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 town and across the park to the beach, where we walked in the sand and watched the surfers and sat on a rock and soaked up the sun. We found a warm corner of shoreline and lay spread-eagle for a time, letting the sun slowly do its work, letting our muscles and bones and flesh release some of their exhaustion into the dry sand.

I had not realized how exhausted I was. A month’s worth of travel had soaked into my body, my mind, my clothes, my luggage, filling my cells with peanut butter and my shoes with lead. The more I rested the more weary I felt, as if I was trudging through day three of a temporal-psychological de-tox. Somebody turned up the gravity and I sank into the strand. The sand could have swallowed me whole in that moment and I would not have minded.

After a time, we pried our flattened carcasses from the beach and made our way into town. Finding little there of interest, we headed back to the house and slept some more. Eventually, Jamie returned, with his two canine familiars Taos and Cody, and we sat and talked and drank a beer. As afternoon slid into evening, we rested there in the setting sunlight and spoke of the tour, of the present predicament, and of the ghosts of collapses yet to come. We headed into town for dinner, sitting under the stars at a local eatery that combined good food with atrocious service. With mud pie and polenta and shrimps in our stomachs, we climbed back up the hill and fell into our comfortable beds.

The next day gave us more of the same, with sleep and rest and great conversation and good food. At one point I headed off into town on my own for another bout of beach. I stood for a long time, watching a pair of sea lions roll and flap and wiggle in the surf right next to some surfers, living a daily life that we clever monkeys often have to work all week to earn. I fell onto the sand and slept for a while, then made my way up to a bench in front of a grocery where I sat for the longest time, watching the people as they passed, letting the sun and the breeze and the sound of the surf work its magic on me. I spoke for a while with a beautiful dog that had one white eye and one black, and stopped to converse with a black bird with bright yellow eyes that strutted and hissed, huffing out its chest and neck and head feathers as if to remind me who was in charge. Eventually I headed back up the hill, where a couple of Jamie’s friends had arrived for an evening house party.

There were ten or twelve of us present, once everyone had arrived. We talked and drank beer and wine on the deck as the sun set, then drifted into the house for Thai chicken and mac & cheese and bread and salad. We settled in and put the doc in the DVD player and Jamie welcomed his friends. Sally and I talked a bit about the tour, and the movie, and then we hit play and sat back. Another screening had begun.

While smaller in size and scope, this house party had something very basic in common with most of the others we have attended: it was organized by someone who loves his people, and wants the best for them, who wants them to know what is going on in the world, who wants them to have an opportunity to get ready for the changes that are sure to come. It was touching to see that, to see Jamie give this gift of information and analysis and inspiration to his people.

When the movie ended, we brought out the talking stick and had a long and lively conversation into the night. Some had been looking at the predicament for a long time. Others had only just begun. But the movie seemed to have touched them all, moving some to action or inspiration, validating others, and leading us into a conversation about the bankrupt nature of this culture, and just how unfulfilling and empty life is for most people who live in this system. We were so glad to be a part of this circle, as it faced into the darkness and made its own light.

We slept, then rose early for the drive back to Emeryville, across the Marin County hills and past Mt. Tamalpais and through traffic and over the Richmond bridge. Making it into Emeryville with time to spare, we bid Jamie our deep thanks and goodbyes and caught a bite of breakfast before boarding the train to Fresno.

Two days of rest, spilling our exhaustion onto the sand, sighing with the surf and sitting in circle with such sweet souls… it was perfect. It was just what we needed. It was extra fish in abundance, given freely with love and contribution, and we soaked it in and let it heal us.

Thank you, Jamie. And thanks to the folks who loaned Jamie the house for the weekend, and to Jamie’s people, who sat with us and looked at the world.

Peace, all,

Tim