Thoughts of Brown

I was riding in this minivan with a group of people I didn’t know that well. I mean, I actually didn’t know them at all, but there was a certain kindred spirit I had with them that made it feel like they were lifelong friends. The man who was driving was speeding down this narrow, winding, mountain road; so fast that even I, usually unphased by a bit of speed, began to sit on the edge of my seat and look out the window ahead. Everyone was quiet.

We came upon a curve too fast for the driver to take so he decided to just keep straight, wanting to cut through the patch of grass that sat in between and connected the two pieces of street. The only problem was, the grass did not extend all the way across. But we didn’t even realize it until the minivan’s nose was pointing down, and we were falling off a cliff…at a rapid pace, I might add. My stomach left my body, through my head. Everyone panicked and began to scream, but strangely, I felt pretty calm.

I remember thinking, “We’re going to die.” But it wasn’t a frantic thought; just kind of a surrendered one. I spoke up, “We’re going to die,” stating the obvious as we plummeted towards the earth below. We fell and fell and fell and fell. And then, almost uncontrollably, I yelled out something pretty unexpected. I looked around the minivan and I shouted, “I love you guys!” And even though I didn’t know the people all that well (if at all), at that moment, I felt and meant it in every bone of my body. Everyone looked at me in shock, and with loving, peaceful eyes. They all became completely quiet, right as we smashed into the ground.

The minivan made a loud bang as it hit the hard soil, rolled, and stopped upside down. We all sat in silence for a few minutes, as the vehicle tottered gently. We looked around at each other, taking in the damage. Surprisingly, not one single person was injured or even scratched in the least bit. We all climbed out, and everyone looked at me with a “that awkward moment when you confess your love to all of us as we’re falling off a cliff to our doom” look. I shrugged. And then we started trying to figure out what to do from there.

This of course was a dream. And a strange one at that.

A sage old man searched the world over for a book that said all of the things he’d always wanted to hear, but he came up short. That book did not exist.

Unwilling to give up, the old man decided to write the book himself, and that he did. He spent years writing down all the things he’d always wanted to hear, and finally, with a sigh of relief, he proudly held the manuscript in his hands.

The old man searched far and wide for a publisher who was willing to publish his manuscript, but none seemed interested. He visited hundreds, if not thousands of publishing houses with not one single taker. And yet they all had different opinions and critiques.

“It’s too long.”

“It’s too short.”

“It’s too deep.”

“It’s too shallow.”

“It’s too based in fact.”

“It’s too fictional.”

Determined not to give in, the old man built a printing press, and printed thousands of copies of his beloved book. They rhythmically popped out one by one until the final book emerged. With a wide, delighted grin, he stood stared at the mountainous pile of books.

The old man began approaching book shops, trying to get his book on their shelves. Door to door, city to city, he had no luck. None seemed interested, not even in the least.

Committed to his cause, and now slightly obsessed, the old man went to the bank and took out all of his life savings. He built a book store from the ground up, and when the final coat of paint had dried, he filled the shelves with his books. He chuckled with satisfaction as he hung the “OPEN” sign in the door window.

He waited and waited, and no one came into his shop. Hours passed and, ever so slowly but surely, customers began to trickle in, but none went as far as purchasing the old man’s book. Some read, some paged through, others merely looked at the cover and put it back down, but none bought it. Not even one.

Days went by and turned to weeks, weeks into months, months into years, and the old man had failed to sell one single solitary book. With a final wave of resolve, the man walked over to a shelf, picked up his own book, and walked up to the counter. He took his very own money out of his very own pocket and bought his very own copy of his very own book.

That night when he got home, the old man built a toasty fire in the fireplace, poured a glass of his most expensive Scotch, put on his most comfortable pajamas, and sat in his favorite chair. He opened his book and began to read. Hours went by and the old man intently read the book without uttering the slightest peep, or making the smallest movement. Page by page, he plowed through.

When he came to the last page, and read the final line, the sage old man closed the book, sighed and said, “Well, I already knew that!” He laid the book on the coffee table, walked back to his room, climbed into his bed, and had the most peaceful night’s sleep he had ever experienced.

When I was a little kid I looked up to people in their thirties and thought they looked so old, and that they had everything together. I just assumed they knew everything, and understood how all this worked. By “all this” I mean life. Then I became a teenager, and thought I knew everything and adults knew nothing. I slowly progressed from there.

In my twenties I started realizing that I didn’t know as much as I thought I did, and even all the things I thought I knew so well were way more complex than I’d ever realized. It took most of my twenties for me to learn that things are not black and white, and there is rarely such a thing as a simple answer to a big life question.

These days, I look down at the little kids looking up at me assuming I have all the answers, but now I have the insider’s view. How surreal. How crazy. How freaky. And as weird as it feels, I realize all the adults I looked up to probably felt the exact same way I do now. ”I don’t know anything, kid. But definitely more than you. So what does that say about us?”

I turned 31 today. Though I’m still working out the kinks of this season of life, and still not exactly happy with where I am, I am happy to have lived these 31 years. I am grateful for the experiences I’ve had so far. In some ways I feel like a cat on my fifth or sixth life. I’m ready for the next one.

I’ve been through some pretty amazing stuff. I’ve also seen my fair share of heartache; all par for the course. Good and bad, I don’t think I’d trade any of the moments in life for anything else, because I realize those moments are the things that are used to make me. And even when some of those moments don’t make sense at a certain point, I know they will all come together at some point and I will be like, “Ah! THAT‘s why!” and I’m cool with that.

All this to say, I’m grateful to be here, and I’m thankful for all the people who have played a role, no matter how “big” or “small”, in helping form, shape, mould, and panel beat me into the version of me I am today. I’m looking forward to seeing what’s next, and I’m excited to be in it with all of you. And by “it” I mean life. Thanks!

I’ve been thinking about the concept of “inspiration” a lot lately. The other day I looked up the definition, out of curiosity, and I was pleasantly surprised at the second definition of the word.

Inspiration (noun):  1) the process of being mentally stimulated to do or feel something, esp. to do something creative. 2) the drawing in of breath; inhalation.

I had never known the word inspiration could also mean to take in breath, or to breathe. This was exciting to me on several levels. For one, I love the fact that many older languages have words with deep, multiple meanings. English, being a very young language, often lacks this maturity, but in this case it came through for me. Beyond that, I just think it is extremely fitting that inspiration can mean the process of being mentally stimulated and the drawing in of breath. This makes perfect sense to me.

I have experienced how inspiration literally comes as a breath of fresh air, especially in times when the metaphorical “air” around me is stuffy, and polluted. Likewise, I have also seen how people living in ways where they do not seek out inspiration in any way, shape or form begin to die a slow death, like someone being suffocated or strangled; working that nine-to-five that they hate, in order to put food on the table for their unhappy family, convinced that that is what life is about. They are uninspired. They are not breathing.

I think we often see inspiration as a side-benefit to life, or an extra added bonus, but when thinking of it in this way, it is way more important than that. Inspiration is vital. In the same way a person cannot live without breath, someone cannot live without inspiration. The death is different, as the person remains physically alive, but they are dead on the inside; more like zombies, the walking dead. Believe me, there are times when I have felt this way, in a stuffy, oppressive season of life where I felt like I was under water with cement boots on. But when I remembered to fight, and come up to take that breath of metaphorical fresh air, I felt completely rejuvenated again. I felt alive again.

This has reminded me that inspiration is as important as breathing. And though I may not have to consciously remember how to breathe, there are times when I need to be more intentional about taking in that metaphorical breath, my inspiration. I need not forget to take in breath. I need not forget to the importance of inspiration.

I was swimming in, what seemed to be, the Amazon River. The water was deep and an eerie dark green. Below me swam a school of gar. I became a little frantic, wondering if they were going to bite me. Paying more attention to the gar below me, and not to my surroundings, I didn’t notice a little boy who swam up to me. His “hi” startled me.

I looked up and saw a dark skinned boy (probably about 8-years-old), with jet black hair, and nothing but some sort of a loin cloth on, swimming beside me, smiling widely. I said hi back and smiled. The boy tried to speak to me in a language I didn’t understand. I tried to speak to him in English, but he also did not understand. I got the impression he could speak and understand a few words in English, but I didn’t even know what language he was speaking, much speak or understand it. We continued swimming down the river, occasionally looking at one another to smile.

After about ten minutes of silent swimming, the boy broke the silence and asked, “What are Dippin’ Dots?” I was shocked at his sudden English sentence, and even more so that he had somehow heard of Dippin’ Dots. I chuckled and asked him how he knew what Dippin’ Dots are. He shrugged and said he didn’t, with a “that’s why I’m asking you, dummy” look on his face. I told him, “It’s a type of ice cream, in tiny little pellets.”

He looked confused. I asked, “Do you know what ice cream is?” He said no. I thought for a moment. I asked, “Do you know what ice is?” He said no. I was perplexed at how I could explain Dippin’ Dots without the reference of ice cream or even ice. I asked him if he knew what cold was and he nodded yes and said, “Like the rain!” I knew that the rain in the Amazon was far from as cold as ice or snow or Dippin’ Dots, but realized that rain was the closest reference he had to cold, so I agreed.

“Yes, like the rain. Imagine each raindrop painted a different color and tasting like your favorite flavor.” He smiled. At that point I wasn’t sure if he was ready for the conversation to be over, or if he really understood me. We swam on. Eventually we came to a point where we got out on the river bank and spotted an old abandoned house. We curiously walked up to it and opened the front door.

The door creaked open. At our feet, right in front of the entry way, a stuffed lion’s head, that had apparently been hanging on the wall, was laying upside down on the ground. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The lion was struggling to breathe, and began growling at us. The little boy poked it with his foot and the lion lethargically snapped at him, almost biting his toe. I told him I don’t think we should mess with it. He, of course, didn’t understand me, and continued nudging the lion head with his big toe. Eventually the lion bit his foot, and did not let go. I’m not sure what happened from then on, but I know when I got back home, I got on the internet and ordered Dippin’ Dots online and mailed them to the boy. I’m sure they were more like a drink by the time they got to him.

This, of course, was a dream.