I once thought I knew everything I needed to know. When my head hit the rock at the bottom of the cliff (Eaton canyon 1999), I quickly bounced back into reality. Most of my adventures (accidents) were done in the name of some girl who wasn’t paying attention or initiated by very naive ideals about culture. We never know what we will discover along the way. Patterns accrue and rhythms form habits and muscle memory. The scars from broken ideals can serve to teleport us into humility and a more integrated honesty. The gift of mystery and a healthy skepticism, especially of our own perspectives, can allow us to engage more fully in the many worlds, views, and experiences surrounding us.
Motorcyclists always wave. Sharing in the elements seems to act as a bonding agent for the roadworthy. Maybe it’s just the beard. I remember my last day riding my bicycle alone across rural Belgium and being shocked by my own voice after many hours of solitude. After I stopped laughing, I started singing. After I stopped singing, it started raining. I sometimes walk places really slow to heal my hurried stressed out spirit. Those are the days I notice the beauty in our mundane human rhythms. Our outside pace clarifies what moves within us.
My earliest memory is looking up at stars with west african coastal streetlamps flying by, while being packed into the backseat with the rest of my parent's worldly possessions. On my last journey to Africa I climbed to the top of a mound (Sakat, 1000 ft) in a line of mounds that demarcated the Kenya/ Uganda border. I remember the villages in the bush resembling the dot paintings on the mud huts. It was like a stick and poke tattoo that both shows the tribe and history while mapping a time, place and people. We are both shaping and shaped by the marks we make and the paths we choose.
I remember the wonderful chaos of juggling soup and social intersections when opening my doors to the community for sunday night dinners. What I really remember is the peace of the empty house after it was over and my shoes were finally off. I often think about the joy and terror of being an oversize passenger on my way to a wedding in the high himalayas. The most beautiful views were not documented due to hanging on to a tire for dear life while loaded with the luggage on the top of the truck for a 6 hour cliffhanging trek up to a village near the Bhutanese border. Home is the friction and warmth of sharing life.
I remember my first revelation of geologic time while comparing the experiences of the slow moving wide spreading crustal granite uproar of the Sierra Madre mountains in California with the explosively fast and steep igneous spires of the Cascades in Washington. It's hard to not feel small, fragile and insignificant in contrast to a mountain. After hiking 4 months and 2,610 miles north from the Mexico border, I often focus on the last 50 miles into Canada that I did not complete due to a blizzard. We often judge the world by inappropriate standards only to later learn that the real value is never found through simple comparison.
I remember my best sleep ever was in a “hotel” that I was locked into after my accidental voyage through an opium field. The “waitresses” got the night off because I actually wanted to sleep in my room. I remember hiking through one gruesome stretch of a burned forest that led up to a crest with the sun setting and the contrasting view of unexplainable beauty revealing the living forest on the other side. Ravaged by weariness, we can overlook what is often right in front of us or through the contrast, have the most visceral of life experiences.
I remember being lost for a day and a half. running low on food. following mt. lion tracks to find water. summiting a mountain that was not on the map... all because I took a wrong turn at the last fork in the trail and was determined to find my way through the middle of nowhere without backtracking. One of my favorite things to do in Kathmandu was to point at a peak or stupa from the roof of my home and set off to find a way to make it to that place with my bicycle. Some days I would find my way through the 3rd world congestion and clouds to my destination. Most days I would be drenched with sweat and mud with an extreme hunger and thankfulness when I finally found my route home through a game of charades at the not so local tea shop. Forward momentum is no substitute for good directions.
I remember being wet, cold, and hungry on my first long journey.... screaming at God, lost and homeless somewhere around Portland, Oregon... and laughing out loud while crying when I realized that I chose this path for myself. I remember a stepfather’s alcoholic care and halfway homes that had toothpaste with sparkles in it. I remember the shame of not being smarter and pride keeping myself from asking for help when I was hungry... and I thank the Lord that my mother was not as prideful when I was growing up. I remember the grace of so many couches and basements and tables with invitations into normal family drama. I remember the fog of loneliness and the rip of heartbreak, again and again transformed by simple creative gestures. Darkness is not the opposite of light. It's the place for light to go.
It’s funny how a non-driver’s license has given me the opportunity to enter into so many people’s vehicles for driveway debates, emotional unveiling and the simplicity of shared space to befriend acquaintances. It’s often uncomfortable but most of the time I feel like a welcome inconvenience. I remember the most uncomfortable trans India train ride ever! I paid extra to sleep in a cramped seat with my bicycle for 3 days in unwanted air conditioned privacy. My meals were served in silence. The only words I heard were chai, chee-yah, and tea when I visited the bustling cars behind me without rooms or windows. The parameters of hospitality exclude self reliance and vice versa.
I remember how shockingly obvious it was to find out my french heritage was viking. The divorce of my father from my life still left his tidal genes within me. Sometimes I feel disengaged from my community when at home and the wind blows me elsewhere for a season. Migration improves memory and vantage which helps change the sense of seasons and strengthen the willingness to persevere through relational difficulty. So after a time, I return. When the sea is calm, it's time to move. When the sea is treacherous, it’s time to stay.
