Lucid, Not Afraid: Part 2

8 years ago I wrote a blog entry after seeing a picture of a baby boy, washed up on the shores of the Mediterranean. His family were fleeing a war so brutal they took their chances crossing the sea on a small raft. 2,000 miles away, Europe seemed like their only hope. 

The soles of his tiny baby shoes looked like a toy cartoon as he lay there, frozen in his innocent, precious baby death. He will be etched in my memory forever. His name was Alan.

In Alan, I saw my own son.

“That could be my son.” I thought. “My little curly-haired hobbit baby. That could be him.”

I internalized the tragedy and felt a potent outrage. My outrage felt powerful and insignificant at the same time. You know the feeling, I’m sure of it.

That day, I used an analogy: I cannot control everything in this world, but I still have agency. I still need to buckle my seatbelt to survive a car crash (it’s what saved my son’s life in 2013). 

Tragically, the war in Syria seemed to slip away from the public consciousness. It checked all the boxes as one of, if not the worst wars in our time – a war so dangerous the media would not dare venture into the battlefield to show you. But it brought no marches, no rallies for a ceasefire. Chances are most Americans felt little agency to impact this conflict. Maybe they weren't sure who to blame. 

All the same, my country’s government sent millions worth of weapons to help fight the Assad army that was dropping barrel bombs and Chlorine gas on Alan’s homeland.

But justice felt far away and arbitrary. I was furious at how feckless the world can seem in the face of such historic destruction.

"If that could happen there, it could happen anywhere. I thought to myself. “The world will not protect us.”

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Years later, once again the world feels like it’s ripping itself apart, gently rapping demise at our doorstep.

Last year I saw a video of Anna, a young beautiful Ukrainian woman with long brown hair. Her mother, too weak to bury her daughter, covered her unburied ruin with a broken door – anything she could find to keep the feral dogs from eating her. Her petite legs in yoga pants and sneakers were poking out from under the ground, smothered in the mud.

I recognized Anna’s sneakers. I once had a darling girlfriend that wore the same ones.

Again, I internalized the tragedy.

“That could be my gentle sweetheart, her soft legs, unburied, unwept, and unsung. That could be her.” I said.

Within weeks, Anna’s city, Mariupol, was raised to the ground.

And again, my country’s government sent millions worth of weapons to fight back the Russian army that invaded Anna’s homeland.

But still, the justice for Anna’s death felt ephemeral.

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Fast forward to today and again, the rapping, tapping of demise hammers closer.

Once again, my country’s government sent millions in weapons to help a country fight for their homeland against a people trying to fight off those people trying to take their homeland.

Does that sound fucked? That’s cuz it is.

We’ve all seen the horrific videos coming out of Gaza and Israel. The scenes were not different from the ones in Syria, but this time the media was there to report back and show us the horror. And once again, fucking NBC sensationalized their reporting with a soundtrack that elicited O Fortuna.

Finally, this conflict hit a nerve for many of my community friends. Scores of them mobilized for rallies and marches. Pick a side, my social media feed is flooded with their reposts, evoking a familiar tone: "If you're not with us, then you're against us"

The conflict scrapes on sensitive topics ranging from anti-colonialism, ethnic cleansing, civilian deaths, occupation resistance, the whole gamut. Again, not exceptional from the war in Syria, but it somehow resonated more with them – perhaps a couple shades less opaque of who to blame – perhaps ourselves this time. Maybe it was O Fortuna.

Either way, this time I internalized something that felt distinctly different.

I saw a video of a father gently wiping dust from his daughter’s lifeless face. He loved her. Even in her death he tended to her cuteness. The father wept with a forsaken sorrow and agony for which I can only bear to damn God.

And my thoughts raced back to the men of these wars. The ones doing the fighting, the ones dropping bombs, shooting rockets, killing and murdering, the calloused and vengeful, the ones that hate.

I internalized that too and for the briefest of moments, I saw it. The Red.

“Holy shit, that could be ... me”.

The Red flashed into my mind and sank me with a hard truth: I’m hardwired to become like them, to become merciless.

“You don’t want me as your enemy.” I brooded.

I know that my fighting spirit is bestowed upon me to protect those I love, but it can easily become a path toward utter destruction.

“If I had that kind of agony, I wouldn’t stop. From the dry depths of my sorrow, I’d damn myself and fuckin eat your dead and go mad. Cuz fuck you all.” I said to myself, internalizing what it must feel like to endure such hatred and fury.

And yes, I internalized both sides.

I’m lucidly aware that rage is a madness - a sickness. And I’m not immune. At times it is more bewitching and more entrancing than love or compassion, not stronger, but more potent and fast-flowing. I have seen The Red before – a place without peace, without forgiveness, and painfully, I admit I have hurt people because of it, even people I cared about. I’ve even seen it in some of you lately.


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Amidst this jumble of thoughts, it's important to remember where this writing began – without fear.

But this is the world we live in, the really real world. A world where the balance of order and chaos have not changed – a world that is brutal yet fragile, feckless and wild, gentle and precious, and disgustingly vile.

So where do we go from here? 

First off, take a deep breath.

I remain unafraid. And so should you.

Because here’s the kicker: our scourge may not be war and violence. We may never live to witness our country Balkanize itself – at least not yet. Our scourge could easily be … an earthquake.

Did you buckle your seatbelt?

We cannot control everything in this world and it’s not always clear what we should do about it. There’s so much to worry about. But there’s no transcendence in complacency. And we now inherit a world that our forefathers built, for better or for worse.

I know it’s a lot to take in – global war games, pandemics, your aging parents, goddamn credit card bills, climate change, fuckin microplastics... I get it. You’re dealing with a lot.

But one thing is for certain: We’ll need each other to get through any of it. You’re too important in this story. 

I’ve accepted that although I may not be able to stop the calamity, I can damn sure help you survive it. And I remain steadfast to do my best to try. I will help you buckle your seatbelt too. There’s too much nebulous mind control that aims to turn us against one another, or worse, convince us that we’re powerless.

We can protect each other. We can save someone else’s hobbit baby. We can evacuate a gentle woman before it’s too late. And we can bring peace to a tortured soul trapped in The Red.

Stand together with me. Face it head on. Don’t look away.

I’m holding your hand right now. Together. Lucid and Unafraid.

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Teach a Man to Fish

The following is a memoir and tribute to my high school mentor, Wayne MacDonald. 

Chapter 1: No Baby Steps

“Can I trust you with my life?” I asked her. 

The girl looked back at me with gentle eyes and smiled. Her hand holding the end of my rope line, she replied. 

“Yes, you can trust me with your life.” 

I didn’t know her. This was only the second day of school. But here I was, on the precipice of a sharp cliff. I wondered how the hell I ended up here. 

The cliff was 70-80 feet high, but I remember feeling like it seemed bigger.  The scent of wet morning grass mingled with the old leather of my gloves. 

I couldn’t bring myself to look down. I just focused on the rope in front of me, the instructions they gave me. The rope, my own life, ran through my hands. I trusted the girl with it now too. Commit.

““Don’t die…bring the rope down to your thigh to brake…. lift the rope to release…don’t fuckin die.” I repeated to myself. 

But soon I started feeling more confident. I eventually released my brake to take large jumps from the rock. Just like the guys in the movies. A few agile bounces, and boom, I completed the descent. Exhilarated.

“..savage” I whispered to myself.

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Chapter 2: New Bootie

“Muahrcus, we’re transfarring you to a special pwrogram. I think you’ll like it theah”. 

My Art Director, Mr Rosenblatt, looked at me concerned. In his thick New York accent, he recommended I attend an alternative school program - Urban Pioneers (UP).

You see, high school was a tough time for me. There were too many pretty girls, distractions, and psychoactive drugs for me to give a shit about getting good grades. I felt rebellious and convinced myself that "learning in school" was dumb and I wanted no part of it. (I was a dumbass, I know)

 

“Oh shit, you’re going to Urban?” a kid chuckled. “Watch out, that’s like, for ghetto kids who are about to drop out” 

…Well, fuck him cuz he was wrong. But I understand how that could be misconstrued. 

The program operated independently out of a group of bungalows in the parking lot of a separate high school. From the outside, a passerby might only notice the large graffiti-style letters spelling out Urban Pioneers spray painted on the side of the wall. Oh, and Juvenile Hall stood ominously across the street -- a not-so-subtle reminder of detours on the path of education. Good stuff! 

“Man, fuck school” I told myself.

Walking into the bungalow, there was a blend of aromas; moldy classroom, bubblegum, and a hint of someone’s weed.

I quickly scanned the room and immediately recognized some of the kids there. And I wasn’t exactly happy about it. I knew them from different neighborhoods – kids from the housing projects in Hunters Point and specifically, kids from the “HITSquad'' on Highland Street. If I'm honest, I was kinda scared of them. At the time, I thought one of their older friends had tried to rob me when I was little. Doesn't matter now anyway. Either way, I thought they were all assholes. 

The classroom was laid out with a few couches and chairs arranged casually. A graffiti-style banner stretched across one wall - a visual reminder of the program's ethos:

'Give a man a fish, he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish, he eats for life.' 

My teacher, Jay Lee, confident and nonchalant, leaned back on the edge of a table, twirling his long dreads with his fingers and spoke in a husky voice. 

“So…yeah…tomorrow, don't come to campus. Meet us in the canyon for the wall repel.” 

When I arrived I noticed some kids had already set up. And guess who was there. Yep. One of those dipshits from HITSquad. Turns out one of them had already gone through the program and earned the privilege to return for a second semester. As a “Returnee”, he was charged with mentoring the newcomers – the “new booties”.

“Christ. HE’s gonna train us?!” I whispered to myself.

But something was different about him. He wasn’t being an asshole. He was legit. This dude had straight up morphed. 

I thought I knew this kid to be a jerk, but there he was, a hyper-vigilant leader, diligently guiding the new students through the complexities of tying a figure-eight knot. And let me tell you, if you were screwing around, you heard it from him. He really wanted us to listen and learn. 

“Dang, he really knows his stuff” I said to the kid next to me. 

“Yeah. He’s a sav.” a girl responded. 

I stood there, fascinated, in awe, like I just discovered fire.  

 

“Huh… a sav.” I thought.

Now, for those of you who don’t know, a “sav”, short for “savage”, is loosely defined as a mythical idealization of an intelligent, driven, mature, brave, athletic, challenge-ready survivalist with endless skills, and all-around capabilities (I could go on and on). And here is this bratty-ass kid, exemplifying exactly those traits. This was a big deal.

…Now, granted, this dude might have still come off as a dipshit teenager in the streets, but UP provided a context that brought out the absolute best in these kids, revealing a side of them that most people, including myself, hadn't even known existed. These weren't just bratty street kids; they could exercise the highest levels of maturity and brought a unique blend of passion, energy, and loyalty. Someone just needed to bring it out. 

I liked the kid now. I respected him; He WAS a sav. And we’re still friends to this day. 

Around the World and Back Again - Chapter 3: Puppy Therapy

Yes, these were Native American headdresses - in Indonesia. Culture for sale - packaged and sold for the consumer.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Deep in the market alleys of Ubud, craftsmen made "cultural" trinkets to entice the willing buyer - dream catchers, wooden flutes, cliche paintings of mountain landscapes with a wolf howling to the a moon, a tree's roots blended with an image of a woman's womb with a "grandfather" in the sky.

The crafts in the markets shed light on their clientele. This was a place where western consumers came to dabble in culture; the spiritual - Hindu, Native American, Buddhist, whatever floats their liking for the day. Don’t get me wrong, my reflection wasn’t meant to bash on anyone at all, more on the cultural appropriation and consumption aspect.) ...It did feel wrong.

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I was traveling alone now. I had split up with my original group and we all went separate ways. My days were quieter now - less drinking, more reflective. The town of Ubud proved to be overrun with tourists and bustled with hundreds of more financed, air-conditioned shiny cars. But the town still had a charm. It was obvious why - the art. In no other city in South East Asia did I encounter as much stimulating imagery and decorative artistry. Throughout the town, haunting sculptures decorated the streets and temple carvings held faces that looked like they would come alive when you weren’t looking. It felt like a scene from a children's fairy tale movie. It truly was captivating.

Swarms of monkeys mobbed across the rooftops of the town. Their stare pierces right through you. You can’t look them in the eye or they’ll freak out and consider you a threat. They’re smart, agile, and daring.

I heard of a lovely hostel, complete with free massages, free yoga classes, and next door to a meditation center. They even bring puppies to the court yard for puppy therapy. Let me say that again… Little. Baby. Puppies. A bunch of them. Enough to make any macho man melt. ...Turns out these dogs have become a bit of a nuisance on the island and are culturally not welcomed by many locals. There's a huge campaign to sterilize them across the island now. 

I joined a tour from my hotel to explore nearby coffee plantations, waterfalls, and of course, those rice paddies I had heard about - the ones with the pretty models and the flowing dresses. Most of the destinations were just more Instagram hotspots with the same picture formula - make it look like you’re the only person there (and not surrounded by hundreds of other tourists trying desperately to do the same). It turned out those flowing dresses are rental props for photo shoots - $60 dollars an hour.

On an impulse, I decided to book a tour to trek Mount Rinjani on the island of Lombok. The park administration required that we hire porters to carry our food, gear, and supplies up the mountain. There was no drinking water along the entire trek and these porters, who were half my size, carried 3 days worth of my supplies in woven baskets on their shoulders. They even brought coffee for me. Their calves were huge and they zoomed past me at an inspiring pace. I couldn't keep up. It was an 8,500ft ascent over 10km. The landscape changed from lush jungle, to sparse pine, and eventually barren volcanic rock.  I climbed above the tree line and above the clouds.

It was one of the hardest hikes I’ve ever done in my life. My calves cramped from exhaustion. But the view? Just, wow. Millions of years ago this volcano blew itself apart and left behind a gigantic crater. A baby volcano burgeoned in the center. You could see hot steam emanating from its chimney. Christ, it was huge.

I spent the last few days bouncing around between hostels, meeting more travelers and learning to surf. There was even some travel romance.  Interestingly, I later found out the girl I met had a fiancé, but that's a story for another time. 

My time on these islands were coming to an end. Sticking to my original plan, I was headed west until I circled the globe. Vietnam was the next destination. 

At the time there was a lingering feeling that I would return to these islands someday. There was just so much to see. This was just barely been the tip of the iceberg and obviously, the island nation of Indonesia has so much more to offer than what I experienced. I've still yet to see the orangutans. When I go back I hope to venture deeper into the jungle, beyond my comfort zone and my lifestyle expectations..

Around the World And Back Again - Chapter 2: Stars Unknown

“Allaaaaaaaaaaaahu Akbar!”

It was June and Ramadan had recently ended. Across the entire island, for what seemed like hours, I could hear the melodic calls to prayer echoing on public-announcement megaphones.

Outside of Bali, many islands in Indonesia have a predominately Muslim population. Some of these islands offered an opportunity for the most eye opening experience a traveller could ask for - perspective.

Here on the opposite side of the globe were among some of the most remote islands on earth. People here lived a completely different lifestyle than myself.  I saw small communities that lived in clay huts with straw roofs. Life was simpler here - different priorities. For some islanders, a bath is jumping into the ocean, a meal - catching a fish. Toilet paper, internet, running water, western-style plumbing - none of these were a given. There was something refreshing about feeling so foreign, so different, so far from the car-centered American consumerism that I was accustomed to.

“This is why I left home.” I excitedly told myself.

The people on these islands have a friendly, modest demeanor. Notwithstanding the jungle heat, the muslim women cover their entire body up to their wrists and ankles. They would accentuate themselves with beautiful shawls of vibrant colors. Occasionally, a half-naked tourist in their swim shorts or bikini would zoom past on a motorbike. They looked slightly tacky and out of place.

I was still traveling with the group I met the night I arrived; just going with the flow. One of the girls in the group, Beatrice, handled all our arrangements - transportation, itineraries, lodging, reservations, you name it. All I had to do was show up and pay her back.

Our group embarked on a multi-day adventure of island hopping across a small portion of the Indonesian archipelago. We visited one of the most Instagrammed locations in the world - Kling Kling Beach (or at least that's what the locals seemed to call it). 

Sitting on the edge of Nusa Penida, this massive limestone cliff jets out the side of the island and shelters a not-so-secret hidden beach. I thought it would be serene; peaceful. What I found instead was a huge crowd of hundreds of tourists attempting to snap the same exact picture. The objective: make it look serene - like you’re the only person there. It was selfie-stick galore. Still, the view was amazing. 

This island painted a clear example of the contradiction plaguing many islands near the Bali area. The people here were poor and remote. Most of the roads were half-paved and shoddy. But juxtaposing across this remote landscape were these shiny, brand-new financed cars shuttling tourists back and forth to their Instagram photo ops.  There was something off-putting about this deep contrast. It was obviously unsustainable. And I was in one of these fancy cars; air conditioned; sunblock on my nose; an Iphone in my hand. 

A couple of days later, my friends and I had been snorkeling all day. They were headed to the bar for afternoon drinks. I opted to skip the encore and decided to visit a distant side of the island to watch the sunset. I bought a beer and sat on the sand.

At a distance I saw a couple walking along the ocean breaks. The girl had long beautiful hair and skipped toward her lover.

My thoughts unexpectedly raced back to my ex-girlfriend from the previous year.

My relationship with this girl was an absolute roller coaster - weeks of sublime, euphoric highs followed by long hash-out talks. Our time was tortured with multiple break-ups, hot, confusing post-breakup sex, and second and third honeymoon periods... Off and on, off and on. And then there was that time she fucked some idiot hippy homeless dude who lived in a van. I hated her for it.

"I was healing and growing" she explained. 

And this was all twisted up in a heart-wrenching fantasy that we were somehow destined to be together - we were going to be a family, get married, she was going to have my children, it was going to work out.  In hindsight, the whole thing majorly sucked. We eventually broke up for the last time -- she shared that she had more "healing and growing" to do. 

And even though a lot of time had passed by and I had dated wonderful girls after her, something still hurt. I didn’t miss her anymore - who she was in my life. But I guess I missed the idea of her - an image in my head that wasn't real.

"Jeez". I muttered to myself in disbelief of what I put myself through.

With my beer loosely dangling from my fingers, I sat there staring at the couple. The rhythmic crash of the waves was deafening. Slightly drunk and finally a moment to myself, I closed my eyes and prayed for clarity, and resolve.

A tear of gratitude rolled down my cheek as I watched the sun disappear in the vastness of the Pacific. I was far away from that life now; right where I needed to be. The sky marbled with purple and pink as the heavens passed above my head. It was one of the most memorable sunsets I’ve ever seen.



After this day I knew it was time to part ways from our group and follow my own path - one with more time and space for self-reflection. I decided to return to Bali for a few last days to visit the mountain town of Ubud. 

Around The World And Back Again - Chapter 1: An Unexpected Turn

           

“Hey you guys, this is Marcus.” Rico said. “He’s part of the group now.”

They had already bought my boat ticket. And we were all headed to another island together...A party island.

But please believe me, this wasn’t what I originally planned. Not by a long shot.

The night before, which at this point was a big blur, had completely set the tone….

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You see, 3 months prior to this, I had a bank account full of money and a heavy, yearning heart.

After years of feeling captive in a lifetime of drudgery through school and work, and after an emotionally exhausting and unnecessarily drawn-out relationship, I felt desperate to let go of something; everything; to change. And yes, possibly to run away.

Without much thought, I impulsively bought a plane ticket.

“Somewhere far, far away.”  I thought to myself.

Indonesia. No return flight.

I planned to keep going west until I circled the globe. This was going to be a bucket-list year.

I packed everything I owned in boxes and gave the rest away. I didn't have a plan when I returned. Part of me didn’t want to come back.

I had a vague itinerary, but mostly I wanted to see stars I didn’t recognize - to be surrounded by something completely foreign from myself.

I planned to spend a few days practicing meditation and yoga, then make my way through the jungles of Java, climb an exploding volcano, see the orangutans, and find a quiet place of solace to sit and be still. I wanted to witness a vast Pacific Ocean sunset and pray. I planned to travel the South East Asian backpacker’s circuit and make a giant loop before flying to Western Europe.
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The first stop was Bali.

I had heard conflicting stories of what it might be like. There were countless travel vlogs and Instagram pictures of lush, green landscapes laden with beautiful models in flowing dresses. 

I learned the island has a unique history of artistry and Hindu spiritual influence that is enchanting to the eye and soothing to the heart.

But then there was the other truth - it had become overdeveloped and overcrowded; cars everywhere; hustle at every corner; sex tourism; plastic trash; consumption. The island had sold every bit of its soul to tourism to become a packaged, commercialized, thrashing ground for drunk vacationing Westerners and spiritual dilettantes.

As I would find out, both realities were true and juxtaposed together in a surreal amalgam of beautiful and tragic, ancient and trendy, soulful and appropriated.
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I arrived at Denpasar Airport at 1am, brain-dead and exhausted from 26 hours of travel.

My first impression was that the area looked chaotic. Traffic etiquette seemed completely absurd. Drivers cut each other off at every corner. They drove on the opposite side of the road. Nobody followed street signals.

My taxi dropped me off at my hostel on a secluded, dark, tiny road. From the street, I could hear thumping electronic music and see neon lights emanating from the building.

As I entered the hostel I felt out of place. This wasn’t my scene. Inside, the building was dark, the music was deafeningly loud, and the place was dirty. A group of backpacker bros were standing near the bar breathing Nitrous Oxide through a balloon. In my youth we called these "whip-its" and I hadn't done this since junior-high school.

“Christ. What the fuck did I get myself into?” I asked myself.

I shlepped myself to my 12-bed hostel room, and collapsed into my sleeping bunk. I could still hear the techno thump through the walls.

“Tomorrow morning I’m going to find a meditation resort.” I thought. “No way I can stay here”

Almost immediately a guy poked his head into my bunk. A short, buff medical student from Miami. Rico. He noticed my fedora and sparked a conversation with me. This guy was a bit sleazy, but undeniably witty and funny. His banter kept me from falling asleep.

“Bro, come have a drink with me,” Rico said with a smirk. His eyes were fixed on a beautiful French Canadian girl bunked right above me. Somehow, he convinced both of us to join him.

We walked to a nearby club - a massive outdoor complex with dozens of rooms filled with raunchy nightclub scenes not meant for children’s eyes. The place was packed with a mix of hip-looking Balinese locals and tourists. Reggaeton and salsa were popular hits on the dance floor and Rico turned out to be an awesome wingman. We seemed to be amongst the few guys who knew our way around a latin rhythm and my confidence blew slightly out of proportion.

And this is where the blur started, the unexpected turn, around the 5th or 6th drink… maybe.

My last vivid memory was losing a sandal somewhere. I later found photo booth pictures that I don’t remember taking with people I didn’t know. I was sticking my tongue out and giving the “hang loose” hand sign in almost all of them. (Gross, I know). Don't ask me, I blame Rico.

There were bruises across my arm and scratches on my back I couldn’t explain. I had added dozens of random people to my Instagram.

And the blur got even fuzzier after this. I jumped into a closed-off pool and got in a lot of trouble with the club security. I remember being drenched.

The next morning I woke up in a room I didn't recognize in a building I had never saw before. 

Half dead, I limped my way back to my hostel on my one sandal.

I eventually found Rico on the rooftop of our hostel, sitting atop colored bean bags with a group of other travelers. He introduced me. And within an instant my plans were changed.

There was something special about this group of people. Made up of 4 girls and 6 guys, now including me, there was a sense we all knew each other, but in reality had all just met. The harmony of energy, humor, and good natured banter was undeniable. And Rico seemed to pull them all together. There were even nicknames for everyone already. I was hooked in seconds.

They all shared stories of the night before and helped me fill in the gaps - the bruises, the scratches, the club security. It was all a riot.

At the time, it felt exactly like what I needed to forget all my troubles and live in the present. And I leaned in. Like I said, none of this was what I originally intended. But I was happy to be around good company and I didn’t look back.

There's only one way to stop plastic waste - at the source

I’ll admit it. I use plastic all the time.  I can’t remember how many times I’ve forgotten to refill my water bottle only to purchase another at the corner store. We all know how difficult it is to avoid contributing to plastic waste. For years we’ve told ourselves a simple solution - if consumers just changed their habits, if we recycle, reduce, and reuse, we can turn the tide. Sadly, although this approach is essential, it will never be enough. Our plastic waste problem has grown out of control and it can only be stopped by addressing the source.  It’s like the kitchen sink is overflowing with water and we’re scrambling for a sponge to clean up the mess.  Meanwhile the sink is spilling onto the counter, onto the floor, into our food, and no one wants to turn off the faucet. 

I get it. Plastic is everywhere. We use it for everything from packaging food and medical supplies to producing auto parts and electronics. We produce over 600 billion pounds of it each year - enough to provide every man, woman, and child on earth with over 100 pounds of plastic annually. Only a fraction of our plastic waste finds its way into landfills whereas a huge portion is never accounted for and is lost into our oceans.  

Make no mistake about it. The plastic that finds its way into the ocean poses a planetary threat. It leeches harmful chemicals into the water and over time collects even more deadly toxins on its surface that creates a biohazard to wildlife. 

But it doesn’t stop there. The plastic in the oceans also forecasts a grim future for how it will inevitably impact humans. The plastic breaks up into smaller pieces and is mistaken for plankton and then makes its way into the food chain. So the next time crab season comes along, your children will also eat the plastic glitter from inside its meat. Eventually, as fertility rates drop within ocean wildlife, so too will the world's fisheries and the income generated from them. Finding safe-to-eat tuna for your sushi dinners will become a distant memory of a bygone era. 

Thankfully, there is hope. Social media has proven itself effective to persuade big corporations to change their business practices with hashtags like #isthisyours. Just recently, Trader Joe’s announced its plan to drastically cut down on plastic packaging. There are also amazing projects like Ocean Cleanup that aim to remove the plastic debris in the world's oceans within the next ten years. But there’s no silver bullet to this problem. Crucial to this movement is acknowledging that more needs to be done - addressing the source of it all. And here lies the challenge. 

This isn’t a rallying cry for the affluent vegan moms that buy only organic produce because they’re the only ones who can afford it. This is a test for all of us. It’s a burden that must be shared by everyone across the world. And because of this, our government must work with the United Nations to take a stand to help control this environmental bane of our age.

Plastic production needs to be regulated. One option is changing its waste classification into the internationally recognized “hazardous waste”. It may sound harsh, but something must be done. A new classification like this will mandate a new framework requiring plastic manufacturers to process their waste within a closed-loop system. It will also set new standards that can limit overall plastic production to a specific amount. These lofty goals can be set in motion by pressuring our congressional representatives to pass a resolution approving the Amendment to the International Basel Convention with the United Nations Environmental Assembly. 30 years ago our world leaders used these same international organizations to ban chemicals that threatened to destroy the ozone layer. And we can do it again with plastic waste. This isn’t going to be easy. But it’s time we deal with this mess. It’s time to put down the sponge, walk over to the sink, and dare to turn off the faucet. 

What We Carry

Last week my yoga instructor directed the class to lay on our backs and breathe as she concluded her guided practice. She rung a large deep bell. 

I wasn’t thinking of anything in particular. I was just breathing deeply. 

But slowly the ringing began to pierce my heart. 

It quickly felt too much to bear - like an ocean wave flooding in. 

I felt embarrassed to be so overwhelmed. I tried to hold it back but an assistant noticed my breathing. It had become staggered and shortened. I was panting. I didn't want to lose control. Everything inside told me to hold fast, harder - to be a man. 

I thought to myself, "No! I was just fine a moment ago." 

She calmly walked over to me and kneeled above me. She gently rested her finger on my forehead and with the other hand she placed on my chest. 

And I felt it all - melancholy and joy, love and pain, despair and hope, strength and humility, all together. 

Deep emotions tied up. 

Intertwined within my body. 

I had been holding on to everything, so painfully tight, and I hadn’t even realized it. And I let go. I wept it all out. Silently. It was a beautiful, aching release. And it was hard.

Afterward another girl, whom I didn’t know, gave me a long hug and rested her hand on my shoulder while I gathered my composure. I felt sooo embarrassed, but I couldn't help it. 

Honestly, I wasn’t even sure what I was crying about. Nervous from my job interview? Was it that song I heard? How much I love my family? Missing a past romance?  Maybe how beautiful and temporary life is? ...Yeah. All of it and more. 

I just felt overwhelmed.

I carry so much inside. And I am not always conscious that I’m doing it. I’m not sure why I do this, but I do. 

I feel so much, but I don't always allow myself to do so. 

Is it weird to cry over this? I used to think that being emotional just meant that I was sleep deprived - like how a baby gets when its time to take a nap. And maybe there is some truth to that notion, but not this time. 

I am realizing more and more that these feelings are real and are always there - that all thoughts are real. They manifest into our lives and our bodies whether we realize it or not. It’s only when we have the strength to embrace ourselves within do we understand that the safest place to be is genuinely vulnerable. As I lay there staring at the ceiling I realized that everything IS ok, nothing was “wrong”, but that I also needed to honor how complex and overwhelming life can feel sometimes - for better or for worse. I can’t ignore it anymore. 

I don’t know if others ever feel the same way. I can only imagine the different ways people carry their own emotions within themselves without truly looking inward.  I know it's complex. We mask this disconnect in countless ways - technology, addictions, our egos, detachment, even through intimacy. I know that I for one, do all of these. 

And I completely understand why we do it. We can’t always afford to be present and process every emotion. Some of us don’t even know how. And I don’t want to get emotional every time I hear beautiful music (although it happens a lot) or cry every time I witness something sad or something precious. It would turn me into a big mushy mess. Psh, fuck that. 

But I also don’t want to try and mask my feelings. I don't want to carry them with me. 

It’s true -  

Life is so short.

It’s complex.

And beautiful. 

And my heart aches because of it. 

I know I’m not perfect. And I’m not trying to be. I just want to be the best of me. And I want to be at peace with it all. 

Although I totally understand the notion of impermanence - of staying calm and "letting things go",  I find myself wanting to hold on, even if it hurts. And believe me, sometimes it does.  Fatherhood feels this way. And once in a while, romantic relationships too.

It’s almost like it’s my own personal human journey to love, to hold, to savor and cherish, to worry, and then to release, over and over in a continuing path of rediscovering my own peace right where I left it - in my own heart. 

So, if you’re reading this, and if you feel as I feel -  if the complexity of life makes you smile and laugh and cry at the same time, if it overwhelms you, if simply being you is the most beautiful and hardest thing you’ve ever known - not because you struggle, but because you feel - the good and the bad, know that I feel with you. 

And I pledge to do my best to honor, not ignore what I feel inside, that I may not carry it with me any longer than I need to. 

I know it's going to be ok. 

You would be brave to do the same. 

I hope you find your peace right where you left it too.

And know that I love you.