Sunday, February 24, 2008

Roots and Fire

Since I returned a little over a month ago, I’ve spent a significant amount of time watching the highway of ships moving in and out of the bay. I am drawn constantly into the little back porch that has that view, hypnotized by Alcatraz’ spinning beacon which casts its distant beam across the eyes in 5 second intervals.

Since the back porch is my favorite place to be, I’ve painted a picture, and also happened to make the room astoundingly clean. The picture is an oil painting of a burning forest at night reflected in a body of water.

I am longing to put down roots.

When I leave the back porch, I retreat to my room; a cave like room really. It’s almost in the dark save for one lone window that looks into an air well. I keep the top half covered with a huge stained glass piece of red, gold and blue. The lower half of the window is covered with a sheer golden curtain that is draped with shawls and fabrics. The walls of my room are covered with wall hangings and fabrics I collected while traveling. The floor has two Indo-Persian rugs from Agra. These three photographs that are a backup group for my Pegasus Theatre showing, are hanging on the wall, with their title cards. Also hanging on the wall is the burning forest painting. It seems fire and water at night is a theme on the wall of the cave which is my room.

From the group, Evening on the Ganges:

1. Rowing to Arti
2. Floating Prayers
3. Night Ride to Nirvana

From a desire to roam to a desire to nest. That is what has become of me.

In my room, I dream of putting down roots. Long tap roots that go into some deep crystal studded aquifer and take in the life giving mineral elixir. Growing green and strong as my branches reach out into the surrounding community, participating in art, music, dancing, gardening, friendships, openness, trust and …

Openness and trust…

Two days into my adventure, (and I am speaking of the very beginning of my trip which is well documented in the US Travel Writings portion of my website,, my father and I were in the parking lot of the Lincoln Motel in Austin, NV when I ran into Corinne, a Sebastopol poet I had interviewed several years before. She and her husband were off to visit their land in Colorado. We talked about my pending adventures, and Corinne, a huge fan of travel, was very encouraging, explaining that she and her husband had spent many years traveling, and there were times when they didn’t own any keys, opting out of homes for the sake of freedom to roam.

The funny coincidence is that two days after I returned from my travels, I went to Aroma’s Café in Santa Rosa, and ran into her as she was coming out of the restroom. I told her I had just returned from traveling around the world, and reminded her of our Austin meeting.

She told me she was addicted to travel.

“You know what I wish?” she mused. “I wish I could just keep that openness you feel when traveling,” she touched her heart.

“Yes”, I replied, “and the way you just let things go, even relationships, you just really enjoy people and then never see them again. Sometimes you don’t even learn their names!”

She nodded her head, “and you're really appreciating that person or that conversation on the bus or in the café, .”

“Savoring it,” I said.

Then we hugged and said goodbye. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again…

And trust…well that’s a whole ‘nother subject.
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