The Mission

We cozy onto the sofa, limb touching limb, legs splayed, the soft hum of the dog snoring against my belly. We watch The Mission and I invariably fall asleep before they slaughter the Indians above the falls. In my world the film always ends merely in foreshadowing debate before Eden is sacrificed.

When I first saw the movie, many years ago, the most poignant scene was when the Indian man severed the rope on Robert Dinero’s penance. I craved that kind of liberation and surrender. Now find the most moving scene to be when Jeremy Irons first meets the Indians whilst sitting on a rock near a river, playing a beautiful melody on a reed instrument. I take this to symbolically mean, perhaps, that I’ve changed from a person seeking freedom to a person seeking beauty.

I love this place. I adore the wet earthy smell in the shade of the towering redwood trees, the smell of the dried grass scorched by the summer sun, the rich black dirt of the land. I love weekends at Stinson and Bolinas – how in the summer the beach is soft and warm and sandy and how in the winter the waves break with more force and rocks wash in from someplace far away. The sheer beauty of this land is transporting – magical, mysterious and beautiful.

This is where I always should have been. This is more home than the City ever offered. It leaves me quiet and thankful.