Liberacion

There should be an accent mark over the "i" up there, but I'm not sure how to insert that character. In fact, I'm not even sure that's the right word. False cognates can be a bitch. But for the sake of this blog, let's just say that word means "liberation" in Spanish.

This past labor day weekend, I went camping just north of Ensenada with a curious bunch of folks. Just to give you a little idea, I'll try to recall everyone's professions. Our troupe consisted of a nurse (male, how refreshing), four visual effects people (that's the technical term, I promise), a painter, a loader, an editor, a sound person (again, the technical term), two actor/writers, three people who's professions I did not seem to catch, one mastif-pitbull mix (literally a dog, I'm not calling anyone a bitch) and one school board staffer. I'm not sure if it was the beautifully clean air, the tequilla or the Bob Hope, but there was some amazing chemistry going on. Everyone just seemed to get along. Everyone helped clean. Everyone looked after everyone else. It felt comfy. It was by no means perfect, but it functioned in an oddly nice way. It was kind of like pairing red with pink -- you know they don't quite work together, but sometimes, in the right combination, they just sing.

We camped at this beautiful olive grove that was situated on the edge of a bluff overlooking the Atlantic. They had a path carved out of the side of a bluff that allowed you to walk down to the rock beach. I mistakenly did not bring my bathing suit, so I wasn't able to go in, but all the other kids played in the waves and even braved a boogie board ride or two. There were a bunch of surfers at the site too, so it was cool to watch them stand up on top of all that hydrogen bonding. Several rounds of Bocce (sp?) Ball were played, horses were ridden, s'mores were made and guitars were strummed. We climbed (and one of us fell out of) the trees, braved trips to the latrenes, snacked on fish tacos from the campsite taco stand and cultivated a love-and-santize relationship with the campsite puppy patrol (there was one doggie that loved us, but was definitely suffering from ringworm, or at least fleas. We called him Ringworm. Or Mr. Ringworm). We went to tequilla bars in town, finished buckets full of beer, and managed to jump a car in the middle of the highway.

Although I was so glad to sleep in a bed and take a shower last night, I was a bit sad to wake up and find my most excellent tentmates and campmates missing.

Sometimes you experience a convergence in your life, where everything just settles down like a freshly washed sheet on a bare bed. I was so ridiculously happy when I was camping, and it is making me breathe easier now. It was incredibly reassuring -- I was myself -- so much myself that I had a handle on the parts of myself that I don't really like. I had an unprecedented amount of perspective on what I was thinking and how I was acting, and I was really able to do and say what I really wanted to do and say. I had a moment of extreme clarity. I felt like I was in the right place at the right time with the right people. And I'm not just talking about camping. I'm talking about my whole life. I'm starting to feel...right. Like I know what to do to be happy. And what's particularly amazing about being that comfortable with yourself, is that the people that are really going to connect with you actually do (connect)(thanks, mr. and mrs. prickles), and those who are not, you can simply live with.

It's lovely. Like a Mexican half-moon setting slowly over a black ocean, accompanied by the soft bark of social sea lions.