Keep Your Eyes Open!

Mindfulness isn't a word that many people use these days. It seems to have roots in Eastern religion; and colloquially means something like "focusing your attention on the present moment and the things happening immediately around you." I learned the word in Boston while I was traveling last year; I was telling a woman I'd just met that the reason I run without headphones is that I want to be fully present to my run; not trying to distract myself from it. She replied simply: "so it's about mindfulness for you." Mindfulness, I thought. That's a word I need to remember.

Of course, I'm terrible at practicing mindfulness. Some combination of my personality and my surroundings conspire to keep my attention drifting far away from me. Interest rates, internal rates of return, income-to-cost ratios, lease contracts, and a thousand other distant tiny details swirl around in my head and blind me to the thousand tiny details right here in front of my eyes.

My happiest moments are always when I'm present to the close details - a moonrise over the water on an island beach, a field of wildflowers in the high Rockies. This is why I hike: to surround myself with wide spaces that irresistibly draw my mind from my investment portfolio. This is why I run: I find speed brings an immediacy to my attention; I can't be bothered with interest rates when I'm seconds from tripping over that boulder.

Rhythms of Green

One of my favorite things about living at home this year has been watching how my mom's windowsills turn green in springtime. My mom is an avid vegetable gardener, and she starts her seeds indoors in February, then moves them outside into her raised beds and greenhouse over the next several months. So throughout the spring, even on snowy days, her house is awash in new plant life.

This annual rhythm of brown to green has always enthralled me. I love the concept of rhythm and applying it to common phenomena, whether it be the rhythm of the earth's orbit around the sun (we call this "summer and winter"), the earth's rotation about its axis (we call this "day and night"), the alternating compression and rarefaction of air in our ears (we call this "sound"), or the superfast vibrations of electric and magnetic fields interacting with our retinas (we call this "light").

Is that fair? Can I take a concept I normally associate with drums and dancing and say it's essentially the same thing as the planets orbiting the sun? I've always assumed the answer is "yes" - because I find that sort of analogy to be a compelling way of dealing with the world.

So, mom, thanks for dancing to the green drumbeat of the earth with your tomatoes and peppers - and I can't wait to join the dance with a tasty stir-fry come harvest time.

The Boulders Rush By

The cotton-ball clouds lazily drift over my head; brilliant blue sky peeks out from between the cumulus. The sun, when he shows his face, is blinding and warm - a wonderful complement to the gusty wind. The earth passes by under my feet. Gravel, boulders, shrubs, these are my ground. Cliffs rise around me, indifferent (or perhaps intentionally aloof? I can never tell) to my presence.

The rhythm of my running shoes on the coarse sand mingles with the scrub oaks' breezy rustling. Moments like these make me jealous of the boy in August Rush - not jealous of his hands, but jealous of his ears - could I hear symphony in the wind if I listened hard enough? I am out here on the bluffs for just that - I hope that the subtle sounds of nature may calm the spinning cacophony in my own head.

Hills, roads, paths, and dry creekbeds conspire to take me far from my car, and I don't much complain. Getting lost is one of the risks (some might say one of the thrilling benefits) of exploration, and I embrace my new unexpected location. On the second half of my run, my companions are cars and apartment buildings rather than shrubs and rock; I'll take it. Could be worse.

The ground never seems to tire of rushing under my feet! I, on the other hand, have not yet conquered my limits, so my time in the sun and wind eventually comes to an end. Like so many other times of seeking, I can't say with great clarity that I've found anything in particular. But at least the noisy chaos in my head has slowed; and for that I give thanks.

Something Beautiful

Foreboding wall of mountains

Beckoning me onwards

Towering through the clouds

Peaks alight in the sunrise

Draped with whisps of mist

Bejeweled with flecks of snow

Daring me to enter

To test my mettle against theirs

And find myself utterly lacking

Yet still I lift up my eyes

For the danger diminishes not the beauty

The Effects of Setting One's Head on Fire

Disclaimer: there are a couple semi-graphic descriptions in this post. Stop reading here if that sounds bad to you.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to run around like those stuntmen in the movies with your head in flames? I know I have. Ever since I first saw something like that on the TV screen, I've secretly wondered how it feels. Recently, I was granted the rare and unexpected opportunity to find out.

It was the most terrifying thing I've ever experienced. It was the only time in my life that I thought I might be about to die.

I didn't realize my head was on fire until I drew a deep breath. The gas which entered my lungs contained none of its customary oxygen, and my panic set in. When covering my face with my hands proved futile to extinguish the blaze, my panic turned to desperation and my heart beat faster (they told me in the ambulance that my blood pressure was 180 over 110).

That's when it happened - that terrifying moment of "OH SH--... WHAT HAVE I DONE??" There wasn't any time for my life to flash before my eyes, or for me to have any enlightening philosophical epiphanies. I didn't sense anything supernatural. I didn't see a light at the end of a tunnel. In that eternal half-second of terror, my thoughts only got as far as "this could be it."

Then, rather than getting pensive about the afterlife, my instincts kicked in and I did the sensible thing: I pulled my shirt off.

The next 10 minutes are a bit blurry - the first thing I remember seeing is the terrified face of my co-worker Preston, on the phone with 911. I ran to the bathroom to rinse my face with water (which I recommend if this ever happens to you - apparently it cuts recovery time in half), killed the equipment power, and started spraying water on the fire that was still going.

When the paramedics showed up, I felt the most profound sense of relief. It was so wonderful to lie down on that bed and just let someone take care of me. I knew I was still breathing, and that seemed like a good sign, and I was sure the fluids they were pumping into my veins would feel ok. So I just relaxed, really for the first time in weeks. They told me I was going to Nashville and I said "hell yeah! I love Nashville!"

What followed was a blissful 6 weeks recovering with my family in Colorado. And the conclusion I came to was this: maybe those 5 seconds with head on fire were almost worth it after all.

just kidding. ;)

Time for the weekend

Now it's that magical moment - I've got all the equipment shut down for the weekend, with only one pump still humming in the background, waiting for the kill switch. All the doors are shut and locked except for the one I'll use to leave. Things are peaceful here for the first time all wee

Wait... I'm wasting this moment blogging??? peace, I'm out.

To hold all things together

While I was an undergrad at Georgia Tech, I remember thinking, "I sure would love to live in Tennessee." The little time I'd spent among the green hills of the Volunteer State had called my name. I didn't think it would ever happen. It was my intention to leave the South as soon as I graduated because the world seemed too big to spend so much time in one place (apologies for calling Georgia and Tennessee "one place" - you Georgians and Tennesseans must excuse my gross ignorance). Yet, partly by happenstance and partly by choice, here I am in Tennessee. Tragically, though I love the place deeply, I can't wait to leave.

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to work for a start-up company that does something really cool. I would read about companies like Changing World Technologies (in Missouri, they use thermal depolymerization to turn turkey offal into fuel) or SpaceX (the founder of PayPal founded a company to build a manned space vehicle to replace the Space Shuttle), and I would think, "If I could just get in touch with one of some of these guys, I'd offer to sweep their floors - anything just to get in the door." Be careful what you wish for - there have been days here at SunsOil (a small company in rural East Tennessee making Biodiesel from various low-cost feedstocks - my NDA prevents me from publishing specifics) when I have yearned to do something as sanitary as sweeping the floor.

This past summer, I recall telling a friend that I was kinda looking forward to winter, specifically the cozy aspects of it. But lately there have been nights when I've been bundled to the gills, putting on putting on layer after layer, as many hats as would fit on my head, undershirts wrapped around my face - anything to keep the cold out; all I could think of was how sweet summer will be.

So the question I pose is this: How do I reconcile these things? How can I take the bitterness of the winter cold and hold it together with the joy of a fireside? Is one the evil dark side of the other, or do the two complement each other, imbuing one another with meaning and context?

Could it be that the warmth of the springtime sun is sweeter in the knowledge that it follows the winter snows? Could I live each moment rejoicing that I am working my dream job, all the while holding that knowledge alongside the hope of whatever adventures I'll find myself in next?

This is my goal: To hold all things together - the winter with the summer; holding in my mind the beauty and ugliness of each - allowing the two to commingle in my mind and bring forth one another's unique magnificence.