And so it begins…

I am on a bus bound for the Denver International Airport. Barring any natural disasters, terrorist attacks (“May I have your attention please: The caution level at the Denver International Airport has be raised to ‘Orange’. Please report any unattended luggage or suspicious behavior to airport security.” How is it that it’s always been raised to Orange if it’s never anything but Orange?), or internal organ failure, this bus will deliver me safely to the US Airways terminal where I will catch a flight departing at 12:45 a.m. MDT. I will land in Philadelphia at 6:26 a.m., EDT. From there I will catch a plane that arrives in Cleveland, OH at 9 a.m. EDT. Finally, I board a plane that will deliver me to Lewisburg, WV, my final destination, and new home for the next 7 days. I am told someone will be meeting me when I land at 12:45 p.m. EDT, to take me back to the Gesundheit land. The workshop/summer school program is entitled: Composition ± Activism. You can read about it here.

I was first “introduced” to the person of Patch Adams in a rather ordinary way: sitting in a dark theater, watching a movie with my family. The year was 1998, and as a 12 year old boy, I was absolutely delighted by the irreverence and utter silliness of Patch’s antics, portrayed brilliantly by the talented Robin Williams. But it was more than silliness and irreverence that delighted me so. There was, at the heart of the story and the character, a deep reverence for the miracle of life, of existence. What struck me more than anything was the written epilogue at the end, saying that to date, a substantial number of doctors had left their current positions to join Patch’s cause, with the mission of providing free healthcare to anyone who needed it. This was a real man. This was a real story. This was happening in my lifetime, on this planet, in these ways.

A few years later, Patch came to town to speak at a medical conference. My dad, being a nurse (and a true clown, if I have ever known one), was going to attend. He asked me if I wanted to come, but we didn’t know how much of it would be Patch and how much of it would boring medical stuff. I decided not to go. My dad came back from the conference wearing a red, foam nose, with tears in his eyes. “I wish you had been there,” he said. About two years later, my dad died, turning my world completely upside down. I was 16. Donna, the counselor I had begun seeing, heard that Patch was coming to town again, and invited me to come with her and see him speak. I was delighted, and planned on going, but had a huge homework assignment come up, and again, I missed him. However, the next time I saw Donna, she handed me one of Patch’s “business” cards, with a note Donna had scribbled on the back: “Write Patch a letter at this address. He will write you back!” So one night, I decided it was time to write him. I sat at my computer and typed out a 13 page letter, telling him everything, about my dad, and my music, my passions, my ideas. I included two CDs of my music and pictures of my family. Looking back, I was perhaps a touch over-zealous. No matter. Although I didn’t really expect to hear back from him, about a week or two later, to my utter delight, I received a two-page hand written letter from Patch. He told me he was listening to my CDs and liked my music. He had scanned pictures into his letter. He included one of his books and signed the front cover. He told me that my interest in music therapy was wonderful, and that I should come to Russia with them on a clowning trip, and bring my guitar. I was ecstatic.

Five years later, he came to Boulder yet again, and my mom, an employee of Boulder County, saw him speak at a county sponsored workshop. During the Q and A, she said, “My son wrote you a letter several years ago. Thank you for writing him back. It meant so much to him.” Apparently a look of remembrance came over his face. I’m not so sure about this part of the story. After hearing it, however, I decided it was time to write Patch again. It was 2003, my senior year of college, and my letter this time was more succinct, to be sure. Kind of a “Hey, how are things? Remember me? I wrote you that 13-page-long, epic Greek Tragedy letter about seven years ago? Oh, btw, do you still want me to come to Russia with you?” type letter. Sure as clockwork, about two weeks later I received a handwritten card from Patch, encouraging me, relaying his latest adventures, and telling me all the different ways I could get involved. It was wonderful to hear from him.

On April 7^th of this year, I got an e-mail talking about this workshop he was involved in. Composition ± Activism... The wheels in my head started to turn. I was broke, jobless, and $21,000 in debt (still am), but somehow I knew I needed to be there. Composition ± Activism! COME ON, PEOPLE!!! If it were any more up my alley, it’d be living in my bathroom. Oh, and did I mention I have a degree in Music Composition and Psychology? And what does that qualify me for, you ask? Not…really…sure. Couldn’t tell ya, actually. The point is, money will always be there...to enjoy and despise and worry about and waste, but this is a bonafide life experience we're talking about here, and I guess that's really kind of the point of, well, life, right?

So here I sit at my US Airways terminal. My inventory for the week is as follows:

-1 acoustic guitar, 1 melodica, 2 egg shakers, 1 tambourine

-1 journal, 2 books, 1 composition notebook, 1 book of music notation paper

-1 iPhone, 1 MacBook, 2 pairs of headphones (better safe than sorry, I always say)

-1 pair of flip-flops, 1 pair of running shoes, 1 pair of hiking-esque shoes

-Shorts, pants, socks, shirts, undies, and a hygiene maintenance kit

-1 glow-in-the-dark frisbee, 1 pair of swimming trunks

-1 open heart, 1 open mind

-1 chocolate chip, vegan, Heart Thrive bar (these are common in my house...high in fiber, protein, and NO EGG. My mom is allergic to eggs.)

-1 prepaid phone card with 360 minutes worth of talk time (There is no cell phone service at Gesundheit. There are two landlines that everyone shares. Landlines.... Woah.)

-$78 in cold, hard cash

When I was checking in, the woman to my right realized with horror that they are now charging to check the first bag. She had no cash and no credit card. The guy behind the counter was very helpful and basically said, "You either have to figure out a way to pay, or leave your bag here. SORRY LADY!" "Thanks, bro. Let me just will $20 into existence. Coming right up!" I told her I'd spot her $20, and she said she'd pay me back when we get to Philly and she can get to an ATM. I can dig it.

Every day is an awakening. The Buddha's last words are said to have been, "Work out your salvation with diligence." Philipians says, "Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you both to will and to do for His good pleasure." For my money, salvation is the charge to become awake, to awaken a bit more each day. I pray to dream, and sing, and write, and love, and dance, and kiss, and touch, and taste, and smell my way to awakening. Brick by brick, step by step, moment by moment, I want my eyes opened wider and wider still to the miracle of life, its reckless beauty and savage poetry. May this small journey be a communion with that life. Amen. So be it.