Berkeley

This is Jem-Yang, who owns the Buddhist gift shop "Om" in downtown Berkeley. I was in his store yesterday, kneeling down to rummage through bowls of deity charms when I felt his hand on my shoulder. His touch startled me and I jumped to face him. "You've got to learn to discipline your mind for the positive," Jem said with tears in his eyes. His stare was so intense that I was torn between panic and fascination. My discomfort ebbed and surged for the next hour as he spoke and I listened. At first I thought, "Run. This man is crazy," but I know better because these sorts of encounters have been happening to me since I was a child. The scenarios are similar in that I am in a state of distress, whether it is internal or external and someone with an absolute lack of inhibition about maintaining eye contact reaches out, puts their hand on my arm or shoulder and tells me what my soul needs to hear. These messengers are always strangers and it is these encounters that keep me spiritual, force me to recognize and allow me to believe that I am not only blessed by an energy force I cannot rationalize, but I am never alone. Jem conveyed many relevant answers to questions I never asked him, but what stood out was this. He said, "When you plant an apple seed, you nurture and nourish it, knowing that what will be produced is an apple tree, which will give you apples. Why then do you plant an apple seed and pray for oranges? This is your undoing." He asked me if I'd found the peace I was seeking? I answered that the process is unveiling itself favorably. "You won't find happiness with any consistency until you learn to release all of your expectations of the world. Acceptance will allow your life to flow effortlessly."
I fight this concept regularly because I feel it's a position for the weak of heart. I don't accept that life just is the way it is and there is nothing one can do about it. I don't accept that the universe will intervene. The universe gave me a functioning mind and capable limbs- to me, that's enough intervention. My success and fulfillment are entirely in my hands. But Jem wasn't talking about controllable variables such as my happiness regarding 'me,' he was talking about the insufferable actions of others and my aspirations to control them. He was talking about the hurt and sadness that are a side effect of hoping for change (within another) that positively affects you. That "hope" is not obtainable, it leaves you broken and misguided and there's no distance that can cure such pain. The remedy is releasing the devastating longing disguised as hope. Only then is one capable of finding true peace with any situation.



I don't know that Berkeley is full of angels or mystics or wise men, but I do know I felt something coming when I woke up that morning. I pacified that uncertainty with chemical alteration, attempting to calm my nerves. En route, I sang Joni Mitchell as loud as possible, certain that I'd been gravitating toward this epicenter of change my entire life. I was enthralled at the idea of my destination but still filled with hesitation. I debated my fear of Berkeley being a disappointment. It's not the 1960s after all. Every musician I identify with and appreciate is dead and most of the causes I would've advocated for (had I been alive) have moved their fights from Berkeley Hill to Capitol Hill. What if no one remembered what happened here 50 years ago? The panic subsided as I coasted in to a sedated community of art supplies, bookstores and food. There's food everywhere. The flea market was my first and only scheduled stop.



Rows and rows of vendor tents harboring equal amounts of memorizing art and junk filled the fenced in parking lot. I'm not sure what purpose the space serves during the week, but gathering from the lack of retail establishments surrounding it, the flea market may be this areas most exciting weekly event.



There was a lack of clientele but a deliciously intoxicating assemblage of Rastafarian's. A drum line wafted from beneath the nearby bridge, keeping the beat of the reggae blaring from a vendors boombox. I smiled as the canals of repurpose and resale artisan trinkets glimmered in the sunlight.





More than one vendor advised that Sundays were rarely becoming worth the effort, but that on Saturdays, this was the place to be. I didn't mind the lack of a crowd. It gave me a chance to really talk to people. I spoke with half a dozen men who had immigrated from South Africa for varying reasons. Most were selling beaded necklaces and hand-carved statues. I bought turquoise and coral strands and draped them around my neck. I've waited my whole life for love beads from Berkeley.



A beautifully dreadlocked woman appeared from out of nowhere and told me I needed a smudge stick. It was written on my list of things to buy yesterday, a last-ditch effort to cleanse myself of any remaining negative energies. How she knew, if she really knew, I'll never know. But her eyes were bright and her daughter's crooked smile was endearing, so I handed her a $5 bill and she handed me a bound collection of lavender, sage and lemongrass.



My obsession with Tibet and India grow more so every year. When encountering the beauty of the cultures, the resilience, and vibrancy of the colors in their every day lives, I am often left both stunned and enhanced.



I purchased this Americanized good luck charm of the elephant-headed Indian god, Ganesha. He is generally acknowledged to be the god of luck as well as the one who opens the door to your happiness. Being in Ganesha's good graces is a positive thing and so, with their trunks pointed up, a strand of decorative elephants now hang by my bedroom door.

I carried on throughout the flea market for hours, eucalyptus soap, incense, jewelry- some made it through my strenuous purchasing guidelines, others did not. I wandered the streets of Berkeley, finding this gem at Pegasus Books:



And it was shortly thereafter that Jem found me.

It seems only appropriate that I met Jem on the same day I was purchasing good luck charms for my optimistic self and Bukowski for my pessimistic tendencies. The duality of my nature is ever present but Jem reinforced what I know and tend to overlook; peace is found in accepting things the way they are. And this is the way they are: "Sustenance is just 10 letters, it can't keep you alive."

We all need something more than words to survive, something more discernible than hope to make the day feel less Sisyphean. Faith and coffee are not enough. But almost daily, the kaleidoscope view of the Bay fragments my internal turmoil and allows me to see the spectrum of beauty in it all. As Berkeley knows best, finding, retaining and maintaining peace is a process from the inside, out.