Tunnels

The Kettle Valley Rail Trail in Penticton, BC

I'm currently on my way back home from consecutive press trips to Bend, OR, and Penticton, BC. Where I did wonderful things, was surrounded by wonderful people, and felt, well, wonderful the whole time. I was essentially me again for the entirety of the trip (over a week) without falter or hesitance. With people, and in public. Crazy. On the flip side of that, however, some pretty awful shit has just gone down in the lives of a few folks who are very important to me. Awful. Shit.

As a result, I'm sitting here in my hotel room in Wenatchee churning on a serious chunk of existential WTF. What my friends are going through right now is as fucking rough as it gets, and they are just walking into it. And it’s happening the same week that I had perhaps the greatest, "welcome back, sunhat" stretch I've experienced in the last however long. I just re-entered the light but I can see them faintly in the distance, vanishing into the dark void behind me.

It makes me as sad, grateful, elated, despondent, angry, hopeful, confused, cautious, and cocksure about life and all it entails as a man can be. My love & appreciation along with my disdain & intolerance for this world are pacing each other closely at the moment. So it goes, I suppose. I know for a fact that repeatedly attempting to resolve the unresolvable is as frustrating as all get out.

One thing I’m not doing is going back in there. I also have friends out ahead somewhere and a personal journey to keep up with. But what I can and will do is rest here for a while, call out, and let them know to continue in this direction. Also, wait until I can see that they are in fact going to make it out of the dark before I take off. Those of us fortunate enough to find ourselves in the light again should be able to remain there long enough to ensure others aren’t consumed by their own current lack of it.

Therefore, whether it’s to punctuate a pause caused by serendipitous wonder or to counteract instances of devastation-induced hypoxia, I’ll continue to take deep breaths and keep on keeping on. Not only for myself but the ones behind me. And wish the best for those up ahead. I’ll see ‘em again when I see ‘em. After all, we’ve been leapfrogging each other for the length of the journey. Because, and I hate to say it, there will always be more darkness out yonder to slow down whoever it finds first.

When I’m due to arrive at the next stretch or how long it will last, I’m sure I don’t know. In the interim, I’ll try to take comfort in the fact that if history is any indicator, when I do get there some folks will be calling from the other side to help me find my way.

In fact, the very same souls who just entered unexpected darkness did that for me not too long ago. They are among the people that helped teach me how to do so. And I’ll be damned if I leave them in there without being at least one voice of a probable multitude that beckons from the light. It’s what we do for each other. And it’s one of the only ways that any of us are ever able to arrive at, let alone enjoy, those precious stretches of light in between the dark tunnels.