The Wilderness in Here

Driving down a busy street, I watch a striking sunset. I want to bask in its brilliance, but the giant yellow arches of McDonald's and various bright lights of car dealerships distract my attention. I want to get out of the city, abandon electric heat and indoor plumbing.

Is it because I am never content or could do I truly wish to live far from the comforts of urban life? 

In September, I visited Bangladesh as a volunteer journalist with the Prosthetic Outreach Foundation. I saw mothers crouched over clay pots fixing dinner, men bathed in muddy ponds, children laughed and ran barefoot in the dirt outside their mud huts. I envied their freedom, their lack of dependence on material possessions. 

I saw mothers cradling babies with untreated clubfoot and cerebral palsy, frowns and fear fell on the faces of these otherwise unsmiling people. I was touched by their struggles and I wondered how could they keep their simple mud huts, but still receive the benefits of modern medicine. I saw no solution because I believed that modernization was merely a symptom of modernization.

After I returned to the U.S. a friend, an international studies major,  suggested the idea that modernization and westernization are separate entities. 

Can the the small villages of Bangladesh modernize without westernizing? Even more importantly can westerners like myself, aid developing countries without using westernization? I worry, that as long as I cling to the idealistic view that the world can be saved by more trees and less gas stations, I may never see the real issues. 

I am reminded of a phrase my cousin was asked to repeat at his high school graduation, "I have changed, I cannot change back, I've come this far forever." 

The world could say the same to its people. The solution is not to return to the good old days before progress because many aspects of that world have been destroyed. We have to move forward with new ideas, while understanding and respecting other cultures.

For outdoor enthusiasts, like myself, is that as much as we love living off the land, we have to realize that we  really have no idea what that means. Most of us can go to college and choose to become dirtbag climbers, we can fall off a mountain and wait for a helicopter rescue and we can always go back home to manicured lawns.

Back in my car, my sunset is gone. The sky is that lovely rich, light blue. Turning on my street, the lights of the city are behind me. I must admit I am happy to go home shower, eat a large warm meal and watch something worthless on television. Maybe I'll try to figure out how to fix the world tomorrow. 

No Place Like Home

I just returned to the Northwest after spending a week in New York City. As the old saying goes, "it's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there."

I enjoyed the skyscrapers, they were friendly in their own way, providing a sense of security. There is nothing worse then standing on earth, staring out into a broad expanse of flat land and feeling that you are a serving of soup without a bowl. The endless sidewalks of chattering people were comforting, but it was hard to escape the masses lined up at the subway or at the deli. As I jogged through Central Park I had to work to not run into people, their dogs or children.

I thought of those rare moments back in Oregon, when I approached a mountain or traveled off trail, and was truly alone. For people like me, who crave human attention, being alone can be terrifying. I am the type, who befriends the person in line at the cafe because I have to one to talk to on my cell phone.

The beauty of a landscape full of trees or mountains is that is eases the loneliness, it fills you up to the point that if someone were there you would walk away from them just to have that moment to yourself. Perhaps its selfish to want it all for yourself, but in my life I over share every moment. I tell my friends and my family every detail of my every feeling as if I am the star of my own television show. So every once in a while I escape to a rocky hillside or forest, to find a place where I can finally shut up.

In New York it is the brash and bold that survive the city, not the quiet, introspective types. So I was loud like the cars, like the vendors, like the lights on Broadway, like the crowded restaurants and bars. I indulged in my own voice, but I was surprised when I returned home. As I drove to Eugene I wanted to be quiet like the hillsides dotted with small homes. For the first time ever I found serenity on the freeway, but I still couldn't wait to get out of the car and put on my hiking boots.