2011 looks and sounds better than 2010. [updated]

Like most of the world i'm thinking about this invisible boundary we just crossed from one year into another, although for myself it's much more visible. For me its the difference between full time work and full-time school, between career apathy and at last an end to the undergrad indecision that i've let go on for so long.

2010 wasn't a bad year. 

2007 was. I remember the sense of relief on 1 January 2008 when I thought that maybe since the year was over things could finally get better. They did, significantly. 

Funny, I said the same thing on 1 January 2009. And things got better still. 

2010 wasn't a bad year. It wasn't particularly great either. 

Somehow I remained in school, even when, halfway through my junior year, the drive back to Rexburg and the bleak future made me physically ill. As I continued coursework for a degree in communications, I did my best to fight away the nagging feeling that I was wasting my time in a field that would only let me be miserable. Public Relations. How did that ever sound like a good idea? I knew it was wrong, but I was stuck.  

While tuning the PA in BYUI's new 15,000 seat auditorium, we listened to James Taylor's "Line 'Em Up" probably two or three hundred times. One line bugged me every single time-- "[I'll] try to leave my body and live in my mind." I was firmly engaged in the opposite pursuit. I was attempting to live only in the body, only in the present. Any other state presented a serious hazard.

Sam Perkins' ascent of Hairdresser on Fire V4

 My favorite pastime, rock climbing, grew and took up more and more of my life because it gave me the choicest snatches of zen living. I lived for the opportunity to be up on another plane, in constant motion but quiet and still.  I loved the limited space of the present, where I could only be concerned with matters which were immediately related to my safe return to the ground. I loved the sensation of rain falling on my bare shoulders as I flowed up warm, familiar stone during a midsummer squall. I loved the sweeping euphoria after successfully managing fear on New York is not the City. I told all my friends proudly about my first traditional climb, where I placed all of my own fall-arresting devices rather than trusting permanent bolts. I looked peacefully up at a brilliant starscape while my friend Chad and I made repeated midnight attempts at the hardest boulder problem in the Upper Snake River Valley. 

I watched the hawks circle, and I was as happy as I've ever been.

Old friends and new ones at Gora's ice cream shop. 

By the goodwill of gracious parents I was able to visit Albania in September. Three years ago I lived there, looking for ways to help spread love and Christ among the most welcoming people I've ever met. I would spend hours on street corners, filled with love and exuberance. Some research suggests we develop a slightly different personality for each language we learn. I'm not claiming to be a house divided, but my Albanian temperament is outgoing, talkative and loving in ways that my English self cannot hope to achieve.

I dreaded the trip, because Albania occupies a sanctified place in my heart, and going there again threatened that sanctity. What if no one remembered me? What if Mount Tomorr looked small and round-shouldered, rather than tall, white and savage like I remember? Worst of all contingencies, what if people were rude? It seems like most folks wake up in the morning because they believe in something perfect, and every step towards perfection is a worthy and satisfying effort. Understandably they become disagreeable if that perfect goal comes under scrutiny.

My fears were stupid, and I knew it on the plane as I shot the breeze with a Kosovar woman returning home to visit family. The taxi ride to Tirana reassured me further. The driver lived in Laprake, and he pointed out his house and his little girl's school on the way to our hotel. I think his name was Bujar.

The next day we walked down Myslym Shyri to the 4th branch chapel for a better reunion than I could have hoped for. I served in this quarter of the city twice, and it felt like I had never left. I took pictures with friends, hugged my old comrade-in-arms Mira [which felt good since I was never allowed to hug Albanian girls before], and kissed old men on both cheeks.

It's funny how the simplest dishes taste like king's fare when the food is locally grown. It's refreshing how 3-dimensional the world is when there are no pixels in the way. I'm not about to chop the power to my apartment and buy a horse-drawn buggy, but there's definitely a quality lacking in the abundance of American living. When I lived here, I imagined my return every day. I saw myself standing at the base of the statue of Skanderbeu with my arms outstretched like his eagle standard, complete.

The next two days took us south as far as Dhermi. We visited Elbasan, where nights are quiet and the streets are as old as Christianity. We passed through Lushnja and Fier, the twin crucibles. In every place was rapid change and warm familiarity. When we arrived at the clearest sea in the world I jumped right in and was surprised by the pool-warm water. I guess I'm too used to freezing mountain lakes.

I wanted to spend years in each place we stopped. It hurt to leave. I suppose it always will.

Often I've accused myself of using my pastimes as an escape from a poorly planned real life. In this case, the shallow momentary escape eventually pointed me to the real way out. In Fall 2009 I read an article written by Rock and Ice editor Andrew Bisharat which covered a climbing trip to Venezuela. The feature was unique; it has as much to do with climbing as "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" had to do with motorcycles.  I realized that there was room for great writing in the outdoor industry. Simultaneously I was exposed to the noble, articulate language of the law, and suddenly a subject which had before seemed dry was coursing with life and creativity.

This seed grew into a comprehensive plan for a real future, one where I would stop foolish pretending and fuel my real talents with real passion. That seed is the invisible difference between last year and this one.