On Thursday, Whitney and I gathered a group together and journeyed out to Muir Woods to see the giant redwoods. We walked through groves of trees that have seen enough time to understand the rise and fall of empires the way we understand the movement of the sun, and Whitney commented that she felt like she was in church. And we were in a church of sorts, but somehow more real than a great many of the little shacks of wood and corrugated metal that I've seen called church before. The energy from these trees was so strong that when I reached out and touched my hands to them, I nearly passed out. My mind couldn't wrap itself around what I was touching, what I was seeing with my own eyes. Surely, some part of me kept saying, these aren't real; they're fiber glass or something.
After the woods, we trekked down to the most beach I've ever seen. Where the mountains slid into the ocean, the ocean whittled them down into black sand and pebbles and sharp, rocky mesas that rose black and ragged from the water. We sat on these and watched the sun set into a distant rim of fog and watched the full moon rise from behind the mountains. I meditated and let the surf wash up onto me and soak my pants. Even though I was cold, I didn't notice it at all.
We drove back, tired and at peace, and dropped off our friends, then Whitney and I made our way to a hot tub that she knows about, a sacred space in Berkley that is set aside for women to go, where men cannot go anaccompanied. She led me through a neighborhood like any other to a house that looked like nothing special and back to a high fence with a coded door. Signs on the door told us no talking or noise was permitted at or beyond this point. Whitney punched in her code and we walked silently through down a leaf-covered path to a prayer garden and dressing rooms where we disrobed. In the darkness I could see nothing but the light of the dressing room. The was no sound but that of rushing water. I stepped naked into the garden and fumbled my way toward the water and climbed into the tub. It was scalding. Kept at 114 degress to kill bacteria and to aid relaxation, the water felt as though it was cooking me. I couldn't go in more than a few feet, and even then I quickly stepped out of the tub and into the garden. Uneasy, trembling from the cold air and from nerves, I walked through the path to find a place to sit and rest. As my eyes adapted, I saw other people--their bodies glowing pale white as moonlight in the unlit garden--praying, stretching, meditating.
I sat in an unoccupied spot and sat down to meditate, but it was freezing out and I couldn't stop shaking from that and from nerves, though I tried very hard to concentrate on meditating, so I stood up and set myself back into the hot tub. It felt great on my skin this time, still hot, still sclading, but the heat felt wonderful for a while. I plunged myself chest deep in the water, had to concentrate in order to catch my breath because the sudden heat really stole my lung control and I was gasping for air. But after a few minutes that settled down and I could breathe just fine and sit back and really let my muscles relax. Then I could walk around the garden, steam rising from my skin, and not feel the cold. I meditated and relaxed and walked among people naked and unafraid, calm as could be. Whitney and I walked home to sleep. I didn't feel the cold for a second.
Friday I saw a couple of shows and wandered around the park with Sue for a while (not in that order), and in the evening met my pen pal for the first time ever. I've had this pen pal for about five years. We met in an AOL chat room during my senior year of college and started sending letters (real letters...honest to God real letters on paper and everything) back and forth, as well as audio letters and tapes and passion fruits and lenses and so on and so forth. For a while, she lived in Germany and sent more e-mails than actual letters, and for a while I haven't carried a notebook to write in, so that's been fine. She's been living in LA for a while, so when I found out I was coming to San Fransisco, I suggested she could come up and hang out for a few days. Which is what she did.
It turns out, my pen pal is as lovely, smart, and charming as her letters would have a person believe. We met up for a glass of wine and to see a show, then went for drinks with other fringers and afterward to a BBQ party where they had excellent sangria. I spent the night at the house where the party was being held, on a mattress the amazingly generous Danielle, hostess of the party, made out of comforters. Slept next to a man who snored so loudly that I dreamed of chicken gyros (figure out the corrolation between the two if you can...I'm at a loss), and the next day met up with Jessica (the pen pal) for breakfast and to wander around North Beach for a while.
Hanging around with Jessica has been lovely. We've foregone a lot of the pleasantries that come with meeting a new person, but there's still a lot of conversation we've never had, so the conversation is constantly moving. It's not exactly like hanging out with an old friend, but more like spending time with a new friend I've met while travelling. Which in a weird way is exactly what she is.
Today I moved out of Whitney's place in Berkely/Oakland and into the hostel. Said goodbye to all of the wonderful people I met up there. And now I'm about to enjoy my last day in San Fransisco by sitting in an outdoor cafe, enjoying this lovely weather the city has decided to provide me, and reading a new book for a while. Then I'm going to catch a show by the incredibly kind people who put me up for the night on Friday (the Neo-Surrealists...former Defiant Theatre members from Chicago) and then a part and then home.
I'm coming back inspired and aware of things I must change in my life if I'm not going to be miserable back home. That includes elements of my external environment and the influences of people, as well as my internal self and the way that I act and approach myself and life and so on and so forth.
But before then, there is tonight. And the future will never happen as long as I keep not wanting it to.
Before I go, a quick quote from Seneca that I found while eating at Cafe Gratitude last night:
"It is not because things are difficult that we do not dare; it is because we do not dare that things are difficult."
See many of you soon. See some of you much later. See all of you eventually.
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