Am I?
This is the question I have continued to ask myself over the past few weeks. Not in some profound philosophical way (although that is always a good thing to question) but more so in a very physical sense. Many a blog might have been written about my journeys, but I have been pressed for time, so I find myself summarizing a few of the notable moments in these exploits.
It began a month ago. A weekend trip to Whistler, with a twofold purpose: one, to ride bikes; and two, to take my brother in for knee surgery. (The surgery went well, thanks for your mental concern). The bikes were also great, even though I needed a friend, Rabbit, at a shop to help me keep my noble steed running.
One moment, however, will stick with me far longer than the plethora of exciting and adrenaline producing moments the bike park offered. It occurred on the chairlift. I was regaling, to my brother, the story of the changes we were about to make to the blog. Whether he found them as exciting as I did, I am not sure. Nevertheless, he engaged me and we were in the full rundown of new authors, a new layout, and new sections. At about that time, I told a story about Greg challenging my peer group about jokes with misogynistic traits, specifically one of my favourites – “Stop being a little girl!” (I know sexist and ageist, I ought to be ashamed). As the story ended, the other person on the chairlift piped up (he had joined us from the singles line).
“What is your blog about?” Up until this point, I had not spoken of content. So, I proceeded to tell him about the blog’s content, how it originated, and some of the topics we had covered of late. He seemed genuinely interested, even though faith, politics, and justice are not common chairlift-ride conversations. He disclosed that he was American, beginning to question some things, think about others, and open himself up to new perspectives. He said he was genuinely ashamed of his country, the country that should stand for liberty, but now has no relation to the idea behind the word. So with that short conversation our chairlift-ride was over. But before he rode off for another lap of speed, turns, and multiple airs he made sure to get the name of the blog. He said he would like to read it, and as he rode off, I saw him repeating it repeatedly. Thus ended our interaction, but the event has stuck with me.
A week later. I am in Whiterock, hanging out with some friends and meeting new ones. Whiterock does not hold another tale, but it spawned a spontaneous trip to the Calgary Stampede. So before I knew it (well really it was almost two weeks later), four people piled into my little car and drove east. Friday night we left, Sunday we returned, and Saturday we Stampeded! We spent approximately three more hours in Calgary then we did on the road, but it was the road that left me pondering.
Leaving the west coast at 6pm on a summer evening, traveling through the night for 10-11 hours, places one at the edge of the Rocky Mountains for daybreak. With little or no sleep, we burst out of the burdensome mountains onto the great plain at dawn. As my eyes began to accept the newfound light, I bore witness to mists rising from the fields, steam wafting off ponds and sloughs, and the delicate light greens of early summer. The windows kept the chill of the 5-degree air outside and the sky opened itself as a boundless dome. I was nearing home.
Big sky, it turns out, I really do miss it. The west coast certainly holds a piece of my heart, but nothing can wrangle the sky out of my soul. As I drove the last 100 km to my old stomping grounds I was left speechless, which I assume was appreciated by my dozing passengers. I found a new a sense of awe, a knowledge of finiteness, and the calming certainty that I am very small. These sensations elude me more often in the lower-mainland. The low-hung cloud repels upward gazes, and the valley strangles the spirit that roams. Often I find myself head down, closed in, consumed by my myopic self; resulting in a small world that moves from work to a huddled corner of my apartment. Alberta, and its big boundless sky, offered the freedom of space. The road finishes with a large hill, and as I drove up it, the gain in elevation sped up the rising of the sun, thereby showing all of sunrise in under two minutes – simply splendid.
West coast for a week, but the time was meant to pass. As I write this, I am in Manhattan, New York. What brings me here? Opportunity. What am I doing? Keep your eyes open for future blogs. How long am I here? Five weeks. First impression? I’m glad you asked.
This being my third time to New York I thought I knew what to expect, but circumstances and perspectives change. As I braved one of the two most uncomfortable times I will have (coming and going on the subway with suitcase in tow). I was floored by the sheer volume of people. People, more people, and even more people. What do they all do? Where do they all go? Once again, small city Abbotsford shields my eyes from the daily, insect like, movements of millions of people. We are a weird species: we congregate in hives, we transport our food and ourselves, visibly there is no order or hierarchy, and for the vast amount of time we coexist as isolated and non-communicative individuals. But under the seeming chaos, is a network of social systems, values, and contracts that allow such coexistence.
New York is large. The towers are tall. The people are many. It is here I find a common humanity. Though distracted by our modern-day, and incredibly impressive, ziggurats; our daunting and seemingly impenetrable systems of class; and our remarkable feats of dominance; one can glimpse the unmistakable wonder that is civilization. A contemplative posture yields a view of civilization grounded upon an incredibly connected and social creature. Homo-sapiens are quite something.
Un-expectantly personal, boundless transcendence, and dauntingly social. Three destinations, three experiences. Where in the world are you?
