Life

The Grand Canyon (or, How to Set Up a Tent in 28 Easy Steps)

The Grand Canyon. It was incredible.

Since Megan and I are moving to New York in the Fall, we realized our Grand Canyon window was dwindling fast. We kicked around the idea late last week, got our friend Randall on board, booked a campsite online, and left after work Friday afternoon for the 12 hour drive.

After 12 hours of sunflower seeds and energy drinks, our Prius arrived just shy of Grand Canyon Village at around 4am. Randall, a current CCC member (and best friend since 6th grade), claimed national forests were cool with parking and sleeping. Since national forests are usually outside of national parks, we were in luck. We parked in the forest and slept as long as possible.

27 degrees and 2 hours later. 

You know it’s cold when you consider peeing your pants for warmth. Or say, cutting open your friend to sleep inside him via Empire Strikes Back. None of those things happened. It was cold though.

Feeling spry, we woke up and drove into the park. The South Rim. It was $25 for one car, not bad considering all you can do once you’re in the park.

Our campsite wasn’t available until noon so we had to tough out the tiredness and make the best of it. We traveled to the East Rim (about thirty minutes, maybe) and checked out Desert View. There was an old tower to climb up in with a store right below you. Incase, you know, you want to buy a magnet or something.

Coming back, we stopped at one of my favorite views of the whole trip: Moran Point. It was killer. We tried to recall the name later to our camping neighbors. Megan called it, “Morgan Point,” and I called it “Moron Point.” It turns out we were both wrong, Moran Point. If you go, make sure and stop there.

Noon came around and we had a tent to set up. Megan and I were completely exhausted and since we borrowed the tent, it was our first time setting it up. (Thanks Scott, your rubik’s cube tent was a delight). In all fairness, if we read the directions first—instead of dead last—we would’ve noticed everything was color coded and kind of obvious. After about an hour of this tent embarrassment, Randall stepped in and helped. I collapsed into my sleeping bag and felt rocks under my body. Oh yeah, the air mattress… we forgot that.

Exploration

After some rest, we went back to the nearest town of Williams to try the Grand Canyon Brewery. I wont say it was awful, but just avoid it if at all possible.

The next day we hiked down into the canyon. Not far, a thousand feet or so. Not wanting to add, “Rescued by a mule” to our list of life accomplishments, we heeded the warnings of the trail and stopped at Cedar Ridge.

Once back up, we continued our day of exploration. Hopi Point was awe inspiring. The geology museum was great. The general store had a hot pickle.

Before we knew it, our trip was over. Monday morning had come. We drove a different way back, stopping in Vegas to lose $5. Before we left Nevada for good, we swerved off the desert highway for one last casino. The lunch buffet and $1 roulette signs nearly caused a freeway pile up.

We made it into San Luis Obispo around 9pm and I took the longest shower of my life. I’m still in it. That’s how long it is. Actually no, but nothing is sweeter than that first shower back from camping, eh? I next collapsed into bed where there was a mattress and no rocks.

It was sweeter than any canyon I’ve ever seen. Funny how that works.

Sunrise, 12 hours of driving, 2 hours of sleep. Grand Canyon, baby!
Randall Sleeps, Kevie Shoots
Randall and I really like sunflower seeds
Rock N’ Roll
Hopi Point. There’s a cave with a nesting California Condor! It’s in the red wall of the cliff. See it?
Hopi Point
On the hike down
the man, the myth, the legend. The Randall.
Cedar Ridge
From the Cedar Ridge hike
Megan near Cedar Ridge
The Wretched Tent
Revenge of the Tent
Moran Point. Randall in the corner
Desert View
Sunset over the canyon

That One Time the Roof Caved in on Me

Memories from my past bubble to the surface every now and then. At times, they feel larger than life—tall-tale even, like in Big Fish. Since taking Psychology 101 last year, some memories have become suspect.

There’s this one memory I have; the one where the ceiling caves in on me. Until recently, I wasn’t sure it was real. I asked my older brother about it. In the memory, he’s the one who carries me to safety.

Quickly, here’s the memory: 

It’s an old white house in Paso Robles, California. Two stories, maybe, just one. I’m eight years old or so and scared to death of the Daddy Long Leg spiders that inhabit every corner of every room in the house. Everything is dirty and dusty. I hate it here.

“Kevin,” he yells. I wake up. The air is thick with dust and drywall; broken wood is everywhere. In fact, my bed is covered with it. I look over to my brother, standing beside the bed. He’s laughing. “You slept through it,” he says and laughs again.

Everything is confusing; I’m paralyzed with fear and can’t move. The next thing I know, my brother is carrying me out of our room and into the kitchen where everybody is listening to music and eating popsicles.

Party

My early years were quite… different than most. After the parents split up, my dad moved us around a lot. Life got weird. Shady, actually, is a better term.

We were those obnoxious, trashy neighbors. The ones with the loud, late night parties, or fights that ended with clothes on the lawn and the cops being called. That was us.

Sorry neighbors.

“They were partying in the next room,” my brother said. Last year, we reminisced about our childhood and I asked him about this event. “We came out of the room,” he continued, “covered from head to toe in drywall dust. No one knew it happened. I think it was the music that caused the ceiling to fall. The bass.”

“And I slept through it?”

“Yeah,” he laughed, “you slept right through it. I thought you were dead.”

Guardian Angles 

It seems a little self-absorbed to claim this event as a miracle of God. Honestly, I’m really not that important. It could’ve just been dumb luck.

Still though, I think back to the broken wood in and around my bed—some pieces large and quite dangerous. All I know is that the ceiling caved in, one ugly night in Paso Robles, California, and two young boys were spared.

In times like these, I’m reminded that I need to live my life in a worthy way. Not because I survived my childhood or because a ceiling caved in on me, but because I was born at all.

Life is an opportunity and everyday among it a unique gift. Don’t wait for tomorrow or you may just get crushed to death by your own ceiling.

“If I live the life I’m given, I won’t be scared to die.”

What are your thoughts? Do you have any good memories from your childhood you suspect are false? What is your response to living life as a gift? 

Life in the Spiritual Fast Lane

Spiritual fasting. What do you think about it? Does it intrigue you? Personally, the thought of it makes me hungry, a bad sign. Fasting is definitely not my strong suit.

Recently, I read Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse. The second book of Hesse’s I’ve read, and admittedly my first on Buddhism, Siddhartha follows a fictional character (paralleling the real Siddhartha Gautama) who throughout his life searches for oneness and truth.

My upbringing has taught me to read all non-Christian, even non-evangelical, religious material with a filter. This filter acts less like a screen door and more like an actual door. Closed all the time.

As I’ve aged in spirit and body, I’ve come to realize that much can be learned from other religions. We all yearn for God. If a life-long monk wanted to take me out for coffee, or better yet, donuts, then you can bet I would take his offer. I’d probably even have to pay and I would still take his offer. I love donuts. I love talking about God with donuts.

This theoretical monk has spent his life learning to fast, learning to think, learning to be less. I would love to hear his insight, wouldn’t you? Just because religious roads differ, this doesn’t mean travelers can’t bump into each other every now and then. And get donuts.

Consumerism, Buddhism, & Ism-ism

Fasting was never pushed on me. I’m not blaming anyone else for my ignorance towards it, but let’s just say that the culture I grew up in simply didn’t value it. “It’s more of an Eastern thing,” I would hear or, “Just don’t tell any one about it.”

Regardless of how I got here, I’m here now. I believe that Americans have much to gain from learning to fast.

Our eyes have been purchased by the cinema of must-have.

Our hearts foster inward desires over the outward love of Christ.

Our bodies sleep best in a commonplace of complacency.

What if consumerism was just another powerless foe? What if we could break the paradigm? I wonder about a world where Western Christians could chose others before themselves, every day, with every dollar and every minute.

In the book, the young adult Siddhartha wishes to go into business with a merchant. The merchant asks Siddhartha what he can do. Siddhartha replies, “I can think. I can wait. I can fast.”

“… fasting, what good does it do?”

This is my favorite part:

It is very good, sir. If a person has nothing to eat, then fasting is the wisest thing he can do. If, for instance, Siddhartha had not learned how to fast, he would have to accept any service today, whether with you or with someone else, for hunger would force him to do so. But now Siddhartha can simply wait, he knows no impatience, he knows no plight. He can stave off hunger for a long time and he can laugh at it. That, sir, is what fasting is good for.

So what do you think, is it time Westerners start fasting? Can we still have donuts? Since I’m new to this whole thing, I hope to learn one or two things in the comments.

Fumbling Through the Brouhaha (My 100th Post)

Today marks a very special occasion for me. My 100th blog post!!! Booya. Someone call WIllard Scott.

Warning: This post is highly self-indulgent.

I began blogging almost three years ago. I’d fit it in where I could (usually between music, school, and church). My creative spurts functioned like runners in a game of Red Light/Green Light; sometimes I’d post weekly, other times monthly.

Considering the quality of my early work, I am forever grateful for the encouragement received from friends and family. Looking back, I now see their kindess; my early work really is quite atrocious. The term wordy doesn’t do justice—maybe, blob job?

IMG_1947Last October, I committed myself to a schedule: post three times a week, and stay under 500 words each time, 400 if possible.

It’s been tough to keep up. I often find my desires for blogging bested by bowls of Cheetos and Netflix, fantasy football losses, calculus crazed mental breakdowns, or sad attempts at yoga.

I read some books that helped. Michael Hyatt’s Platform was instrumental to my journey. He has a saying, regarding consistent output, that I really like: “Readers lead and leaders read.”

Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time with Herman Hesse, Michael Crichton, and the various writers of the Bible. WordPress itself is another deep well to draw from: Tony from A Way With Words, Nate from Breaking the Silence, Adeline from Dancing In The Storm, to name a few.

Making it to 100 is very special. It’s strange, but a new confidence exists within me. I no longer covet other blogger’s writing styles and their followers. Instead, I’ve come to appreciate honest work on all ends of the spectrum. One could say, I’ve fumbled through the brouhaha and found myself on the other side; I found a voice within me that is all my own.

From here I grow, I learn, I contribute. If I’m lucky, I’ll make a big splash someday.

Looking Back, It’s Not All Bad

Consumer Zombies on Record Store Day

5 Reasons to Stay a Christian

Internet Fasting: My Googless Week

Little Wins

Fly Fishing: The First Outing

8-Bits of Frustration: None I Tend to Let Go

Thanks be to God for teaching and giving grace. Thanks to every reader for the comments, likes, and shares. Without your feedback, I would’ve quit long ago.

Onward_thumb_1

Stop Blogging! Before You Get Hurt!

Joining the blogosphere is an interesting business. Sooner or later, you’re going to get hurt. Sometimes people write blogs that makes you feel sick. Other times, you may get personally attacked. It happens.

Here, anyone can say anything. There’s no filter, no editor in chief.

origin_2879955156Sometimes popular blogs say weird things. Writers earn their soapbox but forget to stay grounded. They say things that make the reader go… I’m sorry, what? 

I read a blog yesterday like this. I loved the writer’s topic: being authentic and genuine with your readers. I can roll with that. To give a context, it’s a spiritual blog.

Then it got weird. The writer claimed that if bloggers craft “exciting titles” and cover popular topics that they are improperly manipulating their readers, and that by using writing formulas and word intentionality, bloggers are being in-authentic.

My favorite part was this:

My blogs and books will probably be riddled with improper grammar and syntax – but really, they’re just riddled with me. They’re honest.

Now I don’t want to pick apart this person’s blog, nor do I wish to unfairly scrutinize this person who had a bad blog in a bunch of good ones.

This blogger doesn’t appreciate good writing, and that’s fine. What upset me was his claim about those who DO practice good writing techniques. His claim that people like me, and many of my good friends here on WordPress, foster improper manipulation towards our readers.

In the past, I’ve claimed expertise in topics I wasn’t accomplished in; I’ve painted others I disagree with in bad lights. I’ve made these mistakes.

Here’s what I’ve learned: Write what you know, and explore what you don’t. Never assume you’re a whiz just because you have a keyboard.

Catchy Mid-Title

This topic did make me think about the future of writing. Digital platforms are taking us to a place where thoughts like these are championed, a place where everyone has a publisher and the need for polished craft is a distant second.

I wonder if we’re seeing the beginning of the end to accomplished technique.

Maybe we should all come to terms. After all, we live in a new world now. Does grammar, syntax, and stylistic intentionality really matter these days?

Let me know your thoughts!

Photo Credit: [http://www.flickr.com/photos/kwerfeldein/2879955156/]

Post Script

I didn’t want to post a link to this person’s blog. But without doing that, I fear I’m not allowing YOU to come to your own decision. Also, I don’t want to present an argument without giving my sources. So HERE. I’ve framed the blog in a pretty negative light. Read it for yourself, you may find it’s alright.

Fearing Fear and Then Punching Fear in The Face

origin_2768351879I remember standing in line at Space Mountain, Disneyland—six years old or so. My older brother and sister were there, maybe my mom. Yeah, definitely my mom.

Knees buckling. Tears building. Fear grabbing.

Space Mountain? Could there be so terrible a place? My brother was pushing me along in line; this was not a good sign. He was always trying to get rid of me. What evil plan had he concocted now?

Escape. I had to. Closer and closer we inched, past the TVs and the red, terrifying flashing lights. Finally, it came. The exit door. After an hour, we were so close to getting on the ride.

I could just do it, I thought, go on the ride. Would I really fall out?

I looked left and saw the exit sign, then to the right towards a deeper entrance to the ride, then to my brother who was evilly nodding his head. Now or never, I thought.

Tears bottled up, I went for it. Running as fast as I could towards the door, kids laughed behind me and I heard my brother yell. I bursted through the exit; bright-white concrete sun blinded my eyes and I collapsed on concrete—crying my head off.

New Fears, Old Chum

For those of you who may have missed the news, Rochester, New York is now officially in our sights. Scholarships and grants came through in a big way from the University there. We’ll be moving sometime in summer.

See kids, dreams do come true.

It’s bittersweet, really. We’ll be leaving San Luis Obispo—SLO town—and I love it here. I grew up here. I moved away for a number of years; since we, my wife and I, moved back, our time here has been well spent and well loved.

Old chums, new pals, boogie boards, farmers market, breakfast burritos—reconnecting.

All good things come to an end? I guess; new things can be good too. Also scary.

Fear, get out of my face. 

It’s too easy to fall into fear’s trap. We listen to the negative over the positive; we cave in and take the easy way out. The greatest, most terrible side-effect of fear is that it keeps us from doing what we love: accomplishing goals, moving across country, or say, eating octopus.

What if fear was just a tool that we could use for our gain? Recently, I’ve come to terms with fear. Well, I’m trying to at least. See, fear isn’t some trick of the devil. It isn’t Satan’s test. It’s just a test.

Without fear, personal cost couldn’t be measured. For example, would the water be as sweet if I didn’t fear jumping off the rock? Would it even be worth it? I’m starting to wonder.

I encourage you to embrace fear for what it is: a mere tool. Use it for YOUR gain. Mark your dreams by how much they scare you, then reach for the scariest one.

When fear over steps its boundaries, punch it in the face and go on the ride. Space Mountain is totally worth it.

medium_47529326Photo Credit Top [http://www.flickr.com/photos/disneyworldsecets/2768351879/]

Photo Credit Bottom [http://www.flickr.com/photos/joeandy/47529326/]