It's 4:20 PM in the tiny coastal town of Mendocino and I'm high- so very, very high- on life.
I am seated on a wooden bench overlooking the Pacific on which lovers have carved their forevers together with knives. J + A? B + R?
I left my mark on the bench not by blade, by dropping a few Birthday Brownie crumbs here (although I'll probably sweep them off before I leave; my mother taught me well.)
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The ocean has kept me company all day, sending magic and a cool breeze through my lopsided hair and gloved fingers, and Salsa's slow-spinning wheels as I rode from my new home at Oz Farm in Point Arena (ozfarm.com), to Mendocino for an overnight bike camping trip on my birthday weekend.
I sang out loud (loudly, no less) and swung my sandaled feet off the pedals jubilantly as I coasted down the hills of the sometimes smooth and shouldered, sometimes shockingly narrow and winding Highway 1. Then would come the bottom of the hill, and the subsequent heavy, meditative breathing, the concentration, the quick glances into my helmet mirror, the clicking of my gears, and the steady increase in heart rate for the ascent.
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This weekend's trip is a birthday present from me to me.
I treated myself to exercise and fresh air, to reflective "me time", to the delicious sights and smells of springtime, and a few tasty treats along the way. I even got a new locally-crafted hemp and huckleberry wood necklace from a homeless man in Mendocino who, along with his companions, would barely let me leave lest I miss one of their many long stories.
I shouldn't call them "homeless", really. Most so-called "homeless" people I've met seem to reject the word as offensive, with its connotations of filfth and poverty, and of no place to go.
But the travelers and the houseless and the nomadic people I've met in my own journeys have been anything but poor; they are always rich in character, in stories, in friends, in skills, in creativity, and many are artists and musicians. They find ways to get by without a permanent residency, and often do it with style (one houseless man I met in Arcata built a bicycle-pulled covered wagon living structure, and was running for City Council when I met him).
And filfth? I cannot deny that some travelers have limited access to showers, but I can attest to the clear minds of the majority I have met. They are not all muttering old fools, but people with diverse backgrounds who often take to the streets by choice. Sometimes this is because they are fed up with society, or with an economic system that makes it almost impossible for anyone to be both financially and spiritually wealthy, or they just couldn't deal with a torrential downpour of unfortunate circumstances. I try not to assume anymore. People just are.
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I sometimes feel like a sneaky anthropologist unrightfully winning trust and access to knowledge of an ancient people who are all but invisible to the mainstream culture. I guess I don't have a house or a car or a "real" job either, but when I pull up on a bicycle laden with panniers and sleeping gear, I sure look the part of someone who jumped off the radar screen ages ago.
But still, I feel a little dishonest about where I come from.
I can slip into conversation with the bums on the sidewalk, and then turn around, sit up a little straighter, and chat with a dentist or business owner (although this is becoming more and more unnatural a transition). I've lived both worlds. I've been coddled and doted upon with material things, and tasted olives on a silver spoon. I've been surrounded by people more interested in the stock market than the fate of the natural world, and by those who care more about how their hair and makeup look than how petrochemicals are affecting their local watershed.
Then I renounced an old way of being, took up everything from dumpster-diving to renting a canvas tent in a backyard for 9 months, and declared my independence.
Am I an imposter dressed in thrift store clothes that smell like sweat and biodegradable peppermint soap, or am I an admirable amphibian simply choosing land over water?
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Tomorrow I will bike South, back through fields of cows and elegant wildflowers, back home to Oz Farm, a certified organic CSA and farmers' market production farm where I'll be an apprentice at for the next three months until I return to school in the Fall.
Then it's back to the depressing grind of a failing and restrictive academic system, devoid of all life and value...
(Just kidding. I'll make the grind radical- you'll see.)
Peace.
-Moss
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