Beyond the confines of language

Once, fifteen years ago, meandering down a dirt path during a sunset filled moment in a foreign country, after days of solitude and reflection, and with nothing to occupy my mind but my mind itself (rare these days, in our always-connected world), I looked up at the blossoming sky and drew a fast breath.

The sky was an indescribably shade. There were layers of colors in that spectacle that to my limited eye could only be called "blazing sunset," but on canvas, even with the most succulent of oils or sophisticated of cameras, I knew could never be replicated. My soul said aloud, of its own accord (to the crickets and Howler monkeys should they have been listening, though surely not, as I think we were all busy watching in awe):

"There is no name for that color."

I have thought of these words many times since, and repeated them ad nauseum as an intimate and personal mantra, my secret magic with the Universe, whenever nature's bounty catches me visually off guard. In fact these words are more of a stand-in now, a proxy for when something is far too much, far more than a human could possibly know or experience; some inferior fraction of larger whole.

When I think back to its origins though, that exact, nameless hue, on that specific night, scorched forever to memory, that maybe only me and the butterflies could see, or those with a truly present and transcendent state of mind, I stood in a stupor until the color had finally dissolved into a quite spectacular, if ordinary, pinkish orange. Changed, I went on my way.

At the end of a journey: a riddle

At the end of a long travel experience we often say we need a vacation from our vacation. You know those trips: disrupted sleep schedules, uncomfortable quarters, too-crammed schedules, the inevitable overindulgence in rich foods and booze. You come back heavy, exhausted, spent, dreading the day you have to do it all again. What is it about a trip that sucks the juice right out of you?

Then there are those rare and enriching journeys, so often from our youth, that do the opposite: you sleep and then sleep some more, you move your body in new ways, you eat weird stuff, you hike it all off in nature. You have time to journal. You eat exotic fruits. Refreshed, tanned to the color your skin was meant to be, you come back brimming with tales and plans to do it all again soon.

What's the difference between the two? What changed between then and now? What brought about this quantum leap?

I'll leave this puzzle open, ready for the solving, a one word answer, for the all-too-knowing to complete.

Hurry up and wait

Have you ever heard the phrase, "Hurry up and wait"?

I first heard it in the context of hollywood film production, a culture obsessed with timing: clocks, schedules, call times, breaks, lunch hours. There is a desperate need to rush, as in, you are expected to run, run red lights, keep pace, never go over on time. Do not be a minute late to make up. And then, the director will need to have a discussion, change their mind, change their lens, that leaf to the left is not popping, we need a new lighting package flown in from Italy, we need to do that take again. And again. And again. This means everyone: talent, crew, and vendors, standing by in the wings, perched on the edge of whether to rush or perch again, in a cycle of absurd stop 'n go. You must move like your life depended on it, being on time, just so you can stand in line, sit on your mark, and shiver in the cold as you wait wait wait to do your part.

I feel the same exact way about traveling. You must sprint, sweat, speed in order to be in the exact right place and time to be assigned your next mission, to be dispensed the information critical to the journey: your gate has changed, the flight's been delayed, there's a terrible traffic jam. You must suffer intolerably at travel's hands while he carelessly loses your luggage, sends only one shuttle bus for a too-large crowd, and fails to show construction on the outbound bridge. You, the star of this travel farce, are acting out scenes in real time, about losing your luggage, getting caught in thunderstorms, and misplacing your passport. To the uninitiated it might seem foolish that your airport shuttle dispatcher insists you call them back once your checked bags are in hand, instead of sending a van now, right after you've landed, the exact right amount of time prior to arriving in passenger pick-up.  But for those who understand the paradox of hurry up and wait, it is for some reason cosmically critical that the driver finishes their coffee, looks up terminals, and gets caught in traffic before he can meet you. For you must pay for your diligence; the weight of the world is upon you as you shiver in the cold and wait wait wait for the lot of them to do their part.