Secrets of the Mountains

This morning I woke up with mountains on my mind. I can't seem to get the images out of my head. In my mind's eye I see rows of lofty, bald peaks flanked by blankets of dark green forests. I view them from afar, across deep valleys, hazy and brooding against the horizon. Near the tops, above the treeline, I see patches of late summer snow lingering under shadowed cliffs.

The other images I see are the dark piles of stone at the top of the peaks. They are sculpted by the weather and ice into strange forms standing along the crest of the mountaintop. They seem to be waiting through the gloom of the overcast day for a full moon on a clear night, or for a magical alpenglow, so that robed figures can appear and dance along their bases.

The mountains in my mind are images of real mountains I saw on a recent drive through Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado. The road through the park winds over a high pass, rising above the treeline to 12,000 feet. Near the top of the pass, I found a pullout and stopped to take in the view. I noticed a paved foot trail winding up the hill to what appeared to be the broadly crested peak. The wind was cold and most people were staying close to their cars. I decided to walk up the trail. I put on a jacket and started hiking. After an initial ascent of several hundred yards, the trail broke onto a broad, rounded summit. The ground was a tundra environment, adapted to the perennial cold. Wildflowers and ground-hugging plants were the only vegetation. Briefcase sized rocks were standing on edge, propped up in their postions by the almost constant freezing and thawing of the underlying groundwater. I saw a pika gather stems in it's mouth and then scurry into a hole in the rocks. I heard a high pitched bark, and then noticed a marmot nosing through the wild flowers a few yards away.

In the distance, on the very highest ground, I noticed a pile of rocks. At first I thought it was man made, possibly a rock shelter built by the Park Service. As I walked closer, I saw that the formation was natural, although the man-made trail wound along the base. I noticed other rock formations eroded in bizarre shapes. In the rocks I saw stacks of color, or more like stacks of contrast in the colorless light of the overcast day. I saw mushroom caps of black rock sitting on rocky white stems. Further up the trail was a house-like form of jumbled black and white stone. I saw the black was layered and swirled with dark gray and pink textures, and the white was speckled with colors of light pink and orange, and was flecked with glistening, metallic-looking mica.

I felt an intimacy with those mountains as I walked along the trail. I felt that they were sharing their secrets with me. Far off I could see other peaks. Some were lower and some were a bit higher, but they were just like the peak that I am standing on, created by the same geological processes. My breath was slightly labored in the thin air of 12,000 feet. I saw, but I could also feel, the history of those mountaintop rocks. I saw the layered look of the dark rocks, and I sensed their creation as layers of mud at the bottom of an ancient sea. I felt the chaotic energy of the magmas welling up from deep below and forcing its way between the layers and into the cracks of the deeply buried and compacted sediments. I sensed almost intuitively the tortuous heat and pressure that those rocks had endured. The rocks had become so hot that the original shale had metamorphosed and recrystallized into different constituent minerals. The original flat lying layers were now bent and contorted with a marble cake appearance. Most amazingly to me, was that all those rocks were formed in the sea, and were buried and altered deep within the earth, but now they were sitting literally miles above sea level on top of those mountain peaks. I thought of the incredible forces, generated by the moving continents, that pushed up the mountains and lifted those rocks high above the originating seabed. It's almost beyond a person's imagination, yet by sensing those processes, I felt that the spirit of the mountain was somehow blended together with my own.

From the point where I walked back down the trail to my car, those mountains and those rocks have been on my mind. They seem to be calling to me and I am drawn to them. Their imposing nature gives a sense of immovable permanance, but by making the effort to go to them and to learn their secrets, I was helped to understand the long process of change that created them. This knowledge gives me a feeling of spiritualness. Why? Maybe it is because I know that I came from the earth, and at some point I will go back to the earth to rejoin the processes that built those mountains. My life is a brief expression of consciousness so that I can contemplate the mountain, and perhaps the mountain can contemplate me.

I'm back

It has been quite a while since I wrote in this blog. Looking at the date on my last entry, I see that it has been almost two years. A lot has happened since my last posting. Most important of all is that I am graduating this month. My college career took some twists and turns which I hope to write about later. Right now, I just want to explain (partly to myself) why I have been away for so long.

Three reasons come to mind for not posting. First, school got in the way. This is ironic because going back to school is what I wanted to write about. It was shortly after my last post in September 2007 that I became buried in my school work and didn't have the time or the energy to write. A full college class load is demanding. It seems like professors think that their class is the only thing in a student's life. They pile on the work until you feel overwhelmed. That is the nature of college. When I came back to school, I had the romantic notion that I would sit in lofty-minded, classroom discussions. I had forgotten about the importance of studying for exams, and I didn't remember the papers that, if done right, consumed a great deal of time and energy. The practical reality of school rushed in on me. My energy was commandeered and my time was preempted. My journal lost it's priority and was shoved into a forgotten corner. That's where it sat for two years, until now.

My second reason for not writing is that I lost all my creativity. School sometimes does that to a person, which is unfortunate. I separate this reason from number one because this deals with emotions instead of practicality. School beat me down. I ran into bureaucratic issues that seemed stupid and unnecessary. I was a much older student, and none of the clerks knew how to deal with me. I took it too personally. I dealt with my frustrations by putting my head down and bulling my way through classes and red tape. School and classwork became an obsession. Once I discovered that I could get good grades, something that had previously eluded me, I became obsessed. After all, that was why I was here, right? The problem was that I became so focused on my studies that I lost sight of other things, important things, like people. So, anyway, my creativity suffered, because creativity takes a free mind, and obsessions don't allow your mind to be free. I could go on and on about this, but it's time to let it go.

Here is the third reason for not writing. I read once, by some famous writer, that a person should only write what would still be pertinent 50 years from now. In other words, a person who reads your letters 50 years later should still be able to find relevance and meaning. I think that I used this advice as a copout. Or, maybe I found little relevance and meaning in my own life, and therefore I found little to write about. I limited myself unduly. Of course, it would be trivial to write about my day of getting up, going to class, studying into the evening and then going to bed. That is dry, unfeeling repetition...and boring. But, would a future student be able to identify with the anxiousness, and then the determination I felt as I climbed on my bicycle and peddled off to my first chemistry test? Rote actions are trivial. Feelings are a part of the human condition that everyone can identify with. That distinction is where I got off track.

I want to resume my writing. Hopefully I can find that balance of practicality and creativity. We'll see. Stay tuned.

Field Trip

I have been stealing a few minutes here and there from my studies (chemistry mostly) to read Tom Friedman's book The World is Flat. The point that strikes me hardest about the book is that kids from other countries see education as a vehicle to get good jobs and avoid debilitating poverty. They want our jobs, and Americans need to be aware of that. Any knowledge job, something that can be done at a computer screen, can be handed over to one of these foreign job competitors. Programming is a prime example of one of those jobs. Look at all the programming jobs that have gone to India. Now other jobs are following.

I think I made a good choice with my field of geology. It wasn't a conscious choice, really. I was drawn to geology because I like it, not because I had some formula for a job that couldn't be outsourced. Geologists will always have to go where the rocks are. It's a boots on the ground type of job. You might get an occasional Chinese geologist or an Indian geologist working here in North America, but they still have to go where the rocks are. You can't study a rock outcrop from Bangalore.

That thought came to me this morning as the events of yesterday's field trip danced in the back of my mind. 17 students from my geology class (not all of them geology majors) loaded into a couple of vans and drove up into the Snowy Range to look at a continental collision that took place around 1.4 billion years ago. Wow. Cool.

That trip gave me my first real feeling that I am studying geology, and that I may actually become a geologist someday. Up until now my classes have consisted of prerequisite or required classes like public speaking or math. Yesterday we pulled on our boots and went out to the rocks, which is what geologists are supposed to do. We stopped to look at an outcrop of dolomite. I grabbed a nearby rock, a fist-sized chunk of hard quartzite, and used it as a hammer to knock off a piece of the outcrop. I banged the dolomite several times until a fragment broke off. Another student became interested in what I was doing and was looking over my shoulder. We were both surprised that the inside of the rock looked totally different from the weathered surface. The outside was a dull, tan, almost sandy looking texture, and the inside was dark gray and crystalline and had a marble-like quality. That was a learning moment for both of us. That's why you have to go to the rocks.

In other news, the kids in the apartment across the street partied until after 2:30 a.m. last night. That makes three weekends in a row, pretty much since the start of school. Although I woke up in the middle of the night to their music and loud talking, I was able to go right back to sleep. I wasn't bothered by it. It makes me think about my own experience in school, and I wonder if any of them will take the round-a-bout path I took that landed me back here at the university over 30 years later. I doubt it.

A Road Less Traveled

This past week I started fall classes at the University of Wyoming. By itself, this situation is nothing out of the ordinary. During these few weeks, millions of kids are going through the same experience. The one thing that makes my situation unique is that I am not a kid. I am a 55 year old man going back to college after taking a break from school that lasted 32 years.

I attended this school, the University of Wyoming, in the early 1970s. I walked then on the same walkways to my classes that I do now. I sat in the same classrooms in the same buildings. Some of the rooms have been remodeled and updated, replacing the blackboards with digital projectors, but the feel of the classrooms is much the same as it was then. When I arrived in Laramie this summer, I took a temporary job that gave me a chance to go into the dormitories where I lived in the 70s. The rooms were empty from the downtime of summer. I saw that nothing has changed. The lobbies, the hallways and the rooms all look the same as they did then. It is almost as if time has stood still for 30 years. I went into my old dorm room. The same sink is still there and the same bifold doors still hang on the closets. I saw the same brick walls and the same corkboard above the desk. I walked down the hall and went into the rooms of some of my friends. Names came back that I haven't thought of in years. I went to the other wing where the girls lived. I could almost hear them talking and see them coming and going on the floor. The feeling was a little surreal and also sad that those memories are rooted in a time so long ago.

I am basically the same person that I was back then. The noticeable exceptions, at least in my mind, are that I now have a lot more life experience, and I am much more determined to succeed. Of course I am older, but I don't really think of that. Oh yeah, the one other thing that I notice, and I don't really like, is that a lot of the students call me 'Sir'. I don't like it because they see me as different. They see me as an old guy, and I don't want to be thought of that way. On reflection though, I suppose it's okay, because it shows that some kids are still polite and respectful, which I think is a good thing, and it gives me a little comfort.

I know that my situation is somewhat unique for a person my age. Not many people at my stage of life have the opportunity or the inclination to return to college. A lot of people think about it and fantasize about it, but not many people actually do it. My friends all congratulate me when I tell them that I am going back to school. Then they explain how they are tied to families and jobs and financial obligations, and how they couldn't possibly go to school at this point in their lives. When I tell my story, I always see a look of dreamy longing on their faces, but that look is often mixed with a look of questioning doubt, like, "How can you do that?", or, "Are you crazy?" They are stuck in their ideas that doing anything besides what they are doing would be crazy.

Sometimes it's hard to see the reality of my situation. It's hard to stop thinking in terms of a linear life that we are so conditioned to live. American culture says that we go to school when we are kids, and when we become adults we end our schooling to work and raise families. When those stages are done, we retire and wait for death. Every stage supposedly has it's order, but it doesn't have to be like that. Not really. We can do whatever we want if we just allow ourselves to do it. If anything defeats my success in school, it will be that I succumb to the idea that people don't do this. I can't give in to the idea that this isn't where I am supposed to be, that my life is out of order. I have to keep telling myself that it's okay to buck the trend. It's okay to do things differently. I am happy now, and that is what counts.

I have been looking for an event or a moment that really drives home the fact that I am in college for real. That moment came on Wednesday, the third day of the first week of my first fall semester. My class had just ended at 10:50 a.m. and I walked out of the Classroom Building toward the Student Union. I turned up the sidewalk in front of the geology building, and I was suddenly confronted by a broad, congested stream of students walking toward me. My first thought was, "This is it!" "This is the intensity of college that I remember. I am really here in the bustle of academic life." My second thought was that all the faces looked so young. All of them. I thought, "I am here, and I am a student just like them, yet I am unique in my age and my experience and my journey on my road less traveled. I'm like a red marble in a jar of greens. I am the sole representative of my generation."

There may be others like me, persons who have changed the course of their lives by returning to college at a later age, but they weren't there at that moment, and therefore I was the only one. At that moment I felt truly unique, fortunate, maybe even blessed. My realization on that day was that I am here representing all those people who give me that envious look as I tell them my story. I know that they want to step out of their average, boring lives and do what I am doing, but they have every excuse why they can't. I don't blame them. We are all locked into our lives in one way or another. Now I feel like I owe them something. I want to succeed so they can have their vicarious dreams. Maybe I'm projecting, but it's part of what drives me on. Now that I've had the moment I was looking for, it's time to get to work.

Triumph

The title is, and isn't what you think. It's my motorcycle, and it keeps me sane. It's a brand name, but it's also a triumph of the spirit.

I fell in love with my Triumph Speedmaster the first time I saw it on the showroom floor; the bike with the dorky name, typically British. Triumph was an icon of the 60's, associated with names like Brando and McQueen, and even Dylan. I remembered it from my boyhood. It was friendly and familiar. I liked it's blacked out engine, the sexy curve of the black and yellow tank, the sporty drag bars, and the gunfighter seat with room only for a determined passenger.

I took it home and it grew with me. I was healing from a setback, a divorce. The Speedmaster was my therapy. It diverted my interest. It helped me get centered again. I learned again to ride, and I relearned my rudimentary mechanical skills. It sounds a little corny, but I found Zen in a torque wrench. I found ways to coax more power out of the vertical twin engine. I added a new seat and saddlebags, and I experimented with different windscreens. One thing I didn't change was the basic look it had when I brought it home; that classic Triumph look.

Riding is the reward, the prize. It's hard to explain the feeling of cruising down the blacktop, with a wind at my back. The growl of the exhaust floats up to my ears like a mantra of harmony and power. It's like a symphony of the senses with wind and sound and cinema of the passing landscape. It's soothing, really. But it's not something I can totally lose myself in. Riding takes total focus. People have asked me how riding can be pleasant if I have to concentrate so hard. The appeal comes from shutting out all the bad stuff, the anxiety, the regrets, the distractions, and concentrating only on the inputs from the road. It's like the Buddhist practice of calm abiding, a meditation, a calming of the mind. I empty my mind of everything else, and I ride.

Rarely do I take my Triumph for a ride without drawing some kind of attention. I spot a man and woman standing on the street corner, dressed up for the evening. The woman tugs the man's sleeve and points toward my bike. Both are smiling as they watch me ride by. A young girl, maybe 10, smiles and waves from the sidewalk. A carload of college age boys pulls up beside me at the stoplight, and one rolls down the window and hollers, "Nice bike!" As I pull into the parking lot, an elderly man walks over. "Is that a Triumph? I had a Triumph once," he says with a sound of longing in his voice.

The Triumph was to be a transitional bike, something to get me back into riding again. But now that I own it, I'm hooked. It's not the most common bike on the road. In fact, it's rare to see another Triumph. It's not the most powerful bike either, with only 790cc's. Many other bikes are twice as big. But my Triumph has soul. It's classic. As Robert Pirsig might have said, "It has quality." I'm going to keep it.

School

I am making plans to go back to college. It's something that I have always wanted to do, but other things have always distracted me from that goal. I dropped out of college after getting mediocre grades and having no specific goals or direction. My self confidence was at an all time low. I intended to take some time off to figure out a path to follow and then return to get my degree. I wanted to return to college, but family, work and other interests diverted my attention, and before I realized it, 30 years had slipped by.

I have been asking myself why I failed the first time in school so I can understand how to succeed the second time around. I think this is important. My first attempt at college was pretty dismal. I went to college back in the 70s when I first got out of high school. I was too immature and undiciplined at that time. I take responsibity for that. But at the same time, I had no real mentors and no cheerleaders. I had always tried to please everyone else, and I didn't know how to take care of myself. I didn't demand anything of myself, and I didn't stand up for the things I wanted. Nobody encouraged me to follow my real interests. Nobody showed me how to study and get good grades. I had very little self-confidence. I was angry that my one real mentor in high school was fired, and I rebelled in a self-destructive way. My anger carried on through my college years and into my first years of work and family life.

During the years after quitting college things gradually improved for me. I made my share of mistakes, some of them huge, but over all, things steadily improved. I think my turning point was my first job in computers. I took a job selling PCs, and there was a big emphasis on being positive. My employer sent me to a Dale Carnegie course. At the time I thought the course was bogus, but it gradually sunk in that good things happen to people with a positive attitude. I was also lucky to have positive, patient bosses over the years. I was able to bootstrap myself into better and better jobs. With mentoring and self-teaching, I finally learned how to succeed.

I think back to those times in college. I was searching for acceptance and validation, and I wasn't getting it from school. I didn't go to class. I started partying and hanging out all night with friends. I know I wasn't dumb. That wasn't the cause of my failure. After dropping out of college I started to read. I had a huge thirst for knowledge and I read literally hundreds of books on diverse subjects like history, science, culture, philosophy, and fiction. My career gravitated toward intellectual pursuits like geology and computer technology. I proved to myself I could get good grades. I worked at a midwestern university where I took a 4 hour college class and got a solid A. For years I have been convincing myself that I have the ability to succeed in school.

There is really nothing stopping me now from achieving my dream of going back to school. I have no real obligations, no family to support, no big payments to make. I have a few obstacles like tuition and rent, but doesn't every student have those same problems? I have cheerleaders to encourage me, which I haven't had in the past. My only real concern is my perseverance, my sticktoitiveness. I get bored easily. I have days of highs and lows, and I wonder about my ability to get through the lows. I think I can obtain a degree in two semesters, but can I maintain my dogged resolve for that period of time? Can I muster a campaign of consistent studying and test taking? Maybe the only way to answer those questions is to just do it. Find the courage and do it!

A sense of change

It's been a while since I last wrote in this blog. I was stopped. My physical journey has come to an end, at least for now. I traveled across the country and back, and now I am at my destination in New Mexico. I felt like I should catch up and write about everything I experienced on that trip, but at the same time I saw new things were happening around me, and I felt their essence was slipping away. I need to move on to my original premise, that life is a journey. It's not just physical, moving from one geographical location to another. The important trip is really in my mind.

I am an idealist. I always have been. Age has tempered me with realism, but I still dream of the ideal. A while back I watched a pundit on TV who said Americans should package themselves as portable workers with their own health care and retirement plans, and they should acquire a portable skill set. This strategy, he claimed, would help those workers survive and thrive in the global atmosphere of outsourcing, layoffs and temporary employment.

That idea appealed to me. Layoffs were a constant threat to my job, and and I wanted some kind of assurance for myself. I liked the idea of being portable. I wanted to be a self-contained worker. I could walk into an employer's office and offer my services free and clear. Along with some other preparations, this plan would give me freedom to sever my ties to my current, soulless employer. I could move around, choose my work, choose my living location. It seemed ideal.

I set my course to become a freedom loving and unfettered worker. I did all the things I thought I should do, and more. Debt was in my crosshairs, and saving became my goal. I trimmed my possessions to the spartan necessities. Ridding myself of my excess belongings gave me a tremendous sense of satisfaction. I felt a sense of relief. I became unburdened. It was a spiritual experience.

My house had been my sanctuary for the last 4 years, but it wasn't ideal. I wanted a better place to work on my motorcycle. I wanted a place that was more energy efficient. My homeowner's association made me beholden to other people's rules, and it limited changes that I wanted to make to my own home. It wouldn't be hard for me emotionally to put my house on the market. The hard part was losing my base. I felt grounded when I could return home and hide out at the end of the day. I was jumping into the unknown and handing over my future to fate.

The portable worker idea gave me a seed of an idea to change my life. It started me on a physical and a mental journey. I had to find courage to let go of my old life, and trust that things would work out. So far, I am on plan.