Climbing Up to Fall Back Down

My breath wheezed like a broken air conditioner. Liquid drops formed on my forehead, arms, and back, and combined forces in my armpits to create a sweat stain. Mouth open, eyes foward, teeth clenched -- riding my bike up this hill was no easy task. With every heave downwards on the pedal, I realized that I had to do it again to keep moving. Muscles tightened like a belt after Thanksgiving dinner. Both lungs and my heart battled to see who could pump faster. My throat pleaded for a glass of water.  But I kept going, forcing my limbs to climb up that hill.
Finally I made it to the top. The relief felt like walking into home's door to escape the snowstorm. I could pedal now without any pain; my muscles could relax. Soon the hill began to slant in the opposite direction, and I floated down the hill. Wind met my face and patted me on the cheek. Tired eyes drooped as I accelerated without any effort. Faster and faster I went; the gravity that had pulled at my shoelaces before now shoved me downwards. My eyes were wide now, and the thrill of the roller coaster ride or the high speed car ride began to pump through my veins. The ride was exhilerating. As the ground began to once again level out, I let out a whoop, proclaiming my joy.

Excerpt From "Climbing Up to the Eagle's Nest" (a memoir about scouting)

Camp Morrison was located in the shadow of the Sawtooth Mountains near McCall, Idaho. Planted in the middle of dense forest next to the frigid waters of Payette Lake, this camp was a Launchpad for scouting. I arrived on that first day, wearing my favorite blue baseball hat, ready to earn as many merit badges as possible. My first few days were dedicated to hitting the bright red target at the archery range. I had never used a bow and arrow in my life. When I walked up to the line to shoot, I shook like a leaf, nervous that I’d stick my arrow in the eye of the instructor. But with the encouraging shouts from Dad (along with buckets of luck) I hit the bulls-eye on my first shot. Even the archery instructor let his jaw drop. Arrogance dripped out my ears as I began to pull the next arrow back, looking to once again dazzle my fellow scouts with another perfect hit. But this time the arrow sailed like a wounded duck. It didn’t even stick into the soft mesh of the target; it just bounced off and fell lamely to the ground. Heat rushed to my cheeks. This was going to be harder than I thought.

Signs of Fall

Football games on TV. Stressing about the first day of class. My mom's birthday. "The ALL NEW Pumpkin Smoothie" advertisement at Jamba Juice. Memories of getting lost in a maze of corn. Postseason baseball. The sudden realization that the leaves changed color. The sudden realization that the leaves needed to be raked up. Shorter days. Stony nights. A breath of air that smells like picked apples. Apples that came from a tree now leafless.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."
-Thomas Jefferson

This summer I worked with children that had developmental disorders. They were different. Some could use complete sentences and put puzzles together. But some couldn't even walk to the puzzle table. A few of them could write their name. The rest I had to use a guiding grip to form the letters. There was one boy that screamed how much he hated me, how much he wanted to get away from me and go home. There was the other boy that I held in my arms on the last day, patting him on the back as he said, "I miss you." Any observer would tell me these kids were different, that they wouldn't fit into society. But as I built lego towers with these kids, I built my own opinion. An opinion that mirrors Jefferson's.
Yes, I understand that they are not like most people. Yes, I understand that they may not fit into society. I understand that physically, they were created differently. I understand all of these things. But I also understand that their creation runs deeper. The same being that Jefferson spoke of, the Creator that endows us our rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness -- this Creator created these kids. He created their Spirits. And following this life, when I wander in whatever state and whatever place that comes after, I will see these kids. I believe that my eyes will behold something similar, something equal to myself. As we meet, embrace, laugh, and cry, we will realize how equal we truly our. We were created by God, even as His children, all with an equal potential to become like our Creator. And we will probably laugh when we remember how it started -- with the colorful blocks of a lego tower creation.

Dear Dog

Dear Andee,

How are things going for you? Is your bed still smelly? And have you torn apart Brother Bear yet? I heard that Ms. Piggy has been ripped to shreds (what a shame). Things are going great for me. You would be jealous of the college life; I go on walks every single day. I walk from my dorm to my classes and back, sometimes taking a grand total of 1-2 hours of walking every day! I know, it's hard for your little brain to comprehend, but just imagine patroling the yard for an hour or two, and that is how long I walk. Isn't that crazy?! One thing I do not get to experience is running the fence. But I'll leave that endeavor to specialists like you.
Andee, I have heard that you have been a bad little boy lately. I just want you to know that you need to stop eating boxes of mac and cheese and chewing other people's clothes. Also, don't ever get into rat poisoning again (I know, it's hard to resist the sensation of hydrogen pyroxide, but you gotta put mind over matter). And if you ever feel like you need to get the wiggles out, pretend that the lawn mower is chasing you around the yard (you can also use this strategy to get rid of any unwanted neck fat). Anyways, I hope you take my advice to heart. Have fun in Boise, and don't forget to cuddle with whoever is in need of a cuddlebunny.

Love,
Ben

Clair de Lune

Suite Bergamasque  No. 3, L 75: Clair de Lune. Peter Schmalfuss.
I'm listening to it right now. The notes drift from the piano with a soft peace that fills me up like deep breath in bed after a long day at work. Like looking out over my new town from the mountain trail. As peaceful as looking at the picture of my dog Andee, remembering when he was a puppy.
The notes continue to ring out, each pressed key pushes open a door to thought. I think about running. Running up endless trails to the top of the hill. Sun reflecting off yellow weed. Keys continue to pound. I'm laying in my bed, thinking about my brother, about to come home from his mission. The light of my lamp softly illuminates the room. The room we shared, and now would share again as he returned. The song moves on. I'm saying goodbye to friends. To family. I walk away. Get on a plane. Move to a new place. Now the climbing crescendo. I find myself laughing with new friends, smiles pass around. I'm beginning classes. The subjects fascinate, captivate, inspire. As the song begins to close, I sit in the library with my textbook. I'm smiling. I close my eyes. The song ends.

A Handful of Simile

My hands are cold. Cold like the first steps out of a steaming shower. Cold like the feel of fingernails slashing against a chalkboard. Cold like mornings on a summer campout. Cold like the mountain air that laughs frigid wind. Cold like a winter sun.
My hands are so cold they are purple. As purple as the tips of a sunset cloud. As purple as the twenty-five cent grape soda that was sold in the vending machine next to Albertson's. As purple as the first leaves to change color in the fall. As purple as the face of my 10th grade basketball coach after we missed an open layup. As purple as the floor of my Honda Civic after I spilled my sister's smoothie while driving. As purple as the jar of jelly that's sitting half empty next to the peanut butter.
My purple hands are now too cold to type.