Sitting in a quaint coffee and tea shop in San Francisco this morning (succumbing to coffee after abstaining for a day while pondering the idea of quitting) I have been toying with how to create a blog entry about my past few days that surmounts the catharsis of a personal ventilation system and provides some sort of broader landscape of perspective. Ideally, I try to mold these entries around places and histories and learning that can maybe spark some interest for you. During my AmeriCorps time, my hope is that this blog will turn more into a community focused sharing of ideas and projects.
But this may just be a days-in-the-life-of.
So, since I last wrote, I found out that Cormorant was probably rescued. It was last seen talking to two policemen. So big hooray for that.
On Tuesday, Jesse officially became my first Michigan visitor to the coast. We only had a few hours before her family had to head to the Porland airport but we did all of the essential catching uppy things. Saw the farm. Sat in cafes. Walked on the beach (for a few minutes before the wind defeated us). Made a delicious kitchen concoction for farmy dessert.
Her family also brought me organic apples.
On Wednesday, I had my last day at the farm. We had some of the best weather; sunny, slightly breezy, flipfloppy weather but not too hot. We had a great morning circle and I read a zen poem about inner power within and without. We weeded and thinned and felt the beginnings of sunburns and dug deep in the dirt. It was a rewarding, good old classic work day. That night, Mindi and I shared dinner from fresh farm produce and watched a movie together.
At 5 am the next day, my mini vacation began. I felt a bit displaced starting out, having been planted for so long. It was that shaky feeling of trying to break that shell of routine and creature comforts that come with being stationary. I pulled off the road shortly after starting when I saw a sign for a Munsen Falls. I took a small hike through impressive old growths to this towering, veiny crisp white network of water just as the sun was coming up and felt reinvigorated.
I stopped at a cute coffee shop and cafe that also played the role of a small health food store. Just before I left, a man walked in to use the bathroom. We were both in line and I made a comment about my travel plans. A couple minutes later, Jerimiah was in my car to accompany me south. As it turned out, his face had looked familiar, probably because not only was he at the gathering, but he had spent most of his time in Kid Village where I had cooked breakfast every morning. Small world. He was on his way from visiting his daughter to look for some work that would allow him a ticket back to Hawaii for the winter. Good company. I let him off at Harris Beach State Park where I met Matt and Emily and we had a makeshift luncheon in the back of my car, sheltered from what had turned out to be a day of fog and rain and grey.
I made it just over the border into the Redwoods that night. I realized I knew absolutely nothing about California or camping laws or parking or where I was going. I knew had to be in San Francisco by the next day so I felt a bit frantic and rushed. The vibrancy of the forest floor reflecting the red from the trees transformed my surroundings into a sanctuary and I just wanted to disappear into the depths and sit. But evening was coming and I couldn't make a sound judgement on continuing on. I was not going to spend $35 to camp in this natural wonder. After a halfhearted attempt to patiently navigate the spotty internet for California laws, I finally decided to take my chances and park on one of the Pullouts within the park line. Luckily, I wasn't bothered and I was glad I hadn't dashed out and left for some big store parking lot. The stoic, unwavering straightness of those trees creates such a sense of safety and peace. I need to get back there.I woke up later than I thought I would, again. Again I felt disjointed, unsteady. I had to keep overriding my senses to stop and wander about in order to make it to San Francisco in time. But part of me kept wanting to slow down so I had the appearance of this nervous, disoriented wanderer. If I had set an exact goal time for myself to be in San Francisco, perhaps I would have been more focused. As it stood, I battled with myself at every stop, feeling like there was something more I should be taking in and constantly having to tell myself I would just come back one day.
I was just leaving a town full of hitchhikers. Only one couple approached me and I thought about taking them along for a bit but I was already nervous and feeling a little introspective. As I drove out of town to get back to the highway, the road took a route longer than I expected and I thought I had missed the turn. I kept seeing travelers and feeling guilty for having room in the car. Starting to question whether I should offer a ride and even if I was going the right way, my eyes began to dart to the sides of the road. I passed by an eccentric looking cafe with Giraffes and jungle animals on the front and wondered if I should stop there. In those seconds, a few things crashed: My reality check with my daydreaming self, my values and my behavior and my Vibe with a Tundra.
I felt stupid. I felt small. I felt empty. Confused. Definitely shaky.
The man in the Tundra was very understanding and patiently tolerated my slow uptake on doing anything useful. First I shook. Then I apologized. Then I called my mom and cried. Then I got my phone and ID while he advised me what to say to insurance who got me to call the cops. We didn't talk much while we waited - I did not think this was something you just wait out with small talk - but he tried to offer some consoling anecdote about how he had done the same thing once upon a time. Highway patrol got a tow and got him on his way. A local company from just down the street took me back to their shop. I spent the next few hours there between talks with the towers and phone calls to my dad and insurance to try and figure out what could be done and what would be covered. The tower's name was Mark and he and his brother offered all the input they could but could not actively do anything for liability. For some reason, California is not covered by our AAA package and so they would have to call an inspector out to check and authorize work on the car. This could take a few weeks. As the complications kept unfolding and I made my best effort to be calm and uplifting to the amazingly helpful gentlemen, I am sure they could tell how out of sorts I was. As we assessed the car, we determined that it was structurally in tact and began exploring the possibility of it being drivable. Mark knew a mechanic down the road and gave him a call. He happened to be on his lunch break and came by to inspect and give his opinion which actually evolved into him jerryrigging my car, free of charge with a few zip ties and twisting and crunching to re-secure and provide me with the option to continue on, unprofessional advice of course.
All things considered, I was incredibly fortunate. A slow speed impact. No injuries. No air bag deployment. No internal damage. And gracious souls that went out of their way to help.
A couple of things.
Me and cars. It terrifies me how many issues that combination brings about. And if it is any sort of warning, I probably need to slow down and be more present. It also brings me face to face with dualistic themes in my life. I have encountered some of the most free spirited people hitching on the road. With nothing but a pack and shoes, they are glowing. When I was first faced with the possibility that my car may have to stay in that town, I started to think about all my stuff... being without it but also resenting it. I started to think about where I wanted to be and how driving this thing gave me such an illusion of freedom but how I was also so tethered to it. And the stuff. On leap of faith, I could have left it there to get inspected, authorized, maybe fully fixed. I could have packed a bag and hitched. But I had all this stuff. Cold packs full of food. Clothes. Camera. Computer.
I don't think it is necessarily a bad way to travel. But I have to do it with the realism of how it informs my travel style, my responsibilities and how to fully appreciate and gracefully honor its limitations.
When I finally continued on my way southbound, I was definitely a nervous driver at first. And I had a sweeping sadness. Even though they explained that everything worked fine, I realized how much the damaged look of my car affected my comfort and feelings around it. I also saw this as how I relate to many of the things in my life, not always on their reason and function but on their aesthetic feel which in some instances, forces me to want things to "perfect".
Meditative moment.
I got to San Francisco and realized I hadn't been in a big city in ages. Not the place to drive after a car crash. You have to be thinking of your next move way ahead and constantly filtering out buildings and distractions. And I forgot that was the city with all the hills. See, totally blind trip.
I made it out of the main stream of traffic and headed straight for the venue address before looking for a parking spot. When I found one a few blocks away, I sat there for a good ten minutes tripple-checking everything around me to see if there were any loopholes, as it appeared to be an open, free parking space. I had tried to get a hold of friends here but couldn't so I went towards the venue and putzed around. Got in early. Sat alone wondering what I was doing where I was. Then the music started, I danced and released.
Found a new friend that night, danced some more and shouted words of great spirit and affirmation at the top of my lungs. Nahko was beautiful.
And that was the first day of my vacation.
I hope that beauty informs the rest of this journey.
Also, question of the day brought to you by the woman sitting near me in this cafe:
"How do you lick a woman's face and not be offensive?"
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