Permeability

On the ferry to Angel Island many people were wearing white, the women in white skirts and sweaters, the men in slacks and polos. Only later did I find out that they were joining a folk boat community picnic in the spacious Ayala Cove on the north side of the island. It was a warm Sunday, the sun bright on the water, seagulls trailing us as kids threw bits of food to them. I had made this trip so many times that I had spread my writing in front of me on a little indoor table, the only person not in festive mode.

The island is a mountain hump in San Francisco Bay. On a summer day, the fast catamaran ferry glides past Alcatraz and the eastern side of the island, a state park. When we docked, I took the steep trail up this eastern side, wearing thin-soled tai chi shoes which acted like a foot massage on the rough, stony path. Wooden steps had been set into the hillside for hikers who wanted the quickest ascent up the hill. That was me. To me the island, on which only park vehicles are allowed, was a large piece of wild nature safe enough to come to alone and give myself to it.

I had named parts of the woods I passed through: “where the deer lay,” because the grass was matted down and I had found deer droppings nearby. Or the “thick wood,” which was so dense it had no grass or ground cover under it. “Dad’s grove” was a group of pines on a plateau near the top which I had named shortly after my father died. It had started with one tree, but so many cropped up in that area that they all became his over the years. They were much larger now. 

It was in this grove that I found a place to lie on my rug, spread out my lunch and my books and vegetate, for hours. Once settled, I did not try to do anything. Using a hat to keep the sun off my thin scalp, I wore as little else as I dared. The sun was warm on my skin, but the breeze kept it from being too hot. A bell buoy out in the bay tolled below me and sailboats and larger boats came and went. In the distance the city of Oakland lay against the rim of land. A hawk rode the currents. The sky was a watery blue. I could feel what I wanted, a relation to the world so close it permeated me.

Lunch was half an avocado, a piece of cheese, bread, wet green grapes. I opened a packet of M&Ms and spread them in the sun, eating the blue ones first. The sun melted their centers. I was just above the path. I could hear people talking as they passed, but humps of grass and trees prevented them from knowing I was there. I wasn’t writing by this time, perhaps not even forming words in my head. I was just a happy animal, enjoying the sun and the breaths of air blowing over me.

The shadows of the pines grew longer. I did not want to leave, but the ferry schedule didn’t allow me to stay until sunset. I packed up my rug and my things and made my way down the mountain. 

Permeability is doubled edged. Once, the boundaries between us and the world were thin, illusory. It is still the goal of tantric meditation and yogas to dissolve them. But, in general, we have traded closeness to nature for comfort. Our houses are sealed against bugs, snakes, rats and bird droppings, as well as rain and wind. We live in cities surrounded by each other, allowing their vibrant life to be ours. 

I have been a person quite prone to permeability. It took years of Al-Anon to show me that I had allowed my first husband’s desires for alcohol and oblivion to penetrate my thin skin. My own flame was strong, but in the end I couldn’t counter this powerful drive. Twenty years of trying taught me that not all permeability is benign. Even now I am careful about what words and images, the food of the mind, I let into my life. As people, we are not immune to disaster, but we can control how much we let darkness take over our lives.

Jim, the narrator of Willa Cather’s My Antonia [published 1918] says: “I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.” This is true, but here too, we can see the double edge. It is just as easy to be a part of a youth group based on a fascist ideology as it is to be part of goodness and knowledge. Naïveté will not save us. We are responsible for what we allow ourselves to become.

In daily life there are many examples of positive exchanges of energy. When we practice tai chi in class, each of us does our best, passing on to each other our aspirational spirit. Parents, whether they know it or not, infuse their households with an atmosphere which children absorb. And each of us seeks places to live which make us feel comfortable, where we feel peaceful and strong. From a stable life, we can reach out with empathy for others.

Thus, in maturity, I value my ability to let the world permeate me. The best advice ever given to writers was by Matsuo Basho, a 17th Century Japanese poet. “Your poetry issues of its own accord when you and the object have become one -- when you have plunged deep enough into the object to see something like a hidden glimmering there. However well-phrased your poetry may be, if your feeling is not natural -- if the object and yourself are separate -- then your poetry is not true poetry but merely your subjective counterfeit.” In other words, the best artists have thoroughly entered the world.

Though the human species evolves very slowly and we are not much different than our 17th Century counterparts, culture evolves quickly. We sense that the universe is expanding, bringing with it new capabilities and technologies. At this point, so much more history, more of each other’s voices and more ability to share each other’s cultures is available. We may need to learn new languages, reframe our assumptions and biases, however. Curiosity takes us there. Literature, movies, music, the many ways each of us cooks. So much to explore!

But we may also be proud of our own backgrounds, value our own histories. I will get lost in a Malaysian character in a book I am listening to (depend upon it!); a movie may give me perspective on an earlier time through the intimate portrayal of a character; but I come back to my own life heartened and whole.

Many years after my solitary journeys to Angel Island, I camped there with my new husband and son. Drawn there for the same reasons, we loved spending our days on the little beaches, or climbing the mountain in the sun, with no vehicles but the sounds of passing boats below. We watched the full arc of the day pass over the hump of land and at night, strings of magical lights were visible across the water along the horizon. The moon rose and we slept on the island, as if it were the most ordinary thing to do.