28 October, 2007 – Stinson Beach, California
As this is an entry about rest, I’m going to give one to Cat Stevens as well. While still miles from nowhere, in Stinson, at least for a time, I felt like I was somewhere again.
Susan drove us south from Pt Reyes Station to Stinson Beach and dropped us off at a house on the hill overlooking the ocean. We were there to rest and recuperate and recharge and rejuvenate and recover and restore and recreate, to reaffirm and realize and realign and rebalance, to reboot and recline and receive and reconnect and recycle. We were there because of a man Jamie, who’s been following our work for some time, and who saw how packed our schedule was, saw a two-day break, and an opportunity to contribute to us with a beautiful space, in a beautiful place, and with nothing to worry about for two whole days.
One of the things I did as a kid was fish. Central Michigan is pocked with small lakes filled with bass and perch and bluegill, and we spent many summer days out on those lakes, casting our purple plastic worms or watching bobbers bob. Sometimes we would catch a great many fish, and I remember, more than once, bringing some of those fish home from the lake, and taking them up to my Great Aunt Marge, and my Great Uncle Miles, who were unable, due to age and health, to go fishing themselves any more. I remember my Aunt Marge accepting our gift of fish with thanks, then going to her ancient chest freezer and pulling out a package of frozen steaks or chicken to give us in return. We would decline but she would insist, and I’d leave somewhat confused, with a frozen package in hand. Why couldn’t I just give her some fish? It didn’t make any sense.
But that’s the way my world was. And those events vibrate in me still, a gong of flesh and blood sounded by the stories of others and reverberating to this day. On the one hand, I know how good it feels to contribute. On the other hand, I can have difficulty accepting the contributions of others. People want to give to me from the abundance in their lives, and I feel compelled to hand them a package of frozen steaks in return.
How many times that button has been pressed on this trip. How many times I’ve been given an opportunity to feel that old story, and to let it go. My friend Glen called me on it back in Seattle, and his words have stayed with me since, and over and over I find myself able to stop, and take a breath, and just let people give me their fish, and thank them, with gratitude and love. We have been so well cared for on this trip. So well loved and nurtured and encouraged. And when I think about it now, I realize that we could not have done this without that support. On our own, alone and left to our own devices, traveling and showing up and telling our truth, the fear and pressure and doubt and fatigue would have undone us long ago. This is not our tour. This tour belongs to every soul who has helped us along the way. This tour is the creation of a collective of hearts and minds, spread out across the country but resonating together in the work of getting our movie out into the world. Again, I remember: it is not me doing this work. It’s the Earth herself making this happen. And I am honored to be an instrument in her hands.
Jamie was not there when we arrived so we hugged Susan goodbye and relaxed in the house, sitting on the deck in the sun, reading, sleeping, staring into space. We took a walk down the hill into tow