The Simplicity of Adventure and a Word about My Trip

In four days, I'm going to get in a car with my friend Jason for two weeks, and we're going to drive all across the country en route to the west coast. I'm excited. People are excited for me. Lots of people have said something like, "So jealous of your big adventure!" to me. Lately, I've become nervous using the word "adventure."

I'm afraid of overusing it.

I'm afraid of being the tool who seems like he's trying to make his life seem super cool.

I'm afraid that people will think that they need to crazy, crazy things to have an adventure.

I'm afraid that people will fatigue of the term and miss the whole point.

I think adventure can be a lot of things, and it's not necessarily big or flashy or epic. Take last night, for example:

It was one of those nights in which my brain felt cluttered, frenzied. Grading a bazillion papers will do that to a person. To calm the waters, I decided to grab some takeout and drive somewhere, anywhere, and eat my food outside. Enjoy the fresh air and sunset. Takeout turned into Wendy's (not quite the food of dreamers...but actually, maybe yes.). After I double-checked that the Wendy's folks put a spoon in my bag and not a fork--this is a thing you have to check--I started driving.

I turned onto a road that I've passed a thousand times before but have never actually driven on before. Sure, I already knew some quiet spots that would be great for a little sunset dinner. Sometimes, though, you need to change it up. Allow for something new to happen.

About half a mile down the road, not seeing anything particularly interesting, I thought to myself, This is a waste of time. I know some spots--they're money in the bank. I'm turning around and going to one of them. I turned left at the next stop light and swung wide to pull a U-turn. Mid-turn, I looked down one of the streets of the intersection, and it seemed to widen before my eyes, like a gate rolling open and telling me to pass through. Mid-turn, I turned again and went through that gate.

I didn't find a hidden oasis or a secret waterfall tucked away in the middle of the suburbs. I found a fire hall with a big parking lot that sat above a bunch of baseball fields and a good enough view of the final sliver of the sun's face before it sunk below the tree line. This is perfect, I thought.

And I ate my spicy chicken sandwich and listened to music. I froze a few times as other cars occasionally pulled into the parking lot. I would stop chewing and look out of the corner of my eye. The car would hum quietly, its headlights shooting straight ahead, unblinking. I would think, "What are you doing here, you freaks?" and the mysterious figures inside the car were probably thinking, "What are you doing here, freak?" They always moved on quickly. Maybe this is where people deal drugs in the suburbs, behind the clothing donation box.

Other than feeling awkward when those cars rolled in, this "adventure" felt pretty uneventful. The sandwich was good. I sang along to some songs. I talked to myself a little bit. I made myself laugh because I have the same sense of humor as me. And just as I was throwing away my trash and ready to come back home, roll my sleeves up, and get down to work again, something in the field caught my eye.

At first I thought I had caught the headlights of another car full of tame suburban drug dealers or hormone-drunk teenagers. I refocused my eyes in the growing darkness. I saw it again:

A tiny light popping up for a second and gone again.

And another.

And another.

The first fireflies of the season. That I've seen anyway.

I smiled. Leaned forward and rested my chin on my knees. Took a deep breath. Then I got up and left.

I think adventure can be as simple as thirty seconds of unexpected fireflies. More than that, I think it's about putting ourselves in a position to experience something unexpected in the first place.

To do that, I need to walk outside my door when it would be more convenient to stay inside. I have to go down a road I've never gone down before. And I have to be okay with coming up empty-handed from time to time because trust me--I've gone on plenty of little adventures that ended up feeling like a giant waste of time.

But every once in a while, because I put myself in a good position, I stumble onto something surprising: the first fireflies of the season, a meteor shower, a scenic view, a new favorite dive, a new friend. I feel like life is about that--being in the best position to experience something good.

Please don't think of adventure as a weight only certain people have the strength to lift. Think of it as tiny steps where you put yourself in a spot to run into something new.

***

All that being said, I am going on a pretty intense trip soon.

My current plan right now is to try my hand at travel blogging while I'm on the road. My hope is to put out a post at least every couple of days with random thoughts, observations, and plenty of pictures.

Keep your eyes peeled! Can't wait to share with you.

When We Don't Have the Words

"I wish I knew what to tell you." I can't tell you how many times I've heard someone say this, or something like this, to me. It's usually happened during times I was with a friend and carrying a heavy burden.

These friends would sit across the table from me, or next to me on the couch or in the car, or over the phone. They'd say different versions of the same sentiment:

"I don't have any great advice for you."

"I'm sorry I don't have anything better to say to you."

"I don't have any answers for you."

"I don't think there's anything I can tell you to make this better."

Every time, I'd look at them, smile, and say, "I know. And I didn't expect you to."

When I look back on those times, it's not some sage advice, some powerful maxim, some quotable proverb that I remember or appreciate.

It was simply that friend's presence.

It was that they were there with me, they had taken the time to hear me and see my pain. That made all the difference in the world. I didn't need anything more from them. I didn't need them to bear the responsibility of shining a bright light with the perfect words. Simply sitting with me kept the darkness at bay.

So don't feel bad when you're sitting there with a friend who's going through stuff and you don't have all the right words to say.

The fact that you're sitting there is already enough.

Flickr photo ©2010 ...storrao...

Politics and Controversy: Can We Do Better?

I don't like to delve into politics too much. It's not that I don't follow them; I do. It's not that I don't think about them or discuss them with friends; I do.

But sometimes I get so tired of what politics and controversial topics in general have done to my friends and family. And I'm exhausted by what it's done to my Facebook and Twitter feeds. People arguing, people name-calling, people standing on soap boxes, people saying things like "It had to be said," people posting links to "the best article ever written on this issue."

And nobody's mind being changed.

And a wake of anger, frustration, and hurt feelings left behind.

I dream of something better than that. There has to be some other way to live and interact with each other. What follows are two areas which, if we can be honest with ourselves and change our thinking/tactics, will allow us to begin to do this "life" thing a little better.

Media

For as much as our society has progressed and developed, for as much knowledge and awareness we (should) have because of the internet, our current media climate isn't too far removed from the days of "yellow journalism" during the Spanish-American War. We're moved by flashy headlines, catchy tweets, faux journalists who can sit around a table and argue with each other, and labels and buzz words like "the one percent," "the war on terror," "obamacare," "lamestream media," "toxic politics," "big government," "conservative," and "liberal."

It's gotten to the point where someone can tell me their views, and I can usually tell which TV stations, websites, and personalities they listen to. (And if you say, "I watch/read stuff from a bunch of places," I'll respond, "But I know which ones you actually listen to.")

While we're quick to point out the biases of the news outlets and TV stations of the "enemy camp," we should all understand this: As much as we want to believe that the media sources (companies AND people) we follow have integrity and care about us and this country, they are all first and foremost businesses and money-makers.

They don't put bread on the table unless they have viewers, listeners, and followers. Just like advertisers work tirelessly to cater a company's image and message to appeal to their target audiences, so do media outlets, and so do media personalities. They may have some true convictions, yes. Then again, maybe they don't. Glenn Beck knows what you want to hear. Rush Limbaugh knows what you want to hear. Jon Stewart knows what you want to hear. They're all skilled, talented communicators with skilled, talented teams around them who know exactly how to pluck the right strings of their audience (us).

For example, when someone says that the White House is waging an all-out war on religion, that's not an accurate statement by any standard of truth. It's rhetoric being used very intentionally to manipulate people. We don't like when something we love has come under attack--and so we respond and rally around anyone willing to stand up for us (insert news station/website/personality). If our government was waging an "all-out war" on religion, we would know. It looks a lot like people dying or going to prison.

Don't underestimate the power of language--it can bring life to people, it can shine light into dark places, and it can let someone play us like a fiddle.

We're all recipients of that life and light at some point. We're all susceptible to being played, as well.

Additionally, even if we think a news report is well-researched and fairly presented, the fact is this: the media decides what is news and what is not, and therefore is biased. This is why, all of a sudden, tons of people suddenly care about children being abducted in Africa--as if it hasn't been going on for decades. This is why people suddenly think a new Benghazi investigation is the most important political issue right now. It's not that these issues aren't important, but they reveal the sway that media and politicians have over what we get worked up about.

Social Media

For me, the saddest part of the way we deal with politics and difficult issues is what we're doing to each other. I have a friend who, last week, said it better than I can:

It breaks my heart to hear the way people talk about controversial topics in our culture: no regard for the humanity of anyone involved.

We've prioritized our stances, views, even our convictions over the people in our lives. I'll thank social media for this one. We post links to articles that represent one side of a divisive, controversial, or difficult issue and preface them only by saying, "THIS." or "YES."

We post statuses or tweets that say things like, "I don't know how anybody could ever <fill in the blank>" or "Wake up, people--<condescendingly insert some "truth" that the rest of us are too stupid to know but you probably heard it from Fox News or MSNBC>."

We post things that blast Republicans. As if we don't have Republican friends and family reading.

We post things that blast Democrats. As if we don't have Democratic friends and family reading.

We post things that blast gay people. As if we don't have gay friends and family reading.

We post things that blast Christians. As if we don't have Christian friends and family reading.

We post things that blast atheists. As if we don't have atheist friends and family reading.

We post things that blast poor people. As if we don't have poor friends and family reading.

We post things that blast wealthy. As if we don't have wealthy friends and family reading.

As if there isn't blood and flesh and heart and spirit on the other side of the screen reading our words.

As if making a point or being right is more important than finding ways to pull our friends and family closer together.

As if our hastily typed 140 characters on Twitter or our thoughtless rants on Facebook are the most tactful ways we could express our thoughts.

I blame social media because (generally speaking) I don't see the same blunt, I-don't-care-how-this-comes-off approach people take online when I'm with them in person. When we see someone's face, when we look into their eyes, when we're able to physically witness the pain we would cause them with our words, we're suddenly much more careful with what we say.

And that's a good thing.

***

Forgive me for believing that we can do better. We can find better ways to believe what we believe, to follow our convictions, to express ourselves, and to disagree about all of it.

Can we start by acknowledging that we're all probably at least a little right, and a little wrong? That from time to time, we all get sucked into the current of what our politicians or media want us to get sucked into?

Can we start by committing to care more about each other than being right? By recognizing that our words have a powerful impact on each other and that requires we treat them with the gravity and responsibility they demand?

Can we let love move us, guide us, and dictate what we say and what we care about?

Maybe the current is already too strong to turn back. Maybe we don't change the world with this approach. But I know I would love to see my little world of a handful people show each other that we don't have to play along.

Would you join me?

I See You

To my friends who are parents or have wanted to be parents and have tasted the loss of a child or children, directly or indirectly.

I want you to know that I have no way of knowing or understanding the depths of your loss. That I have no advice or prescriptions or platitudes for you. No fixes. No solutions.

I want to simply say that I see you.

I see you, and I know that you sport a certain scar that will never fully leave, whether it's been months or decades.

You carry with you something you let very few of us see.

The grief of hopes and expectations frozen in place.

The whiplash in your neck from moving with such great anticipation of life to halting to a stop in the void of it.

The fear, the anxiety, the dread of the thought of trying again.

The moments, days, even seasons of canyons and chasms between you and your partner as you each deal in your own ways.

The knot in your stomach, the gritted teeth when someone asks you why you haven't had kids, or another kid, yet.

The white-hot fire that flares up which you keep under control when someone suggests you are selfish for not having kids.

The frustration you feel when you read yet another news story of someone who abuses their privilege as a parent while you are still left without.

The dagger that sticks you as you read another post of a happy couple with the happy news you wanted to have.

The shame that constricts your chest for feeling jealous of those couples.

The little things--a date on the calendar, a scent, a line in a movie, an item in the grocery store, a family at the park, a balloon, a sound, a song, the family picture that could be three instead of two, four instead of three--that bring your grief rushing back momentarily like brain freeze.

The nights of restlessness.

The feeling of powerlessness.

The questions.

The doubts.

The anger.

The sorrow.

The hundreds of little things that I and most other people in your life will never see, hear, or know.

Even with those secrets, I see you. I see you carry all of it. I see this part of your story.

I want you to know that when I see you, I see strength. Even if you haven't felt strong, you are. And you blow my mind.

I see life. I see life in you and the way you love people. I see life around you in the way people love you because of who you are. I see life ahead of you because there is so much in store for you.

With all your joy and grief,

your laughter and hidden tears,

your hope and anxiety,

your strength and your scars,

I see you.

Here Comes the Sun

Winter has stayed a bit too long this year, can't we all agree?

Instead of the silent wonder we felt as we turned our faces up to the sky and first let the wet crystal flakes come to rest on our rosy cheeks, we only remember the muck and slush of the aftermath of one too many blizzards. The back-breaking weight of hundreds, maybe thousands of shovel-scoops thrown to either side of us.

Instead of the novelty of wrapping our necks in soft scarves, the warm invincibility of layers built of jackets on cardigans on Henleys on V-necks, there's only the sharp sting of cold floorboards on the naked, bed-softened soles of our feet as we climb out of bed in the morning.

Instead of soul-warming chai lattes, we think only of rain that falls sideways and scrapes its cold fingers along our bones.

Instead of the glow of family gatherings, we think only of the loneliest moments in our car as we shiver waiting for the heat to work.

Instead of Christmas lights and snow as white as our smiles, we think only of short days and longer nights.

It's like our spirits are covered in a crusty layer of salt. We're tired of it.

But today...today is different. Can you feel it, too?

My breath leaves my mouth in slowly spinning strings of white. They dance and disappear into the cold air. I like to think they'll travel to faraway places, like New Zealand, and come back to me years from now in a warm breeze to say, "You haven't even begun to taste life."

Slight chill aside, the air stirs with something warm, bright, fresh. It smells like evaporated rain, like slow-cooking hope.

And there it is.

The whole sky above slowly fades up from black to pale, pure blue. I look at the horizon, at the edge of the earth where the tree lines stand as the levees which keep all of our angst and worries and stress and longing from spilling out endlessly into the rest of the world. Just above those trees, the sky blooms with deep violet.

Soon, violet will turn crimson. And then it will come:

The sun.

But not like it's come up for the last hundred-or-so days. Not winter sun. This is spring sun.

This is the sun that will plunge its hands deep into the earth and hold them there until the ground stops shivering beneath our feet and begins to feel the relaxing waves of warmth move through its tissue.

I can almost hear life pushing itself out of the ground at the mere thought of it.

This is the sun that will rest its rays on the back of your neck as you enjoy your chicken-salad-sandwich lunch outside for the first time in months.

This is the sun that will set your kids' hair ablaze with gold as you do the important work of absolutely nothing but fun in the backyard.

This is the sun that will come to your window like Peter Pan came to Wendy's and beckon you to fly away on some new adventure, to let your age and responsibilities and cares fall haplessly to the tiny streets of London far, far below.

This is the sun that will weave its way through the barbed wire you've wrapped around your ribs, soak straight through the stone you've laid up around your heart, and cause new flowers to burst out of the barren ground you thought was done with love and hope and life.

Can you feel it like I do?

Can you feel it picking the cold, dead air from your skin?

This is the spring sun. This is hope. This is new life.

Here it comes.