On Ticking Clocks and Unseen Places
Escapism, to an extent, is healthy, if you ask me. But then I'm not sure why you'd ask me. I'm not a psychologist, counselor, or even a particularly smart guy. But I do have a job. And a mortgage. And bills, and college to pay for, and meetings and, most importantly, a family - which is the only reason I pay the slightest attention to any of the other things on the list.
I'm guessing I'm not alone.
When I have some freedom, I like to spend time with my wife and kids. Wherever we are together, is my favorite place to be. With two sons in college, and a daughter right behind them, those times we're together are few, far-between, and more valuable to me than all of the treasures in all of the strongholds on this planet. But every once in awhile, circumstances align with a gnawing sense of unwelcome captivity in my soul, and I head west.
Far enough west that the rivers and streams begin to run clear, and the clean, cool air tinged with the smell of pine takes the place of the sweltering humidity and hordes of gnats and mosquitos that characterize deep summer in my corner of the world. I get there any way I can. I've flown, driven...I'd walk if it was my only option. The mountains just have their own song, and it's one to which I can't stop listening.
By far, though, my favorite way to get there is astride a motorcycle. The Rockies are a thousand miles from my home. Too far? Not for me. That's just the right distance to let my head clear on the way there. To heighten the awareness of my surroundings, while allowing a building sense of anticipation of what is yet to come. To feel the cool air of the lowland corn fields and see the mist gathering on the farm ponds in the evening. Feel the wind across the trees as they give way to the vast plains, where the same wind, stronger now, sends waves upon rippling waves through the endless grasslands. Feel the engine gain a few revs as the distance above the level of the oceans slowly, almost imperceptibly, begins to climb. Smell the soil, and the water, and then the sage.
And then that moment - I've experienced it with the same sense of pure excitement since I was a kid in the back seat of my folks' old station wagon - when you see the snow-capped peaks. At first, you're unsure whether they're clouds, maybe a mirage. But then any lingering doubt is erased, as the massive jagged slopes - at once ominous, terrible and beautiful - begin to come into view.
Is it possible that something so majestic came into being solely because of some random, tectonic movement? Not a chance. They were created. Someone with an eye for grandeur and a wildness of spirit caused those plates to shift. You won't convince me otherwise. Anyone with a love for the mountains knows it, too. Why do some have such a deep and abiding attraction to them? Why such a sense of home, of belonging, of place, if they're just simple rock, thrust upward by pressure?
Because they aren't just simple rock. They were purposely sculpted to their towering heights, and painted over with mystery and wonder. Among them lies stories by the fire, hand-tied flies and trout. They teem with screaming hawks and quick, agile foxes, red fur glowing in the dappled sunlight on the edges of the pine forests. And Elk. Giant elk with beastly, sweeping antlers, bugling plaintively as the sun drops into it's place below the hills. It's magical. The sheer solitude speaks loudly of things unseen and otherworldly beauty. But it whispers something deep into my soul. Something I can never really grasp, but that leaves behind a sense of longing and a thirst for more.
But you know what's strange? As many times as I've been there, as much as I know how I love those wild places, there's always a thought creeping into my mind just before I leave that, you know, maybe I just shouldn't go. I'm an adult, anyway. I have obligations. Besides, I'm awfully tired. I could use a few days to just sit around. And the money, as always, is in short supply and high demand.
In other words, there's never going to be a perfect time.
There will always be one more thing whispering to you to stay put. Don't upset the status quo. Just stay where you are. It's easier, after all, and probably more responsible.
But when you make yourself head out the door, it always ends up being better than you dreamed. And often, it unfolds in a completely different way than you expected or planned. Fear stops us sometimes, I think. But it's usually not the obvious, clawing type of fear. Instead, it's the fear that says we may get unsettled. Spending time chasing thunderstorms, and standing below crashing waterfalls, makes it impossible to feel nothing. We can't remain neutral. Outside of our four walls and a window, are things that remind us of how small we really are. Of how most of the things we chase through the workweek are relatively insignificant. It makes us uncomfortable, because it forces us off of autopilot, and out of the numb shells we build for ourselves. And we are programmed to never appear vulnerable or unprotected. By definition, being uncomfortable is, well, not comfortable. At all costs, we never want to consider the thought that something about us needs changing.
Nothing worthwhile, though, however small, comes from settling. No great ideas were formed by spending more hours in front of mindless television shows. Don't wait until you feel rested, or brave, or motivated. That day never comes. Go in spite of not feeling those things.
Go precisely because you don't feel those things. Now. Set a time. A week from Wednesday. Do it.
My enjoyment of time is often at it's highest in the wilds of the west. Yours may be elsewhere. In fact it's probably elsewhere. We all march to different drummers, and widely-varying experiences make each of us come alive. Do that thing. That thing you've wondered about. That thing you've always wished you could do, but never made the time.
Life is short, and as anyone who has passed 40 can tell you, it speeds up as it goes. Don't waste another second. Go live. Stir that fire, just a little bit, that allows you to have hope again. Will a single trip change your life? Who knows? At the very least, it will give you time to reflect, think, change direction if necessary. It will help you refine your course if you've got one, and set one if you don't.
And at worst, you'll have had something that timidity and apathy and depression are trying to prevent you from ever knowing about. Something terribly dangerous to them. Something that could cause everything they've worked for to be undone:
Adventure.