Yuma, Arizona
Sunday, April 3, 2011
8:20 a.m.
In Yuma there is a bridge over the Colorado River. At night it becomes a sign in big electric orange letters: “Ocean to Ocean Highway -- Yuma”
“What Ocean to what Ocean?” I asked myself. Eventually I learned that there was a highway that ran through Yuma that connected the Atlantic -- in Florida, to the Pacific -- in California.
Yesterday afternoon in the desert heat mercifully mitigated by cloud cover, I stood for the longest time in a state of suspended animation before that sign, pondering its meaning. I was holding on the the screen door of our RV as though it were a sail, feeling the energy of the wind blowing at my back, momentarily adrift, with no sense of purpose or direction. Down below me there were over a hundred people -- families, children, dogs, floaters, boaters, seniors, all gathered at the shores of the river to receive its cooling blessing and invitation to play. The day before it had been over 100 degrees, so some of the simple folk of Yuma town had come out for relief. There were no gimmicks here, no vendors, no “carny” attractions. Just the cool, clean Colorado river ambling its way down to the Gulf of Mexico.
It was Saturday, and my daughter, Viveka, of whom you will surely here more later, had gone off to visit some feral children -- most in their twenties -- who live by begging and scavenging and singing. That morning she had declared to me that she needed a “day of rest,” a day when she didn’t have to do anything in particular but could follow her impulses, perhaps make some art, but mostly be relieved of any duties for a day, like cooking and driving.
For my part I was also determined to come to a ground zero point where I could feel that I wanted for nothing and nothing wanted me -- a point of desire-less-ness, where I could truthfully examine the question: “How are decisions made?” (And the real question waiting in the wings: “How should decisions be made?” It has been a question that I have been trying to examine with Viveka even since before the beginning of our trip together. Since a decision is really the killing off of alternatives, how is that fork in the road approached and who makes the determination which way to go? And why? When there are three people involved it is a bit easier, because a simple majority usually rules -- unless there is some compelling emergency. Rationality plays into it, certainly, and the power of argument. But when there are just two, and there is a difference of opinion or desire and there is no agreement on priorities, then the question comes into sharp relief: If one only wants Divine Will in one’s life, then does one not have the obligation to abandon the role of decision maker, and surrender to something far more mysterious? But what if the other one has a strong preference? Will the one who chooses to surrender always be giving in to the one with a stronger personal will and preference?
It was just in this state of mind that I was feeling the wind playing on my back and pushing and pulling on my screen door as I held it open to feel the wind flowing through it.
If there was a decision to be made it could be put this way: should I get the keys, which were on the table in the RV and lock the door so that I could go down to the shower and spray myself to cool off -- something I feel I must do periodically to stay comfortable? Or should I just shut the door, leaving it unlocked, and trust that no one would interfere? I thought of my new computer, the the remote possibility that someone might be watching me leave the RV unguarded. Or should I merely stand here and feel the luxury of desire-less-ness? How long could I go without succumbing to the need to kill off one of the alternatives?
In this state of mind I was noticing that everyone on the beach was impelled by some desire or other; a need to move toward something, to be on purpose; to approach the water, to leave the water, to bring equipment and supplies, to carry and care for children, to anticipate, to be in the flow of one’s intention. But I seemed to be in a zero zone. Zero motivation. I can never remember being in such an absolutely uniquely balanced state.
Standing poised at the top of the stairs leading down to the grass fronting the river there was a man in a maroon and blue striped shirt. He was carrying something. Could I tell from his attitude, from his movement alone what he was carrying? It could have been an infant in a carrier, or it could be groceries. Would his attitude and movement give me clues? I guessed “infant.” He moved forward and as he did he shifted his position just slightly so that I could see he was carrying “stuff.” Yet he carried the stuff with as much care as he might carry an infant. It was tempting to read “meaning” into that observation: we care for our “stuff” with the same intention that we care for our young. And then I observed that the act of observation itself carried a vector: there was an element of decision in perception itself. Was some form of decision making inevitable -- some form of judgment or choice or preference -- if only for an idea or a guess about another’s purpose or state of mind?
After about 10 minutes in this suspended state I finally decided -- perhaps I should say “chose?” -- to lock the RV and move down to cool off in the shower. After doing so, I walked further down the beach to a wilder, more secluded area of the beach to find my daughter in the middle of a music session with the group of young hobos. One of the young women, Rafaella, a 21-year-old Australian, was distinctly talented in that she was sourcing her music from a deeply authentic place. Under competent and principled management, she might easily find “stardom,” whatever that might mean -- for she clearly has “what it takes.” Viveka had already had several probing conversations with her about being in a young, beautiful female body, and what that meant in terms of the predatory world in which she was choosing to function.
I could tell that Viveka was beginning to feel protective of her and the extreme light she was capable of shining into the dark places she was frequenting in the friends she had chosen. Viveka was clearly inclined to offer her a rescue line, although she had repeatedly both picked it up and let it go because of an attachment she felt to one of the boys -- I hesitate to call him a man -- in the group.
As for the remaining group of wild children, the alarm with which we regarded each other was mutual. We both saw “alien” in the other, although I’m sure some of them knew by now I was the grandmother who was walking across America, and therefore probably not very threatening, just odd. Still I knew I had nothing to say to them beyond intuitive feelings of mutual fear and distrust stemming from my sense that this group was living on the edge of legality, and would try anything in the name of survival. After about 15 seconds I knew my presence could only bring their enjoyment to a halt, so I turned and walked back toward the more conventional scene of families gathered for some good cheap, clean fun along the river.
* * *
A large family group of about 30 was gathered under a covered picnic area called a ramada in this part of the world. Some of the younger men were playing a game like horseshoes by pitching large washers (about 4” in diameter) into rectangular boxes fitted with round holes about 5” in diameter. If your washer went into the furthest hole you got more points than for the nearer ones. This was another example of good, cheap, clean family fun.
What a contrast with the group I had just visited who were trashing up the beach with their drinking their drugs and their unconscious antics. Here was a family of 4 generations celebrating the 80th birthday of Grandmother Gloria, the mother of 6 children. All of the children were present with most of their spouses, along with several in the grandparents’ generation, and many cousins in the younger generation.
Patrick, one of the sons, clued me in to the occasion and after hearing my story quickly spread the news of my walk and I was welcomed into the family. “You really would enjoy speaking with uncle Gully,” he told me, and within a few minutes I found myself in the presence of a 30-year navy man, who looked to be in his late 70s. He was 91-year old Grant Gullickson, a survivor of WWII, with many stories to tell. A collector of antique cars, a widower of a 68-year marriage and a new husband in a 4 year-old marriage with a wife more than 20 years his junior.
“I’m told I should talk to you,” I told Gully.
“That right? I suppose you want to talk about World War II.”
“No, actually, I want to know what you think about the world today.”
“Well for starters,” he began, “I’m optimistic about the future, mostly because the internet levels the playing field” He surprised me, because I expected him to be attached to the past and bitter about the present. I liked this man.
* * *
But this is not a story about a pleasant conversation with an interesting person. Viveka and I have many of these each week. She documents many of them for our film, which could well become a series. This is something more. This is about the Ocean to Ocean highway -- that continuous strip of human experience that bridges these two worlds: the world of an American family with all of its history and generational trials and stories, from a farm in North Dakota at the turn of the century, with a saintly farm wife and a father who was one of the very last cowboys through world war II, and the Eisenhower Republicans and the Reagan Democrats, through the peaceniks and the bra burners -- all good working folk playing by the rules and trying to live the white bread American dream as best they can; and the Peter Pan world just up-river, the land of lost boys, and an occasional girl or a tinker bell who flits through on gossamer wings sprinkling some fairy dust. There could not be more contrast between these two oceans, and yet they are all linked as are the oceans, and they both rest on the shared land of humanity.
I was privileged that day to ply my boat of observation back and forth between those two vast oceans of experience, and to see that the pessimism and cynicism of a dangerous youthful death wish is more than amply balanced by the optimism and faith of a generation of elders who have kept the faith and vision, and see vast possibilities for peace and freedom opening up, as our military is increasingly used for peaceful missions, and as the liberating influence of cyberspace brings true equality to the human heart.
