Hope

At midnight’s horizon the great milky wheel of stars rose wet and shivering from the waves, and the silver yellow light of a gibbous moon settled on the sea, glistening the tinsel-crested swell. It was a warm, still, and perfectly clear night. The deck of the Goa ferry was crowded, but I’d managed to stake out a clear space a little distance apart from a large group of young tourists. They were stoned, most of them, on grass, hash, and acid. Dance music thumped from the black, shouting mouths of a portable hi-fi. Sitting among their backpacks, they swayed and clapped in time, called out to one another over the music, and laughed, often. They were happy, on their way to Goa. The first-time tourists were moving toward a dream. The old hands were returning to the one place in the world where they felt truly free.
   --  Gregory David Roberts, Shantaram

From events alluded to in the novel, this takes place in November of 1984. Remove the drugs, which in my probable naiveté are less prevalent in this day than in that, and this could very nearly describe a bus full of neo-hippies later this summer going you know where. All over the world, but mostly in California, it seems (though a fair lot in Oregon and Arizona too), people of all walks are feeling an airborne hum, an electric anticipation of their return to the one place that returns them the freedom and joy they felt before their adult lives hammered it out of them; or if their childhoods were not happy, of a place that gives them what could have been, significantly upgraded of course into adult experience.

Last night I attended an arts fundraiser, really a small party hosted at a photographer's studio with perhaps half a dozen artists showcasing their work. Thanks to my continued involvement in a loose conglomeration of certain local groups (I really don't know how to characterize in one phrase a mix of burner, steampunk, and arts-related entrepreneurial associations), I knew a third of the crowd walking in and well over half walking out. Beer and wine were served, and crackers and cheese, and great conversations were had, and I followed my impulses and patronized the local arts with a couple of purchases (one of them not small). You could say it was my way of giving back, but I got fair value, so it was really just trade; and yes, I also figured I might as well because I am one of the few with a steady job. If you think that's the negative side of patronizing, well, I didn't say anything (except thanks). Overall point is the hum was evident, and a few people remarked on it. Summer is here, and despite jobs being scarce, and kids needing entertainment, and floods now in threat from the heavy snow, people are smiling, and working hard, and looking forward again to those moments when hope blossoms into the unexpected.