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[faith] I often struggle with my faith. No matter how strong I feel one moment, it seems like there’s always room for doubt to creep in. Readings and scripture and talk can only do so much, and sometimes they only frustrate me more. The best way for me to strip away all the ugliness of doubt is to just be with nature; to walk, to take in the wide expanse of the ocean, to breathe in the sweet smells of wild oats and flowers. It’s in such moments that I realize the might and power of God. His creation, given time, will usurp that of man every single time. From a tiny, fragile flower poking up through a layer of asphalt to the ravishes that wind and water wreak on almost any structure, God’s creation trumps all.
Man may put up imposing bridges of metal, but the tiniest hint of sea salt or the smallest grains of sand carried on the wind will corrode them. Concrete structures are no match for the incessant action of waves. Thin, bendable stalks of wild grasses can push up through just about anything (to say nothing of the damage tree roots can cause!) Microscopic bugs can eat away at wood structures, weakening from the inside out. And fire seems able to destroy all.
To many, these are merely examples of science; molecules of the natural world at war with man’s finest creations. But I see God’s gentle hand, embodied in the caress of water and wind, the tenuous grasp of plants and animals, the warmth of the sun and the soft patter of spring rain. This is where I take comfort not just in God’s presence, but in his triumph over all that is worldly. For if a bright little flower can conquer a thick slab of concrete, who can doubt the power of good in this increasingly evil world?
[airplanes] There’s a spot on the backside of the airport where the road literally ends at the tarmac. Surrounded by office buildings and security fence, all that’s visible is a 100 yard stretch of runway. It’s at a spot that, when planes roll by, I can’t really tell if they’re taking off or landing. In that quick moment as they thunder past, I don’t know if they’ve just touched down after a long journey or if they’re just at the beginning. And that’s life; who are we to know if we’re just starting out or just finishing. Today’s end is tomorrow’s beginning.
And those planes, they’re filled with people coming and going. The plane that lands from Phoenix may be full of people just starting a trip. A vacation. A business trip. A move to a new state. The jet that rolls off into the sky is at the beginning of a trek, but it could be a trek home. It could be the end of a stay, long or short. Beginnings and endings are so vague; we should just exist in the now. That’s all there is when those planes exist in that short stretch of runway. They might be taking off. They might be landing. It doesn’t matter to me though, because in that second, they’re just there, right before my eyes, big and shiny and full of lives. Full of people with problems and hopes and dreams, and for a second, they’re all on hold. Whether those people have four hours or twenty minutes before their lives move on, in that second their lives are hanging in the balance, waiting for the seatbelt sign to flicker off for the last time. They don’t need to worry. It’s a beautiful suspension of time.
[stop] Stop what you’re doing. I don’t care if you’re in the middle of an expense report (why are you on Tumblr?) or if you’re procrastinating. Go outside and find something. Anything. Any little thing that you’d normally just pass by, something that exists beyond your radar, your perception, your fine-tuned schedule of home, car, work, gym, car, market, home…
Pick up a leaf. Study a crack in the sidewalk. Look at a blade of grass, hold it in your hand. Watch a cloud. Look at a drop of water.
Does it make you feel small, or incredibly powerful? Big, meaningless, full of life, worthless? It doesn’t matter what you feel, the important thing is that you feel. You think. You’re jolted out of your routine. You’re in touch with the world around you in a way you hadn’t thought of before.
Take a moment each day, at least, to seek out the oddities, the sublimely familiar, the details in life. Be present, find solace in your existence. Question yourself and your purpose. Are you who you want to be? Are doing what you want to do? Are you surrounding yourself with love, hope, goodness, life? The leaf can’t choose when it falls to the ground. The flower can’t choose when it blooms. The cloud is at the mercy of the wind. The sidewalk is a slave to man, weather, and time. Drops of water must flow downward.
We don’t have to do these things. There are rules to follow, yes, but we have choices. We have the power to change our lives, to be ambassadors of good, of love, of change. We are positive forces with incredible opportunities.
Don’t be afraid to look at things differently and do the unexpected. Learn from the flower, the bumblebee, the sunset reflected over the water, the steam hanging above a cup of tea. Open your eyes to the intricacies of life and open yourself to where you’re meant to be.
[moments] If you can’t hang onto the moments, life will drag you down.
It’s easy to get wrapped up in the day to day stress of living in a connected, busy, negative world. If you don’t escape, the hate, the noise, the light, the dark will eat away at you until you’re just a shadow of what you could have been. You have to seek out those moments where - for a second, a minute, maybe an hour - life is suspended in bliss.
For me, that’s the split second when my horse takes off for jump and we’re hanging there in midair, my body pressed close to his neck, his mane tickling my face, his knees tucked up so tight that I catch a glimpse of them below me. The power and might is beyond words. For that moment, nothing can touch us, and we are one and we are unstoppable and we are perfect.
[avalon] Sometimes you get to share your life with an animal that seems almost human. I connect with my horse on a deep level, but he doesn’t really seem human to me; there’s still a veil between us. But I swear our kitty Avalon was thinking on my level sometimes. She’d give me looks that said she knew what was going on. She commiserated. She got it. There was something about her that I connected with in a curious way, and I’ve never experienced that with any other animal.
She endured far more than she should have in her years, from being abandoned twice to being run over and then having knee surgery, all before the age of two. The poor cat went through it all stoically, taking pills and putting up with vets and surgeons and shelters. We wanted her to have a good life, a long life, a safe home where she would stay forever and just be loved. Because that’s what she deserved.
She was sick other times, too. We almost lost her once, but she somehow pulled through, and lived many happy, peaceful years. All the while, she dealt with her suffering with as much grace as I can imagine a cat is capable of having. Despite her rough start, she grew more and more affectionate, and somehow I saw that through her pain, she appreciated the care and love we gave her.
The night before we lost her, she curled up on her bed and looked in my eyes. Most cats (or animals) won’t keep eye contact; it’s a predatory thing. It’s threatening. Avalon could stare at me for eons. A simple glance into her eyes told me everything on her mind; if she was pissed, content, confused, scared, crazy. That night, she told me she hurt. It was her time. She knew, even if I didn’t, that she was sick. This beautiful kitty who had voraciously begged me for scraps just a few days before now refused even the tastiest treat. She hadn’t given up; she just knew when to stop.
Avalon had a life of suffering, but there was much peace and happiness between that. She always had a fighting chance, and she fought. This time, though, was too much. Those last few minutes in the vet’s office were terrible, but she was surrounded by those who loved her, and I hope that she knew that she was safe. That no more pain would come. That we loved her beyond belief. That I understood her pain, understood her life and her grace. She was just a cat, but she was one in a million - she taught me that even if we’re unlucky, even if we must suffer, we must cherish the good times. We must love those around us and live our lives, even if that means sleeping all day in a sunny corner.
I’ll miss that cat so incredibly much, but I’ll rest easy knowing that she’s finally free from her suffering. Her eyes will no longer convey pain and fear, but peace, pure peace. She’s at rest, and I hope to see her again one day.
[ideals] When I grow up, I want no televisions. No microwaves. No iPads, no distractions. I will have only my computer (it’s kinda my child), an iPod, and a good stereo system (record player optional). I will have a big fireplace, and a fire pit outside. An open, welcoming deck falling away to the ocean below. At night, the stars and candles will be all the light I need; no glowing TV screens filling my head with empty fodder and ugly pictures. Instead, eyes will dance across worn pages, eating up words of comfort, wisdom, joy.
In the morning, the paper will land with a thud. There, I will see the sorrows and joys of the world in still pictures and black type. It will be real. Stories told, not animated and dumbed down. Realities are more understandable in print.
Food will be consumed when I’m hungry, and it will be local and fresh and delicious and nourishing. The garden will provide the produce; local orchards the fruit; nearby farms the eggs and meat, and the ocean the fish. The oven will always be warm and brimming with cookies and breads. Nothing processed, canned, or unpronounceable. Wine will flow freely from neighboring vineyards.
The house will be simple and just big enough to hold dear friends. Large windows will allow daily life to run right up against nature. Vines will climb the walls, returning the structures of man to nature. Beds will be piled with downy white comforters and too many pillows.
Together, we will delight in each other’s company. We will soak in each other’s presence, content to sit quietly together on lazy afternoons and easy mornings. With the ocean crashing below, we will talk about nothing and everything. Long walks on windy bluffs and silent mornings in the garden will fill our time. With God’s creation around us, the worries and stings of life’s realities will slip away, and things will be, if only for a moment, perfect.
[rain] t comes gently at first, a soft pattering, a steady slap against the windows, washing the day away. As the hours fade into night, it grows stronger, wind lashing heavy drops against windows, each bead of water shattering itself and then reforming, dripping down, down, down.
It smells clean, this rain, fresh and pure, until it mixes with the salty brine of sea air. Mixes with the tang of earth, mixes with the sweet breath of vegetation. It is the perfume of life, a heady potion of air and water and elements all tumbled together, their molecules intertwining into a web of something, floating amongst nothing.
[moon] When darkness surrounds me, I look to the moon. There’s no point in dwelling in the dark, in letting it consume me and leave me cold, motionless, directionless. Why fixate on that when there is a bold, shining beacon of hope just past the equinox?
I must remember though, that the moon itself does not shine. It is in itself very dark and cold, emitting no light; rather, it derives its light from the sun, that burning gaseous ball halfway around the world, and that is incredible. The sun is God - unseen but still present, casting its light across vast reaches of darkness to shine despite the night. Even when it sets, it is still with me. And that darkness is the not the presence of evil, but the mere absence of light - a lack of God. On dark nights, I need only to find the moon, burning brightly through immense darkness, burning though it is itself incapable of producing light, to find comfort.
Faith is knowing that the moon will always shine; that God is just around the corner, casting an unquenchable glow upon even the most lowly.
[21] It’s 6:45am - too early to be on the road, or awake. 21 years ago at this same hour, I was hurtling toward something called life, armed with nothing more than a beating heart and a mind ready to be filled with the knowledge of the world. I had little warning that my heart, despite its steady thump, would be battered and bruised, or that my mind, a powerful mass of racing neurons and synapses, would be filled with terrible realities. We don’t know these things, as we stare, blinking, into the first harsh light of life. For those few months of infancy, that’s fine, but as life progresses, ignorance is not bliss - it’s pain. And the only way we can deal with that pain is through truth; seeking it out, embracing it, and asking God for it - giving our conceptions and falsities up for it.
The truth is, every bruise and scar, emotional or physical, has made me who I am today. We are not perfect. We are not born perfect, so why should be expect to ever be that? We are broken, stitched up, mended and held together some days by thread, other days by rope. What we can change, we must; what we can’t we must move past, leaving the rest to God.
21 years after the first sharp breath shook my lungs, I stare wondrously at a painted sky. Beside me, fog-shrouded valleys slowly slink out of the mist, the pasture grasses covered with the last tips of frost from a brisk night. Before me, a yellow sky spreads tenuously out from under thick gray thunderheads, monstrous clouds that hang heavy in the still air. They bring no rain - just a passing menace, pregnant with piles of condensed air and water that drift slowly to the ocean. Fog banks roll over the mountains as they do so often here, curling up and over the peaks and pouring down like freshly whipped cream. In the next valley over, residents will awake to monotone skies, but here, with highway 1 rolling out before me, the clouds are breaking up, hanging in a brightening sky, wisps tearing off and melting into oblivion.
Behind me, the oceans roars awake, swells arriving and leaving, treating the coast like a busy terminal. A few souls are out, but this is a sublimely quiet morning.
All around, the world is alive, acting out normal processes that, on this morning, seem utterly magical. What is the passing pain of heartbreak compared to the thunder of waves and the great bulk of clouds against a sunrise vista? What is a day of suffering - or year - compared to the eons of shaping these mountains have endured? Their rocky peaks have weathered everything, yet there they stand, bold sentinels fearing neither tumultuous weather nor trembling earth. It’s true that we feel and they do not, but the quiet courage of the earth remains encouraging.
This moment, like all, will pass; just a flash before the eyes. But to have lived through it will enrich me, hearten me, draw me closer to my Creator and give me ammunition for the pain to come. My story is not over. These clouds will form and reform in some far-off land, these tides will ebb and flow and travel the globe. The sun will leave and return, and the earth remains, like us. Its form will change, but it is always there, and so I will always be, in some form, present. I have life to live, struggles to endure, and victories yet to achieve. I will not journey alone, and this day has taught me that and so much more.
[stars] It’s almost 11pm. The sky around me is a brilliantly bright orb, black yet spackled with stars and moonbeams. Below, the oceans roars in and out, breathing heavily, crashing against rocks and throwing up sprays of mist that dance in the moonlight. The air is crisp, cold against my bare legs, but a warmer ocean breeze flows in from somewhere out in that great abyss, a salt-tinged, fishy breath from the sea. At night, the ocean is less forbidding, less expansive and menacing. It’s just a silky black tapestry, star-dappled and smooth, its surface rolling gently as swells arrive and depart. Water, air, moon, earth weave together and form a timeless globe of being. The pale path before me rolls out lazily, disappearing into thickets of dewy spring oats and thistle. Wild mustard and fennel stand cooly by, silent sentinels whose bright colors don’t shine at night. Everything is dimmed and heightened at once, the senses straining to see what is—and isn’t—really there. In this moment, all that exists is the steady tempo of my feet against ground, marching in time with the waves; the air in my lungs, sweet and sharp; the play of light against sea, earth, eyes. Existence hovers between is and is not; if everything were to end, this would be enough.
[227] It’s February 13th, exactly 11am and I’m soaring down Route 227 in San Luis Obispo. The vineyards to my right and left stretch away lazily, bare rows of grape crops casting increasingly shorter shadows over the rolling hills, their woody arms having recently been picked clean of fruit. Above me, a twin-engine Cessna roars by, touching down seconds later in a smooth roll. The plane has maybe a hundred feet or so on my car, but I could swear I’m flying.
A black ribbon of road unspools before me, the miles ticking by as a summery breeze whirls through the sunroof. The week has been long, tiring, and there’s another beginning in mere hours. But for a few minutes, that’s not a problem. When you’re stuck in motion, flowing forward effortlessly in a blissful pocket of time and space, the future isn’t so scary. If this exists, then that certainly can’t bring me down.
Around me, the hills are green and thriving, the warm sun doing little to suck the color out of them. They’ll hang onto this hue for a few months yet, as rainy days and perhaps a few rainy weeks will nourish the earth. Then, summer will take hold and the land will be golden, burnt, tired. Life will struggle, but it will persist.
Beneath me now, life explodes, galloping forward as I toss the reins up my horse’s neck and ask him to gallop, his stride expanding with every leap. I lean close to his neck, letting his mane—an entity of itself now in desperate need of pulling—whip into my face, delighting in the feel of his rocking stride. Little connects us physically—I’ve dropped the reins, letting my arms span out to either side, and only the inside of my calves touch his body—but we are connected; looped together in a way that defies explanation.
Together, we inhale, exhale, sucking in warm bursts of air in perfect rhythm with each thundering step. As the air leaves our lungs, spent and useless, so does worry leave my mind, my face, my body. There is no anything in this moment. There is no tomorrow, no later, no yesterday, no past. There is no sense of being or not being, no sense of existing on some heightened level. There is just this, a moment of suspension as we share this run. There is sky above us, ground below us, air about us, and then there is us. And we are the only things—the only thing—that matters and will ever matter. And it is perfect.
[water for englishmen] “Would you like some water?”
I held out a bottle to somewhat tired looking guy wearing a black fleece sweater and several days of scruff.
“What did you say?” I knew immediately that he had something to say.
“Would you like-“
“Waaaatah,” he said, enunciating carefully in an English accent.
Not knowing how to react, I laughed and offered him the bottle, hoping he’d take it so I could move on with my Serve Day activities. He wasn’t done though.
“Say it!”
So I did. I said water like Hermoine Granger would. I have a passable English accent, and I hoped he wouldn’t take it as mocking. Luckily, he seemed pleased, and asked me to say it again. Waaaatah. Then, in the middle of a bustling famer’s market, this chap proceeded to explain to me how a few days earlier, he’d been at LAX and had asked someone for some waaatah. The person apparently hadn’t understood, and offered the man only a questioning stare. My new friend told me how he asked for H2O, waaatah, and a number of other things, but refused to say “WATER” as we Americans did. His impression was quite amusing. Eventually, he explained, the man got the picture and gave him something for his thirst.
“Go ask your friends to say H2O in proper English,” he pressed before I left. I promised I would. A few minutes later, as I manned another part of the event, the Englishman caught my eye again. He gestured wildly to my friends, pointing to them and mouthing, “WAAATAH!” I flashed him a thumbs up.
[faith] I often struggle with my faith. No matter how strong I feel one moment, it seems like there’s always room for doubt to creep in. Readings and scripture and talk can only do so much, and sometimes they only frustrate me more. The best way for me to strip away all the ugliness of doubt is to just be with nature; to walk, to take in the wide expanse of the ocean, to breathe in the sweet smells of wild oats and flowers. It’s in such moments that I realize the might and power of God. His creation, given time, will usurp that of man every single time. From a tiny, fragile flower poking up through a layer of asphalt to the ravishes that wind and water wreak on almost any structure, God’s creation trumps all.
Man may put up imposing bridges of metal, but the tiniest hint of sea salt or the smallest grains of sand carried on the wind will corrode them. Concrete structures are no match for the incessant action of waves. Thin, bendable stalks of wild grasses can push up through just about anything (to say nothing of the damage tree roots can cause!) Microscopic bugs can eat away at wood structures, weakening from the inside out. And fire seems able to destroy all.
To many, these are merely examples of science; molecules of the natural world at war with man’s finest creations. But I see God’s gentle hand, embodied in the caress of water and wind, the tenuous grasp of plants and animals, the warmth of the sun and the soft patter of spring rain. This is where I take comfort not just in God’s presence, but in his triumph over all that is worldly. For if a bright little flower can conquer a thick slab of concrete, who can doubt the power of good in this increasingly evil world?
[harbor] We all long to stay within the safety of the harbor, where the water is calm and protected. It’s warmer, it’s familiar, it surely has risks but nothing like those encountered in the wide expanse of the ocean. But in the harbor we cease to grow. The confines of the land hold us back like so many grasping fingers. We cannot truly be ourselves - we cannot discover ourselves - until we face the rough waters of the ocean. Remember, though, that the entrance to a harbor never closes; we can always come back for respite, but the ocean is where we belong. It is there that we are polished like sea glass, the sharp edges and ugly surfaces tumbled off in the currents and waves, until we are shiny, smooth, and completely unique. A treasure.
[present] People always make such a big deal out of the transition from one year to the next. What makes the last second of one year so different from the first second of the next? As far as I’m concerned, we need to live each moment and each second in the best way possible. We can’t blame a year-an arbitrary number placed on a period of time-for bringing us problems. Things happen, people grow, and time fades. Resolutions are stupid, and it’s worthless to put things off until the next day, because right now is all we have. Make the present what you want it to be; grab it and realize your desires, because they don’t listen to time and dates. What you want, who you were, who you’re destined to be does not depend on calendar days, but on your ability to take action. The only fresh start we get is the one we begin immediately, and it can occur any time of year.
[awakening] There are some parts of nature that awaken something deep within me. An open expanse of rolling ocean—falling away to the horizon, to the depths, to the limits of the human eye—brings about a heightened sense of being. It’s a feeling like nothing that can be explained, as if my purpose is there; I can feel it, but I can’t understand it, can’t grasp it, can’t own it. The ocean is vast and deep and defies proportion. It’s like space—beyond all comprehension—but on a more tangible, human scale. It’s a reminder that while we may succeed in ravishing this earth, in tearing down forests, pouring oil into that very same ocean, we will never tame it. The wind and wave will always be more productive destroyers, confident in their purpose and menacing in their scope. I understand the ocean in that way. I respect it. It is powerful beyond measure, an entity that man simply cannot control. The ocean always wins.
The only other part of this world that can awaken that primal tremor within me is the horse. Like the ocean, the horse always has the upper hand. It is over a half ton of muscle, instinct, and brashness. Yes, man can subdue almost any beast with drugs and equipment, but placed on equal footing, the horse will always win. That, I think, is why I never feel truly awakened, truly alive, while I am astride a horse. I am in a position of power, controlling what is not meant to be controlled. No, when I feel touched by nature, I am seeing eye to eye with the horse. I am on the ground, interacting with an animal much bigger than I, with no external forces at play. No ropes, leads, or halters. Just two species in an unusual interaction. Those moments are when the beauty of the horse shines, when the primal urges are sparked deep within me. For then is when the horse, free of all restraints, shows the human the beauty of nature. That is when he chooses to mirror my footsteps, to follow me loyally, to look deep into my eyes, sparking a thread of understanding that I just can’t quite grasp. When you stare into a horse’s eyes, and he stares back, you want deeply to understand, to hang tenuously to that shared moment of being.
I will never understand those moments, just as I will never grasp the might and breadth of the ocean. Both are inexplainable variables, thrown into life to remind us that we are not the masters of our world, we are not the center of our universe, we are not our own possessions. We are parts of a magnificent interplay between millions of opposing forces, somehow eking out a semblance of harmony, always yearning for that awakening.
[love] It’s an early morning, and there’s anticipation in the air. The sky is overcast, and the crispness only barely cuts the sweat collecting on my brow. Out on the field, the jumps soar menacingly high over a vivid carpet of grass. Some won’t make it over the colorful rails and fillers. To some, these silly obstacles will mean defeat. I can’t let that get to my head though; there’s only one thing on my mind. Him.
A long time ago, I fell deeply in love. What I lusted after was a bond, a sport, and a passion. I dream not of riches and glory, but of the kind of relationship that merits those fleeting things. I fell in love with the horse and the world he lives in. I fell in love with the early mornings, the tension, the feeling of taking flight. I fell in love with the way my horse breathes steadily on the back of my neck, the way he looks me in the eye, the way he carries me over massive jump, never flinching, never questioning. I fell in love with something beyond words.
This morning is not important. Today I can fail or succeed, and tomorrow I will be no different. I will not have the chance to become famous. There’s no big prize on the line. Today is about my horse and I. Today is about our two hearts beating as one, our minds fusing, our bodies flowing into one another as we tackle our sport. We chase a shared passion, one that is unattainable unless we work together and fight together.
Today we go to battle. We battle our competitors, we battle the course, but most of all, we battle our demons. Our pasts chase us down to every jump, reminding us of our failures and insecurities. This is a sport tainted by reminders of the beings we once were. In order to succeed, we must shake our ghosts and bravely stare at the challenge before us, showing neither fear nor weakness. We must stand tall and give every ounce of our wit and strength.
Still, even as I’m staring out across that field, setting my game face and readying my mind and body, there’s one thing on my mind that trumps all. Him. This is a story of dreams, of sport, of passion. But most of all, this is a love story. All this would mean nothing to me without him. Who would I have to fight for? Who would I have to fight with? When I enter the ring, I am not alone…but we are not a team. What we are is something more than the sum of ourselves. We are a whole, an entity beyond comprehension.
Today, we ride for love.
[blinking] On. Off.
On. Off.
The stoplight telling you to stop and go simultaneously, blinking RED. Then blank—dark. Be careful. Go—but wait first. Inch up to the line, wait your turn. Somehow, the turns get jumbled. People, impatient with failed technology, let down by the seemingly failproof traffic light, simply wait for open pavement and drive on, only stopping for a solid red light, happy to obey an unbefuddled symbol. But here, the light still blinks.
On. Off.
You remain patient, letting others go, until finally the road is clear and you press your foot to the gas. Then the light blinks on. RED. And stops. Now it’s really RED. It’s not going dark. And you hesitate, the nose of your car gliding over the line. And then you fight all impulses, hammer the pedal down. And the light blinks. Green.
[average] My grades might technically say that I’m “above average,” but in everything else in life, I think I’m being generous to myself by saying I meet that medium bar. I’m not really great at anything. Even the things I excel at—writing, riding horses, running—I wouldn’t say I’m really that awesome at. Yeah I’ve been published more times than I can count, and I have my fair share of blue ribbons, but those articles aren’t exactly in national publications, and those horse shows weren’t anything special. And as for running—I just like it.
I grew up on the ocean. In it, on its shores, on boats, you name it. I was a water baby and I still cherish my time spent on that massive body of water we call the Pacific. Surfing, while something I enjoy and can pick up now and then, isn’t my calling. I don’t feel compelled to run out every morning and beat the sunrise to those waves. Horses, on the other hand, I would live and breathe 24/7 in a heartbeat. I am good at it because I love it, and because I love it, I work hard to meet my and my trainer’s standards in the sport. And even then, I’m far from stellar. I still make frustrating mistakes and fall off.
That’s been my life; I can excel at something, but doing so comes with an equal amount of failure. I love soccer and played for years, making my share of championship games and all-star teams. But man, I had to work for that position. I barely managed to remain a starter simply because I had the attitude. I wanted it.
The same applies in riding, and in my writing. I have “a gift” for writing, which I take to mean that it comes easily to me. Hammering an article out isn’t a chore, but it can be tedious, and the end product isn’t always flowing, inspiring, and beautiful. That’s how life is; you have to work for it, or else it doesn’t mean anything.
Until you find that thing that comes so naturally, as if in a dream, that you don’t even realize it. With my water days came an assortment of other water-centered sports, one of which is waterskiing. Surprisingly, I picked it up pretty quickly. My first run was terrifyingly close to a dam on Lake Havasu. I wiped out pretty hard the first few tries, but I caught on like wildfire after that. Ever since then, I’ve always had an inkling to go out, even on the crappiest days, and ski. Personally, I’d much rather wakeboard, but as my dad still refuses to buy one, I was always stuck with those skis. Even after months off, I can dive in, stick my feet into those things, and get right up, jump wakes, tackle those evil ocean rollers, and chop my way through other boats’ wakes.
And yes, I ski in the ocean. Sometimes saying this merits incredulous looks, as if skiing beyond the reaches of friendly flat lakes is sacrilegious. Personally, I don’t get it. Ocean skiing can be rough, but you get the hang of it, and it makes for a much more enjoyable, wet, shredding run. The fascinating part of my skiing career is that I actually think I’m pretty decent at it. It’s not something I have to work at, and although I’m not exactly launching off ramps or anything, I can cut, jump waves, go in and out of the wake, all without any formal teaching or training. And while I’ve thought of chasing a competitive career in skiing or wakeboarding (not that I’d have any idea where to start), I simply don’t want to. I know the second I got myself into some sort of program, I’d lose my drive. The best part about this whole thing is that it’s something I do purely for fun. Running is for fitness, riding is for my passion and career, writing is my future and my key to money. Skiing is my escape, my chance to shine and conquer where it matters most—in my own eyes.
[details] Someone once asked how I tell which horse is mine. “They’re all brown, and yours doesn’t have any markings..” True, (well kinda, since he does have white on his legs) and I realize that he’s a relatively common color. Stick him in a field with similar horses and let him wander half a mile away and I’d probably have a little trouble picking him out. But in front of me, he’s incredibly unique. The way his back dips, how his nose is slightly roman, how his mane falls off to the opposite side 3/4 of the way up, and his long forelock all make him absolutely one of a kind. Conformation aside though, I love those little touches that show God’s hand in creation. These things show that we’re not all out of some mold, but made with care, with attributes that go beyond body shape, skin tone, coat color…
My first horse had whorls on funny places. Whorls are what horse people call those little pinwheels of hair that turn up on horse’s bodies, usually on the flank and between the eyes. Harley had them all over; on his chest, among other places. You could have dyed him another color and completely covered up his blaze and I would still be able to feel out those little whorls and tell you he’s mine. He also had, smack dab centered above his hoof on the back of his right hind leg, a perfect black circle on a sea of white. It was his lucky spot.
My current horse has a little splatter of white half way up his neck on the left side. I don’t know why it’s there or if it was there from birth, but I love it. Some might call it a blemish, but I see it as an endearing mark, like his deep, searching eyes or his uber-long forelock (which always gets comments). Those little things are what matter to me.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve been handed a horse, given a few moments to get acquainted, and then been expected to learn and ride a course or a test. It’s the equivalent of going to a soccer tournament, meeting a bunch of random people, and then expecting that group to function as a team when all they really know about each other are names, if they even remember. It’s a special chance we get as horsemen to own a horse, to learn what makes it tick, its intricacies and secrets. I know my horse inside and out, and while I can get on a random animal and produce a decent show round, nothing ever compares to what I can do with those horses I know even better than the back of my hand.
[run] It’s about mile four that I start to question myself. Why do I push myself? Why do I continue to lace up my shoes, stretch and start putting one foot before the other? Why do I always sprint home, begging my body to ignore pain and fatigue and produce one more muscle-tearing burst of speed? I don’t have these answers, but I know something inside me wakes up each morning, asking me to get out there and run as hard and fast and long as I can. And I answer, with each pounding step and quaking lung, I answer with my heart. My language is footsteps, and they’re at the tops of mountains, along busy roads, through quiet canyons and dark lanes. They are the answer, unfurled over years of dedication. I don’t yet know what they mean, but ill keep running until they can speak no more.
[jump] People often ask me what it’s like to jump horses. To be honest, it’s not something I can describe. It’s an experience unlike any other on earth, and words just don’t do that feeling justice. Behind the sensation of taking flight, of leaving the confines of gravity, is the incredible bond between an equestrian and her mount. Communication is reduced to shifts in body weight, subtle movements of hand, seat and leg. I often find my horse responding to signals I only thought; at those moments I realize we had become so close that he responds to commands before I have time to physically act upon them.
Jumping, then, is the ultimate form of harmony. Horse and human are so intertwined that they can soar above towering rails, defeating the laws of physics and rationality: what we do is dangerous. Each time I mount up, I face death. It’s easy to forget this, considering the one place on earth I feel safest, most pure and whole, is on my horse’s back. But a simple misstep-a slip or a moment of miscommunicaton-and everything can come crashing down. Literally.
Fears aside, the moment when horse and rider are suspended in air is breathless. It’s easy to miss, to be honest. Equestrians often get so caught up in the distance, the timing, the jumps ahead and behind, that they forget to savor the moment. When that suspension is experienced fully, though, it is magnificent. It is a split second of absolute harmony, of bliss. It is perfection. It is opposing forces combining to craft a moment of breathless wonder.
It’s what I live for.
[ocean] I love that moment right after a wave breaks when the ocean is completely flat and glassy, where for a moment the chop and froth subsides and there is a perfect, mirror-like surface before you. Even after the biggest and roughest of waves on choppy, ugly days, there’s that short moment of respite, a quick intake of breath, a reminder that despite the challenges in life, there are always pit stops along the way heralding complete, utter bliss.
[moments] I’ve looked to the past, and I’ve looked into the future. I’ve wondered about what’s to come, and driven myself crazy over events gone by. The things I’ve done, experienced, said, haunt me. They guide and teach, they linger. The future scares me. It hovers before me, menacing, blank, empty. Laden with expectations not yet known. I worry too much, about what I could have done different, about what I should do.
But then I think, what about now? Why should I waste now, this millisecond of time, given to me by God, fretting over the milliseconds I’ve already depleted, or the moments to come? I want to live in now, in this very instant. I want to stare at the ocean and soak in the immensity, the power, the sense of freedom and understanding it gives me. I want to gallop my horse and think only of the mechanics of two bodies working as one, two hearts fusing into one beat, thrumming along to a steady rhythm of pounding hooves. I want to be flooded by great music, lyrics reaching past reason, sound pounding through my head. I want to be lost in the flow of words, thoughts made real, reason unraveled and laid out in scrawling handwriting. I don’t want to spend so much time focusing on yesterday and tomorrow that I waste today.
[words] What are words, but ink on paper? The scratching of a pen is the sound of thoughts made tangible. For thoughts, while in their unconsummated form, floating freely about in the mind, are like candle flames in a drafty room. They burn bright, brimming with insight, but can be extinguished by the most breathless of winds. Then, they are lost forever. Perhaps their meaning lingers, as does long tendrils of smoke over a candle. But smoke is hardly a reflection of the shining fire that produced it. This is the ultimate paradox; ideas, which can be so strong, so understandable, are but whispers of thought. They are elusive, and can only be captured on paper, yet somehow, paper detracts from the perfect sense they make in the mind. So, in perpetuating the idea, we are draining it of its inherent ability to be a perfect thought. It is there on paper, visible, concrete, and reproducible. But how sad that this magnificent idea must be constricted by the limits of a lined sheet of paper, deformed by the scratching of a pencil. There may be magic in words, but what are words, if not understood? Thus, ideas, though fleeting in their natural form, are perhaps best left untouched and unwritten. For even fire, if perpetuated, will cause destruction. And that feeling of a spark of insight, followed by the trailing smoke of understanding, is in sharp contrast to the monotonous string of letters on a page. We must then allow the flame of insight to burn away at the limits of paper, of knowledge, of society, and of the mind. For only then will true, balanced logic be attainable.
[night] An inky black ocean rolls softly beneath me. The sky a splatter painting of stars, bright pinwheels of pure light among a field of darkness. Water mirrors sky, and sky mirrors water, the rolling waves picking up a deja vu image of the stars above. Miles above the atmosphere, the darkness is permanent, stretching on infinitely, while beneath the silky surface of the ocean, blackness also reigns, hosting shady canyons and rippling forests of kelp. Where the two meet, light converges, the tip of the horizon becoming a delicate contact point between ocean chop and crisp air. In that midway point, life thrives, taking in the best of both worlds, feeding off the warmth of the land and soaking in the glow of the moon and the cool touch of water simultaneously. This is where dreams collide.
[if] What if, when we packed up to go somewhere, we just never came back? What if we loaded up our duffels, charged our iPods and phones, grabbed some reading and the camera, and just bailed? We’d lock up the house, get in a cab and never look back. The house would sit there, waiting, once so full of life, now dark and quiet, patiently wondering if its inhabitants will ever return. Meanwhile, we’re somewhere exotic and far, living a completely different life, away from the LA traffic, from the beach buzz and the gritty inland empire. We could show up two hours early at the airport, board our plane home, and go on living our lives, while the memories from our trip fade away. Or we could just toss that ticket in the roiling Atlantic, watch it flutter off a skyscraper in Singapore, stand in awe as is tumbles down a waterfall in some dark, moist rainforest. Then we live our lives, move on, build ourselves a life in this new environment. Maybe we have to learn a language, struggling as our tongues stumble over commonplace phrases. We try to understand strange metro systems and learn new street names. Frustrated, we stand on a hustling street corner, trying desperately to remember if we should turn right or left. Or we stand high on a vista, blood coursing through us, our eyes scanning a delicious view of vast, open land. Foreign soil, new faces, unfamiliar territory.
Perhaps we move onward, never staying in the same locale for long, hopping from train to train, absorbing new sights and cultures with each passing day. We live off only what we packed; a few sweatshirts, some jeans and shorts, a select few shirts and hardy shoes. Those same playlists repeat over and over, the only constant in our travels. We delve deeper into our books with each reading, gradually unpeeling each layer of a thick novel, drifting gently into the rhythm of good prose. Every morning, the sun rises over a different horizon, providing a fresh view, and new outlook. It’s the endless itinerary.
What if. Our friends and family, they’d wonder. They would send emails, call around, miss us, perhaps. Don’t get me wrong; they would surely feel a void. But as the days dragged on, as that house stood empty, our abscense would become less noticeable. Eventually, we’d fade out, become memories, just names mentioned here and there. “Oh, yes, where did she go again?”
After time, we’d disappear. We’d be very much alive, thriving really, jumping from city to city, from azure lagoons to thrumming city centers, moving lazily down brackish rivers and across barren plains. But to them, to those stuck in the daily cycle, trapped in a whirlwind of work, school, bills, calls, gym…we would be dead. We’d be legends, some wild adventurers off doing God knows what. We would exist only in their minds, having attained an existence they cannot possibly grasp.
It would all be well, never coming home, to pack up, walk out the door. Do you have the strength not to look back?
