Courage reveals itself in times of need, walks in front as the last streaks of sunset dissolve into the night sky. I was at the end of my rope, money had dried up and I had nowhere to go when Peter kicked me off of his farm in Derby, Tasmania. I worked there in exchange for food and stay. I had spent the week leading up to it pick-axing potato trenches through clay and the roots of a large tree nearby. I didn’t mind the work; it was more the lack of appreciation that led to me scorning his name behind his back and polluting the energy of the crew. The bad energy got back to him and with one week left before my return home, I was kicked out. I remember that morning; I knew it was coming. I helped my friend Sara, a German girl with electric orange hair, hike her belongings up to the bus stop. It was a 4 kilometer walk along the Cascade River. There was an excitement in my stomach as I hugged her goodbye. Walking back along that gravel road I had a premonition, that things were about to change. “Take care of yourself,” she advised as we sent each other off with a hug. I knew he was going to kick me out. What was I going to do? Looking down I kicked up a stone, smooth and white yet powerful in its shape as if it were an arrowhead in one life, before the river softened is edges and spit it out just for me. It fit into my palm comfortably, as if it were a missing digit, a part of me. It warmed itself in my hand as if we were feeding each other life. I felt my pupils wide as I walked slowly back to the little log cabin. I could smell the fire of the woodstove and thought of the others gathering around for hot oatmeal with flax meal and a homemade quince syrup. Maybe Peter would be scratching at his white beard discussing the matter of banishing me from his magical forest. I clasped on to the stone as I drew nearer. My pupils grew wide, the trees and rays of sun that burst through them seemed vibrant and exaggerated. The moss of the trees starkly contrasting the deep brown bark as if I was on some sort of psychotropic mushroom. The sun infiltrating every misty drop in its path making them light up like fireflies. The stone, an umbilical cord, reconnecting me with the whimsical and omniscient spirit of the earth. I got back to the house steam rolling from the sink as Peter frantically finished some dishes. He turned to me, his head shaking and his face red and pupils narrow.
“You can’t stay here,” he sizzled off.
“I know.”
“You need to pack your things and… and… leave right away.”
“Okay.”
“Well… Okay then,” he finished seeming surprised of my complacency.
I was sent packing. It was so simple. I could tell that he prepared himself for a fight. I thought to beg for his mercy. Nearly recoiling in the fear of my uncertain future, my hand reached for the stone, it was hot, and pulsing in my pocket, like a fetus hoping its host will not abort, encouraging a more dignified leaving. His heart softened as I packed my things. I could hear him contemplatively cranking the flour mill, where eventually he came to asking me to stay for his famous pancake lunch.
With my pride still in tact and my belly full of pancakes I walked away with a new sense of freedom. As I walked the path, contemplating the adventure that has just unleashed itself, that natural instinct to seek comfort kicked in. I thought of the option of staying with an acquaintance in town. But clasping the stone I knew that would be a ‘cop out’ to a real adventure. Regardless I approached the door, making a deal with myself, rubbing the stone for support hoping for a genie to grant me a more certain future. I told myself that if these people were home when I went to the door I would stay with them, and if they weren't I would continue on. I knocked, and there wasn’t an answer. I took a deep breath and clenched to the stone harder than ever. So I started out of town with my thumb out, looking for a ride anywhere the wind would take me. As evening approached I started to lose hope, but I comforted myself with the thought of the wild blackberries and the fresh water streams. I picked up an old water bottle from the side of the road. I went to the river to fill it, considering retiring for the evening when I felt the stone almost burning a hole in my pocket, a tug on my heart to give the old Tasman Highway one more shot. A big white van pulled up. The kind one could imagine from a bad horror movie. A skinny scruffy middle aged man and a sweater wearing wishbone kind of pup rolled down his window and asked where I was going. I told him where ever he was going. I clasped onto my stone and jumped into his van.
“You can’t stay here,” he sizzled off.
“I know.”
“You need to pack your things and… and… leave right away.”
“Okay.”
“Well… Okay then,” he finished seeming surprised of my complacency.
I was sent packing. It was so simple. I could tell that he prepared himself for a fight. I thought to beg for his mercy. Nearly recoiling in the fear of my uncertain future, my hand reached for the stone, it was hot, and pulsing in my pocket, like a fetus hoping its host will not abort, encouraging a more dignified leaving. His heart softened as I packed my things. I could hear him contemplatively cranking the flour mill, where eventually he came to asking me to stay for his famous pancake lunch.
With my pride still in tact and my belly full of pancakes I walked away with a new sense of freedom. As I walked the path, contemplating the adventure that has just unleashed itself, that natural instinct to seek comfort kicked in. I thought of the option of staying with an acquaintance in town. But clasping the stone I knew that would be a ‘cop out’ to a real adventure. Regardless I approached the door, making a deal with myself, rubbing the stone for support hoping for a genie to grant me a more certain future. I told myself that if these people were home when I went to the door I would stay with them, and if they weren't I would continue on. I knocked, and there wasn’t an answer. I took a deep breath and clenched to the stone harder than ever. So I started out of town with my thumb out, looking for a ride anywhere the wind would take me. As evening approached I started to lose hope, but I comforted myself with the thought of the wild blackberries and the fresh water streams. I picked up an old water bottle from the side of the road. I went to the river to fill it, considering retiring for the evening when I felt the stone almost burning a hole in my pocket, a tug on my heart to give the old Tasman Highway one more shot. A big white van pulled up. The kind one could imagine from a bad horror movie. A skinny scruffy middle aged man and a sweater wearing wishbone kind of pup rolled down his window and asked where I was going. I told him where ever he was going. I clasped onto my stone and jumped into his van.
