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.

The Dreamer

I have the curse and blessing of lucid dreaming. It happens often. Here was a recent experience:

______________________________________________________________________We were way too young to be there by ourselves. We were underage kids that simply thought we could handle it. 

My friend Tony and I took a small pelican boat to a rocky barren islet called Breaker’s Island near the coast. The island was nestled within a small cove and sat about a quarter mile from land. We had paddled our way across the channel to attend a small concert where college kids were drinking heavily and embarrassing themselves. 

It was dark outside and we could barely see the sharp rocks below our feet. 

As the concert event was nearing its end the wind began to pick up. We realized it was time to start heading back to our boat, back to shore. 

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I remembered I knew this story. Somehow. As the Dreamer I spoke to myself, 

“Something’s wrong. They need to run.”

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The weather began to turn. A violent high tide rushed in with the wind. You could hear the college kid’s alarm in their voice as their laughter faded away and they began hustling back to their boats. 

Waves were crashing violently onto the island and the tide looked like it would swallow up the land.

“Dude, we need to get out of here.” Tony said.

We doubled back to our pelican. Within a couple minutes we reached the anchorage of our boat only to witness a large, violent wave come crashing down upon it. The force of the wave smashed our little pelican boat into a thousand pieces. 

On the far side of the island a large yacht was picking up the college kids. We could see the lights from the boat and hear the laughter start up again from the young crowd. They were safe. But the boat was already undocking and we were too far to reach it. We were stranded now.

“Shit!” I yelled. What are we gonna do?!” 

“Fuuuck.” Tony moaned.

We stood frozen there for a few moments before we both looked out toward the sea. 

The waves had reached us. 

Within an instant the wind had grown into a violent gale. A giant wave leaped past the breaks and flooded the ravine, sweeping us off our feet. The water was frigid. Holding on to the sharp black rocks below, we waited until the water pulled away just long enough to break free from the current and begin our dash to higher land. 

Tony looked beyond the island at the yacht carrying the college kids. It bobbled violently in the high swells and began to capsize. The boat was sinking. We could hear the screams of the passengers. 

“We’re ALL screwed bro.” Tony said. 

I looked back toward the ravine in the direction of the sea. At first it didn’t register what I saw. I had to climb higher up to get a better vantage point and looked back a second time.

“What the h... A wolf?” I said to myself. 

It seemed to walk on top of the water. It wasn’t phased by the waves. He moved like a spirit coming out from the dark ocean.

I couldn’t process what I saw. We just kept climbing. 

Scrambling up the sharp rocks I finally muttered to my friend.

“Dude, did I just see a wolf walking on water?!”

“Nah, I saw it too” Tony replied. 

Again a giant wave leaped above the breaks and flooded our path. It crashed at our feet and brought us both to our knees. We were going to die there. We were going to drown. My parents were going to be so mad at me.

Holding each other’s arms we brought ourselves back to our feet and looked back toward the wolf and instead saw a man. He was high upon the tallest rock looking out toward the sea, unabated by the peril of crashing waves below him. He was going to be swept away too. The man turned around and saw us. He stood there and stared. It was too dark to see his face.

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A shiver went up my spine and I awoke in my bed. I was sweating and a little scared.

“Who was that?!” I said to myself. I closed my eyes and willed myself back into the dream. “I need to finish the story. I don't remember how it ends."

As the Dreamer  I remembered that the boys found refuge somewhere. I willed it into the story and spoke aloud - “The boys survived. They found an old shelter.” And I closed my eyes.

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I looked up and saw the outline of an old cement bunker nestled deep into the rock at the far edge of the island. It had a dim yellow light by the door entrance

We hustled up to the entrance and busted our way into the structure. It smelled of dank cold sea moss and possessed a haunting derelict. The lights inside still worked.

We moved to shut the door behind us when Tony remembered what we saw. 

“Wait! The dog!”

We looked back and saw him a far distance away, walking slowly toward us. He seemed untouched by the violent water. He was large and resembled Gmork from the Neverending Story. I could see his glowing eyes but I didn’t feel threatened.

I glanced toward the perch where the man had stood just a moment earlier but saw nothing. 

I thought to myself “Stupid. I hope he survives somehow.”

Just then another wave came leaping over the breaks. It reached all the way to the bunker and forced us to shut the door. We scrambled through the dark corridors of the bunker looking for a radio to call for help. 

On the second floor we found an intercom hanging on the wall. Praying that it still worked I pressed the button in pure panic. “HELLO! HELLO! HELP! HELLO?!”

A voice responded immediately. It sounded angry and discontent. “Marcus! Where have you been?! Are you coming into work today?! Where’s your application?!” 

Confused, I responded “What?! NO! We’re stuck on Breaker Island, our boat was smashed. The ferry capsized. WE ALL NEED HELP!”

There was no response. 

At that moment I looked up and saw the wolf at the other end of the hallway. He darted in the other direction as if to show me something. I chased him. 

Tony yelled at back me, begging me not to follow him. 

“Wait!” He yelled. 

I followed the wolf through the cement corridors. I was just a couple feet behind him. I could almost grab his tail. He dashed to a doorway that led outside of the bunker on the far side of the waves. I turned the corner and followed him outside onto a metal causeway. 

But he was gone. Vanished. 

And at other end of the metal causeway there he was again. The man. Standing. Staring. Too dark to see his face.  

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Again a shiver went up my spine and I awoke. I closed my eyes to will myself back into the dream. “Who the f... WAS that?!” I said to myself.

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We were rescued somehow and were at the hospital. I was warm and sitting on a bed. My parents were at my side. A sheriff was there too. He looked concerned but stoic.

I spoke to them about the wolf. The man. The concert. The capsized yacht. Our escape.

They all looked at me like I was crazy. 

“Breaker’s Island never had a concert on it, Marcus.” They told me. 

There was no yacht. No partygoers. The bunker they found us in hadn’t been in use for decades and never had an intercom. I didn’t speak to anyone. By chance a passerby sailed across the island and saw a light coming from inside the bunker and reported it to the coast guard. All they found was our little Pelican boat, still tied up to the shore. 

Had we imagined the whole thing? 

Confused and exhausted, I stared outside through the hospital window. I looked across the street at a parking lot structure. 

And there he was. Standing there, in the dark. Staring at me. 

He looked familiar. Because he was ME.

And I awoke. 

Running With The Crowd

“First serve’s gotta be perfect!” 

The kid bounced the ball back to me. I was finally in the A square. It took me weeks to learn the game of four-square but soon enough I could hold my own and compete. I could beat them. 

I didn’t know any of these kids at this school. I was 7 years old and my family had just moved to San Francisco from Los Angeles. The whole place was new -- new friends, new  games, new words. (At first I thought “hella” was a stupid-ass word)

On my second serve I looked up and noticed a bunch of kids running. I stopped in mid bounce. 

All of a sudden the entire school yard of kids started running toward something, screaming.

I yelled at some kid, “What is it? What’s going on?!” 

I could see the excitement in his face.

He yelled back, “I dunno! Lets go! Come on!”

We joined this mass of kids swarming together screaming “Yaaaaaaay!” as we all coalesced into a group with a center. 

What could it be?! 

Whatever it was, the excitement captured every student on the yard. I ran toward that crowd with the hope and joy of youth, ready for something amazing. Why else would we be running? 

FREE CANDY. For sure it was free candy. It must be. So I ran faster.

When I got to the main crowd the kids were ecstatic. All of them were jumping up and down with the most precious childhood smiles of excitement. I remember all their faces vividly. 

The crowd was shouting something but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. 

MICHAEL JORDAN?! For sure it was him. Holy shit! I desperately pushed myself through the crowd to get a better view. I shoved a girl named Carla and she fell to the ground. 

I had to see what was going on. What was so cool? Why were we all here? Finally, with all of my strength I struggled my way into the middle. They were chanting something. Two words. Over and over. 

I didn’t understand the words until I saw. 

Gregory and Charles were more crying and scratching than actually fighting. 

The crowd shouted “A FIGHT! A FIGHT!”  as the boys were rolling on the ground trying to pull each other’s hair and exchanging little fisted scratches. This was the first time I had seen anything like this. 

I didn’t understand why people were so happy and I had this look on my face like “what the fuck is wrong with you people?!” 

"Is this why we're here?!" I thought to myself

I walked away from the crowd unimpressed.  I shrugged it off and thought to myself "people in crowds are dumb" 

I went back to playing my game. But when I returned, I realized I had lost my place in the A-square.

REDWINDS

As a youth I yearned to feel connected with my spirituality. 

At 8 years old I sent myself to Catholic Sunday school and initiated my own holy communion, but I still struggled to put faith into the cross. I struggled to believe in the institution of the church.  

And as it happened, one day my older sister invited me on a trip to a Native American Reservation.

I was sixteen years old.

“You have to go with me”. She said. "It'll be good."

We were traveling with a large group of community organizers in the Bay Area. Three large vans shuttled us there.  It was somewhere near a military base and surrounded by dry hills of shrub and manzanita.

The native families living on the land were there waiting to greet us. 

Upon arrival we all got together and formed a large circle.  Longwalker, the elder, burned sage in prayer. A pure-blood Lakota, he spoke with a deep raspy voice. He had a stalky frame and parted his grey hair into long braids. As he spoke, the other men beat large drums to a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. Each loud beat pierced my gut. 

And in the four directions we bowed and prayed and let the drumming seep into our hearts. And amidst our prayers and our drumming came the scratchy, majestic calling from the conch. Held by a man with dark hands and a frowning brow, it sounded almost omnipotent. I instinctively felt like bowing but there was know one to bow to. There was just the call. 

Together they all called out, “Aho! Mitakuye Oyasin!” 

I had no idea what that meant. 

On the morrow the men of the camp were called upon to build a sweat lodge. After our sunrise ceremony, the elder directed us to dig a long trench. And within the trench we built a large fire atop a pile of river rocks.  And as the fire raged we cast tobacco prayers into it, honoring our ancestors, our families, our loved ones. You. 

After a few hours we removed the rocks to reveal red-hot glowing pieces of live earth. Using long tree branches and wool blankets, we built a dome hut with a pit in the middle. And in the pit we placed the red hot glowing rocks. And throughout the hut we lay a bed of wild sage. We did this all with prayer and intention throughout. There was just enough room for six men to huddle in a circle.

As I entered I noticed a pure, potent, earthly smell. It was difficult to describe - a sensation of sweet vapors of molten rock, baked wood and earth, wild sage, and sweet grass. It all smelled familiar somehow. Once in a while, I experience a fleeting sense that I can I smell it again, but in the oddest settings - a ceramics studio perhaps, or backpacking in the mountains, or sometimes even through a beloved woman’s nostrils as we kiss. 

We all said a prayer as we entered the hut. 

“Aho! Mitakuye Oyasin!”

Once inside, we closed the entrance and the hut became dark. The only light emanated from the glowing rock. 

Longwalker told us stories. He talked about the Creator and the beginning of time. He told us parables about honor and manhood and our relations to the Great Spirit. In this world, every action had meaning and we took no worldly pleasure for granted.

He described how no matter where we went, we were never alone. We remained connected to something bigger than ourselves - beyond culture and religion. Our world was full of this ubiquitous bond of life and ancestral spirits.

He explained how certain practices, the beating of a hide drum, or even the trumpeting of a conch during ceremony, can open channels within you, instinctual feelings, that bring you closer to them.

Using a gourd, Longwalker reached into a large bowl of water. In prayer, he doused the glowing rocks and sent billows of steam rolling toward our faces. The heat was excruciating. It burned and I was scared. 

He prayed that we might be lifted from the endless sadness that our world had instilled within us - an emptiness that left us wandering, void of our warrior spirit.

“Like walking dead men”. He said. 

The elder advised us to use the branches of sage as fans to cool ourselves off. He reminded us how the fire within the rocks brought forth the spirit of our ancestors and the pain from the heat cleansed our souls. 

“Embrace it. Breathe in.” He said.

I was dying from the heat.

Again he reached down with his gourd and this time doused each of us, one by one. Finally, it was my turn. And as the water graced me, I gasped as my soul lifted from my body and back in again. I felt alive once more, and stronger. 

After disclaiming that he couldn’t sing it correctly anymore - speaking English had ruined his abilities to howl in his native tongue - the elder then began beating his drum and singing his warrior call from his Lakota tribe. It sounded like a high-pitch whisper. 

Careful not to fall into the glowing, molten rock, we proceeded to exit the hut. The sage was now steaming into our lungs. I lifted my head from the hut and closed my eyes in relief. 

She immediately was there. Her cool windy kisses swept over me, my skin tingled all around. I felt it. And as I opened my eyes and looked around, I knew. It was all true - Everything Longwalker said was real. 

The smoke that arose from our big fire, from our tobacco prayers, never left. Instead it hovered over and circled around us. As if watching us, or protecting us somehow. They were there with us. 

And glowing warm through the smoke, through the trees, and omnipresent throughout, shown the light of the Sun - the Father. Because He was there too. 

I saw and felt it all and gave thanks.

And yelled from my gut,

“Aho! Mitakuye Oyasin!”

Lucid, Not Afraid

I remember the day 9/11 happened - My brother Mario woke me up. He barged into my room and said that a plane had exploded over New York and the U.S was under attack.  I walked over to the T.V. and a few moments later the second plane hit. I saw it live. It was surreal. At the time I couldn’t think of anything else but my girlfriend and my family and making sure they were ok. 

I don’t remember watching the news often but after that day I was glued to the T.V. I remember noticing the crisp and shiny news programs covering the events and how they edited video of the tragedy as seamless as NFL replays.  They were so good at keeping me hooked. I watched the news for months after the attacks. No joke, they would say things like: “Next up! Find out why everyone is... AFRAID!”

And I was afraid.  I was afraid that another attack might hit San Francisco. I was 18 years old and as a fresh adult, I was afraid of getting drafted into a new war. I was afraid of the chaos. I didn’t feel in control. I didn’t feel empowered. I felt caught up. 

Me and my girlfriend walked to up to Bernal Hill that day and watched the city skyline, ready to witness our world fall apart. We held each other and I prayed to God that day - something I rarely did back then.

And then, years later, I became a father. I remember a lingering fear and anxiety (that still hasn’t completely vanished by the way) that no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t control my son’s fate.  Really, anything can happen - an earthquake, a freak accident, a fucking terrorist attack, a car crash. I couldn’t control any of that stuff. I felt helpless and it used to irk my conscience somethin awful. 

Spirituality helped solidify that feeling. God owned our fates. And so I surrendered fate to Him. And it felt better. I know that we will always be safe. At least spiritually. And that matters to me. 

But I still need to buckle my kids seatbelt - because that’s what saved his life. I still need to teach him to look both ways before crossing the street. I still have to earn a living. I still have to provide a home. God will not do these things for me. How I go about it is my choice. My control. It’s what I own. And that matters to me too. 

Becoming a dad has changed how I exist in this world.  I no longer feel afraid or frozen. I no longer feel powerless. I feel responsible. Tragic events are not surreal. I feel ownership of them. I feel outraged. That could be my son washed up upon a beach. 

And with all the tragedy around the world who wouldn’t be outraged? Paris, Lebanon, Afghanistan, Syria, Iraq, Israel/Palestine, Mexico, El Salvador, New Orleans, Japan, Indonesia, the Philippines, Liberia, Sandy Hook, and the list goes on. 

How much of it is fate and how much of it is what we own? 

I know for many, the answer is not always clear. And it doesn’t have to be. But the worst thing we can do for ourselves is to feel fear. To feel helpless. To wait.

As a dad I need tomorrow to come. I need the sun to rise every morning. I have something to lose. Everything. I feel lucid about the world we live in. And while I surrender my fate, my life is mine to give. And I would give it in a heart beat to make sure you can have a tomorrow.

So buckle your seatbelt - because this is the world we live in. And we cannot afford to be afraid.