel, and I'm not a prose writer. Suffice to say, it gets colder earlier this night. I make my slow way back to Sushi Land. Zac hands me a bowl of chicken and rice, and I eat it with tears streaming down my face. Trying to make conversation this way is like speaking a foreign language poorly in its own country. Since no one else understands the situation, there's a lot of brief staring, some "oh, poor thing" noises, and then disinterest. I mean, these people don't know me from Adam; they're probably rightfully trying to give me some space. Stepha sits by the fire with me. For an hour or more, I hunker down by the fire pit, holding someone's buff-colored pit bull puppy in my lap. The firepit circle includes Jeff and his unidentified girlfriend, a tweaked-out but kindly kid who calls himself Cloud, and a random assortment of Sushi Kids who are just trying to get warm. John comes back over. Having lost his sleeping bag and pants the night before, he's been poking around all day looking for them. I ask him if he's slept yet. He says no. He's been out here almost a week.

I wonder about what Rainbow Gatherings bring to the debate about human survivalism. It's one thing to prepare, agonize, train and then climb Mount Everest. It's another thing to go to ground, living entirely off what one scrapes from the land, like a homesteader determined to live outside civilization in the wilds of my home state, or on the prairies. Somehow pitching in the woods for a week with 20,000 other people doesn't seem particularly survivalist to me; it doesn't push the limits of what the human body and psyche are designed for. Unless you count those 20,000 people. And try to imagine inundating your brain and body with their presence and detritus. Perhaps what we're really surviving here, for this week or weekend, is each other. What we really survive is our Self.

Sassafras, the puppy, is wrapped in a black, tattered sweater. His smooth-furred head hangs over to one side. He is completely warm, safe and sacked out. I wish that were me, I think. How nice it must be to run around, helter-skelter, over and around and through all of life, all day, then collapse knowing you'll wake up refreshed, and, or I like to pretend, without any memory of the day before. I wonder if it might really be better, healthier, to just forget.

I could write more about how drained I feel. How I know somehow I've done the wrong thing by sending him away and simply saying, "I'm sorry things had to be this way." How I put my face up to his and attempted to give 'Eskimo' kisses, the way we always do. How he held perfectly still. And let me move. And let me be the one to keep on trying. There was nothing there, just as there was nothing between us when I first saw him this morning. The well-intentioned circle that surrounded me today let me purge a lot, though.

I could write volumes about how empty I feel right now.

Saturday Night, sunset:

Suffice to say that Abbey and I meander back to Rainbow Crystal Kitchen early. The fire is dying down and Sushi Tribe is splintering off in preparation for whatever everyone wants to do tonight.

Every time we walk back and forth from Rainbow Crystal to Sushi, we have to pass through Trade Circle. Trade Circle is an entity in and of itself. In it, one grasps a microcosmic sense of what the souks of Marrakesh might be like, or Middle Eastern bazaars. There are blankets and tarps spread out all over, with various crafts on them. Beads, bracelets, hemp jewelry, odd assortments of books, rocks, candy (a hot commodity in a place where marijuana is distributed as freely as food), clothes. And everyone is haggling. This for that, tit for tat, I'll trade you, I'll see you and raise you. It's insane, and the flow of foot traffic ceases in one of those Three Stooges-esque back-bouncers. You know the kind: the dude up front halts short, causing everyone behind him in rapid succession to bounce unchecked off the back of the person in front of them. And so on. Forgive me, barterers, but god, I hate walking through Trade Circle.

There's a more user-friendly, yet equally pervasive practice called Random Pocket Trade, which I actually enjoy, and engage in a couple of times on the way back to the tent. Random Pocket Trade is, my friends, exactly what it sounds like. The depth and breadth of one's pants or jacket pockets is vast and full of many mysteries. So, all over the Gathering, folks are hollering "Random Pocket Trade!" at each other. Hit someone up successfully, and you might trade a couple of quarters for a candy bar, some weed, a piece of jewelry, or essential toiletries like toothpaste or toilet paper. Then again, you might swap a pair of earrings for a used battery, half a granola bar, or arbitrary bits of other junk. I try a couple of swaps. Sure as shit, one of them is a used battery. Go figure.

As we reach camp, I can hear and smell the giant half-drum stewpot boiling. Rainbow Crystal Kitchen, like a lot of others, has rigged up an immense old 25-gallon drum as its cookstove. Wood burns underneath, and with the inside scoured out, it's a direct throwback to the 1920s railroad-trestle hobo kitchen: rusty, probably with a few holes in it, but functional. I run back to the tent and grab my backpacking mess kit just as the sister stirring the pot yells, "Come'n get yer Rainbow Crystal Stew!" When I hold out the bottom bowl of the kit to her, she ladles in 2 overflowing scoops of stew. And she ladles with a tin can lashed to a long willow branch. No shit.

You can't make this stuff up. Right next to the kitchen, some dude strikes up a riff on his old banjo. John Steinbeck would be proud.

I walk carefully over hummock-ville back to Abbey and we dig in with slightly dusty silverware scrounged from the bottom of my pack. It's delicious, whatever it is: something dark and rich with carrots, celery, and Ramen noodles drifting to the bottom. It's also spicy, lending some much-needed heat to our bellies. We sit on a red and white rug the kids camped next door gave me this morning; it's our tent's welcome mat, even though no one's really in and out but us. Puck eats some dog food and runs off to play with a rangy brindle mutt he's befriended. Abbey and I have finally, with Zac and Harrison, settled on a plan: They'll meet us at our camp in the morning, then we'll all take the shuttle down to the car to retrieve their gear. It's taken a supreme amount of effort for me to even get through the day this far, but I'm glad we finally figured out the last bit of concrete logistics before we lost each other completely in the shuffle.

I cannot tell a lie. After eating, we each take a Valium and pull on all our layers of clothing, then head into the tent to try and sleep. It's all of 8 pm. My body aches from the previous day's hike, which I've learned from passers-by is closer to 10 miles than to the 3 we were repeatedly told we had left to go. My heart aches from watching him walk away-I've done something wrong; the energy is off, and it shouldn't be, not between us, of all people. (Somewhere up ahead at some point, I heard his trademark donkey guffaw. He only does that one when something is genuinely piss-yourself funny. Oh my god. My heart.) By my goddamn brain will not shut off, and I think I sleep a whole 2 hours that night.

I'm so tired of having so many miles to go before I sleep.

The drum circle starts up again. This time I don't notice, the deep undertones of some guy's chanting echoing the lonely weariness in my heart and head.

Sing it, brother.

The night is wide, and sometimes it's hard to believe you're not the only one in it.

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)

Rainbow Gathering: Part II

Bellingham Zac passes a bag of blue chips and a bottle of Tapatio around, and we all eat and listen to the incredible story of how our paths have merged, from their end:

Stepha, that strong, strong lady, turned back the day before. Her bike seat wasn't conformed well to her body, and so she backtracked via hitching to Olympia, and has actually arrived in the forest ahead of Zac and Harrison. The boys attempted to keep going, but had very little luck hitching, and, on the way down a fairly daunting hill and a fairly daunting speed, Harrison's tire blows-fortunately, and amazingly, as they hit a flat stretch. Zac is telling this story energetically, and we're all in awe of how many signs and occurrences seemed to have been screaming at them to stop moving, to turn back and give up.

They spent the night in the open, and in the morning, I received their call.

Once again, I'm humbled by how strong this calling really was: a call to action, to compassion and to DO. Activism and action are not one and the same; on the contrary, one may be an activist by only moving the lips, paying lip service to the 'cause' one purports to champion, or to the type of person one claims to be. Action is the fulfillment of promise, an affirmation of purpose, and the essence of change. Harrison's head rolls sideways against the window; Puck curls up and Zac pets him about the ears. The windows are open, the breeze blowing in, and I know I'm present here. Still striving for authenticity... We all lapse into silence; admittedly, I'm thinking about my former partner. What will happen when I see him-for see him I will, because I know my luck, and that this is not simply an impromptu road trip-and have to interact with him again? I hope with all my heart that somehow things there will work out, but I'm just not sure.

Saturday, late afternoon, Gifford-Pinchot Nat'l Forest off Curly Creek Rd.:

Due to some seriously gratuitous speeding, we arrive at what looks like the right spot pretty early. We're all incredulous: the road is uphill all the way, windy and narrow in spots. I can't imagine the guys trying to bike up it, especially considering the huge distance they'd have already come. I'm so glad they didnt have to try. There are signs all over the place directing us not to park here, there and everywhere-even though we've pulled into a huge, public parking area. So, we arrive at a plan that splits our group up. 2 of us will take the heavy packs, filled with food, water, etc, and head toward the campsite, which we've been told is 3.5 miles into the forest from the access road. The other 2 will park the car, situate our valuables and carry up more supplies afterward. We're thinking we've got this on lock: the walk in isn't far, and we've heard it's a maintained road. After sitting in the car so long, we all want to get out and stretch ourselves and begin to move around. Walking sounds pretty good. Harrison and I elect to take the heavy packs and Puck and head in to find our tribe, Sushi Land. Zac and Abbey will follow.

At first it's not so bad. The sun is out and we're warm, walking along chatting. Since they'd planned on biking the whole way, Harrison doesn't have a pack, but rather is carrying 2 bike paniers clipped together over his shoulder. My pack weighs nearly 70 lbs, since I have most of the people food and water in it. We're in good spirits, happy to be out of the car and having arrived there, somewhat against all odds. There are cars lining the road as we go along, so we figure we will have company walking with us and be able to get there fairly quickly. Puck is on his leash smelling everything he sees. Occasionally cars pass us going one direction or another.

Saturday, sunset:

As we gain elevation, it gets colder. Harrison isn't having an easy time with his paniers, since they're not the same weight and are awkward to carry. We hike for a couple of miles, then stop to put on long sleeves and readjust the weigh load. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we hum. We've been walking for over an hour thus far, coming across small groups of people here and there. There are Westfalias and busses parked sporadically, tarped, painted and sporting fires beside them, some with pots of hot tea or something boiling away. The sun is beginning to set.

After a while it gets really difficult for Harrison to balance the paniers, and the 70 lbs I'm carrying is causing my back to cramp and my shoulders to chafe where the pack straps cut into them. I can't straighten up into a good posture anymore-we're going up hill steadily and I have to lean forward, throwing my upper body into the weight of the pack, since the hip belt isn't carrying enough of it. We attempt to trade loads for a while, but carrying the paniers with Puck's leash in the other hand is too awkward for me, and the pack isn't the right size for Harrison, who's 6'3" and lanky. It's starting to get colder as we ascend, snow piled beside the road. When the wind passes over it, I get goosebumps. Night is falling on us.

Mentally, I can tell we're both passing into the same space: that forceful, rigid mind-state that goes along with exhaustion, with accomplishing a task you can't rightly see the end of. We both estimate that it's been at least 3 miles already, so where is the entrance to camp? Where are all the people? We walk up to a campsite along the side of the road, and are greeted by a motley assortment: a couple of kids, a few women, and 2 guys who look like they've been partying pretty hard already. The kid offers us something to drink or eat, but we just want to get THERE. One of the guys tells us that we have at least another 3.6 miles to go, all the way up and around the ridge. Supposedly it's all downhill from there. I feel desperate. Harrison shrugs and says he's game to keep hucking, and there are no cars in sight, so we shoulder our gear again and keep going. Better to keep pushing onward than to sit down-if we sit down, we might not get back up. Harrison's Achilles has started bothering him more, and my knee begins to give under so much weight and fast walking.

Up top of the ridge, we pause for a while. The sun is setting. Mt. St. Helens is before us, mist below that, and a vast, vast valley shaded in gray, blue, and sunset pink beyond that, the river snaking out of sight, an expanse of serene beauty that stops the heart and revives the soul. "This was worth all of it," Harrison says. And I agree. We drink some water, say silent thanks for the vista before us, and continue on.

Saturday, after dark, somewhere outside Skookum Meadows:

It truly does become all downhill from here, but it also becomes darker and darker, until we are plodding along in complete blackness. It's gotten much, much colder, and now we're walking with an entire cadre of nomads. A couple of older guys shouldering swags. A young couple whose baby husky makes friends with Puck. Teenagers with black clothes on. A few times, vehicles stop and pick people up, but Harrison and I are too numb, in pain, and tired to stick our thumbs out anymore. We've had no luck hitching anyway, and we may as well keep walking. Talking intermittently with our compatriots, we gradually pick up more and more people, see more lights, and are told more often than not that we're "almost there", a concept we stopped believing in about 4 miles ago.

Finally, finally, finally, someone hollers "I see lights, you guys! That's it!". And sure as shit, it is: a large assortment of cars, trucks, vans and a couple of busses. Someone we can't see up ahead yells, "Welcome home! Lovin' you!": the Rainbow Family Gathering mantra, something I'll hear countless times for the next 2 days. We can't find the trailhead into the Gathering right away-it's blocked by all the cars, but eventually, someone steers us in the right direction. Unable to get into the packs and find headlamps, batteries or flashlights, we're at the mercy of those in front of us. It's muddy as all get-out, and I can hear people shouting to one another through the dark. Everyone is carrying lots of gear, some things as strange and unwieldy as kids' strollers, stand-up basses, pets in scarves, giant bundles of pots and pans. We're stumbling our way downhill over slippery roots and between trees we can barely see. I go down three times-Puck is pulling on his leash, knocking me off balance. Finally I just let him off it. Neither Harrison nor I really know where to find our tribe, the Sushi kids, but before we even reach the main meadow, we have to traverse this swampy, cold stretch, spanned by rough-cut, treacherously slick log bridges. It is a nightmare. Somewhere along the way, Puck flies by me in the darkness. Up ahead, I hear a splashing commotion: he's taken a header into the creek, which is deep and freezing cold.

We eventually pop out into the Marsh Meadow, surrounded by tall skunk cabbages. For a moment, again, we hold our breath: it's an incredible sight. For over a mile around the marsh, lights are glowing. In the haze, the poles of tipis, tents, geodesic domes crafted from tarps and frames, and banners can be seen. The pounding of drums from multiple drum circles is incessant. Every few minutes, a wild chant or haka fills the air. The sensation is one of unadulterated tribalism: a summit under cover of night attended by every conceivable Nation of Peoples, wherever they've come from, whomever they've chosen to represent.

Across the Marsh Meadow, we stop and fling the packs down. I have a foil packet of potatoes, onions and garlic in mine, and I pass it around. We're both starving. Even Puck eats the potatoes, which he normally wouldn't touch. There's a main message board somewhere that we're hoping to find a note from Sushi Land on; we have no idea where to find them, and the Gathering has swelled to 20,000 plus people, all camped in a huge radius spanning acres of land. No one at the information tent between one side of Rainbow and the other can tell us specifically how to find Sushi Land. We eat a bit more, then head off in a direction that seems right, passing briefly through the woods again until we come out into a huge clearing: the central meadow. There are people everywhere. Loud chanting and unintelligible yelling comes from a huge fire pit, where what looks like hundreds of people are dancing, drumming and circling around. Light flickers manically.

Harrison stops just as I do, and we stare at each other. "I'm overwhelmed right now," he says. "So am I," I say. "I don't know where to go from here..." A middle-aged woman stops near us and asks what we're looking for. When we tell her "Sushi Land Tribe", she looks dubiously at us. "It's going to take you at least another 3/4 of an hour to get there," she says. We have to walk all the way around the far side of the meadows, out onto another promontory. It's pitch dark. The terrain here is nothing but old sedge hummock-huge moguls and depressions pockmarking the landscape. You could break an ankle in the blink of an eye. Puck is shivering by my side, he can't decide if he wants to run and play with all the other dogs, or collapse. I suspect Harrison and I feel exactly the same.

We stagger closer to the drum circle, unsure of where to go from here. We'd so hoped to make it all the way to our tribe, and now neither of us can formulate a coherent thought. I'm tripping over my words. Harrison looks shell-shocked. The woman is amazed we made it-apparently we've hiked in much, much further than we thought we had. We end up pitching camp in the middle of it all, next to a camp called the Rainbow Crystal Kitchen. The tent straddles a huge hummock, myself on one side of it, Harrison on the other, Puck curled up wet and cold at our feet. By the time we get the tent up, I can barely feel my fingers. We roll into our sleeping bags, layers of clothes on, and try to sleep.

As I lie there trying to rest, I am in sensory overload. How much easier will this all be tomorrow, when it's light, and warm? We've lost Zac and Abbey and can only hope they've made their way to Sushi Land without us. I wonder about seeing my former partner. My heart aches in memory of the last time we saw each other. I've accomplished this much and we are HERE now, yet I feel empty somehow. The booming of the drums outside goes on and on and on.

Welcome Home: Rainbow Gathering 2011. Part I

I hadn't intended to go to this event. 'Event' isn't a particularly accurate term, I suppose: Rainbow Gathering is indeed a gathering of the tribes, and of the nomads, and of the curious from all walks of life.

Initially, I put my foot down: personal circumstances just wouldn't allow me to attend; Rainbow is meant to be a spiritually cleansing and healthy space, a place people go to find community and light. Perhaps retrospectively, I ought to have trusted my instincts. Perhaps I ought not have gone...

Saturday, July 2, morning:

I'd intended to do a BUNCH of things this weekend. Clean. Pack. A friend's birthday party. Then up to Tubal Cain again to backpack in, hike around, and heal myself with solitude and water. We're just getting ready to cook a huge brunch for those of the tribe who've also elected not to go to Rainbow when my phone rings: it's Bellingham Zac.

The prelude goes something like this: Bellingham Zac, Stepha and Harrison all biked into Port Townsend late one night, in need of shelter on the first night of an incredibly ambitious quest to bike all the way to the Gifford-Pinchot National Forest. The distance, in case you're wondering, is over 400 miles. We have dinner together, and they allow me to emotionally vomit all over them: I'm not going to Rainbow because my former partner will be there, along with HIS supposedly-former partner, whom he's now back with, and I just don't know if I can take it. My heart feels as if it's been planed along by a woodworker's tool: thin shavings curling up in some recess of me that I haven't the strength to sweep up and throw away.

Bellingham Zac, this Saturday morning, is in a predicament. Stepha's turned back-she's exhausted, and rightfully so, so he and Harrison are somewhat stranded somewhere on I-5. Harrison's Achilles tendon has been bothering him (strained?) and they're just wondering if anyone I know might be heading that way that could offer them a lift. I tell him I'll make some calls, and hang up the phone.

Then it hits me: I am meant to do this job.

How often in our everyday lives do we bypass the tasks laid before us? Like those passing the Samaritan in the road, do we consciously avert our purpose & therefore our Selves by skirting around those seemingly inane jobs laid in our paths by the world? Rather than resting on the backs of Materials- my cell phone, the friends who were to leave for Rainbow the next morning, my sense of false obligation to cooking for the leftover Tribe...- I quickly turned around, began slinging orders to Abbey, picked up the phone & simply told Zac & Harrison: "We're coming to get you."

It was my job to attain experience for my friends, my tribe.

Saturday, afternoon:

It took less than 2 hours. Abbey & I fly around Tim & Andrea's kitchen: bacon frying, garlic fritatta in the oven, strawberries macerating with basil in a bowl. There are people around the table eating and drinking strong coffee while I alternately chop, wash, fry, package, and answer the phone again and again; the strength of Purpose that I climb like a ridgetop bearing me up. For long minutes I think not a whit about what might await me at Rainbow: the sickening yet exhilarating shock of seeing that beloved face, the one I so hope will remain luminous for me. We shoo our friendship family out of the house. Wash up. Empty the fridge of its perishables, pack smartly but lightly and jettison ourselves.

Chehalis, Washington: Wal-Mart Parking Lot:

It's hot. 80+ degrees even in the shade, and Abbey and I have been driving for hours, speeding gratuitously and blaring bluegrass at unhealthy decibel levels just to stay awake and motivated. We pull into the Wal-Mart parking lot just before 4 pm, and find Bellingham Zac and Harrison sprawled out under a pitiful shade tree.

I am enveloped in gratitude. So often we do things in our lives that go unnoticed-picking up trash on a walk. Perhaps we offer love and solace to someone when they need it. Donate money. Take the time. This time, I am covered in thanks, picked up and spun around and made to know that the completion of this task matters, and is recognized. It takes us an hour or so to load ALL THIS STUFF in the car! 2 bikes, the dog, 3 huge trekking packs, and 3 boxes of produce gleaned from the Wal-Mart dumpsters. Take that, chain box store! We are on our way, and more importantly, Zac and Harrison are rejuvenated. They are on their way to Rainbow again, in a car! With music! And air conditioning! Hippie Limousine indeed!

The car is full to the brim with love and light. These men are so, so happy to be off their bikes and on the way to realise their dream of meeting Sushi Tribe at this international Gathering of spirits. It makes me supremely fulfilled simply to have summoned the wherewithal needed to swoop them up out of the heat and uncertainty and help shepherd them on down their paths.

We are at a confluence.

In rescuing these bright members of Sushi Tribe, I've altered my own path. Overcome my own fear and trepidation, and moved to merge my path with theirs in an eddy of destiny. The discussion in the car is sometimes silly-there are tricksters amongst us, of course-but more often than not, returns to destiny, confluence and meaning. We've met up out of the needs of some of us, and the jobs the universe holds for others, at the junction and in a swirling undercurrent of meaning, for all of us. There's some discussion of my personal journey. Of why I just feel that I cannot cross that threshold, between my individual self and the community self of Rainbow, when I know his energy will be there, affecting mine. And yet we move. We keep on driving.

Growth Rings

So, so much has happened.

Human beings, at least emotionally, spiritually, and metaphysically, don't grow like trees at all. The process is not slow, a yearly gain of age, season & reason. We grow like, well, ourselves: small, incoherent & awkward at intervals, then, when intermittently the universe allows it & makes its lessons known, throw us into the great pool of life all at once, find our voices & feet under us. It's a wonder there aren't more drownings, metaphorically speaking, yet somehow there are not.

We go on growing like the calves of antelope, tottering to our feet as quickly as we can. Perhaps we can run fleetly before we know how to nurse. Over & over, we flee, chew greenery we can't digest. We are skilled at crouching down so our spots blend with the shrubs. We teeth. We bolt.

I'd started, recently to feel as though I were trapped, too young to fend for myself somehow, too gawky & inexperienced to make progress-at least, that's how I felt I was acting. And now, things around me are propelling me forward. I'm shooting up again, gaining inches & perspective & chance.

Here it goes again, then, for me!

I've just been thrown headfirst & only marginally refraining from kicking & screaming into the most providential, humbling work of my life.

1,800 greater Seattle area volunteers. 45 local schools. 25 active habitat restoration sites. Our director has a 3-year plan to triple these numbers & to triple our organization's range, staff, donations & impact. 3 major watersheds: the Stillaguamish, Snohomish & Island County jurisdictions.

We are bringing wild salmon back to each. Teaching kids about the importance of watershed restoration. Raising money for tree-plantings, stream remeanders, & pollution reduction.

On the periphery-no, that's not true; very much at the forefront, also-I've managed to swallow my pride long enough & well enough to retain a very, very important relationship. How strident I've been. How loud, hyperbolic, desperate, melodramatic. Yet rather than wonder why he bothers to but up with it, I've decided that I know: never once have I purported to be anything but who & what I am.

It's taken some time, frustration & many false starts, but I've decided to deal with this relationship, as I do all others, from a place of deep love & respect, & so over the next few months, will relay all this to him via email (since the written word is, of course, my stronger suit...).

After weeks of churning wheels, anger, heightened negativity, now this-a breakthrough? A new start? A clean slate? One hopes.

Above all & ever, I hope.

Because, really, it's the other stuff that confounds us, isn't it? The times we feel stymied, ineffectual or lost. We all know what's underneath it, where we began, why. It's only the detritus of everyday life that buries it, when we're wearied by unanswered questions, by bad news, foul weather, lack of time.

It really is such an easy thing, once that's all stripped away, & we find ourselves refocused on who we are, why we are, what we're here to do. Life nourishes us when we're not expecting it, not looking, & then we realise that in paring down to that one essential, we've managed to grow.

Growth through minimalism. Through continuing to breathe, even underwater, as it were.

What an easy, natural thing it can be: to love. Such a simple, simple thing.

To All My Dear Friends, Family, And Loved Ones Otherwise:

May 2, 2011

Dear Loved Ones,

As most of you well know. I have spent the last year volunteering for the national organization AmeriCorps. This has meant my participation in a wide range of projects and activities. I’ve learned many valuable skills in fields that I might never had had time to explore otherwise, including conservation and ecology, volunteer recruitment and coordination, literacy outreach, invasive species removal, habitat restoration, and education.

Having learned so much, in the company of many other driven, accomplished and compassionate people, I feel that it is time to take my knowledge and use it to its best effect elsewhere. “Where is ‘elsewhere’?,” you may ask.

After researching for weeks, an organization called the Sudanese Volunteer Programme came to my attention. SVP is based in London, UK and serves mainly universities and schools in Khartoum, Northern Sudan. Their mission is,

“…the exchange of cultures and the forging of life-long links is our main objective. Improving the standard of English amongst Sudanese is but a useful and welcome by-product of our endeavours!”

Volunteers are housed at their affiliate universities, but can spend time in the homes of their students and colleagues, who live outside Khartoum in Sudanese villages. There is also an Arabic language exchange between volunteers and villagers; being fascinated by languages, I would love the opportunity to learn Arabic. SVP provides a stipend equivalent to a local teacher’s salary. This is not much by American standards, consisting of $130 Sudanese dinars, but it is enough to purchase food, clothing, etc. during the stay. According to SVP’s staff and former volunteers,

“The people are genuinely lovely in Sudan and welcome you into their homes with a generosity that is embarrassing. We seem to have lost this generosity in the West where we tend to be suspicious of the ‘foreigner’. In Sudan, it’s what makes the whole experience worthwhile.” (from SVP’s volunteer blog)

It sounds like we will be well taken care of and welcomed as members of our Sudanese communities. SVP employs volunteer teachers for a minimum of 6 months. At the moment, as discussed with SVP’s director, David Wolton, I would like to depart for Khartoum in October of 2012. This gives me just over a year to prepare.

While there is no cost to the volunteer (save for recreation) while in the Sudan, if I am to make this journey, I will need to raise money for airfare. Currently, tickets from Seattle to Khartoum, where I will be met by SVP staff and taken to my university, cost around $1500. There are very few secure ATMs in the Sudan, nor can American credit cards be used there, so I will also be saving money for exchanging on arrival in Khartoum-this will help purchase appropriate clothing in the local style, toiletries and food until SVP’s stipend kicks in. SVP helps its teachers store & safeguard personal items, paperwork and valuables while in Sudan.

I’m sure the question of security and safety is foremost in your minds. Let me assure you that Khartoum and the Northern Sudan are a far cry from the Darfur Region. SVP provides traveler’s insurance for all of its staff, and the people of the Sudan are, as mentioned, friendly, helpful and peaceful. One of the goals of this project is to foster cultural awareness between the West and the people of Northern Sudan; it is very important that the global community understand the situational differences between the regions. I hope to contribute by lending my skills and an open ear to the people of Sudan, then by passing what I’ve learned there on to my friends, family, peers and community here in the U.S.

So, why am I writing to you?

In order to ensure that I reach my fundraising goals, I’ve decided to reach out to my loved ones for donations. I feel that working with SVP for 6 months will help me immensely in the future: jobs in teaching English as a second language, overseas, and in community services and activism will become easier to obtain. I will have precious knowledge of cultural practices, customs, and the Arabic language. Most of all I will have been able to contribute to the global community in a meaningful way.

If you are able and would like to help me get to the Sudan, please let me know. I will be writing/emailing with updates as often as I can. Regardless, you all have my appreciation for your unending support. Thanks for being with me while I prepare for another adventure!

With Love,

Michele

Halfway Markers

So, here we are, a little over halfway through the year. The weather is gradually improving, as the sun peeks out more frequently & things seems marginally drier. By rights, it seems our spirits should also be lifting, but that's not always the case...

We've been asked to evaluate our host sites, their adherence to AmeriCorps visions, goals & members' specific skill sets & needs; some of our compatriots, whose contracts differ from our own, will be leaving very, very soon. Too soon. We're all at a crossroads, these days, trying to decide if we're "happy" or not, to remind ourselves how many synonyms that word has, how broad a concept it really is. Perhaps, we wonder, we're not fulfilling our own visions here: what difference are we making? How integral is our own happiness to the overall success of our site in its entirety, be it middle school, tribal center, marine science center, community action patrol?

The cracks are starting to show. Some days it feels as though we're just covering over the bad bits, time after time, exchanging each small hurt for an equal-sized scraping of plaster: a good day with a single student, a great dinner, a hug from a friend.

I don't think I can accurately answer this question-the one of purpose, of meaningful- and impactful-ness. The one about "what we're doing here" & "why" & whether or not our work will stand & remain when we're gone. We all want longevity. We all want to know that in the end, we've "made a difference". It's hard for us to measure that difference against the feeling we have in our bones at the end of some days: that today was a wash, a throw-away. That tomorrow the issues will still be there, the checklist still on the desk, the kid still unable to multiply. That above all, we've missed the mark somehow, but that it's not our fault to accept; that the fault lies with the site. Lost in translation.

Last Saturday we finally managed to go out to our ivy removal site & get some work done. The day started out gray but meandered into sunny & perfect, tide out & bay silver with sunshowers. The eagles were around. New folks joined us to pull ivy & learn about invasive species, including my best friend from Alaska, down for a long weekend & a much-anticipated visit. We played music out the back of someone's Subaru. At the end of the day, each of us could step back from our chosen patch of weeds & see bare ground, ready to be replanted with a native plant someday. It was change you could see. That we'd all felt, in the chill dirt & rain on our faces, the sun on our backs & each other's laughter in our ears.

Later, we went out for a late lunch at the local pub with my best friend & several others who'd participated. We talked out some of our frustrations, with work, with the erstwhile intangibility of our objectives. The fireplace was roaring. My partner leaned over to kiss my forehead. Someone pulled out a word game & for a while, we all got lost in ridiculing the origins of English idioms & slang terms.

Ultimately, we were present. This is what we've done, & what we've been called to do. What we will leave: a presence, the knowledge that our communities will hold onto: that help is available, & that compassion & willingness to contribute are alive & well. Although it's difficult at times, for better or for worse, we're here. And the needs we're meant to serve are, too.

Look around. The bits of plaster & Bandaids that will carry us through are everywhere: in one day's hard work, in friends, in the weather & in yourself. You're present in both the hurts & the unfathomable happiness, & someone somewhere is always grateful.