A few weekends back three of my closest friends and I went up to Big Sur yet again for the Indian Summer Music Festival. We actually only knew one band playing-- Dr. Dog from Philadelphia. We drove up, got our campsite, went for a hike, then the rest of the night was spent in a tavern listening to music. It was seemingly fun, Dr. Dog was good, we met some nice people...
The next morning we rose early, got our long awaited Big Sur breakfast burritos, and got in the car to head home. Big Sur doesn't ever seem to loose it's beauty. The more I go, the less exciting it should seem, but actually I feel as though the beauty of it increases with the amount of detail I'm able to observe. Every time I go up there I feel as though life just makes a bit more sense. Amy and Karen had been up a few weekends before, while I was down in San Diego, and had visited the "Hermitage". It's a monastery nestled right atop one of the huge cliffs that looks over the breath taking northern California coast line. Not only do monks reside there, but also visitors seeking silence, solitude and solace. You can't imagine the simple beauty of this place. We decided to take a look around, and saw that the monks were in a service. We poked our very female heads into a chapel housing all male, all robed monks. The awkwardness was noted, but then cast aside as the presence of "silence" was almost enough to knock you to the ground. I have never actually felt silence before. It's heavy, and overwhelming, yet you long to remain under it's weight. I walked out of the chapel and found a small window that over looked the front garden, and then on to the ocean. I sat there for a moment in the lighter silence outside of the chapel. "It is well within my soul."
I thought about the night before in the tavern, with all of the noise, and all of the people. Not wrong, but not at all "right". This, this felt right. Silence, peace, perspective. I felt that the noise and the thoughts of the night before had somehow diluted the beauty of the place we were in. As if the circumstances robbed us of experiencing the fullness of our environment. I wondered how often I've allowed that to happen to me over the years. Or, vise versa. Allowing my environment to rob me of experiencing the fullness of my circumstances. It takes such delicate balance, or tension, to fully experience both. I have yet to truly understand this, but at that monastery, on that cliff, over looking the ocean and redwoods, I think I may have gotten a glimpse.
I saw Wes Anderson's new film on Monday. It was, as most Wes Anderson films are, brutally confusing. You leave feeling right, yet wrong all in the same breath. It was filmed for the most part in India. I cannot fully describe what happened to me as I watched the rickshaws fly down the streets. I felt as if I were home... and yet, I was happy it was just a movie. I felt as though the other people in the packed theater shouldn't watch, that they wouldn't understand her. I felt as if they were watching someone, or something so dear, so intimate to me, and to them it was just a movie. I realized then that she still holds pieces of my heart, even though I feel so broken by her. I felt a common thread between my love for her and a few others in my life at the moment. It's a broken love, one that I don't understand, but it's a strong love, and one that I will bare for the rest of my life in one way or another. During the movie a little boy dies. As they prepare for the traditions that come with death, you hear the people of the village mourning. I began to weep as I heard these cries. I felt like if I closed my eyes I would be transported instantly back to the hospital, watching as families grieved the loss of a pregnant woman. It was wild how it hurt to be there again, but I wanted so desperately to hear, and to see it. It was familiar, though painful.
I left the theater smiling, as if I had just visited a long lost friend. Smiling at memories of the insane traffic, or the way everything was difficult. I laughed as I remembered the blank stares, the remarks, the language, the clothes, the smells, the life... And to be honest, I missed her. I've spent 9 months out of the last 2 years there. I've brought in 1 Christmas, 2 new years, 1 Easter, winter, spring, summer, monsoon... Ages 20, 21, and 22... And I love her. She is hard, and broken but beautifully lovely. Like most loves I am learning...
It was a gift to remember her in that way, for the first time since I've been back... fondly.