Beauty, Disrupted

by Carre Otis

  When the weekend was over, Marco drove me all the way back to Milan in his Rolls. “My dear,” he insisted, “I don’t want you traveling alone for hours. I’ll take you home.” I certainly didn’t mind a ride, but I did quickly tire of fending off his right hand, which fell onto my thigh every few kilometers. The trip back was much faster than my Friday-night bus ride, but Marco made it seem longer.

  When we pulled up to my pensione at last, Marco reached into his pocket and drew out a beautiful bejeweled gold money clip. He peeled off a few crisp American hundred-dollar bills and handed them to me. I was shocked. But I took them. I had certainly earned them, and I knew I wouldn’t see a cent from the agency cut. I thanked him and then quickly climbed out of the car, knowing that if I lingered a second longer, he would perceive it as an invitation.

  Marco drove off into the polluted Milanese sunset, the driver’s-side window down and his left hand waving in casual farewell. As I watched the Rolls disappear, I told myself that it was time. Time for me to head home. I wasn’t sure where home was anymore. But it sure as hell wasn’t in Europe.

  THE FIRST HOMECOMING

  I was ready to get out. I’d had my fill. What success I’d had wasn’t worth the price I’d been paying. And after a friend’s dog bit me in the face, it seemed an obvious signal. It was time to depart back to the homeland.

  There was only one person I could call from Paris. Only one place I could think of to go.

  Ethan Allen (yes, his real name) had been a fellow student at John Woolman. His mother, famed midwife Nan Koehler, had a place in Sebastopol, California, called Rainbow’s End. In the 1980s it was a small commune with an organic farm housing several different families, as well as a few stray kids about my age. It was also the center of a movement. Classes on Western herbology, midwifery, and general family wellness were held there. Nan’s husband, Don, also had a gynecological practice there. Nan was a true mother in every sense of the word, and—much to Don’s exasperation—she was notorious for taking kids in under her wing. When I’d been at Woolman, I’d felt a strange connection to Nan. She was the safest and most accepting adult I’d ever met, and I’d thought about her from time to time ever since I’d dropped out.

  Nan remembered me immediately when I called from my tiny apartment in Paris. As I explained my situation, I was honest about not having a plan. I just needed to return to California soil. Her support and the promise of open arms was all I needed to hear to find the courage to book my ticket back to San Francisco.

  At SFO I was met by Ethan, now a beautiful, tall teenage boy with a lion’s mane of brownish gold curls that flowed halfway down his back. The last time I’d laid eyes on him, he was merely a gawky adolescent, but now he was well on his way to manhood. And I certainly was no longer the same girl who had left. I felt a stirring, a sense of relief and safety with him. I immediately knew I was in the right place and on the right path.

  The drive up to the farm was magical. Black Uhuru was blasting on the cassette player as we moved through the city’s foggy streets, crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, following the 101 northbound. I held my breath by the Greenbrae exit, knowing how near I was to my estranged family. My heart skipped a beat with yearning as we passed, but I knew it wasn’t yet time to go to that home. Maybe someday, I told myself, but not now. Not yet. Veering off the freeway at Sebastopol, we entered the redwood forest. Paris felt a million miles away.

  Frati Lane is a tiny road with a dense canopy of branches arcing overhead. Signs let us know we were drawing near: RAINBOW’S END, children at play, and finally SLOW DOWN. In the main parking lot, Ethan came to a stop. He turned off the motor and looked at me. “Welcome back, Carré.” And I couldn’t help but grin.

  I was anxious to see Nan. Although I didn’t really know anyone at the farm all that well, if ever there were a hippie family to spread the love, I was sure it was this one. And I needed the love.

  Ethan grabbed my bag—a bigger one than the one I’d left California with—and we walked up to the main house.

  Nan greeted me with a warm bear hug and sat me down for some tea. Her kitchen was stocked with every drying herb imaginable. Seeds were sprouting in jars in the sunroom, and the smell of incense wafted through the air. There were crystals on windowsills and treasures like hawk and owl feathers tucked into cracks in the wooden walls. Nan was a healer, a shaman, and a bountiful woman. And she would soon show me the many facets of what it meant to be just that: a woman.

  Nan became my first positive female role model. She was hearty, challenging, intelligent, vocal, and controversial. No matter what her opinion, there was love behind it. Nan was fearless, so unlike the women I’d known growing up (my mother included); she talked openly about weight and sex, aging and wild emotion. She was also physically demonstrative, her touch strong and safe and tremendously reassuring. I’d never met a woman so comfortable with her own body and her own raw womanhood. Meeting her was a revelation. (Nan Koehler now has a book called Artemis Speaks: V.B.A.C. Stories and Natural Childbirth Information.)

  Ethan offered to let me stay with him in his cabin, and as Nan agreed, she looked me in the eye, holding my gaze for a long time. It was as if she were peering into my soul, seeing the past I had endured as well as the future that would be. Her eyes welled up, and she gave me another motherly hug, this time holding me close and tight.

  “Sweetie pie, you can land here,” she whispered encouragingly. “Come on home.” I, too, had tears in my eyes. I felt as if I were being seen for the first time. All the hurt seemed acknowledged, and all my potential was held with assurance in her embrace. I sighed, exhausted from the trip. “Ethan,” his mother said gently, “let’s get this sweet girl tucked in. She needs a good rest.”

  We finished our tea and snacks and made our way down to the cabin. Afternoon was slipping into evening, and along the path the last few crickets of summer chirped and the sound of the evening bullfrogs croaking could be heard in the nearby pond. The air was sweet with the unmistakable smell of the damp Northern California earth. Though I’d never stayed here before, I felt more at home than I had in many years.

  Ethan’s cabin was a tiny shack with a loft. There was a single light but no running water. It had a wood-burning stove and mud on the floor, but after Paris it felt so right to be close to the earth and simplicity. I could make this work, I thought. This is heaven.

  Nan placed my bag just inside the door, lit a candle, and pointed to the loft. “You should have all you need for warmth—there are plenty of blankets up there. And we will get a fire started for you. Now, why don’t you climb in and get some rest, my dear. We’ll see you when the sun is up.” With that, Nan left, walking back up to the big house.

  Ethan climbed up after me and cracked a window. He rolled a cigarette and sat leaning against the thin wooden wall, looking away as I pulled my shirt over my head and slipped off my blue jeans and wiggled to get under the weight of the heavy comforters. The fire crackled below. And as Ethan struck a match to light his cigarette, I looked at him behind the flame. He was different, this one. Beautiful. Open. I watched as he took a few drags and exhaled, smoke curling around his silhouette against the backdrop of dusk. And off I slipped into the sweetest, safest sleep I’d had in a year.

  Life on the farm was anything but routine. It was everything under the sun. ­People from all walks of life came to visit, including teachers from all different fields. There were amazing herbalists; shamans like Brant Secunda; Aryuvedic doctors like Harish Johari; women of wisdom such as Jeannine Parvati Baker (a midwife like Nan and author of Hygieia: A Woman’s Herbal). There were Native American elders and local hippie celebrities such as Stanley Mouse, the visionary artist who created many of the Grateful Dead album covers and sixties-era posters. Nan was very respected by everyone who knew her work. Held in high regard for her voice and expertise in the field of delivering babies, she was something of an anomaly, enjoying praise from both Western and alternative practitioners.

  It wasn’
t long before Ethan and I began to enjoy a youthful, innocent, and sweet sexual relationship. It was safer and kinder than anything I’d known before. But no matter how much love I was to receive on the farm, it was nearly impossible for me to let it sink in and embrace it.

  Although I stepped easily into the shoes of hippie girl and played that part as well as I did the many others I had assumed before, I felt a torturous disconnect within me. The pain of my secrets and of the violations I’d suffered on my road through Paris and Milan remained in my consciousness. And no doubt I was not the easiest girl to be in love with. I was complicated; my moods could turn dark and dangerous with very little warning. It was only a matter of time before I would begin to sabotage my chances of thriving on the farm.

  Sweet moments and memories mixed with the sour: listening to Bob Marley’s Kaya; gardening in the rain; harvesting herbs; feeding our ducks, Ping and Pong; watching the clouds roll by as I lay naked in the sun. Learning to grow food planted a seed in my consciousness—it was the first time I really began to understand that food could nurture as well as tempt. Though my worst struggles with disordered eating were ahead of me, plenty of damage to my physical self-image had already been done in Paris. It was a revelation to see, if not fully understand, what a healthy relationship with food might look like.

  But while I was doing a great deal of inner healing at Rainbow’s End, I was also engaged in a lot of textbook acting out.

  Though the farm’s family gatherings always included me, I inevitably felt distant and detached during them. I couldn’t ignore the yearnings I had to reconnect with my own family, and it resulted in a terrible homesickness I was too young and too stubborn to admit or tend to. I had no idea where to begin. I felt an inexplicable alienation around large groups of loving ­people. Whether it was that I felt I didn’t deserve that love or didn’t trust it (or both), my volatile emotions kept ­people at bay and kept me in what I thought was the safest place possible—alone within myself. The gatherings were actually quite painful for me, a reminder of my differences from everyone else. Even after Paris and a success that some might think would put me more at ease, I only felt more unable to relate to those around me.

  Christmas would be arriving soon. In early December I reconnected with Dawn, the beautiful, lithe girl who had served as Gary Loftus’s assistant in San Francisco. We’d shared that strange electricity when we’d first met, and we’d talked a few times over the years as she kept tabs on my career, even after dear Gary had lost his battle with AIDS. Dawn was a lesbian—and I was curious. When we’d seen each other again after several years, we’d shared a few kisses, and there was an undeniable mutual attraction. The thought of any real sexual or emotional intimacy with her unnerved me too much to go any further at that time. I wasn’t ready. Now, of course, I was in a relationship with Ethan. Nevertheless, I invited her to the farm to join us for the holidays.

  Ethan wasn’t entirely sure why I would invite Dawn up to celebrate with us. Neither was I. It was the beginning of a conscious betrayal, one that would drive a wedge into my relationship with innocent Ethan. Yet I couldn’t seem to help myself; I was pushing every boundary, testing to see if love really could be everlasting and enduring despite provocation. But everyone has a limit. Even the innocent.

  Christmas Eve began with rounds of apple cider and marijuana in one form or another. Someone had brought pot cookies. Dawn didn’t smoke reefer, so how she ended up eating one of those incredibly potent treats was anyone’s guess. As we all munched, we sat in front of the fire listening to Leonore, Nan’s elderly German mother, read “The Night Before Christmas.” I had curled up on the sheepskin rug, spooning Shayna and Sara, Ethan’s youngest sisters. We were extremely close, and I knew I was like an older sibling to them. The eldest of Ethan’s sisters, Jubilee, sat with him next to Nan and Don on the couch. Dawn quietly made her way in from the glow of the fire, the telltale crumbs of a cookie still on the corners of her mouth. I sat up and whispered, “Dawn, be careful . . . those cookies are reallllly strong,” but it was as if what I’d just said hadn’t registered at all. She just hungrily shoved another piece into her mouth.

  I stretched back on the floor next to the girls while Dawn found a place on the rug nearby. And as the fire blazed and crackled, Leonore’s German accent punctuating Santa’s journey, I could see out of the corner of my eye that Dawn’s body was beginning to tremble. A moment later a groan filled the room, escalating well above the storytelling. I held my breath, wondering if anyone else had heard her. Sara looked up at me and asked innocently, “Carré, what’s wrong with her?”

  “Shhhh, Sara. Listen to the story.”

  But all of our attention was now fixed on Dawn. Her body arched and writhed; a squeal and a hiss emanated from deep within her. Oh, shit, I thought. Here we go.

  “Dear God, what is that girl doing?” Leonore begged to know, putting the book down on the couch beside her.

  “For God’s sake, what the fuck did you guys give her?” Don demanded.

  “Good one, Carré,” Ethan chimed in, a rare edge to his voice.

  Oh, man, this one was on me. I leaned over toward Dawn, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Dawn. Dawn, are you okay?” I asked in as calm a voice as I could muster. But she responded as if my hand were a hot coal. She shrieked and jumped up. Wild-eyed and frightened, she looked accusatorily at each one of us.

  “What have you done to me, you crazy fucking ­people?” She was having a serious reaction.

  “Whoa, Dawn, it’s fine. You just ate some pot cookies—that’s all.” I tried to sound reassuring.

  Reassured or not, Dawn reeled toward me, her arms sloppily falling around my body. To my horror, she tried to kiss me on the lips, and as I pushed her away, a silence hung in the air. Nan, Don, and Ethan looked back and forth between Dawn and me, the same question on each of their faces. Nan asked it.

  “Just what is going on here, Carré?”

  “Um . . . I don’t know.” I looked at my feet. Cat was out of the bag. In an instant, everyone knew why Dawn was in the house. And it wasn’t exactly innocent.

  “Jesus, Carré! How could you?” Ethan was furious. A look of disgust crossed his face. Not only because it was obvious Dawn and I had something “going on” but because I was so reckless and insensitive as to bring it to the farm. On Christmas Eve of all days.

  “I’m sorry. It’s not what it seems. It’s . . . complicated,” I stammered, trying to relieve the tension.

  Nan looked aghast at first, but then the savior in her took charge. She liked coming to the rescue. “Carré,” she said, “it looks like you and I have our work cut out for us tonight.” I was only partly off the hook. This was my mess, and I was expected to clean it up and move it on out.

  Dawn was ready to bolt out into the night, and Nan knew that it was our responsibility to calm her down. We coaxed Dawn into another room, lit some candles, and proceeded to assist her in purging the beast. While wild and paranoid accusations came roaring out of Dawn, to my dismay, Nan herself began throwing up. I finally got Dawn settled down by wrangling her into a cold shower. And bless Ethan’s heart, but he was the one who had to drive Dawn all the way back to the city on Christmas Day. Later I found out that she’d been off her medications—lithium, to be specific. Dawn was a bipolar paranoid schizophrenic. Not a good mix, and not a good candidate for hallucinogenic home-baked goods.

  A month or so after the Dawn incident, I was shopping at the little local health-food store in Sebastopol. I would always peruse the bulletin board as I drank my fresh-pressed juice concoction, checking out what was going on in our community. Beneath the newest flyers for full-moon drum circles, there was a photograph of a woman, her sky-blue eyes contrasting with her shock of wavy brown hair. I froze in my tracks. Taking a deep breath, I reached out and pulled the picture to me for closer inspection. There was something about this face, this woman. I knew her, even if I hadn’t known as much until this moment.

  From deep within my body
, a feeling of connection and longing steadily rose up. “Dakini Retreat with Tsultrim Allione,” it read; a picture of a Tibetan female deity danced off the page. I was stunned. Tsultrim’s lioness face and mane of wild hair seemed to move on the flyer. “Location: A comfortable private residence in Bodega Bay.” I had no idea what a dakini was, nor was I interested in going to a woman’s retreat. Yet all the way back to the farm, I couldn’t stop thinking about that face and those penetrating blue eyes. I knew I had to go, despite my reservations.

  When I told Ethan and Nan of my finding, Nan began to fill me in on her knowledge of Tibetan Buddhism, sharing with me what she had read of the many deities that were “worshipped.” Dakinis were like female Buddhas, the enlightened feminine aspect in what was primarily a patriarchal culture. I needed to know more, and in Nan’s vast library I found the Tibetan Book of the Dead. I was blown away. Since childhood I’d been acutely aware of the suffering that surrounded me, absolutely overwhelmed with compassion as well as fear about the lack of response and conversation concerning the omnipresent pain that existed. It was as if I were all of a sudden connecting the dots. Dots I never even knew were there. I was finding answers. And as I devoured all the books I could find, I wanted more. I called the number on the flyer and got the dates and details. I would go to the retreat.

  Spring had come. The earth was still cold and damp, but on one Friday as I packed a small weekend duffel bag, the rays of sunshine cascaded down around me, illuminating and warming my small cabin. Ethan was ready to give me a ride to Bodega Bay. He looked at me quizzically, wondering what changes this retreat might bring. There was much between us, and a great deal of it was resting in the unknown. I could feel a momentum, a movement, and a time of growth and wonder ahead. So, perhaps, could he.