The universe we live in, the very ground we tread upon, was forged from chaos. Scientists almost universally agree that in the beginning there was little more than hot gases. Chaos, that limitless and unchecked agent of random change, brought these gases together. What happened next? Well...everything, I suppose. Here we are.
If you look around, it's clear that chaos still reigns. We're at the mercy of the random. The universe happens, and we happen along with it.
Have you heard talk of fate? Destiny? They're nice ideas, but I get the feeling they really aren't much more than that.
Human beings are creatures of habit and routine. It's just the way we are, and we've adapted that way for reasons we probably don't or can't fully understand. As infants, we crave a set routine. We crave repetition and familiarity, because these are things that bring us comfort. In essence, we are creatures naturally adverse to chaos living in a chaotic world. Combine these factors with an innate sense of self-importance, and you can see how a universe beyond our control is a source of considerable consternation.
Thus fate and destiny were born.
It's easier for us to think that our lives are, if not mapped out for us, at least under the power of some force that recognizes us as individual beings. Enter a personal god. Enter fate. Enter destiny.
The fact is, I could die at any time. I could be in a car accident. I could have an embolism. Someone could take my life. These things are frightening but very real facts. It's chaos at its purest. Life is literally beyond our control, to a great degree. This is recognizably unsettling and horrifying. This causes us to seek solace in something that promises to overcome the random. We are simply finite creatures, driven by fear and our own mortality to try and make order from chaos. We're content to bask in illusions of our own creation.
Sometimes in life, we're presented with wonderful things that appear to be serendipitous or miraculous. This is the flip-side of chaos. Chaos does not always destroy, as our own universe proves. Often chaos creates. Because this wonderful event was random, does that mean it's any less meaningful or beautiful? To me it makes it even more beautiful. It makes me appreciate it more for the fact that it just as easily couldn't have happened. Good and bad. Heads or tails. It's not up to us to decide.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Havasu Canyon - August, 2002 Pt. I
August in the Sonoran Desert. The sun is blazing, unmerciful. The winds, when they come, blow hot and bearing the collected dust of miles of open desert. The landscape is stark at first glance, flat hues of brown and gray, washed out by the ever present glare of the sun.
The car is pointed north, leaving behind the red rocks of Sedona, blazing toward Flagstaff. Interstate 17 unspools ahead, snaking through a seemingly endless expanse of desert. Slowly, I become aware of the increasing elevation. Subtle changes in the landscape, as the harsh low-desert gives way to the high semi-desert. Groves of pines gradually thicken into forests, and the temperature begins to drop noticeably in time with the passing miles. Flagstaff sits north, nestled in the mountains, but it's not to Flagstaff that I'm headed. I bear West.
On Interstate 40 now. As I drive west, the pine forests thin and eventually disappear, the desert slowly reasserting itself. I pass Williams and eventually Ash Fork. The land flattens, vegetation becoming more and more sparse. This land is rolling and huge, both stark and subtly beautiful. As I roll through the vastness, windows down, hot air howling in my ears, I can feel the beginning of a connection with this land. My mind drifts back to "civilization", to the ribbons of highway, the plague of strip malls and soulless housing tracts. I look at the vast, untamed miles surrounding me, and I begin to ask myself what "civilization" really means. I pull over at some point, getting out of the car, stretching my legs. Afternoon is giving way to evening, but still the sun burns, a dull, constant heat that seems to purify. I drink water from a large jug. (Always carry large quantities of water out here, boys and girls.) I stand under that relentless sun, breathing in the hot, dusty (but clean) air, and I'm struck by how big this place is, how unapologetically vast, and how small I am by comparison. I feel humbled, thankful that places like this still exist, still untouched by greed and the relentless pursuit of "civilization".
I continue on, tuned in to a country music station, one of the few stations that manage to travel these great distances. The radio blares real country music, the country music of old, full of melancholy and a liquor-soaked dignity that has been systematically murdered by what passes for "country music" these days. I pass miles and miles of fields, fenced in for grazing. The sun sinks lower, beginning its descent into the Pacific, an ocean that is more or less straight ahead of me if I were to continue west.
Dusk settles in, the seemingly endless sky painted hues of orange and purple. I'm approaching my destination for the night - Seligman, Arizona. I veer off 40 and onto old Route 66, that ancient and storied road, and I roll straight into town. Seligman exists in a time warp, seemingly untouched by the advance of time and progress. For me, a visitor rolling in for the night, this lack of modernization reeks of nostalgia for a time I'm admittedly too young to even remember. I imagine that, for the young people of this town, this same lack of progress feels like a jail sentence, invoking a yearning for a "civilized" world glimpsed primarily through the television. I imagine teenagers wandering a town that time forgot, marooned in an unending expanse, dreaming of the day when they could flee for Flagstaff, Phoenix or California. I imagine that many do leave; racing into the open, welcoming arms of progress. I also imagine that years later, as time slips away in that sly way that time does, they look back and yearn for that simpler place - that place seemingly lost in time.
My destination this night is the Supai Motel. The place is what the glass-half-full crowd would call "rustic". Frankly, the joint is a dump. This hardly seems to matter to me. This place is popular with those traveling to Havasu Canyon, as it's a fairly short few hours from the motel to the Hualapai Hilltop and the trailhead into the canyon. After a day of driving; eyes tired from the road and the glare of the desert sun, body aching from the seat of a car, any place with four walls, a roof and a bed sounds like paradise. The Supai Motel meets those requirements, and does so with a low price tag befitting its "rustic" status. The owners are an Indian couple who are extremely friendly. They pass along the key with a smile, and I head to my room, falling across the bed as soon as I drop my gear on the floor.
Later, about ten, I go outside. It's dark, the air still hot. I walk across the parking lot and down the street. There's nobody around, and I get the impression that's not unusual here. I stroll past buildings that look like ghosts, relics of an age when Route 66 inspired songs and television shows. I walk in this strange place, under a dark, desert sky swimming with stars. I think to myself that it could easily be 1969, the year of my birth, and I try to imagine what it would have been like to be 33 back then, a time when America was losing its grip on its innocence and the machines of change were bearing down.
I amble back to the room, needing sleep for a long day of hiking the next day. I pull a few beers out of my bag, beers purchased earlier in the evening at what passed for a convenience store/gas station in those parts. The beer is warm, despite having spent the hours in a cheap, styrofoam (environmentally un-friendly, I know) cooler. It hardly seems to matter. I watch "local" news out of Flagstaff, thinking that these warm beers are the best I'd ever had. Eventually I slide off to sleep, full of warm beer and in an uncomfortable bed, slumbering fitfully in the land that time forgot.
(To Be Continued)
The car is pointed north, leaving behind the red rocks of Sedona, blazing toward Flagstaff. Interstate 17 unspools ahead, snaking through a seemingly endless expanse of desert. Slowly, I become aware of the increasing elevation. Subtle changes in the landscape, as the harsh low-desert gives way to the high semi-desert. Groves of pines gradually thicken into forests, and the temperature begins to drop noticeably in time with the passing miles. Flagstaff sits north, nestled in the mountains, but it's not to Flagstaff that I'm headed. I bear West.
On Interstate 40 now. As I drive west, the pine forests thin and eventually disappear, the desert slowly reasserting itself. I pass Williams and eventually Ash Fork. The land flattens, vegetation becoming more and more sparse. This land is rolling and huge, both stark and subtly beautiful. As I roll through the vastness, windows down, hot air howling in my ears, I can feel the beginning of a connection with this land. My mind drifts back to "civilization", to the ribbons of highway, the plague of strip malls and soulless housing tracts. I look at the vast, untamed miles surrounding me, and I begin to ask myself what "civilization" really means. I pull over at some point, getting out of the car, stretching my legs. Afternoon is giving way to evening, but still the sun burns, a dull, constant heat that seems to purify. I drink water from a large jug. (Always carry large quantities of water out here, boys and girls.) I stand under that relentless sun, breathing in the hot, dusty (but clean) air, and I'm struck by how big this place is, how unapologetically vast, and how small I am by comparison. I feel humbled, thankful that places like this still exist, still untouched by greed and the relentless pursuit of "civilization".
I continue on, tuned in to a country music station, one of the few stations that manage to travel these great distances. The radio blares real country music, the country music of old, full of melancholy and a liquor-soaked dignity that has been systematically murdered by what passes for "country music" these days. I pass miles and miles of fields, fenced in for grazing. The sun sinks lower, beginning its descent into the Pacific, an ocean that is more or less straight ahead of me if I were to continue west.
Dusk settles in, the seemingly endless sky painted hues of orange and purple. I'm approaching my destination for the night - Seligman, Arizona. I veer off 40 and onto old Route 66, that ancient and storied road, and I roll straight into town. Seligman exists in a time warp, seemingly untouched by the advance of time and progress. For me, a visitor rolling in for the night, this lack of modernization reeks of nostalgia for a time I'm admittedly too young to even remember. I imagine that, for the young people of this town, this same lack of progress feels like a jail sentence, invoking a yearning for a "civilized" world glimpsed primarily through the television. I imagine teenagers wandering a town that time forgot, marooned in an unending expanse, dreaming of the day when they could flee for Flagstaff, Phoenix or California. I imagine that many do leave; racing into the open, welcoming arms of progress. I also imagine that years later, as time slips away in that sly way that time does, they look back and yearn for that simpler place - that place seemingly lost in time.
My destination this night is the Supai Motel. The place is what the glass-half-full crowd would call "rustic". Frankly, the joint is a dump. This hardly seems to matter to me. This place is popular with those traveling to Havasu Canyon, as it's a fairly short few hours from the motel to the Hualapai Hilltop and the trailhead into the canyon. After a day of driving; eyes tired from the road and the glare of the desert sun, body aching from the seat of a car, any place with four walls, a roof and a bed sounds like paradise. The Supai Motel meets those requirements, and does so with a low price tag befitting its "rustic" status. The owners are an Indian couple who are extremely friendly. They pass along the key with a smile, and I head to my room, falling across the bed as soon as I drop my gear on the floor.
Later, about ten, I go outside. It's dark, the air still hot. I walk across the parking lot and down the street. There's nobody around, and I get the impression that's not unusual here. I stroll past buildings that look like ghosts, relics of an age when Route 66 inspired songs and television shows. I walk in this strange place, under a dark, desert sky swimming with stars. I think to myself that it could easily be 1969, the year of my birth, and I try to imagine what it would have been like to be 33 back then, a time when America was losing its grip on its innocence and the machines of change were bearing down.
I amble back to the room, needing sleep for a long day of hiking the next day. I pull a few beers out of my bag, beers purchased earlier in the evening at what passed for a convenience store/gas station in those parts. The beer is warm, despite having spent the hours in a cheap, styrofoam (environmentally un-friendly, I know) cooler. It hardly seems to matter. I watch "local" news out of Flagstaff, thinking that these warm beers are the best I'd ever had. Eventually I slide off to sleep, full of warm beer and in an uncomfortable bed, slumbering fitfully in the land that time forgot.
(To Be Continued)
Another Year Begins...
It's that time again. Another year has passed, slowly snaking under the bridge and flowing toward the sea and oblivion. I suppose this time of the year is custom made for reflection, regret and healthy doses of optimism. The slate has been wiped clean, so to speak. The new year is a blank canvas, and we stand before it, brush in hand, ready to paint the coming months as we would like them to be. Like I said - optimism. Our brains overflow with plans, improvement and a fresh sense that we control our destiny. We can make the coming year whatever we want it to be.
Everyone knows that the belief that we control our destiny, that we can mold the months ahead as we see fit, is not entirely within the realm of possibility. There's an old saying that says something along the lines of, "Life is 10% what we make it, and 90% how we react to it." That's probably not the exact quote, but you get the idea. The simple fact is that life, in large part, happens to us. Sometimes a loved one gets sick or a job is lost, and these are hardly things we had in mind when painting the canvas of our lives. The fact remains that these things are not made any less real, or any less a part of our existence, by our not planning for or desiring them. Life happens, and that's a cold, hard fact. The only choice we have is to adapt, be strong and move forward, incorporating the good and bad and unexpected into the pastiche of our lives. Like John Irving said, "Half my life is an act of revision." Sure, Mr. Irving was referring to the importance of revision in the craft of the written word. However, I think he was also referring to the act of living in itself. Life is truly a constant act of revision. Life happens, and we revise as we plod along the often bumpy paths upon which we travel.
With these things in mind, I stare down the barrel of a new year and I hope for the best.
The past year was, all told, a pretty good year for me. I'm cynical by nature, and it's easy to look back on the negatives. The economy is in tatters. A misguided war still rages in Iraq, while another conflict reignites between Israel and Palestine. Closer to home, the poor state of the Commonwealth's fiscal health has guaranteed I get no raises in 2009. I look back and realize I still didn't make many of the personal changes I had wanted to enact in 2008. Kid Rock, whose success is reason enough to doubt the existence of a higher power, continues to sell records. (Yes, I still call them records. I'm old. Sue me.) Still, I can't help but marvel at the good that emerged in 2008. We united for change and elected the most unlikely president in our nation's history. I look forward to seeing O take office, and continue to have faith in his vision for America's future. I watch my daughter grow into an amazing, independent woman, and I smile at the fact that I got something right. It's the pastiche. The good and the bad. We revise and we adapt and we move forward.
Cynicism aside, I look at each new year with a sense of (slightly guarded) optimism. There's much work to do to make this world a better place. There are many hurdles to surmount, and the road ahead is never easy. I think that's what makes life sweet. If there were no obstacles, then the appreciation for those things that are good would diminsh. "A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down," so to speak.
I look forward to the coming year. I wish you all the best.
Everyone knows that the belief that we control our destiny, that we can mold the months ahead as we see fit, is not entirely within the realm of possibility. There's an old saying that says something along the lines of, "Life is 10% what we make it, and 90% how we react to it." That's probably not the exact quote, but you get the idea. The simple fact is that life, in large part, happens to us. Sometimes a loved one gets sick or a job is lost, and these are hardly things we had in mind when painting the canvas of our lives. The fact remains that these things are not made any less real, or any less a part of our existence, by our not planning for or desiring them. Life happens, and that's a cold, hard fact. The only choice we have is to adapt, be strong and move forward, incorporating the good and bad and unexpected into the pastiche of our lives. Like John Irving said, "Half my life is an act of revision." Sure, Mr. Irving was referring to the importance of revision in the craft of the written word. However, I think he was also referring to the act of living in itself. Life is truly a constant act of revision. Life happens, and we revise as we plod along the often bumpy paths upon which we travel.
With these things in mind, I stare down the barrel of a new year and I hope for the best.
The past year was, all told, a pretty good year for me. I'm cynical by nature, and it's easy to look back on the negatives. The economy is in tatters. A misguided war still rages in Iraq, while another conflict reignites between Israel and Palestine. Closer to home, the poor state of the Commonwealth's fiscal health has guaranteed I get no raises in 2009. I look back and realize I still didn't make many of the personal changes I had wanted to enact in 2008. Kid Rock, whose success is reason enough to doubt the existence of a higher power, continues to sell records. (Yes, I still call them records. I'm old. Sue me.) Still, I can't help but marvel at the good that emerged in 2008. We united for change and elected the most unlikely president in our nation's history. I look forward to seeing O take office, and continue to have faith in his vision for America's future. I watch my daughter grow into an amazing, independent woman, and I smile at the fact that I got something right. It's the pastiche. The good and the bad. We revise and we adapt and we move forward.
Cynicism aside, I look at each new year with a sense of (slightly guarded) optimism. There's much work to do to make this world a better place. There are many hurdles to surmount, and the road ahead is never easy. I think that's what makes life sweet. If there were no obstacles, then the appreciation for those things that are good would diminsh. "A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down," so to speak.
I look forward to the coming year. I wish you all the best.
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