Arbitrary Musings: San Miguel, Part the Last

I had intended to write this blog days ago, before leaving San Miguel, so that the chill mist of morning rising over the arid city could do its work on my sleepy brain. Perhaps it might have been better written then, more eloquent or more entertaining. Now there's no way of knowing. Saturday, August 17: THE. BIG. DAY. We are all up crazy-early, drinking weirdly-roasted coffee that tastes instant, even though we know it's not, not eating much. The bridal party begins the long, long process of playing dress-up at about 9 a.m., hair to be done, makeup, make sure none of the groomsmen go upstairs. After all the hype about how much there is to be done, there's a lot of hurry up and wait. Where to leave things out? Where to add them? To cast a writer's eye on which; to mention whom. First Look: My sister finally comes down the stairs in her wedding dress, followed by her bridesmaids all in teal. They make a vision against the yellow walls. I cannot describe it better than this photo does:

...she descends first to my father, then all the way down into the courtyard to her husband. I can't see their faces-I'm behind them, and above them on the patio, and honestly, that's just fine with me. This is their moment: the white-dress moment, the culmination of their love. They are holding hands now, walking towards the sun, away from me. I can't see it, but I know my sister's face is radiant. I know her husband is smiling. And then I think about worry. I think about "to miss". I think about "absence". And fonder hearts. And this time around. I do not "MISS HIM". All in capitals for emphasis, of course. I miss him in the way one misses the familiar while traveling alone: wouldn't it be nice to have someone to turn to, to exclaim over how beautiful, or how tasty, or look! In the way you begin to miss the daylight in Alaska, when fall settles in: it would be nice to have those extra couple of hours, but now it's the right temperature for fireplaces, hot tea. I miss him because he would love to be here, to sit and watch the sun set together, as we always do, merely in a new country, a new city, a newer world. I am accustomed to 'worrying'. I do not worry ABOUT HIM. I worry, but I don't-I worry about silly things, about whether we have food in the 'fridge for when I return. About whether he's getting enough sleep (he's not). I worry about the dog, frankly, more than I worry about 'what he's doing while I'm gone'. I realise that I have never had this; this reasonable facsimile of serenity. Always before I have traveled alone, wishing I had someone to 'share it with'; traveled toward someone who, all the while I was dabbing my eyelids with cold water and driving with the windows down, was moving away from me even as I raced to find them. Traveled having just left someone. Having been left. In limbo or otherwise. I do not worry about him because I know where he will be. I can see his routine in my head now; Not a day has passed that we haven't spoken, somehow. He tells me he loves me, that he cannot wait until I get back; that he's sad because he can't be there. I hear it all. I believe every word. How we wait all our lives for this absence of apprehension. How we know what someone will wear just to pick us up at an airport. The feeling of perfect stasis in the gut-there is nothing going on. There is nothing going wrong. In the heart. And then it's suddenly time to leave the chapel, to head back out into the scorching sun, and follow a donkey around while drinking shots of tequila from tiny clay mugs. True story. The parade is long, but it is hilarious. Spontaneous dances break out in the streets. True story. All of it. My mother is taking tequila shots. My father is taking tequila shots. The donkey is unhappy. More tequila shots. We are parading through the streets while strangers-locals, tourists, some guy who joins the party like he belongs there-clap and cheer the bride and groom. You see this in movies. You see this for real.

Because this: this parading through the streets, showing off to the crowd-this is what we're here for, aren't we? Shouldn't love be like this? A beating sun, a meandering line of family, of friends. Candy-colored clay cups, spontaneous dances. Spectators on balconies. We are all in love and we want to yell about it. Whitman said "barbaric yawp!". Over the rooftops. We are in love with each other; with the silliness of a donkey parade (with life's parade, with the parade of each other in and out and in again); with the charming confusion of being tourists in a foreign town maintained by ex-patriats. With being a tourist attraction to locals. We are in love with my sister and her husband and their love. And I am. I am in love. With a flawed, sometimes-cranky, beautiful man. Without all the agonizing over "whether we'll last". Without worry. Later, there are speeches. The sun goes down over the yellow casita. There are not one, but three fireworks displays, each one lit off from a rooftop closer than the last. We know we paid for one, for my sister. We say they are all for her. Because that's what we all wish, for ourselves, for the ones we love, when they finally find true love, isn't it? For fireworks. For all the fireworks in the city to be lit at once. For a faint smell of black powder. For the riot of the heart to be reflected in the sky.

If Rachael Ray could do it, so can I...

This blog may be inarticulate and disjointed, on account of I just spent the entire day trotting a somewhat unruly horse across the Mexican countryside, rappelling off a giant cliff & then hiking back up said cliff to get said horse to trot once again back to the ranch. I'll skip over the sordid details of my sister's bachelorette party last night; suffice to say that, once again, it's exactly what I DON'T want, if for no other reason than that I look hideous in spangly pink, and despise guessing games. And there were lots of spangles. And lots of games being played. Today, we're off on an organized adventure: horseback riding across the countryside, followed by (if one so chooses), rappelling from what we're told is a 14-story cliff face. Apparently, Rachael Ray has visited San Miguel, and was scared shitless by the selfsame rappelling excursion we're eventually going on. http://www.rachaelrayshow.com/show/view/1389/ I'm not afraid of much. Not snakes, nor traveling alone (clearly), nor heights. We meet the hungover bachelor party at the local Starbucks and pile into two elderly passenger vans. I'm groggy and overheated but ready to meet this cowboy stuff head on. The entire ride there, our driver and guide, Andres, discusses the implications of Monsanto's buyouts and genetic patenting on Mexican national agriculture, land and water rights; I'm sitting too far back to join in. He's telling us about his history: how he speaks at least three languages, plays African percussion in a traveling troupe, wants to start a business that salvages found items and supplies for people to create mixed-media art with: metal scrap, rope and twine, beads, mosaic tiles, paints. I've missed this-the propensity of travelers to 'spill their guts' to locals, and in turn to elicit these responses that tell us how expansive human ambition can be. What ambition and the notion of success appear as from place to place, from person to person. The drive lasts about thirty minutes, winding from San Miguel out into desert scrub. More goats. More cows. Fewer people. What strikes me about it most is the sparsity of population. One either side of the road, heat waves rising from the pavement, are men, women, children in twos and threes, single-file wending their way between cacti to the roadside. It seems settlement occurs mainly on bluffs, and in order to get from home to the closest bus stop or market, locals must cross from one side to the other. Public bus stops exist in places so far away from the city center; groups of people sit patiently in the hot sun, waiting. The final ascent to the ranch looks out over the landscape. It is green, dotted with desert flowers-orange, red, yellow. A huge black butterfly is chased by a small white one. It is what it always is, the world over: idyllic, pastoral, rustic. Cut to the chase: we're heading out on docile, seasoned horses handpicked for each of us by the gang of cowboys. Mind you, at least three of the cowboys are under the age of 16, one no older than 8. Although the trail is mellow and slow initially, soon we're cutting across the hills, where it becomes rocky and somewhat treacherous. My horse, whose name I never caught, is not particularly adept at this walking thing. He stumbles quite a few times, catching himself, while I hold on for dear life and picture being fallen upon and smashed. Fortunately although he sucks at walking, he manages to make it all the way down the meandering, climbing trail, across the river (where we stop for a brief break, much to the relief of us amateur riders and our butts), and up, up, up to the top of the daunting 14-story (about 150 foot) cliff those brave enough will rappel from. There's not a lot of ceremony or training to this activity. As soon as we arrive, we're asked who's going: it will be myself, two of my brothers, our friends Roger and Silver, and the groom. One of the other wives is game, until she looks over the edge and sees nothing but rock and rope the whole way down. I confess: when she declines, I pause as well. I mean, none of the other girls are going. No one's going to judge anyone for not wanting to back down a cliff attached to nothing but a (slightly weathered) piece of rope ballasted by some dude wearing spurs, cowboy boots and a giant sombrero. We waver in so many ways, in life: simply-what DO I want for breakfast? Complex: Who am I, today, or tomorrow, or ever? And why? And what am I afraid of? Perhaps it's trite or cliche, but this rappelling adventure is analogous in so many ways to what I've done and overcome just recently: finding the love of my life, and yes: having doubts. About who'd be happy, and who would look at us as if we were crazy. About whether or not we shouldn't just elope, run away, have our happiness to ourselves for a while. It took me almost a month to get up the courage to tell my parents, who, shockingly, are happier for us (almost, not quite...) than we are for ourselves and proceeded upon announcement to argue over who knew first that we were in love. We live so often in this type of controlled fall: the cliff we cannot control, nor the weather, nor the circumstance, but with one hand for strength and the other for balance, with the heart for courage and the brain for clarity, here we are anyway. We ascend. We descend again. I watch first my brothers, then Roger conquer the cliff. From far below (we can't see the bottom totally), all we hear are whoops and hollers. Everyone is exhilarated. The cowboys are highly amused. Finally I detach myself from the onlookers and march up to the anchor point. Eff it. Go big or go home. It is, in fact, easier, technique-wise, than it really looks. Most of the effort comes from your upper body as you suspend yourself with the left hand and control your "brakes" with the right. Ok, so that's an exaggeration: there are no bloody brakes. Essentially, you wear thick leather work gloves and hope to god your grip and arms are strong enough to carry you the entire way down. What a metaphor for life THAT is. At first, I'm doing alright, leaning back into the harness and divvying out rope steadily. Then, I lose my footing and start to spin. (Funny, this is in no way synonymous with how I fell in love with Robert. I knew the second I saw his smile as he came down my driveway, that I would marry this man, if he'd have me...) Cooool, well...now this is happening. It is extremely. High. Up. Oh, look. A vulture. Nice omen that is. My nature is to try and control. To be if not methodical, at least practical about problem-solving. When one is spinning 100 ft. above any sort of blessed firm earth, one has two and a half choices: keep spinning and freakin' out; just let it happen and engineer one's way back towards stability; just hang there and hope someone else pulls your sorry ass back in. I am proud of this: I choose number two. No screaming. No crying. No flailing about. I hang and let rope out, and hang, and let rope out, and gradually come back to face the cliff rather than the open, daunting view from up here. And yet, as I come back around to put my feet against solid rock, I miss that view: you truly can see everything from up here. Birds. The rest of the cliff face. Tiny dots that are my brothers and Roger waiting below. THe cliff face is reassuring only because I'm where one is supposed to be while rappelling down a giant cliff. Not because, any longer, it represents terra firma. It is what, technically, is meant to be faced; the other direction holds the definition of the sublime: awe mixed with fear. I am slow-my left shoulder, damaged from boxing, is starting to ache, but I make it down, straight through the thinnest gap between rocks, and am suddenly on my feet again, shaking a little, but nonetheless exuberant. Roger gives me a hug. We throw our heads back and yell up to the watchers, receiving whistles and catcalls back. Little did we know that we'd have to hike back up the rocky trail to the lookout point! We're getting our workouts in, today. Then, we're saddled back up and taking a mercifully short, flat (ish) jaunt back to the ranch for a home-cooked lunch: tortillas that are not yellow or white, but nut-brown with local corn; a dish of green chile and corn in sauce; "potato salad". Fresh ranchero cheese, whose source bellows from the cow-yard, flicking flies with its tail. This is not "authentic" in the sense that it is untouched by tourism; it is authentic in the way that a student exchange, or a gathering of two cultures permeated with modern commerce may be: we're tourists, yes, but we're eating 'real food'. They are ranchers, cowboys and cooks, yes, but what they offer us is the best they have, perhaps not what they'd keep for themselves. I'm exhausted, and I want my husband here. He'd be proud of me. He'd have done it himself. Our controlled fall isn't over: the wedding is coming up, ours. I still have nearly 24 hours worth of flying before I'm home in three days. I smell like horse and my own sweat. My left arm aches. I love him in a way I did not realise possible. It is better, far better, than its counterpart, this spinning. The wind picks up over the ranch, while we eat and eat, and love.

Back in the...er...saddle

Letters from San Miguel de Allende, Mexico: Anna y Hector, con amor siempre No matter where I am in the world, I'm the first one awake. It is 6:37 a.m. For two hours already, the neighboring rooster has seen fit to announce dawn, albeit the sun isn't even close to up, and everyone else in this house is sleeping. Jet lag weighs on us. I've spent almost 48 hours trying to get here, suspended primarily in that special limbo reserved for airports, for those who have everywhere and nowhere to be. Staring at arrival/departure boards and occasionally a cell phone upon whose face the time keeps auto-updating; sustaining consciousness in four or five hour stretches punctuated by dozing off. I've already finished two novels. Three cups of overpriced, but strong, coffee. A bagel with lox and cream cheese. One questionable poem. Upon finally, finally touching down in Queretaro, Guanajato, Mexico, what one sees is an expanse of grass. That's right: grass. Some common variety: red-seeded little banners waving over the ground. Grass is grass is grass, right? One sees it & is comforted by the fact that it looks, at least a little, like whatever field one's driven by countless times, back home; wherever, of course, home happens to be at that particular juncture in time. I've befriended a girl from the flight in, and we wait awkwardly for the driver holding signs with our full names on it, that we were told would appear to shuttle us the hour and a half from Queretaro to San Miguel. She's meeting her parents: ex-pats, like so many who make up the town's population, with a summer home in San Miguel. Her father is an architect. She wears a blue sundress. Her name is Lauren. The contrast between San Miguel and what we've just driven through to get here is stark; it is, in essence, what one expects people to expect of Mexico's countryside. Little herds of goats, or sheep, or cattle being driven along the road. Dogs and cats meandering-thin, some of them, but most remarkably healthy-looking. Tarps strung up over roof-less shacks advertising all kinds of street food: menudo, chicharrones, tacos of all kinds. Fresh fruit stands everywhere: pineapple, papaya, mango. Cacti poking up from the landscape. Prickly pears. Dust. San Miguel segregates itself along the skyline: colorfully-painted buildings, signs advertising art galleries, shops and music venues. Although I've read a bit about the town, its history and its current affairs, it nonetheless surprises me to see the streets dotted with Americans: women in white pantsuits and straw hats, gold jewelry, big earrings, watches and rings. Once at risk of becoming a dead town, over the years, beat poets, artists and those looking to escape from the U.S. revitalized San Miguel and made it their home: Neal Cassady, Erica Jong, Stirling Dickinson. It is decidedly "touristy", and yet I love it already: so much color, majestic cathedrals dotting the skyline as we descend a (very steep, typically-cobbled, somewhat treacherous) hill, then begin to climb another. My parents' rented casita sits atop yet another hill, accessed by a weird tunnel, which leads up yet another giant hill of a driveway. It's yellow. The door is answered by Teresa (the elderly Mexican woman, who speaks no English, and will cook for us every day that we're here), Sharyn (an ex-pat who pronounces all my tattoos "just lovely even though your mother doesn't like them"), and my mom. Despite having traveled as a family throughout our childhoods, this trip feels different: I've recently announced that Robert and I are engaged. Shockingly, instead of disapproval, I was met with my parents arguing over who first decided that "Robert should marry their daughter". Things feel...cleaner, somehow, between us now. More level. I wish he were here, but this time around, it just didn't work out. Teresa is in the kitchen picking the tender leaves from bunches of cilantro stalks. She rapid-fires something at me in Spanish, but I'm too jet-lagged to manage it. I stand at the table and eat prickly pear cactus fruit. A banana. A strange, slightly-bitter custard apple type thing called a cheremoya-these have recently started cropping up at Fred Meyer and Carrs back home, but as Ive read the seeds are incredibly poisonous, and the skin of the thing very closely resembles that of an alligator, hadn't braved up enough to try one as of yet. It's delicious. A pain to pick the seeds out and suck the fruit from them, but delicious nonetheless. I say hello to my sister and her other half, Hector. My brother is crashed out on one of the guest beds. The maid of honor and bridesmaid are up by the pool, sunning in the 75-degree heat. I decide to power through it and go into the city center with my father to buy wine and candles for outdoor tea lights. The streets are cobbled poorly in places; you must tread carefully, as if perpetually stepping over river rocks. Transportation here comes in outdated forms: 4-wheelers are a vehicle of choice, as are dirtbikes, the public bus, and very, very old Volkswagen Rabbits and Beetles. We pass villas, casitas, groups of kids drinking shave-ice concoctions from plastic baggies, tops tied off and straws inserted, like improvised juice boxes. This is what I've missed: sensory overload, the overwhelming urge to immediately run into each shop and open-air market to smell, taste, and touch whatever wares are inside. Dad buys his wine. Candles are purchased from a funerary store; they're hand-dipped, naturally, but are generally meant for placing on graves or taking to church to light for a loved one. Perhaps it's morbid to use them to decorate a wedding reception. Perhaps it's perfect. As fatigue sets in, so does an inability to articulate any longer. I remember this feeling well-staying up sounds awful, but so does sleeping. The sun sets over San Miguel below us as we all do some catching up. Teresa quietly disappeared hours ago, leaving behind her huge pans of beef carne, sauteed onions, fresh tortillas. A red salsa and green. A huge bowl of fresh guacamole. So we eat. We eat, and the wine flows, and there are stories and histories coming from everyone. It's astonishing to remember that most of us (except Hector) grew up together, alongside one another, and are now all around the big stone table on the veranda, looking out on this city with such a commingling of "American" and "Mexican" and a few things in between. We came to celebrate Anna y Hector-their matrimony, their love and their representation of life across two worlds. I think of Robert: of how we finish each others sentences so often. Of how I knew from the first time I saw him again that I would marry this man; I didn't much know or care whether he would want to marry me. Of what it means to finally find your "travel buddy for life", to face outward on what unfolds for you with all the exuberance of San Miguel's bright orange storefronts, its candy-colored stone walls.

50 Things: #s 11-15

Here we go again. It's been a hideously long week, one of those during which it was interminably hard to focus on the good stuff. This is such a deliberate action: writing down everything I have to be glad & thankful for, instead of just 'intending' to do so...

11. Refusing to take someone or something for granted. I think we're all guilty of it sometimes: steamrolling our way through a relationship or experience, then ending up on the other side realising we didn't live it to the fullest, simply because we assumed it would "always be there". Or that, whatever it was, it would continue to operate on maximum output without receiving anything in return, a photosynthesis of the interactive world, where one entity is capable of "making its own food", so to speak. But it feels incredible to lift someone else's spirits by reminding them of how important they are to you, how their presence in your life is a boon & a privilege; it feels liberating & symbiotic to return energy & nutrition to something else you love: nature, a community you're a part of, the communal conscious of a cause or goal. Remembering every day that what surrounds you is NOT a given, & treating it accordingly, is so, so important...& so appreciated by what's giving of itself to you.

12. Reading a book. Also, smelling it. I'm a weird kid. I smell things. Flowers. Apples. Sometimes people. Reading a book, for me, is based fundamentally in tactility: the sensation of pages between your fingers, the curious ways in which paper takes on its own life, yellowing, fading or feathering at the edges. I do not care for new books. They smell like sitting on a freshly-disinfected & papered doctor's exam table feels: crinkly, awkward & cold. Old books are rad. When I buy (yes, buy), inherit, or find a new-old book, I am first entranced by the sensation of legacy that goes with each one-I always snoop around & try to find old notes, inscriptions, dedications: to think-I'm going to be reading something gifted to someone by a loved one. Because that's what reading is, now, isn't it? A gift. Back in the day, this kind of readily-available dissemination of information, the wild import of recorded history & human cultural exchange, was unthinkable. Now, I can read whatever I want (well, OK...that's another debate about the transparency of the world's media & censorship, etc...), whenever I want, however I want. It's interpretable, accessible & at my fingertips. Say what you will, but I would rather huck 3 volumes of Collected Works-authors interchangable, take your pick-than stare at the screen of a Kindle, or whatever you call it. Books are sacred objects, in far more senses than one.

13. Road tripping. I know, I know. That's such an antithetical thing to say. I'm a bad hippie, & I know it. But I love road trips. It doesn't even have to be by car. I also adore public transport while in another country, or just traveling in general. There's something timeless about packing a car with gear, snacks, mix CDs & curiousity & setting off to see exactly how far you can get before you HAVE to stop. Something ambitious & exhilirating, although simultaneously frightening, about wondering if you got on the right train & are ACTUALLY headed to Lille, France, or Lodz, Poland, or wherever. Yes, yes, yes. Fossil fuels. Twisty, turny, morally-reprehensible associations with big oil, etc. Pollution. Good hippies don't drive, they thumb it. I'm aware. But once a year, or once every 6 months or so, I get the urge to throw a bunch of stuff in a pack, strap in & just go...as much for the sake of the getting there as to see where I can go.

14. Foraging. It's how I was raised: to seek out the stuff in the woods that's tasty, medicinal, & there for the taking, & take it. Not just a subsistence living skill, it's a lifestyle. It satisfies the survivalist & medicine warrior, the woodsman & the apothecary, all at once; to work for one's food & concoct one's own remedies takes us back to digging our soles into wet ground, to a place & time when, because they were so necessary, these things became an art. Now, I forage dwarf huckleberry, salmonberry, & miner's lettuce. Wild ginger. Mint. Granted, I'm not making miracle cures with these things-I'm simply using what I've read & know about plant lore & traditional use, or experimenting with what happens when berries are cooked down with sugar. It's a constant reminder of my connection to not just "food", but ecosystems, seasonal patterns & flora. That, & I really don't mind not having to pay for jam, tea, & salad greens. It's $10 I can spend on, oh, old books instead...

15. The first cup of coffee. It's 8:30 in the morning on a Saturday right now. Silly mortals. This one needs no explanation.

50 Things That Feel Really Good: #s 6-10

Here are a few more. Again, in no particular order. And, at their core, evidence of my own journey back through what's helped make me who I am. Or, more accurately, helped me realise who I'm NOT...

6. Reminiscing over a past love. And being able to laugh about it. Hoo, boy. This one's a toughie. So many times in the past, I've caught myself getting down over 'losing' someone. You know the deal: you're single, & not really dating, & while you're doing the dishes, you catch yourself wondering what happened to the person who used to come up behind you as you did so, to steal a kiss or just say hello. Here's the thing...we don't ever 'lose' people. That's an emotionally-dissociative fallacy. They're not lost at all. And more times than not recently, I've found that the following is true: I catch myself getting all nostalgic, & a specific memory comes into my head: laughing uproariously while twined together in the back of a cab, making the cabbie laugh uproariously too. Waking up freezing to death, except for my back, pressed up against his front. BBQs. So many things. And my heart breaks a little. And then, improbably or not, I have to laugh. Because it really was funny. Because it really still is. And because remembering that I've loved that way, & been loved in return, kinda sorta feels really, really good.

7. Drawing the line without crossing it. I'm not a mean person. Or a snide one. Or a negative one. I CAN be all those things, I guess. But it's not who I am. What feels really good, & really right, anymore, is the ability to draw the line about who I'm not, without letting myself step over that line into the territory of defensiveness, or negativity, or malice. There's some stuff I just don't do: polyamory, drugs, pool/billiards, tofu, cats (OK, most cats). I don't do massive festivals like Burning Man or even Rainbow Gathering-I know, I know. I went. I saw. It wasn't my thing. There are things I absolutely MUST do, or perish (I haven't perished yet, but I'm telling you, I would...): drink coffee, train in combat sports, have a dog, use the wilderness to recenter myself, give the people I love my all. Here's the deal: being able to draw the line on who you are, or who you're NOT, without crossing into that territory of identity occupied by judging yourself against the judgements of others, & the Selves of others, is a neat trick to learn. Because it teaches you exactly how far to go, based on how far you've come. Anyone who asks you to compromise an action, emotion, intention or other fundamental part of yourself is not worth your time. Draw that line, & politely refuse to cross it.

8. Sleeping. Dude, I'm not gonna lie. I really, really like to sleep sometimes. Especially outdoors in the sun, on the couch for random naps, with my dog for a pillow, whatever. I do the stretching-sliding-rubbing-face-in-pillow-snooze-button-abusing thing too. True story.

9. Recognizing and engaging in your true spirituality. This one has taken quite a few years, trials & painful tribulations to conclude on. I was raised Catholic & decided that wasn't for me; it wasn't easy, & still isn't, & sometimes it gets lonely, being the only one in the family who doesn't have that in common. It was a little over 2 years ago that I genuflected & sat in St. Mary's Basilica in Krakow, Poland, staring in awe at the manmade beauty of the place: gilt-framed votives, huge, towering candles & candleabrum, stars embossed on the domed ceiling in metallic paint; awe fueled by the absolute devotion of the people, tourists or not, to the symbology at play. I wondered if I were in the wrong, if I should still 'believe in God', as it were. I've dabbled in Buddhism a bit, & am wholly in love with the gods, goddesses & divinity of Hinduism. Some of my closest friends are 'pagan'. But devotional spirituality, to me, just isn't the way it works. I'll tell you what I do know: that I have faith. In so, so many things: sunrise, the goodness of men despite an ongoing world climate punctuated by hatefulnesss; in where the Center is, & where to find the juciest wild apples in fall. In my family. In myself, even though I'm totally self-deprecating & the butt of my own jokes. And just about every single day, something or someone makes me throw back my head & laugh. The cedars are shot through with light. I take a minute or 5 or longer to meditate, do sun salutations, take a walk, close my eyes. I read something touching, inspiring, & brave. A friend or loved one sends me a message. And I have no idea what you call it, this faith, but I have it. It's benevolent, loving, powerful & authentic, so whatever it's called, whatever it is, it's there, & I believe. I believe in you, too. Yeah. You.

10. Kissing someone who really can kiss. Oh, man. In the words of Iona from Pretty in Pink, "I don't usually go for younger men, but when the Duckman kissed me back there, I swear, my thighs went up in flames." Yeah. You know what I'm talking about. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go away for a moment. Into dreamland.

50 Things That Feel Really Good: #s 1-5

So. Sometimes I wallow. I admit it. I sat on the couch the other night in a spate of loneliness eating vanilla ice cream with Nutella, watching 'Anchorman' (of all the absurd movies) & wondering why Will Ferrell, in his hirsute ludicrousness, could get with Christina Applegate, when I can't even seem to stay with a partner for longer than 3 months without something going poorly. Why I only have *cough* dollars in my bank account. Why nothing felt right.




Then I fell asleep. Then I woke up. And somewhere in between watching my dog stretch luxuriously before coming over for petting, drinking that second cup of coffee, and watching the sun rise through the cedars, I remembered: There are a lot of things that feel really, really good. Why let yourself forget about them?




These next few blogs wil each feature some of those things. Mind you, they're what feel good to me. I'm not into suspension piercings or ultramarathons, but even my potentially-mundane good things might not feel good to everyone; I just hope to get them out on e-paper, as it were, & maybe you'll all have some insights on your own 50 things...and why they're so important to engage in...









Disclaimer: The 50 Things are in no way arranged according to importance. Structure is for suckers.









1. Working, and working hard. I'm not gonna lie. At certain points, I too have done the bare minimum, somewhere, in some way. And it didn't feel good. What does feel good is this: the sense of purpose, ambition and satisfaction I get from realising a job well done. This, noumenally, is enough most of the time. The praise I get for doing said 'good job' is icing on the cake. There's something deeply personally fulfilling about even the simple things: vacuuming my house. Cleaning out my email inbox. Finishing a book that's been half-read for weeks. Now, on a much larger, more meaningful scale, I can say that I went 'to work'-active tense-and worked. And worked hard. Gave something my all, & have come away from it with a renewed sense of purpose, of my place in the concentric circles that define our actions in the world. The ripple effect might start as a small drop in a specific place, but what happens later sends us far, & our ambitions wide.









2. Singing along. Generally speaking, I'm not much of a singer. But there's something about caterwauling along with whatever's on the iPod playlist or radio that just feels awesome. Vibration & resonance are key influences in my life, whether they be auditory, concussive, or human, & the fact that signing involves all 3 of these things makes it heavenly. There's a happy, energetic vibe that goes with singing along no matter the song, & even (or especially) if you don't know the words; perhaps it stems from rattling one's own ribcage, resonating out to meet all the sounds coming toward us: ambient white noise, traffic speeding & stopping, the friend sitting next to you trying to harmonize. Perhaps we're tapping into a greater, benevolent, universal vibration that we can't hear audibly but feel all the time. Maybe it's similar to little kids who holler just because it's fun. Either way, it feels good, & it's free.









3. Cooking something from scratch. Especially for someone deprived of home-cookin'. Again, I confess: I use precanned tomato sauce to put on pizza. Thai peanut sauce from the Asian food market. These are not 'made from scratch' as we know it, but the fact remains: I love to cook, & I love it the most-est when there is someone else around to eat. Last weekend, I made pizza. The crust was from scratch, with rosemary sea salt sprinkled on top, & the toppings provided by the 3 bro-tastic dudes from down the road. Someone said it was the best pizza they'd ever had. My friend Ean, who considers himself a connoisseur of pizza based on his lifelong obsession with the Ninja Turtles, called it "pretty damn good". And hearing all that felt, well, pretty damn good! Some of my favorite memories & recurring nostalgias come from the kitchen: making enchiladas for my little brothers & finding all the pans empty; attempting extravagant & sometimes ill-conceived dishes with my best friend on a winter's night, when it's been too cold to go outside; improvising gourmet camp cookery while in the wilderness. If you are what you eat, then I'm good memories, full flavors & love.









4. Telling someone-including yourself-that you're awesome. And meaning it. Anyone who says they don't spend a lot of time being too hard on themselves is probably lying to you. If they're not lying to you, chances are their sense of self is ego-driven, not sincere. Just as there's a big, big difference between false modest & humbleness, there's a vast disparity in the number of times we're prone to sarcastically saying, "Oh man. I just effed that up, 'cause I'm awesome.", & saying I'M AWESOME & meaning it. I have little pep talks with myself a lot. Meaning, my ego-driven self-the one that gets embarassed, insecure or feels inadequate-and my true Self. Self, I say,So and So might be going to Southeast Asia to save turtles. Or making 6 figures. Or have found the love of his/her life. Or whatever. But here's a list of all the shit YOU'VE done, that, quite frankly, is pretty badass. And it's a LONG list. I've traveled Japan, Europe, Australia, Canada and Mexico. I've hugged a lot of people. Opened as a spoken-word poet for Buddy Wakefield, Sage Francis, Alix Olson & Jerry Quickley. Rescued multiple dogs. Backpacked & hiked hundreds of miles. And more than anything, have the best family, friends & community ever. Too often we get caught in the cyclical & self-sustaining So yeah. I'm awesome. I mean it.





5. Smelling flowers. You don't need to intone the classic, "Jesus, you're a hippie" line. I can hear it wafting off you already. But before you scoff at this one, ask yourself when the last time you had an authentic, primal olfactory experience was. I do it all the time: juxtapose a natural scent with my own inorganic, artificial associatives. It tastes like fake banana. It smells like wet paint. This morning, while walking Puck, I picked a stalk of foamflower & smelled it, which I'd never done before-foamflower is ubiquitous around here & I'd just never though to see if it had a smell, since it doesn't give one off in the sun, or permeate the air. As I put my nose to it, there it was, distinctly & unmistakeably: watermelon (fresh from the vine, sliced on a paper plate) & cracked black pepper. Smells have the power to unlock a memory, reinventing & recreating the schema by which we define other things, allowing us to make associations we haven't before. I've never eaten watermelon with cracked black pepper on it, nor had I smelled a foamflower-those little white stars on a single stem-before. You can bet I'll try one, & keep on doing the other, now.

Rainbow Gathering, Part The Last

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.