Falling Through

As I opened my eyes, the morning twilight greeted me through my balcony door. Full of excitement, I immediately jumped out of my bed and ran across my studio to peer outside: SNOW!

Now I've had bad luck lately with snow. Snow caused me to miss my flight to Japan from Little Rock. That was one less day with Nanami. Snow also caused me to sit on the tarmac for 5 hours at Narita Airport. That was just downright painful. But I still love snow. It possesses this enchanting aura that wipes everything clean and suggests new possibilities, new hopes, new adventures. And that is what I started thinking of that morning: adventure.

My friend Frank and I had already planned to go hiking this morning. I quickly packed my gear (trekking poles, gators, water, food, and a few extra clothes for an emergency) and ran over to his apartment. He, too, was glowing with anticipation to be out-of-doors, and I told him to hurry and finish up packing as I went back to my place to get my guide book, and that I would meet him in my car.

We slowly made our way towards South Reno, and then turned west to head up into the foothills of the Sierras. The access road to the National Forest was about a foot deep in icy and compacted snow, so we parked along a neighborhood street and walked about a mile to the trail access point. Unlike the valley in which I live, there wasn't much fresh snow here--only the frozen snow of past storms. This snow had fallen as lush, soft powder, but out here in the Sierras, the hot sun and the warmer temperatures melt the top of the snow, and the low, dropping temperatures of evening, night, and morning re-freeze it, creating a thick layer of crusty ice that you can, usually, easily walk upon without snowshoes.

We made it to the trailhead and started walking along Lower White Creek. We were shielded by soaring Pines and smaller Firs, and the white landscape would at one moment be fully illuminated by the passing sun and at another moment would recede into grey shadows as a small snowstorm swept by.

After walking nonstop for about an hour, Frank suddenly stopped to marval at a "natural bridge" of ice and snow that had formed across the small creek. I backtracked to where he was and also expressed admiration, after which I suddenly said, with plenty of authority to inflate my hiking ego, "You do know that we can totally walk on that, right?" To demonstrate my superior landscape wisdom and my hiking bravado, I proceeded to walk out onto the "stable" natural bridge. Once I made it halfway, Frank began to follow me. I then announced that I would turn back to the bank, making a small circle around the bridge. Just 2 feet from the bank, I stopped to look at Frank and explain that the reason why I hadn't fallen through the ice (yet) was because, with the help of my trekking poles, I had effectively distributed my weight upon 4 points of contact (two feet, two poles). Just then, as our eyes were still in contact with each other, I felt subtle cracks and creaks beneath my feet. "Well pooey dooey," I thought. I braced myself, Frank yelled, and I dropped about 4 feet beneath the shore line.

Now 4 feet doesn't seem like a lot, but when you fall into freezing cold water, you don't give a damn about how far you just fell. All you can think about is the fur of warm, fuzzy rabbits or snuggling in bed with your favorite blanket or roasting chestnuts next to the biggest damn fire you could ever possibly make.

Fortunately, my whole body didn't fall over into the creek--those years of gymnastics that my mom forced me to go to paid off, for I landed on both of my feet. I was also fortunate that the water was only about 2 feet deep, so while my shoes and feet got soaking wet, the core of my body was okay. But I was still shocked--cold feet ain't no fun. If there's one part of my body that I want to protect the most from the cold, it's my feet.

So after Frank finished displaying his major repertoire of expletives, I told him to get off that "bridge" of ice and snow, lie down on the bank, and pull me out of the water. He bravely and expertly performed his rescue duties, and effectively humbled this self-proclaimed "expert" hiker. Of course, Frank didn't have time to snap a photo of me in the creek, but we did eventually take a shot of the place where nature taught Patrick a quick lesson:

Two lessons can be gleaned from this encounter: Sometimes, my friends, we fall through. We fall through the cracks, we get stuck in holes, we fall down. And there are many times when we can do nothing to prevent such a slip-up. We may be overzealously confident about our decisions, our skills, or our immunity to making mistakes, and yet I am confident that this haze of fury that we call 'life' will trip you up in some way. This inevitable falling through the cracks warrants no fear, though. Why should it? Why should we be afraid of slipping up every now and then? What's wrong with wet socks and blue, shivering lips? Perhaps these are the prices we pay for simply being alive. If so, pay that price, and be thankful for being alive! Perhaps these are the prices we pay for going out on a limb, for exploring new territory, for walking across new bridges. If so, then we should definitely embrace the inevitability of these falls, for the only other option is a life of safe, albeit habitual, routine, and nothing withers the spark of life more quickly than unthankful, unconscious complacency. 

The second lesson is this: I might have fallen through a sheet of ice and snow into ferociously freezing waters, but don't forget the second half of the story: I had a friend who jumped ashore next to me, dropped his entire body to the ground, and stuck out a hand of refuge. I first looked down into a rushing torrent of pain and discomfort--"Dear Jesus!" I thought, "I'm gonna die!" (we're often quite hyperbolic right after tragedies such as this). But when I looked up out of my own pain and discomfort, I was greeted by another who was willing to share the weight of my burden. With friends and family, or perhaps with good books and uplifting music, we can get up; we can climb out of those cracks and holes of freezing discomfort. Be thankful for that.

So, I told you earlier that I packed extra clothes for an emergency. Well, I didn't pack extra socks. So we left the woods earlier than I wanted . . . but that's okay, for I left humbled, more learned, and thankful for all the lessons the wild had taught me. 

Loneliness

I have no shame in admitting that, in the past few days, I have felt quite lonely. I have just returned from a 25-day trip, where I spent a week in Little Rock catching up with my good friends from college, my family, some professors, and, most importantly, my dog, Socks.

For the next 18 days, I traveled in Japan with my fiancée, Nanami, who I hadn't seen for almost 7 months. Together we explored Tokyo, where she currently lives and works, and Kyoto, and traveled to her hometown where we spent a week laughing, eating, and traveling with her family.

The warmth and happiness I felt with my ole' friends created a beautiful aura about me--it felt so good to be back to how things use to be, nurtured by relationships that have taken years and years to build and cultivate. Everything made sense, everything felt right--the everyday habits of waking up next to someone you feel like you've known forever (and who you know you'll spend the rest of your life with) or drinking coffee and eating dinner (once again) with the same ole' people takes on incredible significance when one realizes that even those mundane moments are meaningful and ameliorative to the human spirit, despite their impermanence. Yes, walking down the stairs of my parents' house, following the smell of the morning coffee, greeting my dad and dog; yelling at Nanami to close the door to the bathroom hotel so no bad smells will intrude upon my peaceful sleep; drinking a few beers or cooking a simple breakfast of sausage and eggs with college friends while we ponder the meaning of life--these are the rewards and gifts of my being alive. Not my career (whatever that is); not my monetary pursuits; not my possessions. But rather these moments of mundane intimacy.

When I returned to Reno, I walked into my cold, dark apartment and realized, "Dear God--that's all over now. I'm alone in this apartment, in a city I just moved to. And worse yet, I have to eat dinner alone . . . again." To mirror my dour mood, I chose to eat peanut butter and jelly.

I've been trying to get back into my routine of reading, writing, studying, and preparing for school, but frankly, it's been hard. It's hard to shake off the memories of such a beautiful trip so that I can busy myself with work--work that I do love, but that sometimes seems insignificant in comparison to what I have left behind. The aching pain is so potent that at times I find myself on the verge of tears, swamped by a horde of self-doubt and confusion--Have I made the right decisions? Do I have my "priorities" straight? Will I have regrets in the future? When will everything be okay?

As every generation of human beings has said (yes, every), we live in strange times. We are a species of animal that is deeply and innately social. Practically everything about us is a social inheritance, it seems, whether it be the genes passed down from my ancestors to me, or the ideas (memes) that I have knowingly (or unknowingly) borrowed from family, friends, writers, philosophers, musicians, politicians, etc., etc., etc. And yet the practices of modern academia and economics requires that intimate social relationships be broken so that individuals can pursue their personal dreams. And I am not so sure that those individual pursuits justify the loss of intimate relationships.

So I feel stuck . . . and desperately trying to find a way out, a solution, a lifeboat, anything!, I ask myself, "What do I do?!" Do I sacrifice one for the other (career versus relationships)? Or, perhaps, is it possible that both can coexist?

With the support and advice from friends, I am beginning to see that, yes, we can have both. And indeed, it would be epistemologically and existentially hypocritical of me to choose one over the other, for globalization has created who I am, just as much as intimate relationships have created who I am. Globalization brought me fascinating academic studies that I would never have encountered had globalization never occurred. And, of course, Globalization brought Nanami to po-dunk Conway, Arkansas, where we met in a Chinese class, which I decided to register for when in China the previous summer with my very good, Chinese friend, Andrew Ni.

So, to comfort myself, I'm trying to reassure my doubts by noticing the creative possibilities offered by our world today. Did you know that I can iMessage my family and friends for free, and they'll receive my words within microseconds? Did you know that Nanami and I can spend about an hour per day talking to each other for free, while seeing each others' faces? Did you know that I can fly to my hometown and Japan for less than 5% of my annual income? Did you know that an incredibly efficient and cheap mailing system allows my mom to send me care packages and allows me to send Nanami Twizzlers? Did you know that one of the [intended] purposes of Facebook is to peruse past photos, comments, and posts, so as to remind oneself of the relationships she has had and her obligation to keep tending to them?

And, of course, if we find ourselves separated from loved ones, we can always begin the slow and difficult process of settling in to our new locales--growing roots of connectedness with the land and people around us, who, albeit strangers, may one day also become our intimate friends. And I am very fortunate to live in a place where that seems to be happening.

So, in short, if you ever find yourself feeling a little lonely, don't look down into your sorrows too long. Look up, and see the creative possibilities we have. Ponder what has been, and be thankful for it. Then imaginatively discover new ways to maintain the relationships you left behind, and don't be afraid to create new ones. This life isn't easy . . . but with the presence of friends and family, whether that presence be physically near you or virtually expressed on the web, life can easily become a rich, meaningful, and beautiful experience.