the journey continues.

In books, most chapters begin before the previous one ends. if not literally, then usually some reference is made to the next. now, this is not always the case i know, but more often than not it is.

I will be assuming this statement is true because it is the basis of this writing, and because the next chapter of my life has already begun. maybe the actual writing per se hasn't begun yet, but the story has, the content has.

In fact, this storyline has been in the works for some time now. Maybe even dating back to four years ago, way back to my sophomore year. But let’s focus on the more immediate future. It’s easier to remember.

Tuesday afternoon found me walking home from studio. I stopped by the mailbox on the way in, which is customary routine, but today was different than most days. Today I was expecting something; I had been expecting something yesterday as well.

I was told the letters would be mailed out on the 17th, so it should’ve arrived yesterday, Monday. I had gotten excited about getting the mail yesterday too. Little did I know, as I was later informed, it was president’s day. That made me laugh and i felt a little relieved.

So, I stopped by the mailbox, full of excitement, and I tried to go through the motions as I normally would, but I just knew the letter was going to be in there, so I dramatized it a little. I slowly inserted my key into the lock, taking deep breaths, and ever so carefully pulled the door open, and laying there in my mailbox, with what seemed like golden beams radiating from it accompanied by the angelic “aaahhhhhh”, was the letter. The company insignia staring me right back in the face.

Now my demeanor and actions from the mailbox to my apartment would have been something to witness, I’m sure. I mean, I tried to act normal, I just couldn’t help it. I can’t remember the last time I was as excited to open a piece of mail, if ever. But I couldn’t just walk in and open it. I went into my apartment, took my book bag off, and laid the envelope on my chest of drawers. Then I ran to the restroom real quick, hurried back and picked up the envelope.

I turned it over in my hands a few times, and reached for my swiss army knife. Being an important, official document and all, I wanted a clean open. I slowly slide my knife under the flap and across the top of the envelope, opening it, and revealing the contents inside.

I could tell there were 2 pieces of paper, the outside one was blue. i knew it wasn’t the one I was looking for. So at this point, all in one motion, I pulled it out, unfolded it and began reading.

I could never put into words what followed.

But, to try to help. I sometimes write and talk about glimpses of beauty or truth that God reveals to us through His creation. This was one of those moments. It was a glimpse of joy, as best humans could understand.

If you are still lost, the letter was my acceptance into the jman program. Thus beginning the next chapter of my life. The 6-year chapter on Virginia tech is being completed.

New chapter provide endless opportunities. What will the author pen?

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IMG_3957.JPG, originally uploaded by faded.memories..

life image

So they say a picture is worth a thousand words, but what is an image worth? It’s worth a lot more than words. A picture is one type of image, but what about everything else we see? We are bombarded with images in our media driven society. Turn on the tv, and you are seeing images being streamed in real time, or taped. Watch a movie and you are seeing thousands of images captured on film telling the story of an event. Look at a magazine or even a book that has images and you are seeing words that have been interpreted and transformed into a concrete form of representation. Then there is the Internet, a world of images at your fingertips. Even as I type this I am seeing an image of a page as it would appear if printed, or published to the web. I am seeing an image of my thoughts.

Whether or not we are conscious of it, images play a huge role in our lives. We have many associations with images that we have grown up with that we simply accept. Children identify with hundreds of images, one of top priority to them might be ‘golden arches’. We know what those mean, and what they stand for.

Lately I have become obsessed with images from around the world. These images inform me of the events in my country, as well as around the globe. I have become a news hound. A BBC junkie. I constantly find myself navigating the bookmarks list and clicking links to the major news websites. I am captivated by the images I see. They capture a moment in time. This two-dimensional representation of a place grants me the ability to vicariously enter their world. I know that this ‘flat’ image in actuality has a three-dimensional world behind it. I know that the people in the image are real, and that they are experiencing something that I can only infer from the composition of the image.

There is power behind these images. There is a voice trying to be heard. Can our lives be thought of as images? In the history of time are our lives but an image of a particular place in a particular time? What would the image of your life look like? If you went to the homepage of the ‘history of time’ website, and your life was the feature article what image would accompany it?

What is your voice trying to say? How are you composing the image of your life so that it communicates a powerful message? It makes me wonder if our all knowing, all seeing God views us that way.

There are many stories I know where this statement finds truth. Try to think of any famous historical figure… what image comes to mind? We associate lives with images. I like to imagine that for each of His children He has the most beautifully framed image of their life hanging on His wall. An image with a subject matter that captures their existence. For every single one of His children He has one of these, since the beginning of time. God has a lot of wall space.

But, He didn’t send us an appointment card with our portrait time on it, and He didn’t ask us to pose and smile when the image was taken, did He? No, He didn’t, and this is most likely the case because the image was taken when we least expected it. The image was taken when we were loving our neighbor and not thinking of ourselves. The image came when we were at out lowest and were most dependent on Him. The image came when we were hiding and didn’t want to be found. The image came when we realized for the first time that we are truly loved.

The wonderful thing about images is that there are an infinite number of them at any given moment in time. Not happy with the one that may have been taken already? Make today’s image count.

Where do these images originate, though? I know where they don’t originate. They don’t originate in indolence or indifference. They are born in the midst of action. They come from a desire to see change. They are the culmination of the person, the subject. Follow your heart, live your passions and convictions with integrity.

Remember, images are powerful tools.

on the road

On the Road is a dangerous book. What’s even worse, I’ve been reading it lately. A year has almost passed since my last trip. I flew out to Montana to visit a buddy of mine from high school who was working out there at the time.

I mean, I am reading Kerouac’s words, but it’s hard to focus on his journey for all the stories of my past experiences out west that keep weaving themselves in. Every time he mentions a particular state my mind is off on a tangent, recalling what happened when I last passed through there.

He mentioned seeing the mighty Mississippi and I am immediately swept away… driving along in the RV, it’s been dark for a long time, but we press on. Our excitement has us driving long hours. We pass through Memphis and as we approach the bridge I rummage around through our gear and grab my camera. Turning the dial to program mode, and snapping a shot. The picture came out blurry, because of the long exposure time required to capture the image of the bridge we were crossing over the great river, a neon illuminated pyramid in the background. I still don’t know what that building was.

His words stir something inside me. It pulls at me to jump in my car and start driving, like that time in the middle of the night when was working in Yellowstone. I had the next few days off and nothing planned. It was late, and I began wondering how far I could drive in the time I had off. Figuring I could just drive north through Montana and then turn around when my time off was half up. I packed a few things and pulled out of the parking lot of the Yellowstone Lake employee dorms. Running low no gas, I had to drive to Fishing Bridge, the closet gas station in the park, to fill up. Gas stations in Yellowstone aren’t 24 hours, though. My hopes were dashed. I would have to wait until 6 the next morning. So, I went back and slept a little, and headed out in the morning.

It’s not only the open road that is appealing. Kerouac writes of his experiences with the people he meets on his journey. At this prompting, I find myself sitting in a rustic diner in West Glacier, Montana. Having just returned from the Canada side of Glacier National Park. Josh and I are sitting on the red plastic covered stools, common to all ‘real’ diners, at the bar. The waitress strikes up a conversation. She too is from back east. We discuss our reasons for being out there and our common interests, our love for the outdoors. She fly-fishes. We go on talking as if we’re old friends catching up. We finish our meals and bid farewell. Back to the road.

There is also a sense of discovery that he writes about. Not only the discovery of new places, but the discovery of himself. He talks about a defining experience of his life when he wakes up in a hotel room and he doesn’t know who he is. I woke up one night in Bangkok. My flight had arrived in the late hours of the night/ the wee hours of the morning. Wandering through the airport, I didn’t know the name of the hotel I had reservations at. I somehow managed to communicate with a Thai lady who helped me get a taxi which took me to a hotel, turns out it wasn’t the one I had reservations for. I have no idea how much I paid for the room, but I had a bed. In a foreign land by myself, I locked the door to my room threw my bags down and sat down on the bed. I don’t remember if I cried that night or not, but I probably should have. It was the loneliest I have felt in my entire life. I wasn’t where I was supposed to be, my destination was on the opposite side of the country and I didn’t know a soul within a 10,000 mile radius, give or take a few. I was somewhere in that in between world, half awake and half asleep. Physically and mentally exhausted. I discovered myself, though. When I awoke the next morning, wondering if I actually slept or not, I drew the curtains back from my hotel room and I just stood there at my window staring at the foreign land before me. The sun was shining and it was a new day. It was a new world.

I could continue on and on. I love retelling these stories, these experiences. They are a part of my story, of my journey. They give me anticipation and excitement for the next journey ahead. These travels have been my education. They have taught me many lessons, and are preparing me. I keep them close and remember the people and places I have met.

I think I am ready for the next adventure.