The now familiar shushhhh of air rushing past my helmet as I fly through the Panamanian countryside on a dirty KLR 650 has been replaced by another white noise, the drone of a pristine Boeing 737-800 jet engine mixed with the shushhh of the airplanes ventilation system. The air is sterile, like a hospital, a smell that is all too familiar, that I will never cease to recognize. It’s as if my nasal memory is being cleansed of the toxic fumes of tired diesel buses and the acrid eye and throat searing smoke produced by campesinos burning trash and plastic on the periphery of the highway.
Back in the days that I was instructing backcountry trips in the mountains I often liked to put a bit of closure on the trip by asking the students to share the stories that they will tell as the experiences fades into memory. In ten days, ten weeks, ten years, in the end, what is the story you would tell? When the short term to long term memory download is complete, what is it that will stick? It is quite convenient to believe that when the present fades into the past all we are left with is a few good short stories that may have some nuggets of meaning or learning that we can share with our grandchildren. When the trip is over, when the kids are all grown up, when friends have come and gone, when you have seen the birth of a new love and the death of an old one; is it remotely possible to create a story that can even begin to explain how the core of your soul has been touched? Even with a Shakespearean vocabulary are there enough words to describe the subtle differences in a single emerging tear filled with the joy of love or the sadness of loss. Surely there must be a difference in this solitary droplet, but it won’t be seen under the most powerful microscope, or analyzed through any known scientific analysis. The difference is only perceivable in the lines between the lines, the words between the words; it is in the white space on the page or in the tiny sacred moments of silence between the spoken words of the verbal story. In these unnoticed places the essence of that tear exists, not as some ephemeral cognitive concept, but as a genuine tangible experience. Although unseen, the joy or the pain of that tear is physically felt within. The space between is what cuts us, heals us, makes us laugh, makes us cry; it is where we are touched and where we touch others. Our eyes read the words and our ears hear the story, but it is within our hearts that we hear the wisdom in the silence, feel the tear on our soul’s cheek, and see the beauty in the space between.
I have told a lot of stories in the past two and a half months. I’ve left out what I consider the boring details; in fact I have probably left out most of the details... Sorry to disappoint if you were interested in oil changes, wheelies, rear end collisions, and a serious bout with diarrhea; these are the conversations I’ll share over a beer and good east coast pizza. What I have told is a small piece of my story, a glimpse into one man’s inner dialogue and search for greater understanding of self. It’s a story of adventure, isolation, learning, and discovery that began long before December 29th when I rode into a NW snow storm and will continue far into the future. If I told of the food I ate, the number of links in my chain, or the quantity of fuel burned, I would be telling a tale that was just about me; instead I like to believe that I have discovered a little bit about us, I like to think that the story has been ours… I look into the eyes of my friends, coworkers, family members, and I see some of this story within you. If you can see and hear the space between then you know that I am not a lone rider into the sunset; you are there with me on the same journey. The journey I see in your eyes is a mirror for me to reflect on the struggles and triumphs within me. I have discovered that I can no longer be silent. I have a story to tell. It is my story and I think some of it is your story. It is about joy, and pain, triumph and loss, direction and indirection, pride and shame, a sense of purpose, what it means to be a man, an undying love for my brothers, and a never-ending search for discovery. What I have come to realize is that I am no longer the only character in the story…and it is in that place beyond the words that we are on a similar path.
Back in the days that I was instructing backcountry trips in the mountains I often liked to put a bit of closure on the trip by asking the students to share the stories that they will tell as the experiences fades into memory. In ten days, ten weeks, ten years, in the end, what is the story you would tell? When the short term to long term memory download is complete, what is it that will stick? It is quite convenient to believe that when the present fades into the past all we are left with is a few good short stories that may have some nuggets of meaning or learning that we can share with our grandchildren. When the trip is over, when the kids are all grown up, when friends have come and gone, when you have seen the birth of a new love and the death of an old one; is it remotely possible to create a story that can even begin to explain how the core of your soul has been touched? Even with a Shakespearean vocabulary are there enough words to describe the subtle differences in a single emerging tear filled with the joy of love or the sadness of loss. Surely there must be a difference in this solitary droplet, but it won’t be seen under the most powerful microscope, or analyzed through any known scientific analysis. The difference is only perceivable in the lines between the lines, the words between the words; it is in the white space on the page or in the tiny sacred moments of silence between the spoken words of the verbal story. In these unnoticed places the essence of that tear exists, not as some ephemeral cognitive concept, but as a genuine tangible experience. Although unseen, the joy or the pain of that tear is physically felt within. The space between is what cuts us, heals us, makes us laugh, makes us cry; it is where we are touched and where we touch others. Our eyes read the words and our ears hear the story, but it is within our hearts that we hear the wisdom in the silence, feel the tear on our soul’s cheek, and see the beauty in the space between.
I have told a lot of stories in the past two and a half months. I’ve left out what I consider the boring details; in fact I have probably left out most of the details... Sorry to disappoint if you were interested in oil changes, wheelies, rear end collisions, and a serious bout with diarrhea; these are the conversations I’ll share over a beer and good east coast pizza. What I have told is a small piece of my story, a glimpse into one man’s inner dialogue and search for greater understanding of self. It’s a story of adventure, isolation, learning, and discovery that began long before December 29th when I rode into a NW snow storm and will continue far into the future. If I told of the food I ate, the number of links in my chain, or the quantity of fuel burned, I would be telling a tale that was just about me; instead I like to believe that I have discovered a little bit about us, I like to think that the story has been ours… I look into the eyes of my friends, coworkers, family members, and I see some of this story within you. If you can see and hear the space between then you know that I am not a lone rider into the sunset; you are there with me on the same journey. The journey I see in your eyes is a mirror for me to reflect on the struggles and triumphs within me. I have discovered that I can no longer be silent. I have a story to tell. It is my story and I think some of it is your story. It is about joy, and pain, triumph and loss, direction and indirection, pride and shame, a sense of purpose, what it means to be a man, an undying love for my brothers, and a never-ending search for discovery. What I have come to realize is that I am no longer the only character in the story…and it is in that place beyond the words that we are on a similar path.
Thank you my friends
Jay
