A Full Moon in Joshua Tree

One of the many things I like about being a professor is exploring meaning for a living. Spending your time thinking about symbols and concepts makes you aware of currents of life that flow differently. It can also be annoying to always be aware of these other dimensions and irritating to those who would rather not think about them. Sometimes I feel like I am so out of the mainstream with my interpretations of life that people have a difficult time relating to me. Fortunately, being in an educational institution makes me less weird and more in line with those who are eager to see the world in as many ways as possible.

A full moon in Joshua Tree is a sacred event. People have been coming here for years to recognize the sacred in various ways, and the ways are many. But the institutional realities of everyday life are always at the edges of these experiences and can threaten to overwhelm them. For example, as I’ve written here before, it would be strange to some people that a professor, the director of a center no less, would spend his time backpacking with students in Joshua Tree National Park, and as I lie in my sleeping bag looking at the full moon and glorious starscape above me, I find these very thoughts creeping into my consciousness. What am I doing here? Shouldn’t I be at home working on my book, or at least with people my own age doing whatever it is that we do? It’s not that I dislike being around my peers. In fact, I hang out with them quite a lot. For example, I spent the Sunday after Thanksgiving helping my friends Kelly and Simon build a new deck at their house. It’s a uniquely domestic thing to do, even moreso considering that Simon’s parents were there helping. I was honored to be a part of it and had fun. I like building things.

But I was equally honored to be experiencing a sacred moment in Joshua Tree with my students. I am pleased that they would want to be with me, that I am a part of their flow, which is so open and free compared to most of everyday life. I am also glad that my presence is not treated as a big deal to them. I think they find it interesting but cool. A few weeks ago, when I was hanging out playing table tennis a lot (we’ve since broken the table), a couple of first-year students came up and asked me point-blank what I was doing there. I had a number of answers for them, one of which was that they were minus a staff member whose primary role is to be a community nurturer, and I thought I should serve that role until we had someone in place. We do now, but I’ve continued to hang out there, so that can’t be the only reason. The main reason is that I like it. I like them. They impress me and make me laugh. They are larger, much better than they think. I like the energy they fill the room with.

Or the desert. Jacob gets up at 3am because he can’t sleep and takes his electric bass into the rocks above us. He plays until he can’t feel his hands anymore. I learn this later in the day. I get up under the amazing blue sky and hike around the rock outcroppings. When I return, Taylor and Vivien have climbed the rocks and are exploring, and Jacob is back in his bag asleep. Eventually, we all come together again and wordlessly, I begin playing guitar. I hand it off to Jacob, who is much better than me, and he makes it sing. Vivien gets out her drum, and they begin jamming, a fragile and delicate circle of motion that overlaps and converges into magic. Again, without a word the session ends, and we begin packing our gear. We look as ridiculous as when we came in only now we are in daylight, and we can see ourselves more clearly. Nobody cares. Jacob plays his bass as he hikes. The rest of us look around contemplating our space on the planet or thinking about breakfast. And I, I am hiking in the desert with my students, amazed at my good fortune. Amazed that my life is full of desert jam sessions and full moons. Surprised by joy.