The Best Advice I was Never Given

Somebody once said that Life is a demanding teacher, for we get the test first and we learn the lesson after. I know that life has given me several tests, as well as several lessons. There are countless snips of advice and lessons learned that seem so trivial, so obvious, yet in any split second, could have changed everything. There's a song called "Sunscreen" that is nothing more than oft overlooked advice set to music. Possibly one of the best songs ever. While I cannot compare to the timeless and eloquent repertoire of the aforementioned song, my lessons lie here.

Life is not fair. This seems obvious on every level imaginable. Nevertheless, it's shocking how often I say or hear somebody else comment on something not being "fair." Fair does not exist. There is no such thing as everybody getting everything exactly the same. "Fair" does not even equate to, "everybody receives the exact same things." It's more so that everybody gets what he or she needs most when it's most needed. Think on it. If Person A has a brain tumor and undergoes massive surgery to save her life, is it fair that you don't have brain surgery? Is it fair you don't have a brain tumor? Should you go get one to keep things fair between you two? No, that's ludicrous. If you're very concerned about things being kept fair read a short story whose title resembles "Harrison Burgeron," and read up on a little thing called "Communism." I reiterate: fair does not truly exist. Don't try to make life that way.

Not everybody is as honest as you'd hope. Sure, you might return the wallet and the money, but what about the jerk who stole it in the first place? Have faith, but lock your car doors.

Life is short. Yours, and those around you. Stop counting calories and trying every health food craze on late-night television. Eat the damn cookie and smile about it. Go outside, it's cheaper than cable, with fewer commercials. Let your dog sleep on your bed. Love with your heart, even if it ends up broken. Forgive your friends. Forgive your enemies. Don't let fear keep you from trying something. "What if" is the most dangerous phrase in the world. Live your life, don't watch it.

There are always options. They may not be easy or pleasant, but if you really want something, there is always a way to get it. Don't give up. The world is going to constantly throw bricks in your way, trying to make you fail or quit. The only time you ever truly fail is when you give up. Even if you don't succeed the way you want to, major feats will have been accomplished along the way. You'll be a better person, and eventually you're going to feel very proud of yourself.

It's empowering to stand up for your rights, just be sure you're not standing on somebody else's.

History doesn't change, only people's perception of it. Events involving Vietnam and Iraq, slavery, the Holocaust. Heavy stuff. At one point, somebody somewhere convinced a lot of people that those were good ideas. I'm sure a lot of people still believe they are. Perspective can turn a P into a d, a 4 into a 9, an ally into an enemy, a friend into a rival. Change in perspective isn't always a bad thing. Listen to people when they disagree with you. You may learn something that can change your life.

Make copies of your birth certificate, your favorite photograph, and your keys.

Stay away from things shaped like coffins. This includes tanning beds, cigarette boxes, and your car after a few drinks. Let the sunshine give you cancer, you can't enjoy it in a tanning salon. Campfire smoke smells better than whatever it is you're smoking. A friend's couch is free. Can you say the same for an encounter with the law?

And to come full circle, life isn't fair. Don't expect it to be, and don't try to make it that way. Help where you can, and don't expect the world to give you the same. Make some noise, take up some space, but be careful with that of other people. Don't get so wrapped up in your life that you forget to live it. The lessons are endless, often painful, and always too late coming. The best I can offer you is the comforting knowledge that we're all stuck on this Rock together, hurling through space. Life and chance are happening to us all. Good luck out there.

Snapshots

Some things in life never change.

Fortunately, I did.

I am not who I used to be. Recent excavations on my layers of clutter have led me to reflect on myself, to turn my eye inward and see what I find there.

As a child I was as carefree as a leaf drifting on a warm Autumn breeze. I was wild like vines left in an untended pumpkin patch, impossible to suppress. My days were filled with running, jumping, and climbing trees, smiling or moving in every picture. It's quite obvious I had to be coaxed and chided into standing still and posing for a photograph. For every textbook picture, there's another behind it, discarded for my funny faces, or moving out of the frame as a blur. I was vivacious and animated. I sparkled.

Years of education did not muzzle my exuberance. I gleefully took on the public school system by storm, and if it were a battle, I believe I would have won in those first few years. I fairly flew through Girl Scouts, dance recitals, Science Olympiad competitions, and summer camps. I thrived on simply creating a splendid chaos at every opportunity. My hair was long and tangled, teeth knocked out prematurely by a rouge softball.

As I matured, or at least as I grew, my soul still clung to those particles of excitement. The world was still an open book to me, and I was devouring the pages. While other students my age were settling down to finally tune and focus on the finer points of geography and history, mastering the fine skill of typing properly on a keyboard or sharpening their drafting pencils, heads bent solemnly over their books, I did not give in. I sang songs from the radio in study hall, and my book bag was as full of candy as it was with books and pencils. While I dutifully eschewed my assignments, took tests, and discovered the opposite sex, I still found myself jumping fences and playing in the dirt.

Somewhere down the line, pinpointed roughly at the transition from child to adolescent, junior high to high school, the burning brilliance that I radiated was dulled. There's no one event or moment to blame. As J.M. Barrie reminds us, all children grow up. I studied, focused hard on music and mastering the skills coerced upon me. I became fluent in the languages of algebra and chemistry, and I undertook the task of unraveling the works of Poe, Shakespeare, and Dostoevsky. Somewhere in this time period I started caring what others thought of me. I wore makeup to hide my flaws instead of for the fun of colors. My jeans boasted flared bottoms and embroidery at the pocket instead of patches dyed by dirt and sun, and frayed hems torn and shedding thread in a froth at my feet. The soles of my shoes no longer felt the rough kiss of a sturdy branch. I posed jauntily for pictures with friends, the exact same expression on my face in every single shot. I wasn't brilliant, and I wasn't moving. I had calmed my body to fit the mold of an adult-to-be. That was the biggest mistake of my life.

College is a land of opportunity. You can fix the mistakes you made to yourself in the past, re-invent yourself, be reborn as somebody you always wondered about. Most college campuses boast thousands of students, most of which you don't know, and about the same number who don't care about getting to know you. You can buckle down and engulf all the knowledge of the world, or you can wake up on a different stranger's couch every weekend, head throbbing, eyes bleary, and covered in permanent marker. I found a comfortable balance at college. I was a good student, above average on attendance and test scores, yet I remember the days I'd look out the window to see pools of rainwater threatening to flood the walkways once more, and I'd decide to stay in for the day watching cartoons in my pajamas. "It's raining," became synonymous with "I'm not going to class today. Wake me up at noon and we'll order Chinese food." Some college-goers find a freedom in alcohol, and the mass consumption of it. I took no large delight in this. I went out, I had fun. I woke up on unfamiliar couches and floors of rooms I don't remember entering, but it wasn't a way of life for me. College was more the freedom to go backward. I didn't re-invent myself; I wasn't the "new me." More than that, college, and the new people I befriended, if only for a short while, allowed me to go back and reclaim a little glow, a little glitter from the sparkle from "the old me." I walked railroad tracks for miles, just to see where they turned. I convinced friends played in rivers with me, even when there were shards and clumps of ice beneath the swift-moving surface. I trespassed on farmland and forest, once again climbing a tree, the dirt-scented air filling my lungs once more. I started cartwheel competitions on the lawn in front of the student center. I met the most amazing strangers. Pictures of me started showing signs of actual emotions instead of the same affixed smile. The contours of my body blurred behind the camera lens. I was moving.

There's a quote I used to have on a post-it note hung on my bedroom wall that read, "Go into the world and do well, but more importantly, go into the world and do good." I have no idea who said that, but I owe them some thanks. In following that advice, I did good to the world, and the world responded by returning some life into my subdued self. I started volunteering at the local animal shelter, I helped organize can drives, and I learned cooking skills volunteering at a soup kitchen. I helped build houses with Habitat for Humanity. Now I not only own power tools, I know their proper names and how to use them effectively.

As I continued through college, I found myself being taken along with friends on various errands and weekends. Random road trips to nowhere at 2AM, celebrating birthdays of my room mate's-cousin's-friend's-dog Freckles, raking leaves and digging septic tanks at a Boy Scout camp. That camp became a home I have treasured far more than any other gift that life has bestowed upon me. Offered a summer position, I began my summer by learning to pretend to like anything slimy, scaly, hairy, or winged. Within weeks I didn't have to pretend anymore. I was in love. It was as if life ran in a circle, and I had caught up with my childhood once more. I got to fuse my adult-like knowledge and skills with my youthful loves. I identified trees, climbed them, cut them down, and burned them at roaring bonfires. I went fishing and caught a turtle. I got too close, and a turtle caught me. I partied at night and played capture the flag during the day. I got teased and chased in endless games, and I rode shotgun in a truck with a cab meant for 3 but piled with 8. Looking at these photographs, my pants are torn, dirt smears tattoo my arms and face, and my hair flies wildly out of my trademark ponytail. My body language and facial expressions are animated and alive. Sparks nearly jump to my hands, and I have to smile.

Sadly, nothing gold can stay. The theme of a Robert Frost poem, found in countless books and resources, one of them being here. Like any relationship, both Life and the Earth take as well as give. They gave me myself back, then they took the places and people that nurtured that self away from me, or rather, took me away from them. Due to circumstances beyond my control (and my liking) I moved home, college unfinished, prospects for another summer away dimmed to a mere flame in a cavern. I find myself stuck working a job I hate, not making enough money to pay the bills, and missing my friends and former life so much I find tears soaking my pillow in the morning. This is where the choice comes in. Life has presented me with a gift, and it's up to me to decide how to use it. I can let this challenge defeat me, curl in bed, only escaping the dark confines of my shaded room to shower, go to work, grab dinner, and return, or I can attempt to tackle this the way I would have as a child- I can create a delightful chaos, move, jump, play, and create. I can labor in the dull lethargy of my own self-pity, or I can try to make myself sparkle.

I think I've been forgetting my lessons. Not math and geography, but tree-climbing and seeing fun instead of fear. Some things in life, like some people, do not change. I've seen the changes in myself through pictures and artifacts. Notebooks filled with doodles and messages to friends, then filled with pages of careful notes and figures, back to doodles and tic-tac-toe boards slid across college lecture halls. The leaf collections and friendship bracelets from elementary school, the make-up collection in it's disheveled box from junior high, back to bracelets and leaves collected into collages for me at camp last summer. I can see the choices before me, and while I cannot even begin to guess how Life will manipulate my choices, the consequences and unforeseen difficulties that are sure to result from any action I take, the fact that I'm going to take action is a good sign. I want my pictures blurred, my expression different in every snapshot of my life.

Suburban Nature: The Myth

There is no nature in Suburbia.

For the past few weeks suburban life has been irking me. My soul requires sunshine, rain, good dirt, and general outdoorsiness to survive. (My soul is very plant-like.) Sunshine and rain have been present; however, nature is nowhere to be found. Being outside in my town makes me want to retch. The only trees are landscaped and trimmed for size and color. The grass is mowed, edged, raked, watered, and in the case of my neighbors- DRIED to perfection. The only flowers are found in planters or beds; the rest labeled "weeds," and ripped out of the ground.

Even the wooded areas here are planned. Notice I didn't say "woods." That implies something related to nature. Our wooded parks are planted, and so obviously planted that if you face the trees straight on you can see them growing in rows. Seriously? There's no ground cover, no brush. No brambles or bushes or vines. I suspect tax dollars pay to weed and fertilize the area.

Trees are cut down before they can fall, which is a safety issue and is understood; but even the trees that fall far from the paved, level, roller-blade and wheelchair accessible trail are sectioned and hauled away. Nature's Playground? What's that? In elementary school one of my favorite things to play on during recess was a fallen tree. The branches and roots had been cut off, and it had been dragged from the surrounding woods onto the playground by parents and teachers years before. We climbed it, walked on it, jumped off it, gossiped on it, ran around it, and carved in it. We watched the bugs make homes in it, saw new life grow because of it. The tree was dragged back into the woods shortly before I moved on to another school.

Those woods were amazing. We would take walks there during science classes, identifying trees, plants, cloud formations, rock types, and bugs. The trees were far enough apart to allow us room to run, but their canopies were interlaced, forming a latticework of leaves that filtered the sunlight down to us as if the golden rays had been hand-picked. There was a drainage ditch we all called "the creek," which was a prime source of after school entertainment. It served as the boundary where younger kids wouldn't cross, and older kids flaunted their authority. It was prime real estate for teetering tree houses, crooked bike jumps, paintball wars, endless games of capture the flag, and even an old moldy couch whose origin nobody quite knew. The creek was cold and always seemed so deep. To cross it we snuck boards from our garages and rooted through garbage cans and made a rickety, ramshackle bridge. Nobody ever swam in the water, or even stepped in it. To the right was 100 feet of trees, then the road. To the left, was woods and more woods until "the catwalk" where the water emptied to a flood field and houses began. The water itself was home to old pop cans, beer bottles (most likely left behind when the high school kids hit curfew and had to return home,) a volleyball, and one lonesome busted up lawn chair that was there for as long as I can remember. It was magical.

Where those woods once stood now lay perfect rows of condominiums, complete with landscaped yards, lawns rolled out like carpets, and sprinklers that are set on a timer so that they go off even when it's raining. The creek was filled, the trees cut. Where trees used to tower higher than the school are now balconies with white plastic railings. The clearing where dirt bikes roared until dark, then a less-then legal bonfire would crackle while we watched the stars... is now a parking lot, complete with the blue glow of halogen high beam lights. All our memories, our carvings, our childhood... disappeared within a week. The school fenced in their property, no longer venturing out to identify what's left in suburban nature: the Jaguar, the Sequoia, and the Jeep Liberty.

Moving away from my digression, suburban life holds little of natural life. The stars still blaze, but are dimmed to near darkness by neon signs and front porch lights. The only constellation that can be seen regularly is the Big Dipper, and even those stars are becoming hard to identify against the glare of suburban sprawl. The moon has been brilliant lately, so bright and white that you can see the clouds across the sky. The effect is less than breathtaking when the shooting star you see turns out to be a commercial airliner.

Light pollution is possibly one of the most understated environmental factors in my lifetime. Cities are encased in a 24-hour glow of light that can be seen from miles away. A dome of light surrounding a city sounds almost beautiful, unless you are trying to look at the sky or find grass. These lights signify the devastation of natural land, the ravaging of Mother Earth. None of the grasses growing in cities are natural- they were commercially seeded or planted. The trees were selected to match their leaf and flower color to the bricks of the nearby buildings and are planted x-feet apart. Trees are cut down so that complexes can be built and then named for the trees cut to make them: The Oaks, Maple Grove, Aspen Estates, Cedar Manor, Pine Village. Surprisingly enough, the trees that were planted in these compounds are not even in the same realm as the trees that were cut.

As I was taking a walk today I stopped to look at how little nature actually exists in my corner of the world. It's sad. My own front yard has been seeded so many times there are random patches of grass that don't match the grass beside it. I can't look at the stars from my porch swing because of the porch lights, and the over-glow shining across the block from the mini-mall. I'm ready to vacation in a cow-town so I fulfill my yearning for nature and rekindle my appreciation for the internet, 24-hour groceries, and paved roads.

Nature does not exist in Suburbia.

The Message

If you're looking out a window, and you're not looking at the sky, it would be easy to assume today is just a late summer's day, springlike, perhaps, like so many other days. The lawns are lush and green and overgrown from constant sun and rain, flowers still bloom in flurries of color and raise buds for tomorrow. Birds are calling from the trees, a constant symphony of innumerable instruments. Step away from the window and walk through the door.

It's all a trick. Autumn is slowly wrapping herself around trees and skimming across the sky, calling the geese to follow her south. Pale leaves are beginning to litter sidewalks and streets, crackling gaily beneath automobile tires and passers-by. Squirrels are in a panic, scurrying to and fro, squabbling over food and storage space for winter, disturbing many with their constant chatter. While still bright, the flowerbeds are thinner. More and more patches of bare Earth can be seen between the brilliant array of petals.

New colors are showing up. The sparkling blues of sky and swimming pool, the reds of strawberries and tomatoes, the astonishing hues leaping from flower petals, all are giving way to a more brilliant display. Oranges and yellows of pumpkin and squash are unveiling themselves. Russet apples burst from orchard branches. The trees are beginning to store away for the winter, causing their leaves to flame in all shades of colors- red, yellow, deep purple, orange, and many colors in between. Eventually they drop and shrivel, and are pushed around by playing winds, or shattered with crunching defeat.

Today is one of those remarkable, unexplainable, wonderful days outside. The sky is overcast, threatening rain, perhaps a weak attempt at snow, neither of which will occur. A matte grey blanket of clouds. "The Grey Dome," a Professor of mine called it once. It's not cold outside; the neighbor's thermometer is checking in near 65°F. The breeze, however, is one of those sudden bursts of air that comes without warning, whipping your hair every which way and whistling in your ears. The breeze, my friends, is cold. The winds coming through the windows are cause for putting another blanket on the bed, and talk of drawing the window closed for the night and turning on the heat. The combination of warm air and cool breeze combined with the sky above is just enough to make somebody push his shorts aside and start thinking about bringing sweaters and jackets from their hibernation in boxes.

Some say this weather is depressing. That it's "gloomy." I could agree, if this weather had been constant and unrelenting. But, fortunately, today is the beginning. After weeks of sun and sweat, of burnt shoulders and cursing forgotten sunglasses, today is welcome. The air feels crisp and smells sweet. The leaves bumpily blowing across the pavement sound a skritchy Morse Code. The message: Autumn is coming.

It's wonderful to be somebody else for a song.

"They say music can alter moods and talk to you..."

Music's Eminem (Marshall Mathers) has a lyric along those lines. Whether he believes that or not is none of my concern. I believe it. It was proven to me today, in the most unexpected of events. I read a series of "young-adult" books where each chapter is begun with a quote. Some are the words of historically famous people such as Winston Churchill, Albert Einstein, and Henry David Thoreau; others are from more commonly known sources such as Charlie Brown, Dr. Seuess, and Matt Groening, the creator of The Simpsons. Other quotes are snips from Greek mythology, Western Union's internal memos, and various quotes and lyrics from people and artists I've never heard of but am sure are quite good at their craft. When I find a quote that strikes me- makes me laugh, makes me think, or makes me remember something from my own life, I have a bad habit of folding the corner of the page down to mark that little piece of literature for quick future reference. One of my first posts on this blog explains why this is not a good idea in regards to how finicky I get with my books, but that is neither here nor there. I was skimming through one of these books today, not really reading, just flipping pages and catching a few sentences here and there. There were several quotes, not on marked pages, that jumped out at me. They related to my life in a way I was hoping to find in a friend. These one-liners made me feel like I could feel better, and it was OK. All these quotes were from the same person. Somebody I had never heard of.

Being the curious geek that I am, I jumped on my trusty search engine and sought the guy out. I figured he was a poet, maybe an artist with a few good lines during an interview. I was wrong, surprise surprise. He was an English musician in the late 1960's- early 1970's. I'm sure his career would have been longer if he hadn't died. He overdosed on anti-depressants; it was ruled as suicide, but many people, including family members, stand by the belief it was accidental. Again, I digress. He was a musician, complete with acoustic guitar. I *ahem* acquired some of his music, and I'm sad he wasn't so popular 30 years ago. Maybe he would have been around longer with a little encouragement, if you get my drift. He messed around with wicked tuning and finger-picking and had a voice that wasn't exactly deep- it was sweet but not innocent. Perhaps it's innocent but not sweet, I can't tell.

So I'm listening to his songs, pulling out symbolism and listening to him make heart-wrenching ideas spill sweetly from his lips. They hardly seem sad coming from him. Out of nowhere, this beat comes from my speakers. This rolling, intense beat made my heart join in the rhythm and add to the percussion. Then, another surprise, a cello glides in, not sad- it sounds like it's calling across a mountain to a distant friend. Then, he sings. I can't help it- I smile. My arms and shoulders move as if pulled by invisible strings. They stretch, they bend, they wake from a sleep gone on too long. I'm sitting on a metal folding chair in my bedroom waving my arms around like I'm pretending to be a tree, or trying to catch flies in a pool of molasses, yet I feel wonderful, no shame or embarrassment. On the contrary, I felt wonderful! I felt like my soul dove into a cold, clear pool, all the way to the pebbly bottom where warm sunlight danced through the water, winking through the waves like diamonds.

I know you must think I had way to much caffeine or something, but I do not jest. This song calmed my head, woke up my body, and cleansed my soul. I played it over and over, drinking in the feeling. It feels like new blood is moving through my veins, no, I feel too alive for simply blood. It feels like there is a bold river foaming and crashing inside me, in the most wonderful way. The way my body reacted to this music was as if it were not my own. It was free, it was moving, it stretched and swayed. It's wonderful to be somebody else for a song.

Music does alter moods; it can speak to you. My guess is that we cannot go in search of such a song, rather it finds us, in the one moment where it finds us unsuspecting. I've been in a deep pit lately, not even motivated to draw open the curtains or raise the shade of the window. And in a moment I was caught unaware. Out of the lyrics and the melancholy chords and symbolism came a phoenix. Rising from the ash, it pulled me from the pit I've been in and dropped me into a song. I cried, the first happy tears I can remember in years. Call me crazy if you wish. I'll simply smile, for I'll know you haven't found your song yet.

Nick Drake- Cello Song.

You have 30 days. 30 days to tell somebody you love them, to try and make up for every mean, hatueful, hurtful, or spiteful thing youv'e ever said to them or thought about them. 30 days to get the courage to play your violin for them without crying. To go into that room every day for however long it takes, not knowing who or what you may find- person, shell, or half of each.

The doctors said it could be as quick as 30 days. Actually, we were all told between now and Christmas. But I was there when they didn't think I could hear them, and they said it could be as quick as 30 days.

30 days. Longer than some lives. Not the life I'm worried about. His life has had years, many years, but not enough. He's just starting to get better, talking more, moving more. How can that exist in the same universe as so much pain?

Not My Usual Rant

I feel it is only fair to warn you with the following disclaimer. I know most of my posts are from a windowed perspective, on topics that may actually matter, even if my opinions on them don't. Tonight's blog is extremely first-hand: personal. If you're not up for a venting rant session, skip on to the next blog. My apologies to you, my anonymous reader.

I miss the friends who used to sit on my porch swing with me and talk... about absolutely nothing at all. The friends who used to drink juice boxes with me... when we were 18. I miss drawing on the driveway with chalk instead of doing an AP Honors English project. I miss my friends.

Now that the summer has ended I've returned home from the modern-day "wilderness." The degree is on hold for a while so I can move back to the old homestead and take care of some ailing family members. I guess the realization that everybody else still has life as usual just sank in.

I was in a black hole for three months, a bubble-world where no information went in or out and wherever I was became the center of the universe. Now I emerge from my summer diversion to find that the world has not been on pause. Things have changed. Sure, there are the obvious signs that time has passed; the flowers in the window are blooming, the lawn is a little browner, but there are other changes that I was not fully prepared to take on. One of my best friends during high school got married last month. MARRIED. I'm off teaching kids what a tree looks like and my friends are off having real lives. ADULT lives. People graduated college, moved out of the state, out of the country, joined armed forces, got married, had babies... and I'm here. Don't get me wrong, I love my job. I wish it were year-round so I could be there forever.

A Look at the Past, and Another at our Sad, Sad Future

Today was a day of adventure. This week has made me adventurous. It could be the sudden release of Nature's death grip holding Winter to us; the rising temperature, the warm rays of copper and pink, the simple fact that instead of grey clouds, one can look upward and see the rolling blue of the sky above. Perhaps the promise of rebirth and renewal that Spring brings has made me feel refreshed myself. In any case, life has been amazing me.

The local river flooded, as it does every year. Of course I had to go down and check out the scene, regardless of the fact that it was dark outside, and last year I nearly drown when I fell in and succumbed to the swift-moving current. This year I returned unscathed, and came back with some pretty awesome pictures. I went back to the river in the daylight, and it was even more awakening. Fish were jumping, the sky reflected in the bobbing crests, the trees seemed to shake with anticipation of greener tomorrows. Then I was introduced to a little trail where the railroad tracks cross the river. It blew my mind. This cement path led to a network of trails winding through beautiful collages of trees and brush that followed the river. I could walk those trails all day and never see the same spot twice until I turned back. There's a man-made dam where water pours through as if being squeezed from a bottle, beds of rocks and fallen timber that make picturesque waterfalls, and a serenity and peace I haven't encountered in quite some time.

I revelled in the blue of the sky. All Winter I saw grey. Grey clouds, grey snow, grey sky, a grey world. And suddenly it seemed Nature opened a box of crayons and scribbled my world blue. At the park I climbed all over the children's wooden play-castle. Across tire-bridges, up chain-link ladders and moving stairs, to the highest tower. I wanted to be a part of that sky. I recently saw the Atlantic Ocean for the first time, and its color and grandeur took my breath away. But nothing, nothing, competes with the way a perfectly blue sky makes my spirit soar and my heart smile. My bedroom is blue.

Nature has a way of surprising and amazing me. When each season reveals itself to me, I feel as if I'm being transported to another world. Winter- full of crystal white icicles reflecting rainbows across powdery-white fields and streets. It's as almost as if each snowflake is made of magic, and when the snowfalls are deep enough, that magic escapes in the form of snowball fights, ice skating, and lopsided snowmen. Spring- teeming with intense blues of the sky, finally unveiled by the Winter clouds, and the pools of water reflecting that same sky back to you, until you're not sure which one is real. The promise of life as flowers begin to push their way through the soil, and animals shake the winter off their feathers and fur and begin building a home and a family. Summer- a bursting brilliance of color, the vivid flash of purple lightening in a Summer storm, greens and pinks and oranges of flowers and birds singing in the lazy heat of the day, calmed by a burning sunset of bronze and gold, turning rusty and pink before giving way to the light of one million stars, twinkling with the fireflies. And finally, Autumn- Nature's crayon box. Every color on display, from dancing leaves to the last bloom of a fiery red rose. Nature sighs after the work of the seasons, and a cool wind shakes the last few revellers from their branches. The world seems to be holding her breath, waiting for the next move in some cosmic game. Fields turn out shades of orange and yellow and red, the fruits of Summer's torrential rains. And it all begins again, the cycle never changes, but each time around is an entirely new doorway to someplace else, someplace new.

Sometimes in life I get so wrapped up in the comforts of technology that I forget how much Nature provides. I cling to my cellular phone, computer, television, and car, (who is affectionately called "The Tank,") as if these items will protect me in the event of flood, famine, or volcanic eruption. I forget that I can step outside and meet people face-to-face instead of talking to one another through wires and waves. My shoes become more fashion than function, and it takes a moment to remember how I used to love jumping into puddles. I angrily jab my fingers into the buttons of the television remote when nothing appealing is on, when instead I should look around outside, at anything, the bugs, the deer that so appropriately named my road, the passing clouds, the swirling of the stars. The interactions of all these things around me have proven to hold my attention and fascination much longer than any television station has. Sometimes, a person needs to go outside and experience Nature for the first time all over again.

Which brings me to the actual start of the blog. I recently came upon a remarkable quote about Nature, and one's need to experience it. I researched the quote and found it was a paragraph from an anonymous editorial published in the New York Times on October 25, 1967. It was titled "The Walk." That's all the information I could find. For once, the Internet had failed me. For the one-time low-cost of only $4.95 I could have the article emailed to me in a PDF file from the New York Times website. That's a lot of Ramen noodles, my friend. So I extended my search to the University Library. Luckily, they carried back issues of the New York Times. Unfortunately, only the issues from the year 2000 on were available on paper. My search led me to tall, wide, cabinets with remarkably long drawers filled with spools of microfilm.

I vaguely remember microfilm from when I was too small to go to school; my mother was trying to find a picture of some aunt who was photographed for a story on the War Effort for WWI. I believe she felt microfilm was kind of ancient herself that day. The 8-track tape of print, long forgotten, but much loved microfilm held the answer I was looking for. This dusty, seldom-frequented corner of the third floor became my best friend. Armed with the information I had, my actual best friend Annie, and a pen I sought out to read "The Walk" in its entirety and take a copy of it home with me.

Microfilm machines remind me of the inner workings of a 35-millimeter camera. After staring at the machine for a few minutes, a gentleman sitting beside us showed us how to load and operate the viewer. It is literally pictures of each page strung together like a filmstrip or camera negative, and a machine with lights and mirrors to enlarge and wind the image to something of a readable quality. Operating the viewer is actually quite simple, and soon we were lost in 1967. I found myself indulged in full-page advertisements for television's showing of "The King and I- Now In Color!" and classified ads tempting readers with apartments whose monthly rates resemble today's cost of filling one's gas tank.

Finally, after much scrolling, we found it: "The Walk." This short editorial was eloquent and poetic. I felt like the author knew exactly what I had been feeling lately- the tug of the outdoors, the need to see the sky and feel the Earth beneath my feet. For fear of violating some sort of copyright or other legal standing, I will not post the editorial, but I am more than willing to share it with anybody who asks. I feel as if I had it memorized before I finished reading it. I wish the author's name was known, for I would have tried to find this person, and thank him/her for such a beautiful look into life.

It would be amazing to take a walk with the author of that editorial. I want to hear more of what the person has to say on the subject, and if his/her thoughts and feelings expressed in the article have changed at all over the past forty years. I want to walk where he/she walked, see the same things, and find out if the words of the editorial become more true with each step.

Above the editorial was another anonymous blurb, a short piece written on violence in the Middle East, an editorial titled "Time Is Running Out." This editorial caught my attention only because of current affairs taking place in and around Iraq, and the effect those affairs have had on the people here. The article begins "[New] violence in the Middle East serves warning that time is running out for a political settlement of the Arab-Israeli conflict." Does this sound familiar to anybody? Can anybody relate this sentiment to any multi-country conflicts going on today? Proof that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it, we are all victims of both ignorance and the hamster-wheel of lessons long forgotten, if ever learned at all.

Upon successful printing of both articles there was much rejoicing- quietly at first, since I was in the library, but then much more joyfully robust once outside the comforting confinement of hushed reading and clicking keyboards. Amazingly enough, the day was not done with me. Oh no, there was much more to show.

Post-library we remembered another errand, and were off on another adventure. On the road to pick up stir-fry vegetables Annie and I encountered an enchantingly comical sight. In the midst of our quaint little downtown we encountered a brazen purple car perpendicular to us at a stoplight. This was not a subdued purple or periwinkle; there would be no mistaking this color for deep blue or faded maroon, this car screamed "PURPLE!" to everybody within 100 yards in any direction. I own purple shoes, and until today I thought they were fairly flashy. Not only did this car display a vibrant purple color, it was adorned with two white stripes running from the tip of its hood, across the roof of the car, and all the way to the back of the overly-large and ostentatious purple fin. These stripes continued down the back of the trunk of the car, as we saw when the car rounded the corner away from us a few moments later. As the car was patiently waiting for a green arrow, something flashing in the fading sun caught my eye. This car's front wheels had spinners. Nothing says "Pimp my ride" quite like the dizzying effect of free-spinning hub caps. Bling bling, dawg. I would have loved to catch a glimpse of the driver and other occupants of the vehicle, but I was to be thwarted by the darkly tinted windows which further enhanced the "Pimp Daddy" motif of the vehicle. For whatever reason, after the car turned the corner at the light, it turned around, and somehow ended up being the car driving directly ahead of us as we passed through the light. Only then did the full extent of our amusement with this vehicle reach its peak: the car was a Dodge Intrepid. The Intrepid is not a car that one "pimps out." It's a sensible-type car that adults drive to the grocery store and allow their children to borrow because it's safer than the Jeep. Typecasting, I know, but the absurdity of this car proved a source of amusement for several miles.

As if the day hadn't proved itself to us yet, the local music store gave us a treat. Known for witty puns, the letter-board sign usually trumpeted lowered prices on guitar lessons, or marching band instruments for rent. The sign changed every few months, and was never of much consequence. Not today. Today was to be remembered. Giving my open eyes further proof that some days life is in love with me, the sign read "We fixeth thine broken music stuff." If there were a cake of life, that sign would be the sugary icing.

There's a common saying that goes along the lines of, "Some days you're the dog, and other days you're the hydrant." Well, today I was neither. Maybe I was the sky itself, witnessing all that life was offering me, oblivious to the "bigger picture." It's nice to be the sky, all dressed in blue.

False Friends

That's right, I'm going there. The fake friend, the Psuedo Supporter. To make things simple, here's a handy reminder to all you phony people.

• If you're not sick, don't say you are.
• If you're not hurt, don't pretend to be.
• If you're not in trouble, don't act like you need help.
• Don't play your friends. We do talk to each other, and we will find out.
• Save story time for the kiddies. Nobody has time for imaginary drama.

There's a quote from the novel The View from Saturday that goes, "Many friendships are made and maintained for purely geographical reasons." I agree. If an argument wouldn't make living with you completely unbearable, I would gladly tell you exactly how I feel about you and your little escapades. You have the ability to be an amazing person; I've had great fun spending time with you when you weren't being a complete dolt. Unfortunately, I don't think you have a grasp on that particular facet of your personality.

I'm sure you think you're very clever and that you've got your entire life under control. I'm fairly confident that you think you've got everybody else's lives pretty wrapped up too. For all I know, you may. My personal belief is that you're so insecure in yourself that you've got to create a second life where all these extraordinary things happen to you to keep your entourage entertained. Here's a tip: if people wanted more drama in their lives they would watch more daytime television. People may pay more attention to you when you're drowning in drama, but they'll enjoy your company more if you were just yourself, no acting.

To summarize, I am reaching my last nerve with people and their false fronts of friendship. I am not a part-time friend. Either drop attitude and the false identity, or I'm dropping you.

A Lovely Digression on Human Evolution

The new year brings us to yet another Presidential Election. Smear campaigns, debates, signs in front lawns, bumper stickers, rallies, and the occasional political issue will be emerging from their 4-year hibernation. In light of all this Democracy, the gears in my head have been reeling backward, searching for historical stability beneath political sabotage. I find personal stability in nature, which aside from environmental issues, has nearly nothing to do with politics. My next venture is toward earlier American peoples: the Native Americans. I know, it's cliche, and I'm lame for even going there. But I do believe there is something to be said for the ideals these people had. The speeches they made and the lessons they taught were spoken so eloquently, one still feels their solemn reverence when reading them. I'd like to start there, and progress to a rant on society's (lack of) evolution.

"If the white man wants to live in peace with the Indian, he can live in peace...Treat all men alike. Give them all the same law. Give them all an even chance to live and grow. All men were made by the same Great Spirit Chief. They are all brothers. The Earth is the mother of all people, and all people should have equal rights upon it.... Let me be a free man, free to travel, free to stop, free to work, free to trade where I choose my own teachers, free to follow the religion of my fathers, free to think and talk and act for myself, and I will obey every law, or submit to the penalty."
-Heinmot Tooyalaket ( Chief Joseph), Nez Perce Leader

I find that incredibly moving. From today's perspective it seems loosely structured, and could never work. But looking at it a bit more closely, it's not so far-fetched. "...Treat all men equally..." Still fighting that good old fight today, aren't we? The part of that which is terribly moving to me is, "...where I choose my own teachers..." To not be forced into a setting where one is seated on a bench and TOLD right from wrong, but to go into the world and let the world itself teach you... a life-long internship. I do believe one can learn more about life outside of a classroom or a church than within one's walls. People should be able to experience that.

"Before our white brothers arrived to make us civilized men, we didn't have any kind of prison. Because of this, we had no delinquents. Without a prison, there can be no delinquents. We had no locks nor keys and therefore among us there were no thieves. When someone was so poor that he couldn't afford a horse, a tent or a blanket, he would, in that case, receive it all as a gift. We were too uncivilized to give great importance to private property. We didn't know any kind of money and consequently, the value of a human being was not determined by his wealth. We had no written laws laid down, no lawyers, no politicians, therefore we were not able to cheat and swindle one another. We were really in bad shape before the white men arrived and I don't know how to explain how we were able to manage without these fundamental things that (so they tell us) are so necessary for a civilized society."
-John (Fire) Lame DeerSioux Lakota - 1903-1976

The above commentary blows me away. The fact that it's so sarcastic and yet so poetic makes me all warm inside. What if we behaved that way? Not sarcastic, we're too sarcastic as it is. I mean a society that relies on helping one another, sharing, open-door policies. "...When someone was so poor that he couldn't afford a horse, a tent or a blanket, he would, in that case, receive it all as a gift." They weren't asking anything in return, just to keep a part of their community safe and healthy. No one person is capable of supplying to another, but a community is. Not charities or welfare, but helping hands. Small-scale actions that don't require federal assistance or funding, just neighbors getting together to help each other out. I know it sounds suspiciously like Communism, but that's not what I'm aiming for. Instead of nation-wide programs and lists and lines and maximum paperwork for minimal support, why not neighborly gestures, understanding, and level-mindedness before rash decisions? On the whole, it's impossible. But a little here, a bit there... is a big difference in the world.
"...The value of a human being was not determined by his wealth..." Nearly every aspect of our lives tells the rest of the world our value, or what we want them to think our value is. Elegant cars, loud speaker systems, extravagant jewelry, where we went to school, fancy restaurants, i-pods, even the clothing we wear are all symbols to represent how well off we're doing. On a date, one tips well to prove he is not only generous, but well endowed. If I pointed to a stranger and asked, "What do you think he is worth?" I guarantee most people would give me a figure in dollars. I'd guess 1 in 20 would give me an answer not involving money or wealth, and probably less than 1 in 100 would bother to talk to the person before passing judgement. Nobody would care about his talent, his ambition, his family, what his favorite color is, or if he's ever seen a sunset fade to starlight. I honestly wonder if people would bother to answer me on their way to classes, work, meetings, or other status-earning opportunities. I have a wall covered in Post-It Notes with quotes written on them. One of them states, "Go into the world and do well, but more importantly, go into the world and do good." I think we could all use to do a bit more good in the world, for the sake of each other.

When all the trees have been cut down, when all the animals have been hunted, when all the waters are polluted, when all the air is unsafe to breathe, only then will you discover you cannot eat money.
-Cree Prophecy

Does this remind anybody else of The Lorax? (Here's the video for those who haven't read the book, you sheltered people.) A children's story making an environmental statement. I'm no Puritan; I wear leather shoes, chew gum, and I'm pretty sure I own things made out of materials from the rainforests. Sometimes it's unavoidable, and sometimes it's convenience. But I leave my car behind when I can, I don't kill for sport, I don't dump chemicals, or purchase products that destroy the environment. This season I'm volunteering some time towards planting trees. I know I'm ruining the planet, but at least I'm trying to do something about it. Will our greatest and richest CEO's and company presidents be content in their penthouses with a view of smog-choked city streets, or will they yearn for a clear-skied vacation with crystal waves lapping against sandy shores, and birds singing in the treetops that cast shade across them? True, they have the funds for said vacation, but will it still exist?

I feel that people are moving backward in some sense. We care more about inanimate objects than we do each other. We won't travel out to each other for fear of spoiling the tires on our cars, the soles of our shoes, our frequent flier miles, or our hair, but we'll take a plane, two trains, and a rental car to camp out overnight in the pouring rain for tickets to a concert. Instead we content ourselves with technology; e-mail, text messages, or maybe the elusive phone call can replace our presence. Can an electronic message of black and white compete with flesh and blood? We shy away from each other's hardships and difficulties instead of embracing each other wholly and working together. In times such as these, when the economy is down, as are our spirits, we do not need another investment, another stock, another bond. We need each other, and to take a lesson from those before us. The Native people of this land had wisdom that warned us of our actions, our government, our environmental practices, our love of the Almighty Dollar. We chose to ignore this wisdom as a whole, and now we still have to conquer this mistake. We need to step back from "The Big Picture," of a world of trade and commerce, big-screen TV's and Blackberry phones, media circuses circulating around drug-ridden pop stars, and "reality" programming. We need to back away slowly, like a dog threatening to bite, and we need to really look at what's around us. Violence, crime, poverty, hunger, environmental destruction, and mutilation of natural resources are bigger issues than paparazzi catching red-carpet drama. I think people need to start thinking less in regards to how they measure up in the world and more about how they're impacting and influencing the world. Together we can go a lot of good, or a lot of damage.

Politically speaking, I have no real knowledge of the subject. I read up on candidates, I research the issues online, watch debates or addresses on TV if I catch them, but by no means am I incredibly informed. I understand very little about our government, or any government for that matter. What I do know seems like candidates are using valuable time and efforts into getting themselves in a losing situation. Nobody ever agrees with a President's actions 100% of the time. It's expected, we're but human. My interest lies within the candidate himself more than the standing he receives with the public. Howard Dean was laughed off the ballot last election because he pumped his fist in the air and exclaimed "Woo-Hoo!" during a public speech. I think that's amazing. For a man to be so passionate, so involved in his belief to do good for his country, and the people in it- he should have been PRAISED. Instead the media went berserk and belittled him. He was an active environmentalist, long before he was a political figure, and he was a year-round citizen. He traveled the country meeting people, supporting and promoting what he believed in, long before Election Season. Years before in fact. I doubt that was a very well planned campaign scheme. For a man to be passionate about his community, his beliefs, his causes... I'd rather have a representative with a passion for my country than a script-reading apathetic any day. Some politicians remind me of grade-school Student Government elections; they tell people anything to get a vote, then do whatever they please once the title is theirs. Grade-schoolers never did get better lunches, longer recesses, and no homework on Fridays. Will today's leaders be able to give us clean water and air, space for trees and animals to grow, and peace to enjoy it in?

I do not think the measure of a civilization is how tall its buildings of concrete are, But rather how well its people have learned to relate to their environment and fellow man.
Sun Bear of the Chippewa Tribe

Comin' through the Rye...

I am fascinated by Holden Caulfield. He interests me in a way only a fictional character could. He has a hindsight innocence about him; he knows there is evil and injustice in the world, he bluntly explains several cases, yet his way of looking at the world is with innocent, clear eyes.

He's brilliant, as can be seen by the things he says or illustrates, yet he has let the world convince him he's a failure. He openly points out the flaws in people, usually "phonies" and "fakes," the kind of people he interacted with at several schools, usually the wealthy, the popular, or the athletic. He also finds rare beauty and sadness in people that society gravely overlooks- the obscene (Sonny), the humble (nuns), the elderly (former professors), the young, and the lost (Jane, Allie).

The young. Holden is desperately holding onto his childhood. I could go into a deep discussion about how his name reflects that, getting into Latin and the origins of words. If you're that interested, go to Sparknotes. There's a brief enough explanation there. It's a good starting place. Anyway, Holden grasps onto childhood ideas and innocence like the falling reach for stability. He finds solace in children; a young boy walking along the curb singing "Catcher in the Rye," children ice skating, and especially in his younger sister Phoebe. He nearly idolizes her. The entire beginning of the novel he wants to talk to his sister, but it's too late to call. When he gets to his hometown he immediately goes and buys her a record. He speaks so fondly of her, her brilliance, her quirks. He is eager to surround himself with the childhood innocence he himself is losing.

He misquotes the poem "Catcher in the Rye." He believes the line is "If a body catch a body..." when it is actually "If a body meet a body..." which his sister points out to him later. He sees himself on a cliff, before a rye field full of playing children, and he is catching the children before they fall off the cliff. He's protecting them from falling out of innocence. If he had gotten the line correct, to "meet a body," his perception would have been so different. I think he wouldn't have seen a cliff, or even children playing in it. He probably would have seen a bunch of stuffed shirts in ties talking about gas mileage, something he loathes greatly. I wonder if he purposely changed the line in his head to help his cause, to further encourage his quest for innocence.

I think I'm attracted to the idea of Holden Caulfield because in a way I hold on to my childhood as well. I like to find innocence and uncorrupted values in life, even through my own flaws.

I don't think Holden would like me very much. He'd put on a charming face and give me a good run, but in his head I think he'd be tearing me apart, up one side and down the other. He'd take pieces of my personality I've either forgotten about or hidden, and exploit them, making fun of them in his own silent way. Then he'd walk away, laughing at me in his head, wile still holding a sense of pity for me. I think that's what fascinates me most.