Journals

  The Southwestern Desert   Intuition. The thing I have come to trust (mine) above all else and everyone. On the last day of orientation with all 14 caravan routes converged into one, and hours before the challenge border crossing, I decided it was time for me to take my leave.  Just like that.  This decision was coincidentally made in a place with no train station, a time when no ride was possible, and airports with costly same-day airfares were prohibitive and some distance away. What else is possible, I wondered? Greyhound. As in, “oh my God, not the bus."  Ironic, considering I was traveling by old, rusty school bus for all those preceding days and nights. I told few caravanistas that I was departing early, as I didn’t want to stir the pot and hear any negativity. The advice that was offered to me: sit at the front of the bus, and for God’s sake Mi‘Jan, DO NOT TALK TO ANYONE. To which, of course, neither piece of advice did I choose to consciously or subconsciously follow.   At the beginning of the journey, I was told my life would never be the same. I was also told, perhaps two weeks in advance of the journey, that I would meet someone who would change my perspective and change my research. Those words came from my most amazing dissertation chair who lets me groove (to an extent) to my own rhythm. Seeing as how I did not make it into Mexico or Cuba, I despondently thought neither of those premonitions could be right. Exhausted, falling into hard, distant sleep on the bus ride 'home', and wondering if I had somehow failed on the caravan experience, I woke up to discover these eyes staring back at me. The first thing that came to mind was, “he looks sane, but I don’t know. This is Greyhound. But then again I am on Greyhound and I’m sane (or at least close enough to it).” I cannot remember what he said after those thoughts, I just remember he said something and we kept talking and listening to each other, eating and staring for the next half day.   Me: “So how did you get here? You know, at the border, on the bus?” Mr. Treehugger: “Hitchhiking…Mexico…running out of money…the most amazing story. And you?” Me: “There was this caravan…no train station/airport/car ride…meeting lots of incredibly amazing people involved in all these communities doing incredible work…dis/organizations like Food, Not Bombs…” Mr. Treehugger: “What?!?! I'm a Food, Not Bomber!”   In that instant, as my research and life started coming together, and in my mind’s eye as I re-visited the words that both women spoke about this journey, I completely dismissed all the stored negative feelings and energy I had about: men, White folk, and new/scary spaces. I realized that every single time I move out into the world, I am interestingly rewarded by the universe shining a lot more light in my life.   All the men I met - which is funny because I was only researching women up until that point - have enthusiastically agreed to co-research/participate in my study of: Community Collectives as Change Agents.   For those reading my words, wondering what exactly happened with all these amazing guys, I have to say that this is the one downer of being a researcher…I cannot so much as kiss any of my participants or else the entire study would be invalidated. As for Cuba, I still feel the call strongly, perhaps now more than ever. 2010 has me making the voyage on a licensed trip, with a group of community organizers. As for my life outlook: I still believe in soul mates, I still am a wanderer, my kids still think I am an amazing mom, and I have even bigger/longer/more amazing adventures in my midst and to come. I also decided it was high time to give my words (spoken and written) their proper place in my life.  Being a sometime university educator and full time experience-seeker has been deemed a worthwhile way to spend the rest of my lifetime. I haven’t picked up the guitar Woody gifted me all that much, however I am finally discovering f-u-n.   In the final analysis, I realize that my adventures seem to have no beginnings or endings. As I look back on the caravan, I realize that I am not the One-Size-Fits-All-Woman - that’s overrated. I’m me. I’m doing my own thing, in my own way and timing.  That’s plenty.