Three years ago, I sat on the deck of my family's beach house on the Oregon coast, nursing a cup of coffee and a hangover, watching the ocean in the distance. Amid those rolling hills of endless green, I sat with a heavy heart and a conflicted soul. I was in my place, the land that in my youth transported me to magical worlds where the monsters and demons I came across could be battled by a stick-turned sword. My brother, cousin, and I ran untamed for hours on end through the woods behind the old beach house, and through the tidal pools that surround Proposal Rock, and our imaginations soared. As we entered the years of adolesence and young adulthood, it still remained a place of peace and safety for us, as we traded in our swords for beers around a campfire, still nestled safely in the shadow of the Rock.
My last trip was the end of an era for me, so to speak. I was twenty three, freshly flunked out of college for the second time in five years, and on the surface, had not a care in the world about it. Joel and I flew out and drove up to the coast with Chris, and within moments of arriving, had cracked open a fresh bottle of whiskey and were on our way to a five day party where we would move cautiously around our family and hid our hangovers, and at sundown, would buy ourselves a few cases of beer and head down to the beach for the night. I had been out of football for six months, and hadn't stepped foot in the weightroom more than once a week for that whole time, and it was beginning to show. Throw in a five nights a week of hard drinking schedule and a diet that consisted of mostly restaraunt food, and it's safe to say, I was at a low point in terms of athletic fitness.
Yet it was not my body that was hurting, although, it surely didnt help my overall state of being...no, it was my soul. I was heartbroken. I'd fallen in love, years before with a girl who, much like the others before her, was not there for me. Not physically, not spiritually, and I dont know why I never put a foot down. Christen was everything to me, and in retrospect, I find it hard to understand exactly why. When we are young and head over heels, we throw out terms like "soulmate" and "meant to be" very carelessly, for when we are young and head over heels, we believe the things we say to one another. But for whatever reason, I fell...and I fell hard. When she ran off to pursue her own dreams, I tagged along in spirit only, for I was not asked to follow...just wait. So I waited, and I hung on end for every blocked phone call and email, and stayed up nights trying to convince her to see that I was there waiting. I begged and I pleaded, and I have come to see that I broke myself in the process.
I am a staunch advocate of the power of a man's passionate heart. It is the consequence of being a die hard romantic. I grew up idolizing men of film and literature who crossed continents and battled their way through man and myth alike to find their way to their one true love. I put Christen up on that pedestal, and I will not go so far to say that she did not deserve it, for there was a time, early on, that I believe I was right to believe in her. When that time ended, I know not for sure, but I should have realized it years before I did. Because in my heartbreak, I made a home for my soul and planned to stay there indefinitely. That is no way for a man to live. It lead to nights of binge drinking and a slew of ruined relationships with girls who deserved far more than I was ever willing to give them. I would slink home most mornings hung over and feeling as if I was the lowest kind of man on earth...and would hide it in a belief that that's what men did. I told myself that men drank and fought and slept around as much as possible, and indeed, that is a belief that falls in line with the majority of guys my age. It took a gorgeous, wild hearted girl with twice the tenacity I ever thought I could handle to show me the error of my ways...and even then, I fought against it, and tried to stay in my den of misery.
But that is another story entirely. This story goes back to that cup of coffee and quiet self analyzation on the deck. Minutes before, my grandmother had burst into my room and told me in her tough, sarcastic way, straight up:
"Aaron, get up. It's 9 o'clock and you need to get out of bed and get a move on."
I rolled out of bed and started to put my shirt on, but she did not relent.
"You look like you've put on weight. You know, you can party and drink all you want, but your grandfather did it and still managed to make it to work every morning at 4am. So if you want to live this way, learn how to do it responsibly."
I laughed, "Grandma, it's 9am. I dont ever work before noon, this is still early for me."
"Well snap out of it. You're putting on weight. I can see it in your face. You need to stop drinking so much, and get on with things."
Plain and simple. No one had really approached me yet about that fact. My parents had expressed interest and worry on what I was going to do now that I was out of school for at least a year, if not the forseeable future, and I made little secret about my hard partying lifestyle. But for the most part, they had remained quiet about it, and I dont fault them at all for it. My parents have always let all their kids find their way through life without much prodding or pushing, and I imagine they were simply waiting to see what I would come up with next. But not Grandma. She raised three boys and still continues to do what she can to run the rest of us, and she was not about to let me sleep and drink my way through my days.
Not another word was said about it, and there didnt need to be. Whether she really meant to or not, she had planted a seed. It brought on a rush of feelings. I felt alone and abandoned. What sort of a hero could I be when the person I wanted to save gave me no inclination that I was requested to do so? I had become an incomplete person for no other reason than I told myself that I was. All I really wanted to do was be a writer...but I couldnt write. I had been sitting in front of empty notebooks and blank computer screens for months. To write well, you need passion, and I had always thought that a depressed, alchohol induced writer was the way to be...then why couldnt I write? My roomate, Doug, and I had finished our masterpiece screenplay Saturday Night, and had submitted it to lukewarm if not disinterested reviews. There went that dream. I had a novel idea, but perhaps I realized even then that it was too much based upon my own life, and I couldnt come up with an ending because I had no idea how my own situation was going to end. I was stuck in a rut, spinning my wheels in epic proportions.
So I sat out on that deck and battled with myself throughout the morning. The trip was by no means ruined, and in truth, I did very little at that time to start making any grand changes. It ended up being one of my most memorable 4th of Julys, as I revelled in the grandness of the land where I spent my youth, we shared beers and stories, and I began what would be a long road of spiritual healing. I can say without certainty that it was then that I took my first steps back towards finding myself and what it was that my heart desired. By the end of that trip, I was certain of one thing: I needed love in my life, and I was going to do what it took to get it back. I did not yet realize, however, that the enormous, delicious love I was to find was in another place entirely...but that's, like I said, another story.
Today, when I walked out the door to my place, I looked out at the ocean in a place I never imagined, in my wildest dreams, that I would make my home. It may be a temporary home and place, but it is my place...and I know that securely. The road I have travelled in these past years has been wrought with surprises and enormous changes of direction, yet, I can trace the first steps back to my return home from that trip to Oregon. When I got back, I resolved to lose weight, get back in shape, and cut back on my drinking. I managed the first two, and the third has slowly followed. I put myself back in the arena and field of adventure with my brief venture into firefighting, and have since finally found the challenge I have hungered for all my life.
It is an invigorating feeling. While there are still a multitude of wants and needs in my immediate life, I can say that I am finally where I want to be. I've finally found myself again.
My last trip was the end of an era for me, so to speak. I was twenty three, freshly flunked out of college for the second time in five years, and on the surface, had not a care in the world about it. Joel and I flew out and drove up to the coast with Chris, and within moments of arriving, had cracked open a fresh bottle of whiskey and were on our way to a five day party where we would move cautiously around our family and hid our hangovers, and at sundown, would buy ourselves a few cases of beer and head down to the beach for the night. I had been out of football for six months, and hadn't stepped foot in the weightroom more than once a week for that whole time, and it was beginning to show. Throw in a five nights a week of hard drinking schedule and a diet that consisted of mostly restaraunt food, and it's safe to say, I was at a low point in terms of athletic fitness.
Yet it was not my body that was hurting, although, it surely didnt help my overall state of being...no, it was my soul. I was heartbroken. I'd fallen in love, years before with a girl who, much like the others before her, was not there for me. Not physically, not spiritually, and I dont know why I never put a foot down. Christen was everything to me, and in retrospect, I find it hard to understand exactly why. When we are young and head over heels, we throw out terms like "soulmate" and "meant to be" very carelessly, for when we are young and head over heels, we believe the things we say to one another. But for whatever reason, I fell...and I fell hard. When she ran off to pursue her own dreams, I tagged along in spirit only, for I was not asked to follow...just wait. So I waited, and I hung on end for every blocked phone call and email, and stayed up nights trying to convince her to see that I was there waiting. I begged and I pleaded, and I have come to see that I broke myself in the process.
I am a staunch advocate of the power of a man's passionate heart. It is the consequence of being a die hard romantic. I grew up idolizing men of film and literature who crossed continents and battled their way through man and myth alike to find their way to their one true love. I put Christen up on that pedestal, and I will not go so far to say that she did not deserve it, for there was a time, early on, that I believe I was right to believe in her. When that time ended, I know not for sure, but I should have realized it years before I did. Because in my heartbreak, I made a home for my soul and planned to stay there indefinitely. That is no way for a man to live. It lead to nights of binge drinking and a slew of ruined relationships with girls who deserved far more than I was ever willing to give them. I would slink home most mornings hung over and feeling as if I was the lowest kind of man on earth...and would hide it in a belief that that's what men did. I told myself that men drank and fought and slept around as much as possible, and indeed, that is a belief that falls in line with the majority of guys my age. It took a gorgeous, wild hearted girl with twice the tenacity I ever thought I could handle to show me the error of my ways...and even then, I fought against it, and tried to stay in my den of misery.
But that is another story entirely. This story goes back to that cup of coffee and quiet self analyzation on the deck. Minutes before, my grandmother had burst into my room and told me in her tough, sarcastic way, straight up:
"Aaron, get up. It's 9 o'clock and you need to get out of bed and get a move on."
I rolled out of bed and started to put my shirt on, but she did not relent.
"You look like you've put on weight. You know, you can party and drink all you want, but your grandfather did it and still managed to make it to work every morning at 4am. So if you want to live this way, learn how to do it responsibly."
I laughed, "Grandma, it's 9am. I dont ever work before noon, this is still early for me."
"Well snap out of it. You're putting on weight. I can see it in your face. You need to stop drinking so much, and get on with things."
Plain and simple. No one had really approached me yet about that fact. My parents had expressed interest and worry on what I was going to do now that I was out of school for at least a year, if not the forseeable future, and I made little secret about my hard partying lifestyle. But for the most part, they had remained quiet about it, and I dont fault them at all for it. My parents have always let all their kids find their way through life without much prodding or pushing, and I imagine they were simply waiting to see what I would come up with next. But not Grandma. She raised three boys and still continues to do what she can to run the rest of us, and she was not about to let me sleep and drink my way through my days.
Not another word was said about it, and there didnt need to be. Whether she really meant to or not, she had planted a seed. It brought on a rush of feelings. I felt alone and abandoned. What sort of a hero could I be when the person I wanted to save gave me no inclination that I was requested to do so? I had become an incomplete person for no other reason than I told myself that I was. All I really wanted to do was be a writer...but I couldnt write. I had been sitting in front of empty notebooks and blank computer screens for months. To write well, you need passion, and I had always thought that a depressed, alchohol induced writer was the way to be...then why couldnt I write? My roomate, Doug, and I had finished our masterpiece screenplay Saturday Night, and had submitted it to lukewarm if not disinterested reviews. There went that dream. I had a novel idea, but perhaps I realized even then that it was too much based upon my own life, and I couldnt come up with an ending because I had no idea how my own situation was going to end. I was stuck in a rut, spinning my wheels in epic proportions.
So I sat out on that deck and battled with myself throughout the morning. The trip was by no means ruined, and in truth, I did very little at that time to start making any grand changes. It ended up being one of my most memorable 4th of Julys, as I revelled in the grandness of the land where I spent my youth, we shared beers and stories, and I began what would be a long road of spiritual healing. I can say without certainty that it was then that I took my first steps back towards finding myself and what it was that my heart desired. By the end of that trip, I was certain of one thing: I needed love in my life, and I was going to do what it took to get it back. I did not yet realize, however, that the enormous, delicious love I was to find was in another place entirely...but that's, like I said, another story.
Today, when I walked out the door to my place, I looked out at the ocean in a place I never imagined, in my wildest dreams, that I would make my home. It may be a temporary home and place, but it is my place...and I know that securely. The road I have travelled in these past years has been wrought with surprises and enormous changes of direction, yet, I can trace the first steps back to my return home from that trip to Oregon. When I got back, I resolved to lose weight, get back in shape, and cut back on my drinking. I managed the first two, and the third has slowly followed. I put myself back in the arena and field of adventure with my brief venture into firefighting, and have since finally found the challenge I have hungered for all my life.
It is an invigorating feeling. While there are still a multitude of wants and needs in my immediate life, I can say that I am finally where I want to be. I've finally found myself again.
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