It starts
with hugs to people I’d not seen since last time. I say, “No shaking hands
on the first day,” knowing I've voluntarily let down my guard in the best
of ways. I am about to leave Earth as I know it.
The people
you love are the ones who, even after time apart, rejoin you like birds in
flight, without pause. Nothing has to be said. Everyone just flies with each
other within the V, within that wedge. We welcome the new birds and want them
to fly with us, then come back and join us again. Nothing is better here than the
“all” whether an outward signal, an aura, emotions or something not necessary
to say out loud. It shows up in vibration, in fact, showing love is revolutionary.
One thing I
love is you can do everything or nothing while you’re here. People can
participate in organized activities or walk around until they hear a voice
singing, or a guitar or mandolin playing. There's usually someone sitting on
the edge of a porch whose paint you can watch dry, or someone else to simply
sit and talk with. When there are people singing in groups with five to six in
perfect joyous harmony there is always a seventh to discover and contribute.
Some of the
brightest stars are the children of all ages who have come here as children and
they bring their own back here. If only these life experiences could be passed
on as part of our DNA. Unfortunately, genetics seems more likely to pass along
the things you'd rather it didn't (see epigenetics)...so, we pass things in
real-time and in our experiences here. Organic.
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Then, something happens. Sudden. The
week ends: Sunday, bags packed, the Laighton approaching from the distance to
bring us back to Earth. Nothing can be done about it.
We end with
hugs, eyes moistened. No crying until I’m on the highway, when I realize
I hadn’t experienced the emotion of sadness in seven days. Then, what I'd
fought off overtakes me. Suddenly I'm driving while sobbing.
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It only
takes a few hours back to fall into routine, and feel that I am not just a visitor
in my own house. I know I am no longer at Star. I am back on Earth, with the obvious reminders
of checking the mail, or the less obvious, like holding a paper towel in my
hand with a quick thought that “this is compost,” before remembering there is
not a bin for that here.
A few years
ago, on the island, a friend sat with a few of us and tried to come up with a
plan on how to bring the feeling of Star Island back home in some way, shape or
form. We discussed everything we do at Star that we can bring back and make it
feel like here. A few weeks later, from the facilitator of this casual group
came a two-word email:
We can’t
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