“…the Kid was a living legend, and the only person in his home country who did not tremble at the Kid’s step was Jenny Simms–or if she did, it was in another sense.” Louis L’Amour, Long Ride Home

                Writing can help us examine what we want (or think we want), so that we can decide which direction to walk in. That’s the kind of writing Krakauer does when he describes staking his whole life on climbing a mountain, climbing it, and coming back down to realize that nothing has changed. The salvation he sought wasn’t where he thought it would be. That happens to a lot of us, so there’s a lot of writing about reaching your goals and finding that the diamonds you lusted for are cold and hard to the touch.
                There’s another kind of writing: L’Amour’s writing, which takes my most immature, unexamined wants and offers them back to me. That’s the world where I’m a living legend, because everyone is afraid of me (except for Jenny Simms, who trembles in a different way). That’s the kind of writing where I get relationships without compromises, achievements without work, and looks so mysteriously, ruggedly handsome that everyone pretty much just stops and stares. It’s no accident that L’Amour’s hero is called the Kid: this is the kind of story that finds its power by promising us eternal youth, instead of by helping us come to grips with growing old.
                Don’t get me wrong: I’m enjoying L’Amour’s book. It’s easy to enjoy: it’s fun to imagine being so powerful that everyone else is scared (but, somehow, still respectful, still kind, and still amused by me). It’s fun to imagine riding out of town whenever I want, and still having what must of course be the most beautiful woman in the world loving me when I get back. It’s fun to walk tall into the trap, and face the guns, and gun them down instead.
                Although I wouldn’t want that blood on my hands.
                I think there’s probably a place on the shelf for this kind of story. There are certainly lots of these stories around: listen to your TV characters talk, or watch a movie, or pick up a newspaper to read about some celebrity, and you’ll find one. I’m going to ride with L’Amour’s impossible heroes till the end of the book, but I think it’s important to stop and realize which heroes are frightened egos beating their chests at the dark, and which heroes actually make the world deeper.
                It reminds me of a night some weeks ago, when students and I were sitting at a campfire in Colorado. The fire became our metaphor for self-respect. It’s easy to want other people admiring us, praising us; that’s the fire. It’s close, and it’s warm, and it goes out quickly unless you keep adding wood. When you step away from the brightness of the fire, and look up, you see the stars: honesty and integrity, good work and passion and kindness. They don’t seem as bright. They don’t seem as warm. During the cold moments, it’s harder to feel their glow (and during the coldest moments, perhaps you really need that fire), but the stars burn steady for all our lives. It’s easy to want the fire. I want to learn to look at the stars.

                “Rain is grace; rain is the sky descending to the earth; without rain, there would be no life.” -John Updike, Self-Consciousness: Memoirs

                Sometimes I tend to think of thoughts (stories, perspectives; plans, projects) as rivers, running ahead of me: if I don’t follow them now, if I don’t stay close, I’ll lose the current forever. It will pass away, and that thought will never come. It will blink out, with less than a blackened wick to show where it might have been. Looking at that, now, I do not believe it.
                I believe that thought, existence, is like a soaking rain: it comes down everywhere, it comes down overflowing, it comes down to drum against the earth. Thinking is like cupping your hand and holding it out from the edge of your tent. (Your tent, because it’s possible to hide from this moment’s thoughts: to shelter from them, so that they never touch your face). That water, that water right then, you could have only held right then; but there is more water, always. There is more rain. It will be different tomorrow, but there will be something tomorrow. You can follow your thoughts now. You can follow them later. You can’t follow the rain: it moves faster than you, it dances past you–it touches you. It soaks the ground, feeding unseen roots, and when you stop and look up and open your mouth, it will kiss your thirst.
                If I didn’t write down these lines–these lines, right now, before I fall asleep–then they would slip away. I would forget them while I dreamed. But all the lines I write are only approximations, are only the patter of the falling rain; and the rain will still be falling tomorrow. The drops will drum a new rhythm with the same old beat. Life, thought, and loving–all these go on.
                When I saw thoughts as rivers to be chased, I got confused about why I write these. I started seeing Uproar as a way to make myself think at least once a week–or, even worse, as a way to prove I have thoughts. That’s silly. I do. We all do. We think like grass growing, and for the same reason: it’s who we are. There’s nothing to prove–just soil to dig into, and water to drink. People to learn from, and moments to share. Why Uproar? Because I care for the people around me. Because it is raining. Because I want to walk into the rain. How wonderful it is that we can walk together.

                While looking at fish in a current: “He wondered what kind of life it would be, having to keep swimming all the time to stay exactly in the same place. Pretty similar to his own, he decided.” -Terry Pratchett, The Color of Magic

                I’ve wondered about this (and struggled with this) for a long time, so it’s nice to hear Pratchett come out and say it. Staying in place often takes a lot of swimming. That’s obvious with our bodies: we don’t eat and think, “I’ll never have to do that again.” We don’t drink and say, “Well, now I’ve dealt with thirst.” We expect the work to return, day after day. Perhaps we should expect the same thing in our emotional lives.
                I used to want joy to be a kind of trophy, a possession, a mythic beast I could hunt with a pokey stick and put on my wall. I think I killed a fair amount of joy that way. Luckily joy is a magic thing: sooner or later I woke up and found that the joy I’d caught wasn’t on the smoking wrack anymore. The magic beast had come back to life and run back into the forest where it belongs. Joy, self-worth, purpose–these aren’t things to obtain. They run. Our choice is to run with them.
                Always swimming could sound tiring. It certainly takes effort, and sometimes I end up feeling like a frantic goldfish. Still, there are different ways to swim. A few weeks ago, I was kicking and hurrying and struggling to stay away from the shallow coral while I watched sea turtles. They were in the same swells: but their swimming was a fluid thing, a part-of-it-all thing. With a few careful turns of their flippers they let the wave carry them back and forth over the coral. Mid swing they bent down to take a bite of algae. They rested, and worked, and ate: and all of that was swimming. The movement of the oceans was part of them–perhaps because they’d accepted that they were only a little part of it.
                Effort’s a funny thing. I often feel like I don’t want to spare any of it, or that I’m asked for too much. But if you look at the etymology, “effort” comes from the Latin ex- (“out”) and fortis (“strong, steadfast, spirited”). So effort is the upwelling of our spirit; it is the water we pour into the world from the well of our strength. If that’s true, constant effort doesn’t sound like something to fear. We will always swim to just stay here, but loving is part of that swim. Laughing is part of that swim. Washing dishes is also part of that swim, but whatever we think of the task, we can do it for the love of our family or for the laughter of the water on our hands.
                Perhaps the spring of our own spirit is the gift we’re given at birth; perhaps our effort, the water of that spring, is the gift we give back. And the water is there: there to sip, there to share, flowing from our spirit because we are alive.

                “I suspect that most of us get old without growing up, and that inside every adult (sometimes not very far inside) is a bratty kid who wants everything his own way. I use Calvin as an outlet for my immaturity, as a way to keep myself curious about the natural world, as a way to ridicule my own obsessions, and as a way to comment on human nature. I wouldn’t want Calvin in my house, but on paper he helps me sort through my life and understand it.” -Bill Watterson, author of Calvin and Hobbes

                I love how Watterson pays attention to childhood without idealizing it. I love how he sees the playful, joyful curiosity, and also sees the obsessive, self-involved immaturity. Perhaps most of us have scared, selfish brats buried not too deep, wanting things and throwing things and screaming until someone else cleans up. Perhaps we are still the playful, curious children who, with learning hands and open minds, reached out into a new world and made friends. Perhaps we can admit that, make space for that. Perhaps we can be both children, and the adults we’ve become, and make a harmony of the varied whole.
                Watterson seems to make that harmony by peacefully admitting the different voices. By giving the brat, the child and the artist their moment, their page, he’s grounded his wonderful world in the ridiculous and the insightful, the immature and the wise. Perhaps we can all grow like that. After all, roots and leaves work together, even though they work in different ways and opposite directions. In Yoga, we “press down to rise up,” settling our feet to raise our heads. Interactions are often mysterious or multifaceted. (Speaking of multifaceted: a human is about 19% carbon, anthracite coal is about 90% carbon, and diamonds are 100% carbon; who can tell what the same building blocks, arranged differently, might make? A chemist, I suppose–but try your chemistry on Hobbes and you’ll get a faceful of paws). Children are both cruel and kind. Relationships are both frustrating and rejuvenating. The world is frightening and inspiring. It’s by painting with all the colors he has that Watterson has made a world so brimful of life.
                So the demons outside your doors, the voices in the dark, the goofy giggles: maybe it’s time to let them out and hear them (which isn’t the same as doing what they say). Maybe they’re boys in red shirts, or tiger-friends. After all, the boy who would tear apart a real house can help us build our lives, and we all have time to play and cause havoc with Calvin.

                “It’s really not so good to have time. Rush, scramble, desperation, this missed, that left behind, those others too big to fit into such a small space–that’s the way life was meant to be. You’re supposed to be too late for some things. Don’t worry about it.” -Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn
                “Do not spoil the wonder with haste!” -J. R. R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

                A few days ago my little brother was doing homework. At least, homework was on the table in front of him, though it wasn’t getting done very quickly. We talked about that, and he said,
                “But I’m not trying to make it take a long time, so who is?”
                That got me thinking, and I think we define our own connection to the concepts on which we build our lives. That means we can choose to relate in a new way to something as fundamental as time or history, work or worth, love or community.
                Here’s an example: I know someone who hung a bell from his rearview mirror. Whenever the bell rang, he’d say, “The world is beautiful.” Of course, the bell rang when he slammed on the brakes, or hit a pothole, or jerked the wheel because someone cut him off. In other words, it rang at times when most of us would say something else. If he didn’t get in a car accident, he told me, he would rather be a bit more breathless before the awe of the world than a bit more stressed. If he did get in an accident, he’d rather go to the hospital (or his death) with “The world is beautiful” on his lips.
                We choose our time. We can live hurried, and the truth is, sometimes that’s nice. I have a friend who fills every minute of every day: he likes that, likes his time like Tarzan’s trip on the vines through the jungle. Always falling, always swinging. Beagle would understand. I know others who live closer to Tolkien: who see more wonder by slowing for the space of a breath. I’m not sure what relationship I have with time, but it’s nice to remember that I have one. Time isn’t all its own: it’s something we hold onto. We choose how we hold.
                So I won’t let haste spoil the wonder–or if I’m scrambling, I’ll remember that I’m a kitten with catnip. That’s not a bad thing to be.

“Say, lad, have you things to do?
Quick then, while your day’s at prime.
Quick, and if ‘tis work for two,
Here I am, man, now’s your time.”
                -A. E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad

                Housman’s poem reminded me of a line from the Pirkei Avot, the ancient Jewish “Teachings of the Fathers.” I couldn’t quite remember the line, so I asked google, “Tail head lion.” I found what I was looking for: “…be first to greet every person, and be the tail of lions rather than the head of foxes.” (Lovely). That’s what I remembered–but Google also gave me a modern reworking of the quote: “Better to be the head of a dog than the tail of a lion.” That second line, so similar in imagery to the first, suggests an opposite approach to life. It makes me wonder: when did we start worrying so much about being the head of things?
                I think we’re worried a lot. At least, I am. I’m worried about being important. I’m worried about proving myself. I’m worried I’m not enough, and if I am, I’m worried that being enough isn’t enough, I have to be recognized, too. I’m worried I’ll never be recognized. I’m worried, worried, worried. And so I try to prove myself, to force recognition, to demand my own importance. I end up trying to be a dog’s head instead of a lion’s tail.
                I’d rather be the tail. Perhaps that’s all I ever am. I’d be a fool to think I grew my garden all by myself. I have seeds because of a plant, and that kind of plant has been watered by gardener after gardener for generation after generation. It’s been watered by the rain. No matter how well I tend it, it grows because of the water I did not make, and it grows toward a sun I cannot look at.
                I think the greatest gift we can be given is good work well-suited to our hands. I’m proud when I lead, but I’m at peace when I help. I have my own projects, but there are far more good ideas than the few that will occur to me, and most good ideas take more than one pair of hands. (The projects I began that took flight only found their wings because others stepped in to dream with me). So, my friend, if there is work enough for two, here I am, ready to pick up whatever piece I can. I’m grateful for the gift: the gift of working, side by side.
                Like the seeds, we swim through time and the seasons. Like the seeds, I want to grow: not the whole world, but just my little part, my blade in the field, my leaf to sing with breathing wind.

                “I pushed on, filled with mild disquiet, feeling like someone swimming too far from shore.” -Bill Bryson, A Walk In The Woods

                There are a lot of things I like about Bryson’s book, but one of the biggest is that, in the 176 pages I’ve read, he’s as bumbling, inexperienced, and confused as I often feel–and he’s still doing something wonderful. Bryson and his friend Katz set off to hike the Appalachian Trail, a 2200 mile stretch that connects Georgia to Maine. Along the way Bryson happily, playfully shows us his own stumbles: his first look at the overwhelming pile of his gear, his despair at another dinner of noodles, his brief consideration of toenail clippers as a weapon against bears. (Probably wouldn’t work). He takes cabs to get around sections of the trail, wanders around without finding the trail, and wonders what the heck he is doing. But he keeps doing.
                Years ago, I was backpacking in the Sierra mountains with my older brother. We set up a rock climbing rope and he (four years older, several inches taller, a good deal handsomer as far as I could tell) climbed a section of cliff. I belayed him. Then it was my turn. Halfway up the hard granite there was a thin ledge, perhaps an inch deep, with a sharp edge. The trick was to put both hands on it and heave yourself upwards to the next handhold. I tried, and couldn’t read, and fell until the rope caught me. I tried again, and couldn’t. I tried. I couldn’t. By this time my hands hurt from the sharp rock. My brother, handling the rope behind me, suggested I stop or take a break. He suggested we set the rope on a different section of cliff. I refused, angrily, loudly, and kept trying until my hands were cut. Eventually, crying in frustration and hurt and anger at myself, I stomped off without a word to sit by a little pond.
                My brother let me have my space for a little while, and then he came over quietly.
                “You know,” he said, “The challenge was never the rock.”
                Bryson doesn’t come off as an accomplished mountaineer, or even as an experienced hiker. (He does come off as a connoisseur of hamburgers). But the challenge was never the Appalachian Trail: the Trail was his starting point, the doorway to his adventure. It’s the main thread of his book, and it’s a thread he can’t hold onto: it breaks when he tries to grab it, and the trail goes on without him. But that leaves him someplace else.
                By continuing to walk, and watch, and think–by listening, to others and himself; by reading about the land around him; by writing–he is finding his adventure. I’m not sure where he’s heading (I finished the book since starting this, but it seems fitting to let him stay where he was, wandering off ahead of me), but I know this is a book where the writer did not manage anything close to what he set out to do, and still did something truly wonderful. I love that.
                The challenge is never the rock. The real challenge, the challenge my brother and I hiked into the mountains to find, is inside. Like Bryson, we can trust that something happens when we swim in the sea out past our shore, when we’re open to the disquieting and the mysterious. We can live on, not through what we planned to see, but through what we find.

                After describing a long backpacking trip with his friend, and the closeness they developed: “At the airport, I realized we were already in different universes (he in a “Where do I go to check in?” sort of distraction, I in the distraction of knowing that my family waited, that the car was badly parked, that it was nearly rush hour in Washington), so we parted awkwardly, almost absently, with hasty wishes for a good flight and promises to meet again in August for the conclusion of our long amble.” -Bill Bryson, A Walk In The Woods

                I’m with my family on Kauai. We’ve swum with turtles, jumped from rocks into waves,  and eaten the kind of pineapple that jumps on you like a niece who love-love-loves you. I’ve held my niece, who I love love love, and who likes me at least enough to pull my hair and (once) give me a slobbery baby kiss. But all in all, I think what we’ve really done is be here, together.
                That’s often a hard thing to do. I really like my roommate. When we get up and stomp into the kitchen the other’s there, but somehow it’s still hard to find time together. It’s not just our schedules: it’s the rhythm of how we live. It’s the places, in the world and inside our minds, where we tend to go. Those places are shrouded, so it’s easy to pass each other without even realizing the other’s nearby. (And, of course, there are the technological, SEE-ME places we go to behind our screens and between our headphones). Simply seeing each other takes a choice, and it doesn’t always work. Sometimes it helps to step out from our individual routines: we go get lunch, or go for a walk and talk. Both of those are ways of saying, “We’re meeting here.” (When we go to lunch, we often drive together; it’s funny that we’re usually less ‘absent’ at the restaurant than we were at home ten minutes before). Sometimes all it takes is sitting an extra moment in the living room. I want to learn to be less “absent” in my meetings and greetings, even without lunch or a trail.
                I think we came here, my family and I, just to be together. And we could be together in California, or Oklahoma. We could be together in a park or a shopping center, but sometimes it’s easier when we travel. It’s easier when we purposefully leave our own patterns behind. It’s easier when we choose a new here to share. Maybe, in setting aside this time to come together, we’re maintaining the trails we use to come together the rest of the year.
                So many of our passings (and our meetings) are awkward, almost absent. I want some time in the same universe as you. To do that, I’ll plan more long ambles through the woods. To do that, I’ll practice remembering: even when I’m inside, even when I’m in the middle of my routines, I want to walk in a way that lets me walk with you.

                “It was just as Mandrag said: Nine tenths of alchemy was chemistry. And nine tenths of chemistry was waiting.” -Patrick Rothfuss, The Slow Regard of Silent Things

                Slow Regard follows Auri, a young woman who is beautifully lost and found while also, perhaps, being the strangest, silliest, and most interesting magician I’ve ever met in a book. (And I tend to read the kind of books where you meet them). Auri tries to help the world back into its own patterns: creatures lost away from the woods want to find trees again, and children frightened at night want to be reminded of joy and wonder. Auri doesn’t stop there. Leaves can be lost, and little stone figurines: by looking at them carefully, listening to them intently, she tries to help them home. At one point she tries to find a place for a big brass gear she found in some rubble. She isn’t trying to repair the machine it came from: she’s finding where the gear belongs. Only she can’t seem to find it: she tries place after place, but can’t quite see what the gear needs. She keeps trying. Reflecting on this in her final essay, my student Allison wrote: “Auri knows time is not an issue. The gear will find its place, but in time.”
                In time. What a beautiful line.
                I get frustrated with the speed of things. I get worried that my book’s not growing quickly enough, or that the day’s going by at a run and I’m behind in grading and washing dishes. I get frustrated when I’m with a friend, and we’ve chatted, but not really connected yet–not deeply, and I haven’t seen them in so long, and I only have so long to talk with them now. I get impatient when I’ve read fifty pages, but I think I should’ve finished sixty.
                In time, in time…
                When I was younger I would always ask how long. When I went skiing, I would ask how long each ski run would take. (It drove my dad crazy). When we designed a backpacking trip, I asked how long: how long would we be gone, how long would we have to hike each day. I saw time as a commodity, a currency: so much of it for all of that, and I wanted to make a good purchase. Some people recommend that perspective: they say we get 1440 new minutes to spend each day, like golden coins, and we should spend them wisely. And okay. I see that. But also, no. I like Auri’s way.
                In time, in time.
                At Amherst, Professor Ferguson once quoted his meditation instructor: “If you’re doing the most important thing in the world, it doesn’t matter how long it takes.” You don’t shout at a seed to grow more quickly: you give it earth, you give it water. And you wait. You don’t walk toward the hanging mountains by beating your feet against how long–or if you do, you’ll end up sore footed. You walk to the mountains by walking: by seeing how the peaks caress the sky: by being part of it, within it. That doesn’t mean we can’t work, but perhaps it means that, when we’re working (or playing, or hiking, or growing), we can trust the speed of things. We can let the moment go. This, here, is worth the time. This–this moment, this connection, this thought, this work, this heart, this life–is growing. And if it’s growing in the way it can, it doesn’t matter how long it takes.
                It’s just as Mandrag said: nine tenths of nine tenths of magic is waiting.

                “The Answer to the Great Question […] Is […] Forty-two.”
                “…that quite definitely is the answer. I think the problem, to be quite honest with you, is that you’ve never actually known what the question is.” -Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
                “I beg you, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.” -Rainer Maria Rilke

                Hitchhiker’s is one of the funniest books I’ve ever read, and it’s got a secret: the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. (If you keep reading the series, you also get the secret to flying). Problem is, the answer turns out to be 42. When two super-intelligent (though perhaps not very wise) creatures finally get their answer from Deep Thought, the computer their people designed to solve the question, they’re worried about being lynched. “Forty-two” isn’t the most reassuring teaching to offer masses who think they’re about to be enlightened.
                Whenever I get a new puzzle (and I like puzzles), I want to solve it. I want to figure out how it works. But if I figure out how it works while just trying to figure out how it works, then I get bored with it pretty quickly. The more interesting part is the interplay in the music of its pieces: how this mirrors that, and spins around, encircling, setting free. I start trying to figure it out without looking, like someone wandering through a room in the dark. “Locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language…” In some matters we can look for answers, and we can find them, but before there were answers there were questions. “Summer day” doesn’t get an answer. Neither does “you and me.” They weren’t made of the stuff that needs answers, just like courage isn’t made out of carbon and a turtle isn’t made out of nihilism.
                Rilke and Adams might not agree. Rilke says there really are answers, and we get closer to them by focusing on living. Adams seems to find the whole idea of an answer rather ridiculous. He might not be serious enough to disagree. As I read them, though, they do have something in common. They both feel like joy. The answer (or the way toward it) is hanky-panky and hootenanny; choice and rejoice; nonsense and incense, which (before you get all incensed, because it’s not logical) has the upside of smelling good.
                The answer is 42. It’s a grand answer: an answer with mountains and thunderstorms, differential equations and violins. We get to pose the question. We get to live into our answers. We get these books written in a language we don’t understand, with letters that spell mysteries and cast spells. So hootenanny and hoedown, and learn to fly.