Meeting the Monk
Garden Monk, Vermillion, SD
San Rafael to Park City
I was at least a day ahead of schedule when I finally gathered the last bits of clothing, still damp from the previous nights sprinkling, and forced them into the craggy spaces of my Subaru. It wasn’t as though I was having difficulty parting with my possessions, but I really didn’t want to take them half-way across the country for an undetermined time period. The uncertainty of my return to the coast, made leaving heavy and sad in a way I have never experienced. The weight of my possessions made it worse. And then there was the business of taking leave of the people I’d grown close to in the 9 months I called Marin my home. It broke me up inside.
The scenery changed quickly from coastal hills to dry desert urging an acclimation that made me restless. I couldn’t settle on music. I’d make it through 1 or 2 songs before searching again for the “right” music, in the same way you wait endlessly for the lines in a poem to directly describe your experience–your life. Jesse uncovered an M. Ward I barely knew on our drive to Limantour Beach on Friday and declared it good for road trippin’. I tried that; it made me sad, WAY too sad. It wasn’t until I played the monks chanting with the Dalai Lama that I began to feel a sense of groundedness. I listened to the monks, called my dad, listened to Lucinda Williams, called Ellen, listened to Andrew Bird, checked in with Caleb, a couple missed calls–Cynthia and Amber, a few more songs from random cds and then Dinner. Dinner (Jesse Nathan and Chris Janzen) cornered me into the present and brought temporary reprieve from the heaviness inside. I rode the deep sound of Jesse’s voice, constructed a pastiche of of our time together made mostly of words and discovered I was 133 miles from Salt Lake City. The resistance I felt toward leaving actually made the trip go faster. I had been in the car 9 hours and despite my restlessness, it felt like 3. I was trying to let go without losing it all completely…California–sweet, sweet lover of mine.
Park City to Basalt, Co.
I could have stayed in Park City longer. Being with Thea is restorative like Savasana. I didn’t really leave the house except once for yoga. Thea’s usual athletic pace was interrupted by a sewing project and Andy’s absence. So we hung out in the kitchen and told each other stories while she sewed. Because it’s only 11 hours from Marin, I decided it might be a nice place to write my application for UC Berkeley and I’d like to take the fall to do just that.
During the drive from PC to Basalt, I started to watch the scenery, let my cds play in their entirety and to feel less like I was leaving my life in Marin. I felt more like I was visiting all the places I called my own ; I marveled at the coincidence of having really good friends in day-spaced intervals between the coast and the Midwest. I wondered how far in any other direction I’d be able to do that if I tried. Scaling a line between places that belonged to me and leaving a place I loved was the difference between my disposition on this leg of the journey and the former.
Casey introduced me to Chimay, a wonderful beer made by Trappist monks in Belgium. We ate food on the roof, watched the sunset and the Secret Life of Bees. Today we’ll hike in Aspen, then I’ll make my way to Boulder to Nadene and Janel.
Independence Pass to Boulder
I left Aspen with a full belly and dubious directions that would take me through the most scenic leg of my journey thus far, over Independence Pass and the Continental Divide. I stopped at the top to feel the cool air and to make a snowball. At 12,095 feet, Independence Pass is the second highest paved path over the Rockies. Music choices were easy: Old Crow Medicine Show, Wilco, Bill Monroe, Andrew Bird, Beck, The Alman Brothers…you get the picture. I felt the weight of my possessions without acknowledging how they slowed me down on anything but a physical level. I knew I would need some things from my collection in Boulder. All day I held a space for another Monk reference, but none came to me. I made the mistake of going east on Highway 6 and found myself at I25. I called Nadene who exclaimed, “you need a GPS.” I was forever calling Nadene to direct me out of lost places. This practice started one late night in Idaho when I couldn’t find camping near Sandpoint.
Nadene, Boulder
Nadene and I ate a late dinner at The Mediterranean and walked to The B-Side Lounge for post-modern jazz with The Jacob Fred Odyssey. I had a conversation with a guy named Ian about Jesus’ Son, Denis Johnson, Billy Crudup and writing while I waited for Nadene to dance. On the way back down Pearl Street we slipped into Seven for a tribute to Michael Jackson set. Everybody on Pearl Street, it seemed, wanted something from us–bus fare, a light, a smoke or a word. Typical late night Pearl Street scene. For some reason I felt grateful to be there the evening of the day that Michael Jackson passed away.
Boulder to Vermillion and Beyond
Beck accompanied me all the way home. I listened to: Mutations, Guero, Sea Change and Modern Guilt. I tried to invent the monk and thought I found him in the landscape urging a silence in me. I decided maybe he was going to help me find solace there. My ideas were flowing like crazy and I was working on three projects simultaneously: a story about Bird and Bear, a installation incorporating word and image based on the bird and bear story, and a sort of women’s salon where my women artist could gather and draw portraits of one another.
At home here, Caleb, Beau and I have been working in the yard and the enormity of my life overwhelms me like crazy. The other day while weeding, I encountered a little statue beneath the clematis vine. When I turned it round, there was my monk. He and I met for the first time face to face. I think he might belong to Rick’s brother, Ron. I’m not clear about his significance in my life, but the past and future keep doing a dance around me. For now, it feels right and good.
