The Road Taken
Posted on March 12, 2024
It feels like yesterday, looking down a dark, brooding path diverging ahead. In my early twenties, a tinge of excitement mixed with apprehension, wondering what was around the bend. It’s a feeling we all know: an itch to be scratched – a mysterious dream pushing us to take the first step down a new path.
Leaving the well-lit and comfortable road, we begin a trek into the unknown, metaphorically falling down the rabbit hole.
With my cup of Jordanian coffee this morning, I sink deeper into my chair and ponder the ‘what if…’ of my life.
How would it have turned out had I stayed on the well-lit path I’d been walking?
Reminiscing about the different possible paths throughout life is stimulating. There’s a certain romanticism in convincing myself how I broke free from one existence and ran wild into another. The refrain from Frank Sinatra’s classic – and one many blowhards, including myself, have stolen – I did it my way 🎶
Reading an email from a friend earlier, which included Robert Frost’s poem, The Road Not Taken, was the catalyst that started me thinking of my ‘road less traveled‘ story.
“Why do my friends send me this poem so often?” I wonder and read aloud the last three lines of Frost’s famous poem:
“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
“You really wonder why?” my inner voice replies with a spark. “This misconstrued quote every blogger, Instagram hero, adventurer, and social media addict in the world wraps themselves up in?” The humorous tone sharpens the unspoken meaning ‘of anyone, you should know better…’
A good retort.
It is a relatively simple poem to read and understand; its meaning runs in contrast to those famous last three lines that Frost wrote more than 100 years ago. It’s a piece of art.
Art in humor and reflection. It’s not the road itself, the attraction, but in making a decision and being done with it – move forward without regret on what may have been had you chosen otherwise.
It’s in our nature to reflect upon the ‘what if…’ of life. We want to experience it all, but if we allow ourselves to get bogged down and reflect on what ‘the other road’ could have been, we will never fully appreciate the road we are on. Paralysis by analysis… at times, my worst enemy.
And yes, the beauty of those last three satirical lines takes this poem into another realm for me. This inside joke Frost creates is why his masterpiece is at the heart of American poetry. We love creating stories.
My friend’s email is a humorous poke at me in the same vein. When asked about a decision made at some point in life, don’t we all sigh and wistfully recall, among friends and strangers alike, how, when facing that forge in the road long ago, we sought the one less traveled by, and it made all the difference in the world.
In reality, the decision is somewhat sterile, much like the road ahead. In Frost’s poem, when facing two diverging roads, the roads are similar in nature, and what matters most is to decide. Don’t look back; instead, dive into the journey with abandon.
The decision on what path to take is irrelevant – it’s the journey that defines a life lived. Focusing energy on the adventure ahead, not dwelling on what could have been, builds the thrill of the road less traveled, the thrill of the personal journey.
A little myth-making on our part is why Frost’s last three lines make me smile whenever I read it. Creating the drama of the journey makes it possible for us to say in the end, “Damn right, I made the correct choice,” especially since there is no way of knowing where the other would have gone.
The myth of the road less traveled is deeply embedded in the human psyche, especially in Western culture, particularly in the USA, where there’s a strong desire to be distinct from others and blaze our own trail. This sense of freedom, courage, and imagination instills in us the faith that the path we choose will lead us to our full potential.
The story we create in our mind is a narrative of our emotions, an inspiration of reality to spur us forward. Is it a better story than reality, or could it be reality itself? The human mind is a powerful thing.
The myth, this is the tease – the reason why this poem captures my spirit. It’s only after a decision that the road begins to take shape. The adventure within our mind takes over and thus begins the proverbial “road less traveled.”
Enjoy the ride. Live the stories.
The stories we tell ourselves create our own myths; that’s human nature. Looking back without regret is part of this process, as I am doing this morning, asking myself the titillating question of “what if…” only enhances my story.
What if I decided to stay in Seattle and pursue my career there instead of China? Or what if I stayed in Xi’an or Qingdao instead of heading to Beijing, where a chance encounter led me to Hong Kong and a job I was underqualified for but ran with and watched bloom into something else?
All so I could end up here, in Kamýk nad Vltavou, Czechia.
If there is one thing about Frost’s poem I take to heart, it’s the poem’s soul: decisions are simply decisions – make one and don’t look back wistfully. Instead, get lost in the possibilities and carry the attitude to go forward boldly – and do so with a smile.
The Road Not Taken reflects upon storytelling – how we narrativize life.
If we stay true to our nature, the road is irrelevant. We make life what it is: an adventure, whether on the other side of the globe or in our backyard.
There’s no sense in looking back too often, for it clogs the mind. It’s a killer, a waste of time and emotions. Add regret to the mix, and it can become a downward spiral.
Frost’s poem is a commentary on indecision and regret, with an added humorous poke at the practice of storytelling. It’s a piece of Americana and a piece of the world. Within everyone’s mind is a unique universe on a path to something unimaginable.
To conquer a mountain trail, a beautiful sunrise/sunset over wheatfields, or simply the feel of another. All pieces of a noteworthy life. A decision that leads to a road less traveled – for it truly does make all the difference in the world.
Enlightenment in Wadi Rum
Posted on January 8, 2024
“How I love the water. The sound of seagulls, the rhythm of the waves, the feel of diving in with the coolness rushing over me.” I say to no one in particular, lost in thought and dreams.
“And in front of you, this certainly isn’t the shores of Puget Sound or your wheat fields of Pendleton…” her voice slices through the morning’s opening glow of the sun’s rays. Her words wake me from my trance with desert sands shifting in the wind. Her voice is familiar but not… more rhythmic, accentuating. This subtle change creates a flow of electricity to my ears.
Her Arabic melody and the scent of exotic spices further tune me in that I’m far from home.
There is something magical about being on foreign soil. “In the first days in a strange new land, awaken beasts in us…” I mutter, a lyric from Snow Patrol’s song, Life on Earth. I look into her eyes and am comforted.
From her silhouetted face come proverbial words, “The truth of every dawn holds new dreams, new opportunities for the day ahead…” I gaze at her, noticing a perceptive change, but I know Ranya well. I wonder if she is the truth of today’s dawn.
The welcomed warmth of the rising sun lifts my spirit. “I’ve dreamt about trekking in Wadi Rum for as long as I can remember,” I blissfully state. “I suppose it’s the adventures of T.E. Lawrence I read as a kid.” I look up, wondering about the six-hour hike through rock outcroppings, small peaks, and the glorious dunes of the Jordanian desert that lie ahead. It’s a perfect recipe for spending Christmas Day 2023, with circumstances keeping me away from family back in the States.
“Hello, Randall,” my guide Suleman greets me. “Good to see you again…” he looks to his left, and there is a young face aglow with anticipation… eyes shining, speaking to the quest ahead.
Suleman looks a little embarrassed as he explains, “My son will come along with us… he was excited to hear I would guide you today, so he camped out in the jeep this morning, and I couldn’t tell him no…”
His son’s smile lights up, taking me back to my youth and those days of excitement of an unexpected adventure. “The more, the merrier!” I laugh.
I shake his hand, his accented English better than expected, but his introduction is what shakes me: “I am Osama. What is your name?”
My mind freezes. I reply as if on auto, “Er, Randall…” Slowly, my brain processes what he just said. It feels juvenile on my part, but damn. That name triggers a response in me. Anger and resentment flare up within… Did I hear him correctly?
We begin our drive to the base where our hike will begin, and I can’t piece together this young kid, his eager smile strong, eyes glowing, glancing at me every now and then, appreciative of being able to explore Wadi Rum this morning.
It’s one of those smiles from any child experiencing something new, something foreign, and with nothing but great expectations ahead. A shade of embarrassment and disappointment sweeps in. The name. I can’t stop thinking about it… why is this feeling lingering?
“It’s funny, the kid sure has taken a shine to you…” she looks into my eyes. “He gets to practice English and enjoys your sense of humor and adventurous spirit.” Ranya’s mysterious eyes mesmerize me further at this moment as she continues. “You do have a way of drawing people in… an optimist who finds good in the world.”
For the past couple of hours, this kid has been amazing. From the moment we started the hike, he explained every herb and flower we saw along the way – his spirit shining out here in the desert.
“A child’s gift to adults is the ability to look inside our youthful hearts again,” she sympathizes and adds a bit of Rumi, “Youth gives us new dreams to dream…”
“Suleman told me earlier when Osama heard he was going to lead an American on this hike, his eyes lit up,” Ranya muses, and we watch him and his father walk ahead through a small pass. His spirit reminds me of my nieces and nephews when they were young – no fear or prejudices, just a happy curiosity to explore the world.
“He’s a good kid,” she smiles, sitting down on the sand. “The world’s future starts with the innocence of youthful ideas.” With a pause, she adds, “So, if you write about this adventure today, will you use his real name or a pseudonym?”
Her words catch me off-guard and hit deep. I think about how I churned his name around my mind when he introduced himself. Honestly, it was not a pleasant thought. Hearing that name being placed on someone real in front of me is a strange sensation. And to have this someone be a kid with such a smile and spirit. It put my mind in flux…
Even now, I sense my words are still trying to convince myself. “Yes, I will use his name if I write about this day…” I answer, still not entirely convinced of this promise.
Her sigh, meant to be heard, is disappointment at my tone’s perceived lack of sincerity. “It’s a common name in the Middle East, ” her eyes sear into me. “Common, much like John is common in the USA,” she breathes.
Interestingly, she chose the name John. I have a few great friends with that name, and none were named after John Wilkes-Booth, John Wayne Gacy, or John Hinckley. Another discomforting feeling. My prejudice here is disappointing because this reaction of mine feels so natural and comes from deep within.
I rise from the sand without answering and begin walking to catch up with Osama and his father, aware this prejudice held inside can’t be ignored.
The sand, heavier with every step, resembles how unfounded biases can weigh down a logical world, swirling into depths, unaware.
“There is a Bedouin tradition,” Suleman looks at me as we round the bend, and in the distance, black dots sit in contrast against the sand and sandstone outcropping. “Sharing tea with strangers is in our culture, and my family welcomes you.”
Ahead, I see a small oasis and shepherds with their goats. Patches of green nestle within this desert valley, and after trekking for a few hours, the thought of sitting down to rest is appealing.
We pick up our pace.
Diving into something new, there’s nothing better. And if the water of Puget Sound isn’t available, the next best option is diving into a new culture.
A stream of Arabic is spinning me around. I’m able to distinguish words, but there is no meaning. My eyes are drawn to the activity around a herd of goats. A lot of smiles and discussion, and Osama leads a beautiful black nanny goat to Suleman.
A small laugh catches my attention, and Ranya walks towards me, giving me the rundown. “I told them you would be honored to join them in drinking fresh goat milk tea…”
My stomach flips a few times. Maybe my groan or the shock on my face gives away my true feelings; her hand resting on my arm, she laughs lightly beneath the veil. “I told them there would be nothing you’d like more. Such experiences like this are what you live for… yes?”
In the heart of Wadi Rum, I’m left speechless, watching a father and son team effortlessly corral the goat. Soft desert sand blowing around me.
Sometimes, I find myself gazing at Ranya, an enigma to me. While she is undeniably beautiful, her free-spirited mind attracts me the most. Here in Wadi Rum, she is in her element; her every move and word seem to exude novelty and exploration, and it arouses my courage.
She looks up, her eyes smiling, and then turns towards the Bedouin family. Suleman holds a small metal mug in one hand and begins milking in the other. Osama looks at his Dad and glances at me with a confident smile. And so it begins…
The eyes of the Bedouin, Ranya, and Wadi Rum hold more sparks and allure than I ever imagined. Something new and mysterious, such as this tradition, is unfolding before me.
A fire is built from dead white saxaul roots, and a teapot that has seen better days is filled with tea leaves and placed into the fire. Alongside the container of frothy goat milk awaits.
My first thought is logical for me. I can’t help thinking: what are the risks of getting sick from this tea? “You were thrown from a horse the other day in the hills of Petra, you’ve camped and hiked throughout the Dana Nature Reserve… and now you are concerned about a delicacy of fresh goat milk tea?” her words cut through any worries I have.
I sit beside her, relaxed by the logic. I pull out my camera, look at Suleman’s father, whom I’ve nicknamed Omar Sharif, and nod for permission. He returns the nod and adds, “You are our guest. Please feel free among us.”
The tea is excellent due to the ambiance of where I am and who I am with. Life is often this way – happiness and comfort to be found anywhere with good company.
After enjoying my third cup of goat milk tea, I will only take back the tradition of brewing cardamom coffee, a daily ritual for me in Jordan. But cheers to trying new things!
A chant of Arabic emits from a phone, and everything falls silent. It’s a direct feed from Mecca, and from my days here in Jordan, I know it’s time for prayer. I reach for my camera, and Suleman nods in approval. The group slowly rises to perform their afternoon prayer.
Spiritual people always pique my interest. I admire those who have the dedication to believe in something where the core values promote goodness. As if on cue, the sun flickers through the clouds, and as with prayers worldwide, a peaceful and honest devotion shines through.
Osama receives a signal and stands alone, reciting a prayer. After finishing, he kneels beside his father. It is impossible not to be captivated by the scene. While I’m conscious of taking photos, I cannot help but want to capture the moment.
My camera slides to my side, and we say goodbye to Omar and the family and set off to climb a nearby peak to witness and capture the sunset. Ranya moves closer and whispers, “When walking into the sun, there is no other beauty on earth to hold you back….”
I can’t argue with these words, although I imagine the glow of us all marching toward the peak may come close to matching the beauty of a desert sunset. As the sun’s fading rays signal the end of the day, a predictable undertone of sadness slowly arrives.
Arriving at our Wadi Rum campsite, a few Bedouins we met the day before greet us as we walk in with dinner waiting. Smiling, they ask me if Suleman was a good guide. I remember when I was a kid, and one of my Dad’s friends asked another friend how the hunt went, and he replied, “Well, Rey did OK, but Randy was something else…” and the pride I felt hearing those words.
My reply to the Bedouin is in a similar vein: “Suleman is good, but Osama is excellent.” Amid the laughter and playful agreement with everyone, I can see the pride and happiness in Osama’s eyes.
Suleman asks to see the photo of him and his son, and his reply is gold: “Thank you, we enjoyed today. You were nice to Osama, and he is overjoyed.” Although it may seem simple, I sense that Suleman cherished the day and is proud of his son.
Life is good. Made better by opening up and meeting wonderful people.
I’ve come to a realization about myself and the fragility of human nature. As I age, I’ve learned to accept it, but there’s a risk of developing biases and prejudices within one’s soul over time, silently without us ever noticing. It’s unnerving. Today, Osama taught me a valuable lesson.
As Clint Black sang many years ago, “I’m leaving here a better man…”
The world, for the most part, isn’t black and white. At its core, it’s a simple, peaceful, and perfect shade of everything.
كن التغير الذي تريد أن تراه في العالم.
Pieces of Contradictions
Posted on November 7, 2023
I’m surprised to hear about the new Beatles song, Now and Then… I hate it because it represents all I dislike about over-processed modern music, but I love it because it’s The Beatles.
Back in 1976, after the band’s breakup, Beatles producer George Martin told Rolling Stone his thoughts about a potential reunion, “What happened was great at its time, but whenever you try to recapture something that existed before, you’re walking on dangerous ground, like when you go back to a place that you loved as a child, and you find it’s been rebuilt… ”
Different moods and times of day bring different reactions. Raging at one idea one minute and embracing it the next – we live in a contradictory world. Opinions [people] will scream themselves hoarse from opposite ends of the spectrum. Sometimes, it’s best to avoid confrontation; other times, welcome the sparks flying and accept the challenge.
Shifting views is not new, and something I’ve embraced about myself and is mirrored in those around me.
Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote: “Suppose you should contradict yourself; what then? …Speak what you think now in hard words, and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradicts everything you said today.”
I sent this quote to a friend last week, as she was humbled by a decision made earlier (against advice) and felt terrible. I loved her openness in telling me, and I shared stories where I’ve done the same or worse.
It sucks to be wrong initially, but if you adjust, adapt, and continue to move forward – all while ignoring the clash of unhappy voices – often, the wrong morphs into even greater success. The hidden brilliance: gaining experience in a world where hypocrisy rules. I admire people who can work through a messy situation and transform it into something special.
It’s more than intelligence. It’s the ability to stand apart from the crowd, trust intuition, and move where necessary. A sign of creativity.
Yesterday, I rummaged through an archive of photos taken over the past few years, and a thought struck me: I would likely never view these photos again. If deleted, it would have zero impact on my life.
A terrifying thought as I worked hard for these photos. Yet, it was a refreshing thought, as I’d be free to shoot and write de novo.
How seamlessly I shuffle between extremes: conflicting thoughts and conflicting actions. I never realized how much this paradox of human nature drives me.
Looking through the photos, I wondered, “Where am I most happy?” One place is deep in the wilderness, surrounded by the silence of a night sky, a river of stars overhead. The other is deep in the warmth of humanity, surrounded by the laughter of family and friends ricocheting off a beautiful city.
A summary of my soul. One thought one minute and an opposing thought the next. Battling contradictions can strain relationships, especially the ones that take place within the mind.
The courage to contradict is a part of learning and understanding life. It creates more questions than answers, and as Socrates wrote, the more you learn, the more you realize how little you know.
Photography and writing have been my catharsis over the past few years. Bouncing between globally mandated restrictions, clipping the wings of freedom while blending peacefully with isolation. Freedom to contemplate the world and the swinging inconsistencies of my mind.
Photography allows me to step out and socialize with the world, but peaceful isolation is needed to complete the creative endeavor.
The seduction of color and manipulating light drew me into photography. The synchronicity of this balance clicked, whereas the opposite is true for black and white photography, which I always felt was lifeless.
Conversely, viewing beautiful B&W images of other photographers has always left me in awe of the magic created by these two simple extremes. A black-and-white world can transport me somewhere I seldom go.
Maybe my past work with statistics and quantitative modeling clicked because of my ability to look for contradictions – paradoxes – both correct in a particular setting but impossible to both be correct at the same point in time.
The beauty of photography is that it doesn’t work this way. Under-exposed photos can work just as well as over-exposed images of the same scene. Unrecognizable to each other, each holding a different emotion. A different beauty. Contradiction drives the process.
One group may prefer high contrast B&W – while another prefers low contrast color. One moment, a contrasting B&W shot may capture the essence; the next moment, it is trash, and its opposite is the chosen one…
What does all this mean? I’m unsure, but I beg you to stay with me… From my experience, I believe an artist’s creative process is all over the place, triggered by ambiguities. For me, creating a mess of contradictions sucks, but it’s the beginning – it’s how I’m wired. It’s how life works.
When I shoot, I focus on the lighting and color it creates. In processing, it’s the same. B&W images do not enter my mind.
When I view excellent B&W photography, I laugh at how it mocks me – lost in how I could ever create such a shot. My discomfort runs opposite to my appreciation.
Unfamiliarity with B&W photography pushes me further into the comfort of color photography. It’s similar to breathing. I do not think about it. It just happens. I become consistent with what I am familiar with…
The danger? The next thing I know, I’ve become comfortable with not only color but shooting from one angle, one perspective, and then one style. Refusing to step out of my comfort zone, I dig deeper into a creative rut.
As with photography, life is the same. I can find myself shooting the same consistent shots. Beautiful, but there’s a risk of becoming stale and unknowingly painting myself into a corner. Conforming to the same clichéd ideal in my mind, I sink deeper into consistency, become comfortable, and eventually have nowhere else to go.
“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency, a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance: An Excerpt from Collected Essays, First Series
A switch-up is good now and then.
Relish in the courage to contradict yourself. Become aware of how warped a steadfast belief can be in a shifting reality.
To disentangle myself is to embrace paradox. Reality is full of contradictions. Life is messy.
From all this, I realize I’m obsessed with happiness (Color). I seek it constantly. However, a part of me also savors sadness with equal abandon (B&W). It’s the flip side of what makes life/photography whole. It’s maddening as hell but strangely fascinating at the same time.
Is it a contradiction to love both?
Every day, a new desire. Flow where my mood gyrates, shifting like the weather. Dwell in the moment, not in the past.
I can’t avoid living a life of contradictions. The rhythmic shifting of views forged my character and continues to drive me forward. The noise and criticism are just background clatter, quickly forgotten when madness comes and new opportunities arise.
I admit it’s easier to keep hold of the past. The older I get, the more I move towards this type of thinking. A desire for things to never change from my perception of the idealistic life. To hold onto this myth, the antiquated status quo. Or worse, try to recreate it, blindly ignoring alternatives and cheer with others of like mind.
A dull, consistent, lesser life.
As time passes, I witness a swiftly evolving world, and within this chaos is the urge to settle. I will, of course, continue to shoot in color but dip my foot into the study of the eloquence of B&W. Just as I’ll continue to listen to alternative rock and expand to appreciate country music further.
Continue to find the edge… and fall into it. Second-guess and live an authentic life beyond dreary, consistent mediocrity. Understanding mediocrity is what I define it to be, just as I can define greatness. Simple, over-achieving greatness…
Side note I: Originally, this post was to be a commentary on the contradictory state of global politics and life… however, photography as a political analogy is much more enjoyable. These days, evolutionary politics is a myth…
Side note II: Also, a shout out to my Mom ~ more than a few of the above photos are from the view outside my Seattle flat… sitting in her orange chair, watching the city’s movement where she grew up going by. ❤️
The Stoic Cowboy of Pendleton
Posted on August 17, 2023
Her eyes follow, reflecting a certain admiration and curiosity with his every move.
“Sigh…” she looks back at me with a smile that holds a hint of disappointment… “Damn, these Pendleton cowboys are something. Now I understand why you live so far away from your hometown,” her laughter building. “Not easy living up to Old West versions of Captain America…”
My mind wants to reply, but there’s no rebuttal. On my left, a stylish cowgirl walks by, and the melody of Ian Munsick & Cody Johnson’s song Long Live Cowgirls kicks in. I nod with appreciation and finish the remainder of my whiskey.
“Where Have All the Cowboys Gone… Do you remember that song?” She asks, looking through my photos, mesmerized by the artistry she witnessed in the arena yesterday. Her finger traces the line of the horse and cowboy fluidly, in one motion, as if they were riding in front of us.
She’s tripping back in time, more than a hundred years ago, when cowboys, buckaroos, and wranglers plied their trade. I notice her flush as she falls deeper into the myth of the stoic cowboy… an icon of the past and part of the fabric of the American West.
Little has changed in terms of their rugged image, and while the number of cowboys has dropped over the past 100 years, the spirit and cowboy logic they are known for has fortunately spread.
“You keep referring to the stoic cowboy. What exactly is meant by this?” she asks.
“Well, cowboys focus on things they can control… and don’t waste time on things they can’t. Therefore, they seldom panic. They keep their emotions in check and have confidence in living the best life possible.” I sit, satisfied with my explanation.
“Not bad,” she says. “Stoics concentrate on four main virtues, as do cowboys:
Wisdom: to understand the right thing to do
https://dailystoic.com/4-stoic-virtues/
Courage: to act on doing the right thing
Temperance: to have self-control in action
Justice: to be honest and caring with others
Wisdom is gained by experience. Take action and move on. Cowboys don’t waste time, especially talking… unless tequila, whiskey, or beer is involved.
“If there’s one trait to admire, it’s courage. Rooted in confidence gained by experience, courage is the ability to be wise and compassionate.”
“You shared something similar in an earlier post on West Lake.” She pauses, finds my old post, and continues. “From compassion comes the courage to know and do the right thing. From self-discipline comes generosity – calmness in action. And from humility comes leadership, borne through honesty…” Spoken as if she was the one who taught me the philosophy of the Dao.
“Cowboy logic, yes?”
“Do you consider yourself a stoic cowboy?” She asks, and at first, I think there will be a sharp comment to follow, but I can see this is a serious question to her.
“You are stoic in many ways, but you wear your heart on your sleeve and get caught up in the moment more than most. This sure isn’t the virtue of temperance as with cowboys and stoics…”
Yep, self-control and discipline. Whereas a more stoic person may walk away and live for tomorrow… I often, unfortunately, wake up with something more than just a hangover.
“Let’s just say I’m a work in progress…,” I answer.
I look at the photos of steer wrestlers and agree with some of what she says. The stereotypical view of a stoic, emotionless cowboy has its flaws. Stoics are optimists, and by nature, so is the American Cowboy… why take the risks of raising cattle, moving them on a trail ride, and suffering all that comes their way?
“One of the characteristics I have is being an optimist. And the cowboys of this world are optimists – always taking a confident gamble.” I add, thinking of all the ‘cowboys’ I admire in various careers.
“Take the farmers and ranchers who believe in next year’s crop. The rodeo cowboys who believe in their next ride. And all of us who believe in the illusion of a perfect life so we can enjoy the mistakes made along the way.”
We enjoy life when times are good, buckle down, and work hard when life throws turmoil our way ~ as it always does. Pick up the pieces and move forward.
“Let me guess your next choice of words,” she rolls her eyes. “Cowboy logic.”
It’s late, and as I drift off to dream, the cool night air mixes with my thoughts of the Pendleton cowboy: a balance between stoic and existential philosophy. Stoics use logic to make a better life; existentialists use courage to create a better life. Action, not words, is at the heart of these philosophies.
Take action and recognize the authenticity of beauty that comes with a well-lived life. With this, I dream of catching the sunrise in the wheat fields of Pendleton tomorrow.
Morning comes easy. The crisp pre-dawn breeze feels good hiking through the fields. With a quick climb up a small water tower on the outskirts of town, we lean back and enjoy the scene.
Below, the golden wheat ready for harvest sways in the light breeze. The purple sky and golden hues of the morning sun fill up the space. Life is good.
The cowboy spirit focuses on the true nature of the moment. There is never the need to attempt to control the noise of life. Control what we can, and don’t worry about the rest.
With the sun breaking over the fields, she tosses me her half-eaten apple and asks, “Do you remember when you first went to China? You lost your keys and had to go to the security bureau to get them back?”
The memory comes flashing back, a surreal experience. The expectation was that I’d have to bribe the head of security, either slip them money or a pack of cigarettes, and my keys would reappear. However, I talked with the guard for an hour instead of bribing him.
“Ah, I remember that well.” I smile and look into her eyes.
“Your friends thought it was hilarious when you didn’t bribe the guard, relentlessly chiding you afterward, saying you’d never make it in business because you’re too honest and naive.” She looks to see my reaction.
“They were unhappy about waiting for an hour. They were not impressed even after I exclaimed that I got my keys back without a bribe and an invitation to grab a beer.”
A moment that stands out sharply in my early years in China. “Their minds were set – honesty clashed with the cutthroat business culture in China…” Her eyes reflect the moment when Gao Ling, a quiet and brilliant woman, took me aside later that night and introduced Daoism to my cowboy logic.
“Be true to yourself, and you’ll find others who think the same way.” I smile at the memory, “…and it proved true in China.”
I could be home, sitting on top of a water tower in Pendleton or the other side of the world in China or Czechia, and it wouldn’t matter. My world stays centered as long as I stay centered.
“Take it slow, keep it simple…” I wink and laugh at my well-used mantra. “Find good people to work with. It makes for a simple life.”
“You use the term ‘simple’ a lot,” she shakes her head. “Authentic… this is a better word. Cowboys choose to live an authentic life… not a simple one. Life is not simple.” And she leans forward to watch the sun clear the wheat fields.
This makes sense. Life is not meant to be easy. It takes work and effort. “I agree with you. A cowboy sets an example by living an authentic life…”
“Hmmm,” she ponders this. “It is difficult to bring people to goodness with lessons, but it is easy to do so by example.”
“Wow, that’s deep… well done, especially so early in the morning.” I glance at her in mock surprise. “You just make that up?”
“It’s Seneca, you fool.” She laughs. “You need to read more.”
The next few days are a blur of happiness. Time at home with my parents. Rediscovering my hometown with friends and family. A feeling of belonging.
“There’s something about small-town charm. It doesn’t fit in with the global scene.” At first, I want to say it catches people off guard, this authentic lifestyle of small-town culture.
She wistfully looks around. “Maybe because people from larger cities are more attuned to the ruthless lifestyle of those places, they don’t know how to relate to small-town life.”
“Until they come to such a place…”
Spend time around Pendleton, drop all pretenses, and a new world opens up. Long ago, I heard a saying that still makes me smile. “When meeting people, small town folks say: everyone brings joy… some when they enter and others when they leave.”
I pack up my bags, ready to return to Seattle and eventually back to Czechia – stepping into another world. Par for my life the past couple of decades.
My muse? She checked out a little while ago. One thing all the stories and myths do get right: a stoic cowboy needs time alone. Everyone does.
The great stoic Seneca once said: “Nothing, to my way of thinking, is a better proof of a well-ordered mind than a man’s ability to stop just where he is and pass some time in his own company.”
And such moments are times like this. A beautiful day to sit back and find the wisdom to see where my next step will take me.
I love to reflect on the life of the Old West and the idea of the Pendleton buckaroo I’ve held since I was young. In this modern, technological world, where my work and life are as far removed from the saddle as possible, one thing that remains a constant is the link to the cowboy way of thinking.
My visit to my hometown was full of nostalgia; it felt good to ponder the question of where the small-town culture of the American West is moving.
Perhaps the sole reason for coming here was to draw out my soul and reconcile my views of the world with my youthful dreams. The answer… part nostalgia, but mainly recommitting to the frame of mind of the cowboy. An existential stoic.
I understand my life is not the lifestyle of the buckaroo I dreamt of as a kid. Self-reflection has made me realize what I feel proud of is every friend I know has an appreciation of the people and community around them, no matter the circumstances.
Growing up in Pendleton, I recognize the difference between abundance and ruin for many depends upon a few inches of rain or a few degrees in temperature. Always walking on the razor’s edge, season after season. Without a stoic outlook, you’d go crazy with stress.
Cowboy culture is not going away. Through all changes of time, buckaroos still ride and always will. The thrill of the ride… isn’t that what life is all about?
Let’er Buck!
Many great men in history studied and practiced stoicism. A few: Marcus Aurelius, Montaigne, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Jefferson, John Stuart Mill, Theodore Roosevelt… and the many cowboys we meet daily in our lives.
Let’er Buck: Riding With the Women of Summer
Posted on May 31, 2023
The beautiful blur of grace and speed. A simple photo can’t quite capture the rhythm and flight of imagination these women arouse when they ride. Still, watching them, it is impossible not to feel the electricity, the connection of the dance between the rider and her horse.
A dream to catch, and here begins the pursuit of the Women of Summer.
Wandering around horses and riders, I trade stories and listen respectfully on their day of competition. With poise and a sense of community, I’ve come to understand one thing: in life, these incredible cowgirls utilize their confidence to pursue dreams, and with such a spirit comes admiration of those secure enough to understand embracing a woman’s power moves us to a higher level.
It is a breathtaking sight. And while photos may not do justice to the electricity such women create, it is easy to dream of their rhythm and flight of imagination, which spur me into tomorrow.
Growing up with three strong-willed sisters who love horses, I began to understand one consistent trait of young cowgirls that shone above all others: to be free. Flying high without concern of falling, riding without fear, and doing so with their hair on fire…
The world needs such dynamic women at every level: as leaders in politics, business, medicine, and teaching. Their spirit encourages. We are lifted being around such strong women, savoring their boldness and grace.
It stuns me to think there are still barriers to what women can achieve due to discrimination based on gender. The main reason I find it hard to believe is not that I think discrimination is wrong (I do, for the record… no matter what my sisters say) but because it is crazy for men to sabotage themselves and their communities.
Decades ago, I read a piece by John Stuart Mill, The Subjection of Women, published in 1869 when women were seen as the property of men.
“Equality is critical for solving the world’s problems… the loss to the world by refusing to make use of one-half of the whole quantity of talent it possesses is extremely serious.”
– John Stuart Mill, The Subjection of Women, in 1869
Almost everyone I know today understands and believes in the words of J.S. Mill. It is logical, yet… with the fragile ego of many men, who would rather cut off one’s nose to spite one’s face and go on waging war, they continue to live in a warped fantasy. Ridiculous.
Years ago, I wrote about how acknowledging someone’s ability does not diminish your own. Instead, the confidence in breaking male-dominant beliefs is a sign of strength, and nothing is more attractive than the authenticity of doing the right thing without a second thought.
It is just common sense. The world needs all the leadership and great ideas it can get.
A secure woman and a secure man who understands the untapped qualities of the human spirit can create brilliance and unlock the heart of potential for all.
An example of this is the heartland of the United States, built by the frontiersmen and women who were insightful enough to understand that equality was the only way to survive in the West. By embracing the power and skill of each other, they could thrive.
They did this without question, without fear. Through action instead of rhetoric, they taught their children. As a result, these kids grew up as balanced individuals who created something even more remarkable: a self-feeding cycle of success. Small farming towns across the globe share this same thread of equality, and this is the hope for the world.
I think back to some of my travels overseas to stagnant, repressive societies. Places empty at the core, with male-driven egos paralyzing society by allowing great minds to waste away along with their children’s future.
This is not the way to evolve and better ourselves. Take away the façade of power, especially in business and politics, and there is the natural progression of equality. This is what I now see taking place globally.
Around the world, women have built respect throughout history as the vital key to the success of men.
It is how the “West Was Won” – men and women working as one, united. No room for ego or the subjection of another due to feelings of inadequacy.
In my hometown of Pendleton, behind every successful rancher, farmer, and cowboy ~ there is a woman who has made him the man he is today.
The sense of equality. The quality of two beings, untapped potential when repressed, transforms into a powerful, uniting force when free. This attitude built the world – it is the definition of freedom.
This spirit. This drive. This focus. It forms the backbone of America… the melting pot of brave people and immigrants with a dream. Brave souls, dancing with the devil, entering a new world – their strength: having each other’s back, knowing they can only better their world together.
Growing up, I always imagined that women had courage beyond imagination – to help, to teach, and, most beautiful of all – to have a continuous curiosity to improve the lives of those around them.
It is this curiosity to seek and be better I admire. To borrow from Thomas Hobbes: “Curiosity is the lust of the mind.” It should drive us all.
During the morning of the competition, there were many opportunities to talk with the riders. The conversations were easy and free-flowing. When asked about their life growing up with horses, I’ve never seen eyes light up so quickly.
“When I’m on a horse, there is no question of man or woman… there is only the rider. And when gliding across the arena, heart racing to the cadence of hooves, it’s more magnificent than any thunderstorm ~ and then the goosebumps arrive. In blissful sync with my horse, the sense of reality is lost, and I become a free spirit; nothing can stop me.”
The quiet confidence of a Woman of the West never ceases to impress and humble me. It is a supreme confidence. I noted a quote on one of the rider’s bags by Anaïs Nin, “Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.”
Even today, I can see her smile at the recognition of this quote. A perfect reminder to be courageous every day. Never stop learning, never stop thinking or asking questions. Continue to wonder… always wonder, and feed your curiosity…
Sitting here, I realize every day, women around the world saddle up and give it another go… pushing the envelope just a little more until their dream becomes our reality.
I think of the great women I’ve met in my travels, all so different in their dreams and occupations – yet they ride off, in the same manner, to conquer whatever is on their minds. They do so with a smile that reminds me of an old Western saying, “She’s got a smile that could charm the rattles off a rattlesnake….” It is fitting.
Their rattlesnake smiles hold a jolt of electricity, bringing to mind something I wrote many years ago: “… a woman’s power does not diminish a man’s. Rather when embraced, it magnifies them both.”
We should embrace them all. These cowgirls at the Pendleton Round-Up and women worldwide inspire anyone who dares to take the road less traveled without concern about where it may lead.
They hold independence and freedom most of us dream of but lack the nerve to pursue. These ladies will lead the way to a better world… as always.
Let’er Buck to the Women of Summer!
Cowgirl note: The beautiful Lainey Corbett, above, will soon marry my incredible nephew, Lane Richards, on June 17th, 2023 ~ and I can’t wait to see all the beauty they unfold in life as they begin their journey together.
Paradise Lost and the Existential Quest of Spring
Posted on April 10, 2023
With the turmoil of the world surrounding me, my thoughts are too scattered to collect. Ever-increasing confusion cloud the horizon – twists of facts blurred by the speed of falsehood add to my detachment. I feel compelled to examine reality.
Intense weather, intense news, extreme political rhetoric. Should I wade outside or find a dark corner in my room to hide from this madness?
Distractions. All distractions.
Existential dread is a springtime affliction I experience with increased frequency. This year it’s more pronounced as I sit here staring at my swollen knee… a torn meniscus prevents me from long-awaited spring hikes into the hills of Czechia or heading out on a run to stretch the body and soul after a long winter.
Instead, I sit reminiscing, scrutinizing what lies ahead (and what doesn’t). Contemplating life.
Reality has taken the form of the parable Sisyphus, the mythical Greek man destined to push a boulder up a mountain only to watch it roll back down. And he gets to do it over again, ad infinitum. A bleak reality. A monotonous life… parallel to mine and those I know.
Viewed from the outside, we are but slaves to routines with the macabre void of death waiting for collection at the end. And if you are wondering, yes, these days, I am the life of the party… 🙃
The above photos remind me of my countless trips up and down Mt. Ellinor. And as with Sisyphus, each ascent had the same monotonous steps, albeit with minor variances but roughly similar. As did the days that filled the time between climbs. Hmmm, what is keeping me sane?
Nothing changes. We eat. Sleep. Exercise. Work. Die. It is the abbreviated history of humankind. Spiritually, what keeps us alive? What keeps us striving?
Reviewing past photos of Ellinor, the answer comes in pieces, reflections on what has brought me to this point in life and, surprisingly, to the philosophy of Camus and Nietzsche.
The short answer: Art.
The human mind has an endless appetite for creativity. It observes reality, churns it around the head & heart, and creates its own existence – a world in which to belong.
The question becomes, do we succumb to the chaos we experience daily from the mass of information and give in to the absurd reality fed to us? Put our mind on autopilot and drearily live through the day?
Such questions have become a spring tradition with me, to the point where I classify as an existentialist… with pieces of stoicism, Daoism, and cultures from around the world holding me together.
Add to this dread my swollen knee and wondering if my future Ellinor will resemble the ones of my past, and I wish I had a beer in front of me right now. My Czech friends would laugh at this, as any authentic Czech has at least one in the fridge for such occasions.
Spring, as a concept, is hope itself. And being fooled again by spring is easy, for the silence of winter allows complacency to creep in, and with the Siren’s song of spring echoing loudly, it creates discomfort.
Discomfort is something to cherish and revel in. Wrap yourself up in the existential questions, for to live is to invite stress and difficulties to spur us forward. We need to churn thoughts repetitiously, to the point of madness… and from this existential quest, we find the lucidity of courage.
It’s a love-hate relationship for me with spring, originating from an inherent romanticism since youth… The thought is in spring, I’ll be inspired, in summer in love, by autumn reflective, and by winter, ready to take solace in a year/life well spent.
In reality: it is ‘roll the stone up the hill, watch it roll down’ repeated ad nauseam.
Somehow I fool myself into believing in the comfort of spring’s Siren call – she makes me feel like I could be enough and contribute to her world. I’d say it is a lot like bad TV, rewatching those shows I’ve seen a thousand times… yet, even with the ridiculousness of it all, I rejoice in it. Star Trek, anyone?
Existentialists look to the absurdness of life as a catalyst. Getting sucked into the repetitive void that makes life meaningless is easy. But we have one tool which gives us freedom: the creative mind. In essence, our ability to appreciate and create Art. It allows us to escape this fucking Sisyphean reality.
One of the critical points of existentialism is taking complete responsibility for one’s life. No excuses. Even in Nietzsche and, to a lesser extent, in Heidegger, improving oneself is the minimum of what we owe ourselves (and thus life).
“What makes existentialism so appealing to me?” I ask myself, slowly getting up from my chair to pace around the room – my obsession with hitting my daily step goal remains strong even while hobbled.
Everyone, at some point, struggles to understand the meaning of life, and for me, existentialism cuts to the core of who I am. It allows me to revolt against what society/politics push my way and sink deeper into exploring my own reality and happiness. It kickstarts my creative mind; from this, I can find a slice of Heaven in this crazy world.
And what is this Heaven I mention? I seek one of the more pretentiously beautiful lines of the epic poem Paradise Lost by John Milton to answer this question.
When in such a mood as I am now, I think of my best friend from childhood, Pat Breland, who has been gallantly making great Art even after receiving a terminal cancer diagnosis in March. This quote fits well:
“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.”
– Paradise Lost, Book One, lines 242 – 270 by John Milton
Throughout my life, I leaned on the ideas Pat taught me growing up on what it is to be great ~ he lives life artfully, in all respects. His music, family, and optimistic outlook create a world where he thrives. Having one of the highest IQs of anyone I’ve ever known also helps.
Take the beauty found in the world, assess it with an inspired mind, and craft it into a life desired.
Unexpected shifts in life happen; losing one you love fuels hope in memories. A loss of hope; I cannot imagine life without it.
Throughout his life, Pat demonstrated that the ability to make his own reality and build meaning is where the power of Art lies.
The flexibility of the mind is the most incredible power an individual has. An agile mind can warp itself in any shape to reconcile reality with what it is focused upon. It could be happiness, misery, or a depressed void.
We can be mired in misery yet find a way to make it feel like Heaven.
Art allows pathways to find this Heaven and find happiness. No matter how badly I may feel, I can inevitably find a way to make myself the hero of my own story, recreate myself and find a Heaven within, regardless of what Hell reality throws my way.
The mind is powerful enough to adjust to any situation. Within us, we have a paradise more incredible than the Garden of Eden.
Reflecting back on these beautiful hikes, like Camus’ Sisyphus, I am not crushed by the hopelessness in my situation; I’m liberated by it. There is true freedom and happiness in the face of this illogical world.
Every hour, every second of the day, arrives the same Sisyphean choices we all face. And excitement comes from the revolution of Art and imagination inside to take us somewhere special.
I will escape with an admonition of Soren Kierkegaard: Life is not a problem to be solved but a reality to be experienced.
The words of great philosophers of the past are elegant in thought. There is a certain desperate beauty in feeling lost during our existential quests. Being lost allows us to put life into perspective – it is how we find ourselves.
The artful mind can take us to places the most beautiful scenes in nature cannot. It can reveal pieces of the human soul that are not easily understood, giving us a glimpse into infinite possibilities.
Art is not an imitation of reality but a way of expanding upon it to grasp new meanings of who we are.
Art is the brilliance of the human mind, to go beyond the beauty of nature and uncover an alternate reality. This is how humans continue to evolve and find answers to the universe and each other.
It is love. It is kindness and care for those with passion. It is meaning.
West Lake Culture of Romance
Posted on February 6, 2023
上有天堂,下有苏杭
There is heaven above, and Su-Hang below… and it is here in Hangzhou, China, where I returned after a three-year absence.
Truth be told, this was the heaven I needed after the past three years. Eight days of quarantine bliss, where the only voices I had to deal with were my own. A perfect recipe to re-enter a country where I had spent much of my adult life.
Speaking of perfect recipes, the first meal in my room: DongPo Rou 东坡肉, a famous Hangzhou dish named after the great Song dynasty poet Su Shi. And for someone who doesn’t get poetry, I sure spend a lot of time trying…
Su Shi’s poem: Drinks at West Lake through Sunshine and Rain (饮湖上初睛居雨) has significance, as it was written about Xi Shi, one of the four beauties of ancient China, and West Lake is said to be the reincarnation of her.
“The shimmer of light on the water is the play of sunny skies,
The blur of color across the hills is richer still in rain.
If you wish to compare the lake to the Lady of the West,
Lightly powdered or thickly smeared, she is the best.”
~ by Su Shi 苏轼 (1037-1101), aka Su DongPo
Returning to Hangzhou set the stage for one of those magical moments that pop up in life, where once again, the only thing is to relax, step into something new and see where it goes.
Decades ago, as a young man, I was told when the moon was just right late at night, the swaying willow trees of West Lake would transform into a beautiful goddess. I imagined her to be the ancient beauty Xi Shi.
Poets and lost souls would become enraptured by the sight of her alongside the lake and willows, and with imagination, it was almost possible to touch heaven.
There were many drunken nights where I stumbled around the lake, only to wake up humbled by the morning sun and a mouthful of willow leaves…
With this memory, my first stop out of quarantine was easy, visit West Lake to chase the ancient Chinese beauty Xi Shi once again. This myth I’ve been pursuing for the past two decades.
For most Chinese, visiting West Lake is something one must do, just like in ancient times: to experience West Lake is to experience the epitome of Chinese culture.
Poets, artists, and lovers flock here to live through the stories from Song dynasty greats comparing Xi Shi’s beauty to the lake. One famous Daoist philosopher, Zhuangzi, wrote about her entrancing beauty, including her in a renowned idiom: 沉鱼落雁 ~ Upon seeing Xi Shi’s reflection in the water, fish would forget how to swim… Fortunately, I am a pretty strong swimmer.
During the month I spent in Hangzhou, it was impossible to walk around the streets without imagining I was in the Song dynasty, around me a blend of achievement while not forgetting the Daoist nature of compassion and being one with nature.
Over its 2,100-year history as “the Heaven on Earth” for its culture, beauty, and romantic feel, Hangzhou and West Lake have fueled many dreams.
In times we have now, where the world is spinning wildly with epidemics, war, politics, and challenging business, it is good to have a place to escape to, to wrap ourselves up in the culture of romance.
West Lake holds the subtle Daoist culture of romance and oneness between man and nature. As cold and calculating as the world can be, Daoist thought reminds us of the flip side: art, culture, and nature to balance our lives.
West Lake is where Lao Zi’s philosophy of Daoism impacted my life, specifically part of verse 67:
我有三宝，持而保之。
一曰慈，
二曰俭，
三曰不敢为天下先。
慈故能勇；俭故能广；不敢为天下先，故能成器长。
Lao Zi, Dao de Jing, verse 67
I have three treasures of the Dao to hold and protect.
The first is compassion.
The second is self-discipline.
The third is humility.
From compassion comes courage. From self-discipline comes generosity.
From the humility of putting others ahead comes leadership.
The advice is rooted in simplicity, which contradicts today’s modern world. We often wish to have a simple, enjoyable life, but in an age of hi-tech, where everything comes at increasingly fast speeds, we are forced to react just as quickly and move at such a pace.
We work with technology all the time, and it is easy to forget that in between all technology is human interaction. Human interaction requires compassion; it is where love is derived, and we build relationships that guide us into becoming better people.
Compassion creates a deep-seated love, giving us the courage to defend all that is good in the world. It is the creed of a great society and great people, and I do not know anyone who would not do anything to defend what they love.
At the end of the day, if there is no compassion, there is nothing.
My West Lake journey was a perfect reminder of how compassion allows people to connect with others and their culture, and from this, happiness takes seed.
Compassion towards ourselves allows us to reconcile with all beings in the world. How can we live in peace if we aren’t at peace with ourselves? At peace with ourselves, we have the self-discipline to be generous, to avoid petty arguments, prejudices, and irrelevant gossip that can veer the spirit from growth.
With a generous spirit and self-will, we broaden our thoughts. Ridiculous biases of the past are tossed aside, and we embrace the simplicity of the world. We develop the patience to be compassionate and seek a greater understanding, a genius.
Genius is not only for the few; it can strike anyone, anytime. All we need is the patience and awareness to let it happen.
Awareness… this is a bit of a problem even with me. Staring at our mobile phones, snapping photos at each moment we see, we speed through life without taking the time to enjoy the calm.
In this world of clicks, likes, and social media influencers, being bold and gregarious are traits we are taught to exemplify. There is not much self-discipline or generosity in this art – where success lacks compassion.
We understand this. See it in existence, and we can all agree that something is missing here. Yet here we are…
The irony of the above selfies and my participation is not lost. I understand the triviality of sharing the world’s beauty at the expense of not fully experiencing it as I should 🙃.
The younger me would shake his head – it’s a delicate balance to manage.
Self-discipline is needed to keep things simple. Simplicity is harder than complexity; it takes effort to think clearly.
Hiking around West Lake, I thought of all the great Chinese and Western artists and philosophers. The one thing they had in common was spending time in nature. It was part of their thought process: hiking up mountains, through fields, or around lakes. Humbled by their surroundings, they developed the discipline to unravel an idea.
Truth cannot be forced. Humility requires self-discipline and patience. From humility comes the inevitable arrival of an answer, a form of leadership. This is a strange contradiction when aligned with the high-pressure, running-with-your-hair-on-fire attitude of the modern world.
Always in a rush, we never get the answer or the spark of genius because we never let the mind relax and “be” which allows us to enjoy hidden smiles to brighten up an evening.
In this world where everything happens instantaneously, it is easy to forget we are on a humble journey. Our current evolution of having an attention span of a gnat creates superficial happiness at the expense of depth – the expense of developing emotional roots in our own lives.
I’ve mentioned this before in my writing, and again I am amazed at how important the words my sister, Sandi, wrote in a journal she gave me over twenty years ago: “Take it slow, keep it simple.” In essence, be humble.
I often forego this simple tenet, but I understand the importance of reflecting on these words… take a deep breath, roll back time, and start again.
Taking a deep breath helps when I lose sight of the simple joys life can bring and how easy it is to accomplish by sitting down and enjoying the harmony of life.
Modern life appears not to appreciate humility or simplicity. But nature does not care what kind of car you drive, what phone you use, or the diamonds and pearls you wear… Instead, sit next to a lake, stretch out on the soft grass with friends, and watch the magic of a setting sun. Nature by your side.
Without the basics of compassion, self-discipline, and humility, it is impossible to achieve the potential of who we are as humans. To over-achieve and find happiness in the simplest of things.
West Lake still holds magic for me. Its history and beauty, and the romance of culture it creates. It is where I fell for my favorite verse of the Dao de Jing. It is at the heart of who I want to be. To become.
I suppose this person is someone Xi Shi could be impressed with, and just maybe, if I can become such a man when I ascend to heaven, I can sit with her and have a cup of tea… or perhaps 一杯白酒.
When one is humble, one can be brave.
* Special thanks to my niece Miu Miu Qiu who helped with the photos, and Happy Year of the Rabbit to all on this Lantern Day Festival.
The Edge of Autumn
Posted on December 1, 2022
“A pathway into autumn… I like this. It’s how I envision the fall.” She turns and flashes me this image. It is one in a series of autumn shots around Kamyk nad Vltavou in Czechia, taken on my last hike in October.
She leans back into the pillow, continues to flip through the photos, and stops when she comes to a poem I had written in the spring but tossed away. She reads it out loud:
The sorrow of her tears – rains of nourishment
The tease of her smile – flowers in bloom
The softness of her breath – causes me to catch mine
Unrequited love, it’s the rejection of Spring
Hurts like hell but shouts to my soul: I’m alive
I cringe. Not only do I suck at poetry, but I don’t get it for the most part. Still, I can’t help trying. Sometimes I hear a set of lyrics or a poem and dream of writing something as beautiful just once.
Her laughter breaks my thought. “In the spring, these words could have brought tears to my eyes. Now, they make me laugh uncontrollably.”
I join in her laughter. There’s no hiding her honesty.
As with my fool’s errand of writing poetry, 2022 has been a year where I’ve felt the edge more than ever. From the beautiful chaos of Czechia, returning to nature in the States, and now in Hong Kong, preparing for my journey behind the Great Firewall of China and its shroud of quarantine.
This edge is a dichotomous path. Either I fall into a deep abyss with no retreat or, with a touch of hope, fall into another realm of a brilliant universe.
“You are looking forward to China, aren’t you?” She asks, knowing the answer. She understands the stress and the friction of contrasting thoughts.
Is the world moving too quickly, or am I moving too slowly? I feel the friction grow.
“Friction is what life is all about, and I can help you understand this. It’s within the power of a muse.” She winks, “We can bend time and alter perception – it makes life more interesting. All I ask is for you to take me to the edge… to see the realm of possibilities.”
“Cheers to your genius. Teach me to bend time and perception, and I’m yours. By the way, why have you shown up now? I’ve so much to do?” Surprised by the tension in my voice.
Peering at me, she says, “You fascinate me. I’ve bounced around, mused for women as well, but working with men is so much easier… and this is my true feminist nature speaking.”
“I agree, men are superior,” trying to finish my packing, I look up with humor,“…and this is my feminist side speaking.”
“I miss the springtime you.” She wryly adds, “you were nicer back then.”
“Ah, yes. The spring me. The spring is an idealistic, crazy, and happy time,” I retort. “Autumn suits my cynical older age.”
A flush of images sweeps past, each taking me away to a different time and feeling. The photos reflect an autumn to remember in Kamyk nad Vltavou. Magic all around, everywhere in this beautiful land.
The season has been kind to me. A time when I usually exhale and begin to wind down for winter. This year, it’s the freshness that surprises me. I envision a fascinating new world in front of me, cloaked in fog – an invitation to a new adventure.
Her words break my spell. “I’m fascinated because we walk the same trails and view the same countryside… but you photograph a world I don’t see.” Her eyes want to say more but stop at a simple question. “Why is that?”
I ponder this, twirling her words around the universe I hold inside my head, blown away at how infinitely more complex and intriguing the universe she hides in hers.
Everywhere… we walk, bumping into strangers who hold insights within their universe but we are too caught up in ours to notice. We all seek our edge, curious about its potential but fearful of going one step too far.
The scene of Hong Kong glistens from my window. This is where life diverged for me – I jumped in head first, leaving one life behind. Maybe this is why I see the world differently.
Rhetorically she asks, “Since you are not answering, I’ll ask a different question. Do you know what makes you special?”
I can feel myself tighten up and ask, “What’s that?” Expecting another quip.
“You make my heart beat sideways…” She swings her legs down, zips up the last bag I have packed, and walks to the door.
In a typical state of confusion with her, I ask, “Sideways?!?”
That delicious laugh of hers. “Well, the first time it happened, I thought it was indigestion, but then I realized you bring out something special. A spice that makes the world a bit better even with the tragedy you call poetry.”
She runs her hands straight through me. “This mythical edge, it’s where the heart beats sideways… the sense of being alive.” Time stops, my perceptions change, and she teases, “This is what fascinates me.”
This edge I wrote about earlier in the Czechia spring, this edge of hope, of fear… the edge of something spectacular.
“How to describe?” I look and her, trying to verbalize being seduced by the edge, this ultimate point of friction. Action is required: retreat and survive or pursue and risk it all – rare moments to wake up the soul.
I try to recite the appropriate Hunter S. Thompson quote from the past but fail. “It’s the greatest mystery out there.” I muse, “Those who understand the edge have gone over it, never to return, so no one knows. It’ll always be a mystery.”
“You may think I’ve seen the edge, but no. When I feel it, I can’t run away fast enough.” The disappointment in her eyes makes me chuckle.
This is the beauty of friction. It protects us from going over the edge; it connects us – it slows us down. Creates heat. Creates life. Our bonds become stronger over time, and the increased friction slows us so we can make better decisions.
My worry? The physics of friction will inevitably grind me to a halt.
She recovers from her disappointment to ask, “Who is happier? A soul who dives into the chaos of life and lives through a series of adventures, or takes the same seat every day, watches the world pass, and simply exists?” She lightly taunts me.
My immediate thought is to choose the adventurer, but a stoic also realizes it takes all types of courage to face the unknown regardless of risk. Whether it’s a stereotypical life of an accountant, which society paints as safe and secure, or an adrenaline junkie’s fix to risk body and soul. Both hold the courage of life to be proud.
“It depends if I’ve had my coffee or not…” I linger. “We have courage in different measures based on our circumstances. The beauty of all those different universes floating in the minds of those we bump into daily hold pieces of the answer.”
“The edge, the edge, the edge…” She pouts. “Take me there!” laughter again erupting.
“This mythical edge, I have no idea if I’ll ever see it, and I like the idea of it being just out of reach.” I sing along with Nick Cave as I grab my bag and head for the door, the lyrics from my demon muse churning in my mind.
One foot out the door, and these are the goodbyes that make leaving Hong Kong difficult. I feel myself blush as she closes the door. In doing so, as intended, she has opened another.
I am off, my soul plowing through quicksand as the world moves further ahead.
What’s this? My heart… it’s beating sideways. I smile at the idea that this may be indigestion.
Summer in the Sierra Mountains
Posted on September 18, 2022
With effort, I slip through the early morning fog, my mind elsewhere. One step, then another, my thoughts floating back to the Sierra Mountains ~ a youthful spirit riding and climbing versus this old soul shuffling out the door. A few hours later, I fold into a seat on a flight back to Czechia, the morning haze beginning to lift.
It feels more difficult to leave the States than in the past, but there is also a twinge of excitement. What awaits me on my return to Kamýk nad Vltavou?
The Czech writer, Franz Kafka, summarizes my mood: “Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty will never grow old.” This quote relaxes me, for I know whatever lies ahead, I’ll find beauty… and with it, a rekindled, youthful spirit.
I’ve realized when things are a bit off, life a bit monotonous, I need to jump off my path and stretch my body and soul into something unknown. This summer, the jump ended up on the back of a beautiful paint horse, Hero, and I made my way through the John Muir Wilderness.
Thinking of those days in the saddle, I still feel the shock to the system, but the aches feel good… and sadly, being on horseback is far removed from my current reality of a cramped airplane.
While part of me appreciates the repetitiveness of life, for stability should never be underestimated or undervalued, such moments serve more as a time to recharge for the next moments of chaos: fuel for the fire of life.
Energized and exhausted defines not just my physical and mental state right now; it signifies the beauty of contradictions found throughout life ~ memories of each bittersweet moment, from the familiar to the foreign.
The minute I begin to feel the world closing in on me, I feel most alive… my heart begins to beat a bit faster in anticipation of the inevitable quark to catch my eye. A new opportunity. A moment to create a new reality. A chance at freedom. A chance to stretch the soul.
A misunderstood gift in life is when the comfortable path vanishes, and an untamed wilderness lies ahead ~ there is no choice but to struggle, push forward, and create. This discomfort is the brilliance of life. Reveling in the challenge to succeed and, in doing so, defining a new reality.
It is how I found myself in the Sierra Mountains, sauntering through the John Muir Wilderness, living out the stories dreamt of in my youth.
There was a bit of déjà vu riding through Mono Pass at 12,000 feet. Decades ago, this place was the playground of my Dad. The above brochure was from the Mineral King Pack Station in 1959, and the kid holding a golden trout caught in one of its majestic streams is my Dad.
An adventure he re-lived many times with stories when I was young, his excitement today as pure as it was sixty years ago. He also took pack mules in, hiked the same wilderness, and sought adventures long before I existed.
Peering back in time, perhaps not to the extent of the awe-inspiring photos of the James Webb Space Telescope and the universe billions of years ago, but rather a more humble review of the old & new photos of the Muir Wilderness; its essence is still unchanged. The same wilderness, scenes, and descriptions my Dad had experienced a half-century earlier.
Sharing our stories, we were both kids again for a brief moment. Time: past, present, future – irrelevant. Our two realities intersected and conveyed the enchantment of the Sierra Mountains.
“The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.” ~ John Muir
In a small opening of the forest with the universe overhead, awed by the immense beauty spread out in the tapestry above, I took in the significance of my insignificance.
It reminded me of a two-thousand-year-old quote by the Stoic Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius: “Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars and see yourself running with them.”
If I can do this, I’ll forever be young, making my way through this universe.
Pulling lessons from poets and philosophers of the past?
Re-living adventures dreamt as a child?
For me, a perfect recipe for reflection. A chance to run with the stars, chase ghosts through the Sierra Wilderness, and find truth in the summer of ’22. Distractions of a modern world severed and instead the silence of the wild…
Move at the pace of the Sierra is a piece of advice I took from Muir’s writings. Move at the pace of the streams, the breeze, the trees. Feel the freedom of silence. Freedom from society. Freedom from work and freedom from the avalanche of social media ~ links tying us to the modern world.
It is impossible not to get sucked into the inane reality of modern life. The rush of society can be as addictive as the quiet of nature. Where technology wraps its coils around the mind, chains bound to false realities – nature’s silent flow allows thoughts to percolate.
The Sierra Mountains are a perfect respite.
John Muir wrote of the Sierra Wilderness: “Keep close to Nature’s heart… and break clear away once in a while, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.”
Shifting in my seat, there is solace in reading these words. My thoughts are more precise and balanced. I’ll delve back into this modern, technological world with this added confidence.
“The mountains are fountains of men… The great poets, philosophers, prophets, able men whose thoughts and deeds have moved the world, have come down from the mountains… ” – John Muir
The week in the Sierra Mountains reverted my soul to its youthful ideals. There is so much good in the world, allowing for a constant evolution of a mind, life, and reality to be proud of.
“Our life is what our thoughts make it.” – Marcus Aurelius
This is one of my favorite Stoic quotes, for Marcus Aurelius transformed his character, behavior, and entire way of life with this simple idea. He understood that the present moment is all we ever have, and it’s within ourselves to create our happiness.
Sometimes I sit both amazed and confused about how words written millenniums ago can hold such an objective and straightforward truth… a simple meaning, yet challenging to put into practice.
If we can see beauty, as Kafka said at the beginning of this post, we’ll never lose our youthful optimism. Our thoughts create a reality where we can touch our dreams.
I kick back and reflect on the beauty in my life. The reality I’ve created will no doubt evolve into something different tomorrow, but at least for today, I am happy. My past, present, and future are harmoniously aligned, with a youthful spirit set to search for beauty no matter what lies ahead.
With the images of the Sierra Mountains etched deeply in my mind, I close my eyes, sensing a new path and reality will soon come into focus.
* Side Note: A thank you to Peruvian philosopher Pamela Estevez for alerting me to this great opportunity!
The Melancholy of a Czech Spring
Posted on May 30, 2022
Spring inspires. Her enthusiasm reflects the warmth of sunshine and I cannot take my eyes off her. A flash of her wry smile and I’m slowly lured in…
For me, the season of spring is the innocent version of Eris, the Greek goddess of strife. When the weather turns warm and life becomes comfortable, she arrives with one goal: to weave a web of discord. It’s my home for the season. Her laughter, the wind. Her tears, the rain. Her thunder, to be avoided at all cost.
An unperceptive shift in mood and the tranquillity of the day explodes… her warm breeze shifts into high gear and my well laid plans scatter throughout the Czech countryside. All is lost and the dance begins. The electricity of her breath fires every neuron and it’s no longer possible to quiet my desires.
This Czech spring demands my attention.
Her unpredictability is her essence.
Around the world, spring has always inspired reflection, growth, a bit of the human spirit spurring us back into life.
Personally, I enjoy the havoc of spring as long as it’s from a distance. This year, however, she has drawn me out. She has shaken me ~ a Czech country girl making my uncommitted soul rethink its allegiance.
Weighed down by the world, she breathes life back into me. She’s my lifelong crush and we’ve developed this springtime ritual: a ridiculous dream sequence destined to end in disappointment. Heartache with such gravity nothing can escape, and to be honest I don’t want to leave.
Sigh, she holds a seductive spark of the unknown. Something I’ve always been intimidated by yet at the same time drawn towards. A moth to a flame, so the story goes.
Cannot deny her spirit, after all the ability to bring the dormant back to life, to revive a soul wasting away under a blanket of snow. She does the impossible.
Watching her wash over the world, I always wish to be at my best and with this she inspires. I want to be good. I want to be better. I want to speak her language.
There is never a time where she doesn’t have me soaring in ecstasy or drowning in agony. There is no other season which holds so terribly an awesome power.
She leads me along the razor’s edge, between the bliss of renewal and the crackling energy of the unknown. Laughing as she pushes me one way and then the other. This mythical place she calls home, where life begins to tingle. The edge of hope, edge of fear, edge of something spectacular.
Bliss of a comfortable life or the thrill of an adventure. There is no choice, I feel her tickling my heart…
I run in the rain. Run up a mountain. Run the stairs at work. Why? Simple. She inspires. To be something more, every day a little more.
A memory of a Seattle spring long ago: a billy goat standing on top of the world. The youthful me bounding up alongside the mountain as well ~ sharing in something peaceful and perfect.
“Ignore the inevitable heartache and continue the climb, take the miracles as they come.” I can hear the younger me shouting at the current me collapsed somewhere below on the trail.
She is passion built upon an undercurrent of melancholy, a paradox of love and rejection dancing as one. Never knowing where one begins and the other ends. While it is foolish to take such risks, it would be more foolish not to revel in this spark of glory while it exists.
Sacrifice? Just continue to walk the razor’s edge between agony and ecstasy. Spring is the wildness we all need.
The melancholy of spring is not easy to become addicted to, but of course I find a way. While she brings in the new, I hold onto the past: the hope to revive the flicker of lost love. An ancient myth.
She offers to sweep away this paralysis, to lead me from the darkness of winter and into the blinding light of a new world. It’s long overdue to slip on my Ray-Ban’s and get moving.
Her brilliance is in the turbulence she creates. There is no better motivator than dealing with strife and moving forward. New joys, new pains, a new way of thinking.
Writing about this ridiculousness loosens the vice wrapped around my heart. I wonder if hidden in our DNA is a small desire for self-destruction?
Dipping a foot in this pool of chaos cannot help but sweep a soul along this torrent of reality. Bruising us with the emotions of a real, eventful life. A variety of life from those living the American Dream to those battling for the Ukrainian Dream… and of course all of us in-between. We take risks to build a life we believe in. With support and love, our greatest destiny is obtainable.
This spring is one I haven’t felt in a long time: a little hope, passion, and the anticipation of the crushing melancholy when it ends. It is life on Earth. It is quite magical.
A mistral wind blows, whispering the possibility of love. Spring smiles knowing the nothingness I hold inside will melt away ~ her words igniting the spirit, igniting the soul.
She sends my mind and heart racing. I feel as if I am 15 years old again, and I grimace remembering those dreaded teenage years…
She’ll break my heart, yet here I am as if floating on clouds, not sure if I’ve ever felt better. How can this be explained? She is a fantasy… and in this world, fantasies can come true.
Not following through with the hope spring provides would be tragic. Not just because such opportunities are rare, but because we owe it to ourselves to evolve, to grow. As we grow, those around us grow.
There is a time to be selfish, to want to make our world better and more to the point, make my world better. She’ll understand.
Spring avoids souls who fear death, and my guess, she wishes death for those who fear life.
She is like a cold breath in winter you try to capture in your hands… a reflection on the water or a cloud in the sky, she is simply unobtainable.
Who am I to explain the infinite complexities of Mother Nature, or (based on my track record) try to comprehend the mind of a woman. What am I doing? Her intelligence is beyond my capabilities.
Maybe I’m forever to roam the world, listening for the song of the Sirens so I can pick up my guitar and strum along… if only I had a guitar, and even more embarrassing, if only I knew how to play.
As to the inevitable aftermath of Spring? I’ll leave no more a mark on her soul than a stone thrown into a raging river. This is the sadness.
This morning, with a mug of French-pressed coffee in hand, I find myself looking around wondering where I am… I’d ask how I got here, but frightened by what the answer could be. But damn, I am happy. A “floating on clouds” happy.
The goddess of chaos. My plans ripped to shreds, scattered across the Czech countryside where the warm winds of summer will soon carry them away.
Possibilities of peace? Possibilities of love? Dreams of living with both, reality of living with none?
I’ve been doing that for a long, long time 🙂
May peace and love be with everyone during these final days of spring ~ and follow your spirit, follow your spring, to wherever the path leads.
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