The Dust of Discontent

“I want creation to penetrate you with so much admiration that wherever you go, the least plant may bring you a clearer remembrance of the Creator—one blade of grass or speck of dust is enough to occupy your entire mind in beholding the art with which it has been made.”

-Saint Basil the Great

These writings are my still.  Here, the superfluous evaporate, the memories condense and clarify.  This is the process of accuracy acquired, chapters edited, experiences distilled. The dross is being lifted.  The lessons remain.  Mountaineering has made the distillation process clearer to me.  Step onto the snow and ask a mountaineer what his experience is like and he will mention the wind, the cold, the stars and maybe even the fear, but if he is honest he will also speak the word misery and how some large part of him wishes to be home with his family.  Ask him the next day after he’s crossed from the snow to the sun-warmed rock, and his answer may already have begun to change.  He may speak of a glory born from stars, of a pride born from fear, of a pleasure born from discomfort.  Sometimes, the world will stand out sharper to him.

And other times not.  Sometimes, he will leave the mountain and be finished, set as firmly as the mountain itself in the peace of never returning.  But either way, the lesson is clearer afterwards.  The experience continues to happen, to ripen, becoming easier and easier to summarize and relate to others.  But the process needs to begin somewhere, life must be distilled; so the problem at present is the present, and this is my still.

at high altitude in Ecuador

I’m supposed to be moving out of my house even as I type this sentence.  In place of sheets, my naked bed lays populated with lonely, misfit items.  And the boxes stand outside my door, towering, stacked at attention.  Books and boots—tools and tents—poles, clothing, and ropes— the boxes will swallow them all.  Indeed, with the proper practicality of a bachelor, some items have never left the open mouths all year in anticipation of tomorrow when they will again slide into the truck, and I will take my place above them to sleep each night.  I have been asked several times if I am dreading the exchange of a king sized bed for a truck bed, a house for a log cabin, privacy for constant community, but to the surprised questioners I have responded most quickly that I am not.  There is nothing like a conclusion to help one appreciate a beginning, an impending change to help one appreciate sameness.

School is coming fast, and with it civilization: traffic, housemates, computers and the like. When can I even hope for an end to such civility?  When can I hope to sleep again in the dust or holed up in a vehicle like a weasel in his den?  It will not be long until I am accustomed to falling asleep to traffic noises rather than crickets.

Dirtbagging in Yosemite

I couldn’t sleep again last night.  I’m not sure why, but I lay there for some time with my eyes closed, thinking.  Eventually, spontaneously, I crept out of the window barefoot and shirtless and stood beneath the night sky, gazing up into its brilliance.  It was littered with glowing dust discontent to remain only in the sky.  It spread its radiance into the trees and the cabin and my hands outstretched in front of me, turning them all to blazing silver, softening every edge.  It reminded me of the sand at the lake, which is laced with so much pyrite that one’s hand emerges from the water covered in golden flakes.

I expect that some part of me will continue to revel in, rather than despise the dust from which we were made—to remember the experiences I’ve had and to be resilient against the cast of culture.  And I hope to be my own, walking the cities and suburbs awake and wide-eyed with wonder, aware of the omnipresent glory that lies thick on the world—not just on peaks and meadows, forests and caves, but on people and cultures and cities.  Eyesight like that is rare even among the wise, even among the mystical and emotional.  Where it is most common, I guess, is among the thankful.  I hope to stake my claim with them.  If I can take these mountains, crickets, and wildflowers with me, if I can remember and preserve the swifts whistling by my head, the grass that falls upwards from El Capitan into the sky, the water drops that hover like tiny galaxies in the updraft, if I can carry them straight into the heart of the city and cup them in my hands as a flame, then maybe I can give thanks for the opportunities I’ve been afforded, and maybe then I can give thanks for the opportunities and challenges that lie ahead.  I’m crossing from the snow to the sun-warmed rocks.

El Cap

I expect to see the mountains more clearly than ever as I squint through the Las Angeles smog.  After all, experiences don’t run perpendicular to the line of time, sparking at the point of intersection and sailing on into oblivion.  Just ask the mountaineers.  They run parallel with us, chasing us like cars and nipping at our heels.  One experience happens and changes us, then continues to happen and affect us so long as we remember it—maybe even if we don’t.

A friend recently told me that life, more so than any mountain, is the biggest adventure.  I agree with him…and yet, there it is, I already miss the dust.

Let's face it.  This is in here just because it makes me look cool.

For those of you who haven’t the frame of mind for such emotionalism and philosophy…

It is already August.  After five years of well-run courses for a variety of families and students, I am finished working with Summit Adventure.  I move into my new house on Sunday.  On Monday morning I’ll start my new job as the graduate assistant for Azusa Pacific University’s Outdoor Adventure program, and I’ll be taking classes full time.  I’m also hoping to ride the Whitney Classic bike ride at the end of September.  135 miles.  15,300 ft of elevation gain.  It’s a fundraiser, so you’ll probably get a letter from me asking for donations.

As always, thanks for reading.  Sorry I haven’t been in contact much this summer.  Hopefully this entry is a step in the right direction.

Ben