Posted: October 11, 2010 in Uncategorized

I don’t have to do…anything.  It feels good.  One night here just to rest for the drive to Southern California tomorrow.  I’m not looking forward to arriving.  It’s been about a year this time.  Going back is usually accompanied by a couple of days of smog headaches and general disgust.  But I do want to go.  But as with everything, I have mixed feelings.

Something about this town feels good.  And bad.  And confusing, because I’m trying to understand it.  Measure it.  Make good or bad of it.  Decide if the energy I feel here is helpful or harmful.  If the people are friendly or devious.  Is this where the revolution starts?  Are they ready?

I rest my forearms on the tattered window sill of my eight-bunk room and stare out into the autumn mountain air.   The sun set an hour ago and the temperature is expected to drop close to freezing tonight.  It feels good to breathe here.   To look out across the narrow driveway into the hostel living room where to French travelers shoot pool.  The sound of the balls striking each other transcends the closed windows, crosses the driveway and joins me in open space.  The pool table is chaos but the players remain tethered by a common language.  I imagine it counteracts the uncertainty of being in a foreign place.

The autumn mountain air.  It’ll slow you down.  Make you feel like breathing is enough.  Like it’s healing you.  Aligning priorities.  Setting the pace.

This town does confuse me a bit.  It’s a cool as you could want.  Downtown is full of pubs and outdoor shops and coffee houses.  It’s a college town.  People ride bikes and look like they’re a part of something.  And I suppose that’s the source of my ache.  When I stop trying to judge this place as safe or not, what I really feel here is community.  Not necessarily real community (I wouldn’t really know that), but there is an appearance of community.  And that’s enough to awaken the grasping in me.  Because I’ve already forgotten what I remembered earlier today as I descended the New Mexican high desert from Santa Fe into Albuquerque; I am home wherever I go, and I won’t find what I’m looking for in the smiles and cohesiveness of the happy locals of any town.

It’s time to stop looking for the others.  Time to stop hoping to find one or two here and there and put them all together like a collection of souvenirs from the seven wonders of the world.  It’s not helpful.  It causes me to deviate from my own path.  It causes me to reach.  And as I accept that I am in this alone, that community isn’t coming to save me, I suddenly feel peaceful and strong and present.  An ache remains in some part of me, but resilience smiles from a deeper place.  I remember that One (me, God, you, life, everything) is enough.  With the few answers I have and the mysterious relationship I have with my enigmatic creator who I seem to resemble more and more.  No one is coming to save me.  I forgot; I don’t want to be saved.  I’m not a child drowning in a pool.  I’m learning to swim.  I smile.  And I’m able to let people be who they are instead of looking at them as possible recruits.  And, hey, you know what?  They aren’t too shabby at being themselves.

The air here.  It’s enough.  It’s time to stop trying to understand this place.  Stop trying to lasso it with my mind.  It doesn’t need to be ranked against the other places I’ve been.  Scrutinized to determine whether or not it’s eligible to be my next temporary home.  Like the people I meet along the way, just let it be what it is.




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