Two-and-a-half days. One bus. Twenty-six hippies. No showers. Heaven? Hell? Or, just the Naka-Ima Baja Adventure?!
After sharing our intentions, visions, and fears, a group of people who participate in Naka-Ima hopped on a Green Tortoise bus to embark on a ten-day trip to Baja, Mexico. Upon pulling out from Lost Valley, I almost immediately questioned my motivations for taking this trip. Being a person who needs a fair amount of space and independence, who has difficulty sleeping on moving vehicles, and who gets motion sickness fairly easily, I wondered, "What the hell was I thinking?!" I hadn't given much thought to this part of the trip, as I'd been thinking more about actually being in Baja. "OK, ok," I reasoned. "It's the middle of the winter, I need some sun and heat, I'm spending time with a group of people I love, and I'm going to a beautiful place. I've never really traveled with a group this large who all share a desire for community, growth, and intimacy, and this is a unique opportunity to do so." I decided to let go of my concerns and see what would happen.
It's challenging to stay grounded on a bus, probably for some obvious reasons: a bunch of metal, rubber, plastic, and other materials all thrown together and moving at 60 mph doesn't lend itself well to grounding. Despite my continual efforts to let go, I found it extremely difficult to feel connected to anything or anyone. There was no real sense of place, nothing to anchor to, no stability. With the constant clamoring of the motor and the collective ball of twenty-six energies swirling around the tight, cramped environment, I found myself longing for the soothing lapping waves on the beach, the birds singing, sunlight on my skin, warm air, and stillness of the desert.
It's interesting how people's energies and environment converge. I live in a 4000 sq. ft. housing cooperative with eight other people. For the first several months, I found it hard to relax. I initially thought it was due to my schedule and work, which tends to be pretty full and frequently involves working with people on deep personal issues. I'd come home and retreat to my room or office to get some rest, but would never come away feeling rested.
After several months, however, most of my housemates left to vacation for a couple of weeks. When they came back, I noticed how much more rested I felt. Upon reflection, I realized that my schedule hadn't changed all that much while they were away, and I'd had about the same amount of time off. Yet, just the fact that there were fewer people in the same confined environment completely shifted the energy, regardless of how much I even saw or interacted with them. Being on the bus, it was difficult to separate my own energy from everyone else's, and find some way to anchor myself. The more I struggled, the less grounded I felt. Finally, once I decided to let go of trying to become grounded, I began to feel more so! I spent much of the time on the bus letting go repeatedly.
We finally arrived at our destination in Baja, a remote beach on the Sea of Cortez five miles in from where the bus stopped. The hike was amazing; it was downhill most of the way, winding through hills and canyons dotted with green shrubs and reddish-brown earth. Off in the distance, in full view the whole time, was the blue sea. It was beautiful, and from the first steps down I immediately felt a deep sense of peace, awe, and reverence.
I've always felt a connection to the desert. Since I was young, every time I see a picture of the desert, or visit the southwest, I feel a sense of timelessness, home, and connection to spirit. It wasn't until I went to Israel several years ago (my family is of Jewish ancestry, part of which is middle-eastern) that I realized what I was connecting with was my past. I'd previously thought that I had been destined to live there someday. However, after living in Arizona for a couple of years, I noticed that it didn't feel quite right. After my Israel trip, I realized that my draw was not about reliving, but remembering.
Walking down to our camp in Baja brought back those memories. I could feel spirit so strongly as I walked, and the still vastness of the desert felt so full and alive. Yet, being around people was challenging. During the walk, I felt disconnected and agitated at times. It was difficult being in a place that I felt so connected to and hearing people talking loudly, yelling to one another, and seeming oblivious to the intense energy of the land that I was feeling. I noticed my judgments of them. Did they share my same sense of reverence? Were they just clueless? "They should be feeling what I'm feeling!" Although it was challenging, I did my best to focus on my own experience, while allowing others to have their own. During part of the walk, it was helpful to talk with others about this and discover that they also felt awed, but were expressing it differently.
We spent several days on the beach. I continually began to feel more grounded and connected, despite cool and rainy weather for about half the time. I spent time alone sitting on the beach, looking out over the ocean, and time with others exploring the area. However, I still found it difficult to connect with everyone, and at times had a lot of self-judgment and "shoulds" about it:
"Here we are together in this beautiful place, and I should be connecting more."
"Maybe I'm just keeping myself safe, and am afraid to open up with everyone."
"I should be asking more people to do things together."
And so on.
However, when I looked at what I was needing and wanting in each moment, I noticed that I felt good taking time for myself, being in my own space, and doing what felt right for me. As I accepted that, I felt more alive and empowered, and felt more comfortable around everyone.
When it came time to hike out, I decided to leave well before everyone else. I like to walk slowly, and the thought of having the road up all to myself sounded appealing. As I slowly made my way, I felt myself open up in a way that I hadn't been able to with everyone else around. I could feel the pulse and spirit of the land, and how old and ancient the land was. I could feel connection to my ancestors. As I took in the beauty of the mountains and sea, I started crying. All I could think was, "it's so beautiful." Every time I had that thought, I would cry harder. At one point, a red-tailed hawk rose up in front of me from the valley below, circling as it rode a rising thermal. Everything felt so whole and complete. I felt completely alive, and waves of inspiration, insight, and vision came to me. I felt like anything was possible. I thought of my father, whom I've only seen twice in the last eight years, and imagined asking him to go camping with me in the spring.
I had been continually thinking that I should be connecting more with the group. However, what I kept overlooking was that I felt very connected to myself, and to this place. I was very aware of what I needed and wanted, who I was, and what was important to me. When I let go of needing to connect with the group, I felt full. I was able to hold on to myself while being around others. It was the strongest experience I'd ever had of being in touch with myself.
Driving back felt much easier. In addition to feeling more grounded (or maybe in spite of it), it even seemed like there were fewer people and more space on the bus. When talking with people, I realized that others had also been having similar feelings of disconnection and self-judgment because of their disconnection. I felt amused by how difficult it was for us to accept what our own desires were, and instead how we were distracted by wanting to take care of other people.
When I returned home, despite feeling tired, I felt clear and solid. I noticed that I valued and accepted my needs more, and was less concerned with what other people thought. I was reminded of a process called differentiation, in which a person in any kind of relationship acts out of his or her inner truth and self-validation, without trying to please others or self-sacrifice, while still remaining open and loving towards them. In the past, when doing so, I always felt more alive and connected to both myself and others. The trip gave me the chance to practice doing it again.
David Franklin loves Naka-Ima, bagels, and guitars. Visit him at www.DavidFranklin.org , or e-mail [email protected]
©2004 Talking Leaves
Spring/Early Summer 2004
Volume 14, Numbers 1 & 2
Person and Place: Adventures Here, There, & Everywhere