Townie Madness

My Dear, neglected blob. Blog. It's late and I can't sleep, so I've come to tickle your electrons.

The move to New Braunfels is complete; Sir Winston and I are settling in nicely to our new abode. Neither of us even seem to notice the trains which lumber by at all hours, wailing a banshee call through the humid Hill Country night. We have space to live and to play, and since it's a neat little house, we share no common walls with any neighbors. There are deer and squirrels and birds in the yard, and the other day I saw a horny toad scramble up a tree to avoid me. I just wish the street light across the road weren't so bright - it foils my view of the night sky worse than was managed by the city lights of San Antonio. There's no balcony, but the view out the front window is satisfying. It's all treetops and sky from my perch atop a little hill. Troll cave with a view.

It's walking distance to work, and I would do so if it wasn't for the blazing Texas heat. We'll make it happen when the weather cools in November or so. I walked my first day, an easy half-mile sojourn, and was drenched in sweat the minute I sat down in my office. The water works held off until then, but it was a cruddy (gummy. icky.) way to start the day. So, I'll wait for more temperate conditions.

I can feel the double-edged sword of calmness and ennui seeping in as I get settled. My hectic year is slowing. I've already got two of my three annual conventions under my belt and in less than a fortnight I'll be off to a week-long solstice retreat. Hidden in the woods with Pagans and Hippies and Beautiful Old Souls. Reverie. Relevance. Magic. Love.

In spades.

The chorus of "Welcome Home" with which arrivals are greeted on opening day chokes me up. It is a week of smiles and of community. Of new friends, true hearts and old souls. Amid a maelstrom of activity (there is honestly too much going on for one person to do/see/experience it all) are snippets of absolute calm and oneness with yourself. There are laughing brooks and dancing trees, and grass which begs you to just come and lie for a while under a blanket of stars. There are harps and bells and drums and bowls; voices singing and laughing; children at play; ever present on the very edge of your hearing like some ethereal elfin glade - or thrashing and lustful as drummers beat out the rhythm and dancers grind their naked toes into the earth. Red firelight limns figures made beautiful in their own empowerment and as the world moves in circles and cycles, so too do bodies move with intent around a raging fire.

When exhaustion (or mead. or a lover.) overtakes you, the drums offer a distant lullaby. Dreams waft in on heady, humid breezes.

I always come back from that week refreshed and invigorated. My plan for this year's outing is just to be lost in the Bliss, unburdened. For the two previous years, I found myself saddled with baggage. I came to the Festival seeking answers, or instant resolution, to a tall list of grievances and personal insecurities. But being so encumbered, with my problems at the forefront of my thoughts, I was unable to immerse myself. I found neither resolution nor solace, and my experience was diminished for the effort. So, this year I have no agenda. I am a Child of the Universe.

And a Townie.