The Balanced Path

I’m glazed over, almost as if in shock. My biological body maintains, and my surface consciousness keeps tabs of the basics. “You have to work in 30 minutes. You’re hungry. You should let the dogs out one last time tonight. You are grieving…”

It’s been quite the week. I’ve got buyer’s remorse from buying a car (with a loan) to replace mine of 13 years and 170k miles (232 total) instead of going without and using any money earned for much needed soul-nurturing travel. The engine blew 39 miles later. Stranded in Minnesota, I stayed with friend Drew for a week while the seller mercifully installed a replacement (complete with its own problems). Less than 48 hours after I left, a tornado destroyed Drew’s farm. While still there, Chris informed me his mom Kelly, who had already battled every battle in the war with cancer, was turning for the worse. The suffering ended today.

I cared for her and tried to help her like many did, but watched helplessly as she slid down that gnarled razor’s edge. But the care for her physical well-being now pales to what I feel for her spirit. I left work early today to go see her, but she passed as I was leaving work. On the way to the hospital, I felt immense sadness too drenching for windshield wipers to clear. I wondered why we feel this way?

Whether you subscribe to reincarnation, one life/one afterlife, or atheism, all can agree that once a person dies, the sufferings found in human existence cease, at least temporarily. So how can our grieving be for the person and not ourselves? I think we won’t even admit it to ourselves that it’s purely selfish. I guess that’s ok though, after all, we’re the ones reminded that we’re still here suffering.

But there’s something missing to that stream of logic, and amidst the fury of sadness, the raw emotion so close to love, I felt an imbuing of wisdom about it materializing. Sadly, it was swept away in the tornado of my stirred mind. At least I was left with an insightful analogy: The line between the rawest emotions of love and sorrow is as fine as that between insanity and genius.

This morning pretty much summed up my troubled state lately. I was eating breakfast at the table. Marcellas was on my lap. My hands were greasy and I was almost done when I got a text. I like to sit there and relax and finish a meal before getting up. I like when my cats sit on my lap and get the lovins. I knew the text was important and required prompt attention that could draw out. All of a sudden I had to pee.

Ideally, Marcellas would have gotten up before I finished so I wouldn’t have to deal with moving him with dirty hands, then I could have brought my plate to the sink and rinsed my hands, then the urge to pee, then the text would come in. Instead, I was standing on the rug I had to move. So it goes for your favorite indecisive Libra: several tasks and options, many conflicting others, difficult to decide which to do and when or how. Can’t decide which option to choose, so I end up doing nothing.

The chaos is in the disconnect between my mind and my spirit. My eyelids are fluttering with busy thoughts even though they need to rest. I imagine my soul wrestling discord somewhere out of sight in a fight for life and all I can do is keep its vessel well for it to rest in when it returns. Is it alone down there? Who or what surrounds Kelly right now?

I sat alone with her body in the room and tried so hard to focus on prayer and meditation, to reach blindly into the hole of death in hopes I could learn enough to offer her assistance on her journey. There are accounts of how terrifying it can be, and I wanted badly, more than to help her tumors shrink in life, to guide her to peace after it. I’m reminded that although we think we know so much about it, and how strongly certain ideas make sense to me about it, we really don’t know. It’s the greatest curiosity of my inquiring mind, and at that moment I envied her for now knowing.

My glaze that is the stirring suppression of my pure, still mind kept me from the wisdom of survivor’s sadness and making a connection at her bedside. It often keeps me from seeing the path I should take. Rather than fight it, I embrace it as protection from a higher power, similar to how shock protects animals from certain, unbearable pains. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what word best fits me in this context… (When I got home, the dumb dog Woodstock gave me reason to remark.)

Woodstock is destined to “just not get it” the rest of his life. Kala is destined to be crippled for life (knee injury). Me? I’m destined to be lost…

“This is Derek; leave a message-beep,” instructed the monotone voicemail recording. “Hey Derek, it’s Glenn. I don’t know if you can hear me over the truck- I’m driving a big, loud truck… you know… the “big truck, small penis” kind of truck. I’m going to hang some balls from the rear, a big ball sack under the bumper, and on the tailgate I’ll put a “Big Truck, Small Penis” sticker. We’ll wonder how people percei—“ “Your message has been deleted. To leave a message, begin speaking at the tone…”

Sigh.

I attended night two of the Telluride Film Festival in Rapid City tonight. The feature film was one I’ve seen before: Life Cycles, a ground-breaking mountain bike film more about life than just wheels spinning over dirt. It stirred the emotions of a forgotten time I strongly want to recreate in a current version. I thought how dependency on a trail follows inferiorly, the pure freedom and creativity of snowboarding deep, steep powder. But as the film massaged my sore spots, appreciation for the trail soaked my parched soil.

(Cue the video byte of Jack Nicholson in “As Good As It Gets:” “People who speak in metaphors should shampoo my crotch.” Haha)

Fitting, driving home on a winding road with ups and downs, twists and turns, narrowing lanes, bumps, and traffic, the threat of deer crossing: consequences for dropping focus. Those risks elevate the intensity of the ride and bring you closer to a meditative state. The climb to Hill City with shoots of downhill (reward to a mountain biker) and other riders to negotiate was underway. As I caught glimpses of the full moon dawn between the treed hilltops, yellowed by the cool evening humidity, I regained a sense I once knew, from a time when I felt connected- not to which turn came up next, but to a period of life filled with a soul-nurturing activity; in this case, mountain biking. I planned to take Chris’ bike for a quick full-moon spin down a nearby fire road when I got home.

I likened the road to the trail in the film, likened to the river referenced in it. I enjoyed the drive, but felt as if I was cheating on my Blazer, getting familiar with another vehicle. I had driven others including this one here and there and even had a five month affair with my Magna in New Zealand, but now it’s different: my Blazer’s transmission finally went out and I’m left with a decision. I needed a loaner and Chris’ mom was gracious enough to loan her truck in trade for work. My tranny had been faltering but seemed to magically heal itself like Stephen King’s Christine. Well, now none need fear the crush of the Blazer’s bumper, only being run off the road by my big, dumb truck.

The car riding blindly in front of my elevated headlights, and ignorantly in the fast lane next to a slow-lane car suffered such unintentional yet unavoidable wrath. I was in the flow. I had learned the positioning of the truck and how it behaves under the range of conditions encountered along this enjoyable stretch of road, a favorite trail. Rumbling exhaust, wide tires whining like weaknesses bullies try so hard to hide, the sweet purr of the engine arguing with an indecisive tranny and a mysterious hiss dartingly pacing the throttle and my foot on it… the weight of the thing leaning away from the gradual high-speed turns caught by the strong arms of the suspension. I was in the flow of ripping this trail, keeping the rig between the lines when appropriate and staying under the pull-me-over speed threshold of course.

Paying attention to the road, I peripherally thought the car ahead was passing the other and would be out of my way before I caught up to them, but I was soon on brakes that shouldn’t have been. There was maybe half a mile of two lanes left before it’s all one lane the rest of the way, winding through tourist-season speed zones where drivers tend to slow unnecessarily. I noticed the slow-lane car pulling away despite being in the outside lane and made my move.

I feel bad about being in such a high vehicle, blocking views and blinding with my lights. I’m aware of the discord I dispense, and do my best to minimize and apologize; it’s an easy way to improve the impression you leave on the world. But this person had no business being in the fast lane and I had plenty of room to pass.

That’s why my temperament reached a self-stabilizing rotation speed as if a pre-wound gyroscope when I signaled and got in front of them and they had their high beams on. Really? Are you punishing me for passing you on the right, too closely? You must be the type who drives exactly the speed limit next to another car to “teach us speeders a lesson.” In fact, I should slam on the brakes right now so you have to stop, and get out and kick your ass. Or maybe ride into town instead of turning off at my turn and chewing you out when we reach a stop.

Whoa. This truck is going to my head, like hanging out with my strongman friend. There’s no need for such hate and I’m not tough enough to dish it anyway. The lanes are merging and the slow-lane car will pull in front of the other and surely they’ll turn off their brights.  Let’s at least see what they do. Hmm, no change, still bright. I guess they either didn’t know they were on or think they’re still punishing me through and around the other car. When in traffic, how many cars back is too many to honk at the lead car? Perhaps they simply have powerful, full lights. Calming down now.

I almost felt guilty for making the disruptive pass and wanted to put enough distance between us that they wouldn’t have to slow for me making my turn like the car that just had to get in front of me only to turn right away in Rapid. I could have just slowed down, backed off, and enjoyed the sounds of the truck the rest of the way. Instead I sped through a couple sections a tad faster than I’d like to have and contemplated the lesson, recognizing a fault (anger) and taking measures to counteract it and grow strong enough to eventually withstand the urge- no, to not even have a negative response.

I turned my attention to the tranny shifting issue.

Four gears and not all are used efficiently, hindering me from experiencing the trail as smoothly as I could. When cresting a hill in second, you can feel the urge to shift into third. Not as much power is needed and the engine should be relieved. Yet it doesn’t shift until the conditions are on the cusp of calling fourth, and it quickly moves through third to fourth. Same is true when approaching a hill and more power is required: it won’t downshift in time and drops twice in rapid succession to second. Throttle control over this is about as much so as an owner calling their dog off a broken-leash dash for a squirrel.

This is not me, this is not my truck. While convenient and capable in many areas, there is too much about it that doesn’t fit who I am and what I want for my life. I miss my Blazer and its hums and mannerisms terribly. I’ve had it for 14 years and 180,000 miles- one beautifully tuned beating heart of an engine and three failed transmissions. Road trips, delivery driving, me and the bros snowboarding and mtbing and most recently, living out of it during a two month winter trip realizing a dream to follow the snow. How can I part with it and how can I justify fixing the tranny again at the ripe age of 18 and 232k?

Like my beloved mountain bike I built from scratch with components I chose for me, the bike that catapulted my riding well past the buddies’ who used to dust me, the bike that elevated our entire crew to unprecedented speeds, the bike that is now gone forever, it’s time to move on.

I remember having this feeling when my fiancée and I split up after 4 years. I thought I’d never love again, thought I was old and used up, no longer viable in the emotionally charged relationship pool. I “drove other cars” but achieved no more emotional potential toward them than to a rental car. Then I met Stephanie. While short lived, she quickly drew me up above the trees and suddenly I could feel the wind of loving on my face and see the warm, glowing horizon of potential. Not until this drive home tonight have I felt the potential of moving on from Old Faithful. I’ll name the truck Stephanie.

I’ll always love you, Blazer.

Aotearoa,

I wish I could write this entire letter in the native Maori tongue. Of the many fantasies I entertain, being able to communicate with all people is one; I would speak, read, and write all languages in every vernacular. With that power, I would connect with as many cultures resources allow. I originally wrote this letter out and it ended up being an all-day-sucker. Seems I’ve experienced quite a bit since I got here that requires elaboration. I know you’ve got things to do, so despite the indescription I’m doing to the “life” packed into the past 3 months, I pared it down. Feel free to inquire about any topic.

I got here the afternoon of August 11^th, and was greeted by friend Chris and his girlfriend Bethany. My cat Marcellas was on the deck and I immediately noticed how skinny he was. Apparently he hadn’t gained his full weight back from when he was missing for 4 days in April and sadly, had lost his stomach chub I was so fond of squeezing (the vet confirmed no worms or disease). Desdemona seemed happy to see me and they both recognized me, but it wasn’t like coming home to a happy dog; it took a while to settle back into our relationship on both sides.

Bethany and I had dinner that night at Desperados restaurant where Chris worked and Dan the owner offered me a job cooking. I was on the fence about it; I had expected to get here much earlier in the summer and wanted to take advantage of the remaining warm weather to do some backpacking and go to Colorado to see many of my close friends. But the day I went in to tell him I wasn’t going to take the job, he had a look of desperation I couldn’t resist. “Can you start tonight?!” Staffing is a challenge in that industry, especially when you’re only open for 5 choice months over the summer, and two cooks flaked out that day.

So it started: six long weeks of working 6 or 7 days a week including many doubles, some due to waiting tables. Although summer passed me by, it was good to take the job because I earned enough to hopefully get me through winter; definitely more comfortably than I would have otherwise(eating only rice and veggies). I came up for air when they closed for the season, only to go under again in October on the many household chores I’m doing as rent-exchange, the primary being remodeling. Despite the occupying schedule, I still found time for some leisure…

We went rock climbing often and I advanced from beginner to novice; Chris says I’m a natural, but that should be expected with my reach and light frame. I swam in most of the local lakes and rivers, an activity I fell in love with there in New Zealand (especially the ocean), as it was my primary bathing method. I experienced being outside with my previously indoor-only cats, and took them for short walks on the hills surrounding the cabin. (Much more on my cats becoming outdoor in a later blog.) I traded pavement running for free-running in the woods, hopping from rock to rock, up and down hills, and over logs. I know it will slow my race pace, but this is a much more pleasurable way to run, out in nature.

The main thing I came here to do that has been a struggle is writing. I wrestled this “since NZ” blog all summer, and felt bound by it- I couldn’t begin my book until I set the stage of, “This is why I came back and what I’ve done since, and here I am now while I write my book.” Travel friends are curious what my return was like, and a fade-away mystery is not the same as being mysterious. The blog and writing in general became such a burden that I began to question my direction in life, and at the apex, it felt like I might be at a dead end. Depression once again set in. Thankfully, our anniversary came and acted like forced air blowing the crud out of a tube. I had to release at least the first half as a letter to you by that date or I would have… ?

I’m now rejuvenated. We’re almost done with the bathroom remodeling (earn your keep, boy), and will have only smaller projects here and there until next spring. The calm after the storm is finally here and I look forward to laying the foundation for my book and focusing on my mental and physical health. That includes catching up with friends like I am now with you, Aotearoa, the land of the long white cloud. May you enjoy the newest installment of wide-eyed travelers eager to course your veins this southern-hemisphere summer. I’ll be thinking of you while I f-f-freeze my butt off in my first winter after three consecutive summers.

One request… a favor amongst friends. Take it easy on the lovely people of Christchurch please. They’ve endured enough. I know you itch below the surface and need to adjust. I’ve got a munted shoulder from my army days, but I just deal with it. Thanks.

Your friend always,

Glenn

I’ve always thought the concept of royalty is silly. A human, being so far above others in worth goes against my grain. I believe that we are all manifestations of divine energy: strip away the worldly confines and you’re left with pure energy we all share. Maybe Information Society was onto something, yearning to transcend the parameters that divide us… “I want to know, what you’re thinking; there are some things you can’t hide. I want to know what you’re feeling; tell me what’s on your mind.”
 
When I was a kid, I loved that song and got the tape. The rest of the album was lame, but I played that song over and over, pretending I was on stage playing that sweet guitar solo. I moved my fret fingers wildly over my air guitar, but in trying to sync my efforts to realistic imitation, I quickly realized that the solo is nothing more than a few chords. Not so impressive anymore, is it? Although, I felt that it still sounded good in the context of the overall song, and let my interest fade naturally.
 
It was a valuable life lesson tucked away at an early age that I am just now unfolding. Look objectively, to see things for what they are, behind any facade subject or (your)self imposed, and appreciate them, also, for what they are. Rather than feeling let down by the simplicity of the solo, I realized that it was me elevating it to pretentious heights; a realization that freed me to enjoy the song for what it is: sounds that please my senses, no matter the complexity.

Song, “guitar” solo at 3:26: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ss6vUraHFIw

Whenever things get bad, remember that at least you didn’t get crushed in the serpentine belt of a car.

She came back inside to let me know she was going to take the truck to work tonight. She had started the car and heard a pop, backed up a bit, then pulled forward and parked. She wasn’t sure what it was, but I knew instantly due to the lack of other obvious symptoms of pops, like coolant steam. As she prepared to take the truck, I asked her some questions I hoped would produce answers I knew weren’t coming. What kind of a pop? It came from the front-right. It popped once. It seems to be running fine, but I’ll take the truck just to be safe.

I grabbed the headlamp and keys, and went straight for the hood release. I didn’t even have to open it- there was a small pool of blood on the driveway from under where she must have been parked originally. My neighbors used to honk their horn before they started their cars because cats would crawl up into the engine compartment for shelter, and depending on how recently the car had been run, warmth.

Engines these days are much more tightly packed into the compartment, more like sardines than potato chips. Some settling is expected during shipment, but I’m surprised a stowaway would squeeze into this space, and neither of us expected something like this. I had to look closely to see the final visual confirmation: light gray/black fur at the bottom of the serpentine belt compartment. I couldn’t see any features, just surface.

As my mom made her way down the porch steps toward the truck, I felt like telling her but felt that maybe I shouldn’t. After all, she feeds these stray cats out of love, and her 13 year old dog is trying to pull through an emergency surgery where she almost died due to a flipped stomach. It’s been an emotional week for both of us, and she has a long commute and night of work ahead of her.

But… The tragedy is too imposing to keep under cover all night, and I blurt out: “Mom, there was a cat.” Ohhh nooo, mourning, and prayer are her initial reaction, and a brief conversation of how and why and which one of the resident strays ensues (“Was it a gray tiger? No, it’s grayish-black; I don’t recognize it”), and she leaves saddened. I remember her reaction when our twin puppies got run over by the same car at once while she was at work: she came home and cried it out while breaking a broom over a tree in the back yard.

I felt terrible and selfish for telling her, at least now before work. I could have tactfully waited until the morning. Why did I tell her now? Was it for effect? Yessss, Glenn; it is, isn’t it? You want others to know what you’re dealing with. Maybe it’s because you want her to stop feeding these cats because you think it provides a breeding ground with which to perpetuate their miserable existence, and if she sees this in the moment, it may plant a seed to bring the practice to an end. You selfish prick. Really, the few seconds I had to think this over, those thoughts may have passed through my head, but I was a little Homer Simpson’d at the moment- you know, where his thought bubble is completely empty- and I definitely didn’t act out of purpose other than reaction. It was on the tip of my tongue and I let it go.

A few minutes after she left, I called to see if she was OK and apologized for telling her, and of course she consoled me that I should have told her and that it is OK. I shared with her that it was about a 7-8 week old kitten that I’ve never seen before. She sounds surprised as well; she hasn’t seen kittens here in a long time. I told her I’ll have to wait until the morning to put the belt back in place, as there’s not enough light to see what I’m doing in that cramped space.

Sad, that there was plenty of space for the little kitten to get comfy. I imagine with deep sorrow what its last moments were like, hunkering down, afraid of the sound and vibrations of someone getting into the car. Then the crank… It was not pleasant pulling the limp, warm body out of the tight space, nor carrying the broken frame to its final resting place. I made the mistake of looking at his or her face: contorted from a crushed skull, eyes opaque and vacant, and precious sharp kitten teeth that will never crunch mom’s offerings again. I was just thinking yesterday, for some reason, during my run when I always think, that I’ve never seen an immediately-deceased person, and today a significant death befalls me.

I wonder if I’m in the middle of a life lesson. I wrote something about my mom’s dog’s ordeal but didn’t post it because I knew it would hurt her feelings. It’s too soon to debate euthanasia vs. treatment at all costs (and prolonged suffering), but you can guess which side of the argument I was on. But my mom insisted on surgery, and watching her dog’s good spells that offer hope and bring joy to my mom, like her short walk around the yard today, make me think twice about that night in the emergency room.

Moreover, this is all making me think about where I stand concerning survival of the fittest, natural selection, and keeping all life alive at any cost. I know extremes aren’t realistic, so I look for the right balance. Perhaps feeding the strays falls within an acceptable range of animal treatment. It still doesn’t loosen my stance that death is a natural part of life, whenever it’s time, and not something to fear and try to avoid at unreasonable costs. On this and so many other philosophies, I continue to practice mastering the balanced path.

I passed several impressive trees today on my way to Queenstown: spring, summer, and all the colors of fall all in one tree. That’s all. Each night I’m reminded that the +20F rating on my bag is for survival, not comfort, and it seems that soon the breath on my windows will be ice. Fall is upon me in the south and I’m left wondering where summer went. Where does the time go? I have yet to recover from Fiji Time, and am feeling the pressure of my New Zealand waning into the winter, into my return to the US.

There’s so much I haven’t accomplished that I thought I would- things that were on the very top of my list, like venture out into the wilderness for weeks on end and polish my survival skills and hopefully revive some long-lost instincts. It’s been much colder since Fiji, not just perceptively, but numerically as well. This is the real deal: summer giving up for the season, packing it in and boarding up the windows. I should be happy though, since fall is my favorite season. I am, but it’s going to be a lot tougher to accomplish the aforementioned since the days are much shorter already and the cold is encroaching.

I just spent an amazing three days in Mt Aspiring NP, and have the Milford Track (argued as being the best walk in the world) booked starting on the 18^th, and plan to spend as much as time in the mountains as possible until I’m flushed out by conditions and a return flight to catch. I’ll be mostly away from the internet and an environment in which to write, which is ok because I need to focus on nature, and writing was in the doldrums and even becoming a chore of late.

Onward to Fiordland, the Southern Alps, Mt Cook and my hidden valley. I’m still yet to find my waterfall, although there are some good candidates. Funny how time slipped away from my original goals while I lived up some ulterior, life-changing experiences. Really though, how can you plan out your life changing experiences? On this trip, I’ve been practicing the wisdom I’ve gained to not controlling things too much and going with the flow. I’ve been rewarded by having experiences that have helped and will continue to help me grow for life- experiences I couldn’t have planned, which is good, because if you plan your education, you are limited to what you currently know or can imagine.

You don’t know it all now, so you have to let go a little bit and let [the universe] provide you with circumstances that help you grow and learn; let the power upstairs take control now and then. I’m heading into nature with an open mind and a loose itinerary, to see what befalls me. Hopefully I’ll come out with all my colors shining.