Religious Narrative: Final Draft

               A young woman sweeps her hair away from her face. This is so her friend can add silver spirals to the paint on her forehead without making a mess. They’re spread out on blankets, backpacks, unrolled sleeping bags. The silver woman is just one of many painted faces. From the crowd, but I can already pick out dragons, fairies, even an elf.

They come bedecked in saris, swimsuits, shawls stitched all over with jingling coins. They’ve got dreadlocks, braids and flowers in their hair. Their hands are covered in henna. Their feet are shod with hemp sandals, Jesus style. Every man wears a beard. They come every summer, from college, from shared apartments, from every little brick house with a dream catcher hung in the window. It’s the groovy pilgrimage. The glittering psychedelic romp in the woods. The hippies are on their way to the Oregon Country Fair.

It’s difficult to explain exactly what goes on at the Oregon Country fair. Every year in mid-July, an alternate reality is constructed in the woods outside of Eugene, Oregon. A cynical person would say that people come to do drugs, and they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. The smell of weed and patchouli doesn’t wash off you for days. But the primary attraction for me, possibly because I was there as a child, was the weird.

I step out of the crock-pot bus into a choking cloud of dust and dazzling sunshine. I am instantly aware of the smell of barbecue and falafel. Somebody is playing the pan flute. As the haze settles, I see a towering shape lurch towards me. A man, standing fifteen feet tall in stilts, dressed in a suit of tree branches and moss, strides past in an instant and vanishes into the trees. My brother and I, six and nine respectively, are pretty used to the antics of pacific northwestern oddballs at this point. My family has been making this trip since before either of us can remember. But I still feel a sense of elation every year.

It really does feel like magic, when you’re there. It’s wicked hot, but the luscious Oregon forest covers the winding alleyways and odd grottoes in a hazy green gloom. The Long Tom Riven is brown and lazy in the summer, but you can find a glittering serpent rising from the water if you look carefully. You can find a patch of grass and sleep for hours, but why would you?

The grounds are dotted with open air stages, built from scrap wood, driftwood, held together by spit and crazy. You sit on the ground, or a picnic blanket, if you’re fancy, and watch people come out and do… whatever they can come up with. Women model dresses made from busted lifeboats and condom wrappers. A young guy sprinkles broken glass on the stage and flops face down into the pile. (“I lost a contact!”) A shirtless, hairy man strums a guitar and sings an ode to his own sweaty, pendulous breasts.

Everybody seems to be celebrating something, but it’s not clear what. Rounding a corner, it’s possible to stumble into a full parade, marching band and all, making its way around the grounds. Beads are given out and there is glitter in the air. A woman combs every knot out of my awful, unruly hair and braids it into a crown. I wear fairy wings made from wire and pantyhose. A kid here doesn’t have to pretend to be in a fantasy kingdom, they really are. Revelers range from naked and dirty to totally concealed within elaborate costumes. It’s a Merry Pranksters magic bus psychedelic dream come true, where everybody ‘does their own thing’ in the very truest sense.

               This is the place where I have what can be described as a ‘spiritual experience’ for one of the very few times in my life. It’s all about transcendence, I suppose. What people are celebrating is unique to themselves, like a thousand parties at once. And in the grime and sweat of it, I felt like I really was a special being. Like magic was real and I was at the heart of it.

               By the time my family makes it back to Eugene, it’s getting dark and we’re all beyond exhausted. Just wash the dirt off and collapse into bed, please. In a few more days, the people camped out in the woods will be returning to their lives, going back to work or school or home until it’s time to make the pilgrimage again. Then they’ll meet again in the Oregon backwoods for a celebration of the self.

               My parents were determined to raise their children nonreligious, but they maintain a kind of spiritual practice themselves. It’s often said that modern hippies are overcome by nostalgia for a bygone era. While this certainly isn’t false, this ‘past worship’ is much more than an aging generation longing for the days of their youth. My mother lit a candle on the day of John Lennon’s death well into my lifetime. In a way, the fond remembrance for 1960’s hippie culture had replaced conventional religion for many adults I knew growing up.

               I was born decades too late to fully understand this system of belief, but things like the Oregon Country Fair still hold a very dear place in my heart. To me, the value of religion is found in the ways it brings believers together. In this way, the Fair functioned almost as a religious event. While I will probably always be an atheist, I feel that these group experiences are ‘good for the soul’, in a way. It is human nature to search for the special in your experiences, and everything I saw and felt in those woods felt deeply meaningful.

Religious Narrative: 1st Draft

            A young woman sweeps her hair away from her face. This is so her friend can add silver spirals to the paint on her forehead without making a mess. They’re spread out on blankets, backpacks, unrolled sleeping bags. The silver woman is just one of many painted faces. From the crowd, but I can already pick out dragons, fairies, even an elf.

They come bedecked in saris, swimsuits, shawls stitched all over with jingling coins. They’ve got dreadlocks, braids and flowers in their hair. Their hands are covered in henna. Their feet are shod with hemp sandals, Jesus style. Every man wears a beard. They come every summer, from college, from shared apartments, from every little brick house with a dream catcher hung in the window. It’s the groovy pilgrimage. The glittering psychedelic romp in the woods. The hippies are on their way to the Oregon Country Fair.

It’s difficult to explain exactly what goes on at the Oregon Country fair. Every year in mid-July, an alternate reality is constructed in the woods outside of Eugene, Oregon. A cynical person would say that people come to do drugs, and they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. The smell of weed and patchouli doesn’t wash off you for days. But the primary attraction for me, possibly because I was there as a child, was the weird.

I step out of the crock-pot bus into a choking cloud of dust and dazzling sunshine. I am instantly aware of the smell of barbecue and falafel. Somebody is playing the pan flute. As the haze settles, I see a towering shape lurch towards me. A man, standing fifteen feet tall in stilts, dressed in a suit of tree branches and moss, strides past in an instant and vanishes into the trees. My brother and I, six and nine respectively, are pretty used to the antics of pacific northwestern oddballs at this point. My family has been making this trip since before either of us can remember. But I still feel a sense of elation every year.

It really does feel like magic, when you’re there. It’s wicked hot, but the luscious Oregon forest covers the winding alleyways and odd grottoes in a hazy green gloom. The Long Tom Riven is brown and lazy in the summer, but you can find a glittering serpent rising from the water if you look carefully. You can find a patch of grass and sleep for hours, but why would you?

The grounds are dotted with open air stages, built from scrap wood, driftwood, held together by spit and crazy. You sit on the ground, or a picnic blanket, if you’re fancy, and watch people come out and do… whatever they can come up with. Women model dresses made from busted lifeboats and condom wrappers. A young guy sprinkles broken glass on the stage and flops face down into the pile. (“I lost a contact!”) A shirtless, hairy man strums a guitar and sings an ode to his own sweaty, pendulous breasts.

Everybody seems to be celebrating something, but it’s not clear what. Rounding a corner, it’s possible to stumble into a full parade, marching band and all, making its way around the grounds. Beads are given out and there is glitter in the air. A woman combs every knot out of my awful, unruly hair and braids it into a crown. I wear fairy wings made from wire and pantyhose. A kid here doesn’t have to pretend to be in a fantasy kingdom, they really are. Revelers range from naked and dirty to totally concealed within elaborate costumes. It’s a Merry Pranksters magic bus psychedelic dream come true, where everybody ‘does their own thing’ in the very truest sense.

               This is the place where I have what can be described as a ‘spiritual experience’ for one of the very few times in my life. It’s all about transcendence, I suppose. What people are celebrating is unique to themselves, like a thousand parties at once. And in the grime and sweat of it, I felt like I really was a special being. Like magic was real and I was at the heart of it.

               By the time my family makes it back to Eugene, it’s getting dark and we’re all beyond exhausted. Just wash the dirt off and collapse into bed, please. In a few more days, the people camped out in the woods will be returning to their lives, going back to work or school or home until it’s time to make the pilgrimage again. Then they’ll meet again in the Oregon backwoods for a celebration of the self.

Free Writing Assignment: "Waves"

                                                               Gently now, Sea Queen

Little white teeth are coming

To salt the velvet

What was once gently,

Softly held in boiling folds

A whisper touch

Spill the bitter fruit

A little red bursting open

                                                                                          Lick it sweet again

Summary of Lynda Barry

               Lynda Barry had an unhappy home life as a child. Her parents frequently fought, and the house was often crowded with visiting relatives. She and her brother slept on the couch when their room was occupied. They spent these nights watching television with the sound off. When she was seven years old, a particularly bad night drove her out of the house. Gripped by an unexplained panic, she made her way to her school in the pre-dawn darkness. The chaotic atmosphere of her home allowed her to slip away completely unnoticed. Her fears were eased when she was found by Mr. Gunderson, the school’s friendly janitor. He walked with her to her classroom. Oh the way, she was surprised to encounter members of the faculty preparing to begin their day at work. Every one of them greeted her with warmth and acceptance. Mr. Gunderson left her with her teacher, Mrs. LeSane, who welcomed her into her classroom. Mrs. LeSane invited Lynda to go to the back of the room and paint. Troubled students were often invited to make art for Mrs. LeSane, who would post them on a special board. Barry recognizes in retrospect that this opportunity to be creative provided a vital emotional outlet for her. School was a sanctuary, a place where she received the love and support she desperately needed. By using this personal anecdote, Barry states that the cutting of arts programs from the public school roster can hurt children in situations like hers. She makes an impassioned plea to her audience to understand and help these children.

1st Assignment

               I achieved enlightenment at a church dance. Nothing involving fathers, sons, and holy ghosts, mind you. I’m not exactly a woman of faith and I really had no business being there. I could have counted the times I’d been in a church on one hand. The event was informally known as ‘Mormon Prom’, a name which brought to mind endless hours of warm punch and hands-off dancing. I was invited to go with my dear sweet Mormon friend. She made a bad choice; I must have been the only girl who showed up with uncovered arms.

               I was a mess. And not just within these circumstances. Picture a sad teenager, steadily cutting all ties with the material world. I had been glaring at the floor since fifth grade and could very charitably be described as ‘brooding and artistic’. You know this kid. Everybody knows this kid. My dress didn’t fit and my makeup was running before we even arrived. Tragic.

               Mormon Prom, on the other hand, was picture perfect. The ceiling was crowded with balloons and the floor was crowded with girls in big cupcake dresses. We said a prayer and did a line dance. There was a DJ with a carefully selected catalogue of appropriate pop songs. Church officials watched with eagle eyes from the sidelines. Within ten minutes the temperature was above ninety degrees and the whole venue was starting to smell like Mormon sweat. My salvation arrived just as I was getting ready to call it a loss and crawl back to my cave for the night.

               This guy had been making the rounds all night, formally introducing himself to everybody who looked lonely. He was six feet tall and weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds. He had a blue shirt and a screaming red tie and an out of control halo of curly mousy hair. Faced with the polar opposite of myself, I broke down and did something I had hoped I’d never have to do. I had a conversation.

               The stairwell at the back entrance of the hall was breezy and almost pleasant. He brought me a drink. His name was Sonny. He was like me: a gatecrasher, a non-Mormon at Mormon prom, here with a friend. We had things in common. We got along. We danced and kissed and had fun. For a human disaster like myself, this was completely terrifying. This dork was threatening to upset my whole take on life. The lesson here is obvious: I stepped out of my antisocial comfort zone and was rewarded. I made an effort to socialize with a friendly stranger and wound up in a relationship that lasted for a year.

               To say that Mormon Prom somehow fixed my life is, of course, ridiculous. My grades never recovered, and I’m still a bit of a weirdo. But I think that I did learn something that many people like me never do. People can seem completely alien and terrifying to a kid with few social graces, but we’re really all the same. And if you never force yourself past the boundaries you’ve made, you never grow or learn.