Through the Tunnel

I finally figured it out.

I could never quite decide if am truly a “city person” or not. Certainly I’m not a “country person”—I’ve never been especially into outdoor activities—but…do you really have to be just one or the other? I enjoy my occasional trips to the mountains, and sometimes it’s nice to get away from town for awhile. Can you be somewhere in between? Could I be somewhere in between?

Perhaps this is what the suburbs are for—you’re constantly on the fence, at the edge of both worlds, without having to fully commit to one or the other.

But for myself, I finally figured it out.

Yes, in fact—I am a city person.

It’s the lights.

They glow. And when they glow, they do something to you. If you let them do something to you, that is.

I’ve been to Phoenix several times now, for various lengths of stay. This time around, Emily, Emerson, and I were in town for three nights.

Somewhere along the I-10 in Eastern Phoenix—a bit near Mesa, to be more precise—you drive through a tunnel. And that’s when I knew: It’s the lights. It’s the way they color the skin on your hand, one split-second at a time, as you’re driving through the tunnel and holding your left hand out the window, being transfixed by the persistent coming and going of this small aura.

That’s when I realized that I’m a city person.

For all its pro’s and con’s, this is something that I sorely miss in Albuquerque. We have lights. And when you’re driving into town at night, coming in from the west on the I-40, those lights put on a wondrous display. They make Albuquerque look bigger than it is, and more lovely—this is true of all cities, I think; the lights at night can be awfully, beautifully deceptive about the size and grandeur of even the smallest towns. And those Albuquerque lights seem to say that there is something here, just above the city, hanging in the air like a low-lying cloud, ready to weave its spell in between the yellows and reds and greens. For better or worse, they certainly have their own enchantment.

But in Albuquerque, there are no tunnels. At least, not like the tunnels in Phoenix. Not like along the 101 Highway just a bit north of Santa Barbara. Not like in Chicago and Dublin and San Diego.

It’s the lights that I miss; it’s the lights that remind me why I really am a city person, through and through. They do something to you, if you let them.

So let them.

Tibet

A few nights ago, Michelle came over for awhile. We started talking about a book I had just recently started reading (The Open Road by Pico Iyer), which is a sort of biography of the Dalai Lama. Michelle started asking me about the Dalai Lama—who he is, what he does, how the role of “Dalai Lama” becomes assigned to him, etc.

Emily was in the next room putting Emerson down for the night. When she came back, the conversation naturally--obviously--drifted into a discussion about the "Tibet Question" (you know: all those “Free Tibet” bumper stickers you see, what they mean, why it matters).

Michelle and Emily continued to ask questions, and I answered them the best I could. I’ve researched quite a bit about the Tibet Question and certainly have an opinion about it; I was able to answer most of the questions with at least moderate confidence.

But of course there are always other truths out there, other stories I haven’t heard, other perspectives that I haven’t considered.

About a year and a half ago, I became deeply interested in Tibet. Certainly it’s become my "dream trip" to go there.

But I’ve become a bit worried about taking that trip. Not because it’s particularly unsafe—Tibet has a very good reputation with handling foreign tourists. Rather, it’s because I’m worried Tibet won’t be what my mind has painted it up to be.

When I first started learning about Tibet, it was this land of old ways, of mysticism, of a deep reverence for the universe. The more I read about it, however, the more I come to understand that those things are slowly disappearing, that the old ways, the mysticism, the reverence are all fading, nearing the end of their millennia-old lives.

I’m not really interested in taking a political stance on the Tibet question. (Actually, I am rather interested in that—but not here, now, in this context.)

What I am interested in, however, is that the Tibetan past is losing its place in history. We can blame this on the Chinese, or on the Tibetans, or on any number of other people or things or forces. But no matter who is doing it, or how, or why, the fact is: to erase the past is to erase pieces of the present. Isn’t it?

If this moment is the total sum of every single other moment before it, then you cannot remove pieces of the past without removing pieces of the present as well.

Yes, I still very much want to visit Tibet. And in my imagination, Tibet is still in sync with its history. But in the books I read, Tibet is losing touch with its past. In my imagination, visiting Tibet is possible. In the books I read, this is not possible—at least, it is not possible to visit that Tibet.

Or perhaps I should say: time is running out. Because once that Tibet loses its place in history, there is no recovering it.

There is a difference between progress—which is the stated goal of the Chinese—and reverence—which is the goal of the Dalai Lama and Tibetan Buddhists. Which is better? Which is more important?

Each has their pro’s and con’s; there is no doubt of that. To deny progress is to move backwards. As Joseph Campbell said, “By going backwards, you throw yourself out of sync with history.” But then again, to deny—or to erase, or to belittle—history is to deconstruct the present.

Either way, it is clear that the Tibet that interests me, that I fell in love with from a distance, is slipping away.

Piano Men

I’d never had the chance to play the piano in the middle of a street before. So when I was walking up 16th Street Mall this past weekend and saw an upright piano just sitting there, how could I refuse?

—just some simple blues improv, and then into a rendition of Hotel California by the Eagles. Nothing fancy, nothing groundbreaking or difficult. Mostly I chose Hotel California because I knew Randy didn’t like it; we had just been talking about it in the car the day before.

There was something very surreal in the scene. I think I’ve probably had this dream before, in fact: there I was in a foreign city, a piano with cracked ivory just sitting there silently, boasting a miniature mural of blue flowers and other non-geometric swirls, waiting to be played by any random passerby. The middle ‘E’ was broken, but all the other keys held their own surprisingly well.

Emily and Michelle and Randy sat behind me on the curb, resting their feet from all our walking, listening, watching me play, chatting idly amongst themselves. A couple of people stopped to listen for a moment, went on their way. Michelle came up to me and took a few pictures—or possibly a video of me playing; I’m not sure which—and then Randy came over for his turn at the piano.

Once upon a time, Randy used to play the guitar in a Johnny Cash tribute band; we’ve all heard him play the guitar and all knew he loves music. He had just given us a fun, interesting discourse on music the day before, in fact. But the piano?—I’ve known him for years and never knew that he played.

You think you know someone…

He sat down, played a bit of Tom Waits (or was it Tom Jones?), and then onto the main hook from some blues piece or another—maybe Swanee River(?) I’m not sure. I leaned into Michelle, whispered, “I didn’t know your husband knew anything about the piano.”

Michelle whispered back, “I didn’t either.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, “Life is a series of surprises, and would not be worth taking or keeping, if it were not. God delights to isolate us every day, and hide from us the past and the future. We would look about us, but with grand politeness he draws down before us an impenetrable screen of purest sky, and another behind us of purest sky. ‘You will not remember,’ he seems to say, ‘and you will not expect.’” (from his essay, Experience)

Sometimes life catches us off guard—even when we think we’ve got it all figured out. Sometimes people surprise us—even the people we’re closest to.

Plans, knowledge…sure, these are helpful. But surprises?—now those are much more interesting, aren’t they? More interesting, and altogether more worthwhile.

So then, a tip, if you don’t mind:

Let yourself be surprised. 

You Too?

Before the trip was even over, Michelle asked us all our favorite moment from the trip. It was hard to answer this. Not because I didn't have one, per se, but because it was difficult to explain the why.

For a few moments here and there, I allowed myself to think that Denver isn't as impressive as I had imagined it would be. But this isn't very fair; certainly Denver left an impression on me. If nothing else, it is impressive by the sheer fact that I will think of it again.

I will think of how sad it was to say goodbye to my son, knowing that I wouldn't see him for 36 hours, and that there was simply no way to get him to understand that this was happening.

I will think of hearing Randy be completely absorbed in his element, getting the chance to talk about the history of rock and of radio and of how we define musical genres.

I will think of how tightly I had to grip the steering wheel as we passed through Pueblo, because the wind there can be insane.

I will think of how I very nearly lost my mind in Manitou—but we don't speak of that anymore.

I will think of the fact that there are times you're actually supposed to throw spoons in a movie theatre.

I will think of outdoor escalators.

I will think of how surprised I was to learn that Mt. Rushmore isn't nearly as far as I had always assumed.

I will think of eating Taco Bell three times in two days.

But mostly I will think of the stories we tell, and of how no matter how well you know someone, there's always more there to learn. It's a beautiful thing that we can never fully know someone else, that there will always be just a tiny bit of uncrossable distance between ourselves and any given human being out there.

That said, I think my answer to Michelle's question would have to be:

My favorite moment was the stretch between Manitou and Denver, when I simply sat back and listened to their stories.

There is something profound and beautiful to be said of hearing your words come out of someone else's mouth, to hear that someone else shares your same thoughts and feelings and joys and frustrations and doubts.

I once read that a friend is born in the moment when you can look at someone else and say, “Wait—you too?” and I think this is very true.

What is also true though, is that any friendship can—in fact, should—be full of these moments all throughout, not just at the very beginning.

We share words, and sometimes in doing so, we find that we've always shared thoughts and ideas and beliefs too, without even realizing it.