I notice my journey into the wild is not very far from civilization. I drive ten minutes up the road from the (Madame’s) boyfriend’s house. I find a campground just off the highway. The ocean is a couple of sand dunes away.
Cracked concrete forms a small firepit and next to it a pile of driftwood I dragged a long way down the beach.
I wrap rough sticks and satiny driftwood in one of the leashes. With a compliment of chihuahuas, I make two sojourns along this stretch of sand, water, and clumps of slender grasses.
Deep crimson encircles the base of these rippling green islands in a sea of sand.
I spend some chunk of time lying in the warm sand watching the grass and water, light and smoke, ash and flame-lit air, twine together.
Waves ripple endlessly with a deep glowing orange. Sunset paints the ocean at 3 in the afternoon. California burning reflects across many miles setting the water alight.
The air’s ruby glow most obvious when my gaze is focusing through my triangulating dreads drawing shadows in the sand. Tiny concentrated shapes, a pale rusty orange, trace the grains lying between my forearms.
I lay in the muggy smoky sunlight and listen to the sand grains chitter to each other in the wind.
When I rise, my hair and skin gritted with the tiny stones, I begin to haul wood to feed fire’s voracious appetite. I figure the amount I need to fuel a fire tonight and another in the chill of the coming coastal morning. The little dogs race huge circles around me spitting grains in their wake.
I love the physicality of the task and the joyful abandon of my tiny canine companions.
Back at camp I toss persistent little dogs off each layer of blanket as I spread them out. It would appear the crew approves of the bed I brought.
The Chihuahuas and I curl up on the nest of blankets and sheep skin, napping in the sun after all the wood gathering.
The dark begins creeping closer. The cool collecting pools of mist pour down the hills and around the trees. I wrap my moleskin cloak around my chilling shoulders. Some flame will improve this situation.
Sitting with my evening fire, legs crossed in the middle of the nest, I watch shadows and fog tip-toe quietly into camp.
I am drawn to meditate on the latest piece of hypnosis, work with my child-self, after the previous session with my father’s spirit.
I watch the dancing flames and remember the heart of the information from five years old…Zie is hiding in a cave…Zie is terrified of being seen or heard dancing or making noise or drawing attention to zirself in the world…Our ‘parts’ are fighting…the Scholar, the Artist, the Warrior, the Dancer…The Dancer twirls into the space and all the other parts hiss…Be quiet…Five years old adds zir demand from the cave…’They’ will see you!