Besides rusty, old motorcycle parts, I peruse the free classifieds ads routinely with my morning coffee for the off chance of a divorcee screwing over their partner by purging their garage of tools with the hopes of adding them to my meager collection. That section is usually reserved for the junk folks are unashamedly trying to unburden themselves with but the diamonds in the rough tend to arise at the mishap of another and I've kept an eye out to gain from them. That is, until shortly after this morning's cup of joe.
In one of the many woods I take my four-legged charges galavanting, we stumbled across a bag full of virtually every tool I would ever need to keep myself survivable in a post apocalyptic Mad Max-esque future. A part had just broken on my relatively newer ride the other day, causing many-a-tears to be shed inside as my mobility setbacks have been exclusively due to a lack of proper tools, thus this happenstance couldn't have been a more poetic godsend. As I rummaged through the tantalizing inventory, other items in the stash that I didn't necessarily need began telling a rather poignant story.
Clothes, utensils, astronomy chart, a finderscope, a bible, an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting schedule... I stopped digging as I pieced enough of the puzzle together to weigh against my decision in being opportunistic with this heavenly boon. A now-five year old memory came to mind when I was living aimlessly on the road with my motorcycle, Chance. Just when I was beginning to question how much further I could go on the limited funds I had, a brand new iPad quite literally nudged itself at my boot as I stood up to leave a crowded coffee shop in nowhere, Utah.
As I reminisced and debated with myself there, presently in an empty forest, my mind then went to a joke about a haplessly drowning man declining a passing rowboat's assistance, insisting that God would save him, only to succumb to the waters and his Maker in the afterlife scolding him for missing out on the lifeline He did send. Would I be such a fool to neglect a chance so fortuitous, I pondered, then followed after the whining dogs for they knew nothing of such philosophical conundrums and were pressed to carry on with urinating on nature's bounty. The hike gave me time to navigate my mental maze of morality and by the time our muddy boots and paws made it back to civilization I had settled firmly on a resolve.
With arms full of branches and grass, I tracked my way back and did my best to better obscure the bag. Whoever left this here knows where to find it and the least I could do was keep it from anyone who might have intentions less noble than my own. As infinitely useful these tools could be for me, I can get by, I thought to myself.
While my circumstances have changed drastically in recent years, I have come to believe that I do not wish to "get ahead" in life. As unromantic or unambitious as that sounds, to be ahead means to have people behind you. I'm in no competition these days yet feel more rewarded in different sorts of ways. To capitalize on the misfortune of another is the essence for success - no denying it. But I'd like to think that as long as I'm staying afloat, I'm okay with passing on a boat ride or two, for I believe going with the flow and even learning to swim are their own successes - if you catch my drift.
Perchance my decision this morning and ensuing reflection are a fallback to my pious upbringing. What a curious thing to experience on a Good Friday where the monomythic savior of an entire faith is believed to have died only to be resurrected days later. If I were to continue doing poetic justice to my own budding narrative, perchance come Easter morning, should the treasure trove of tools still be there, I could willingly take it with me by some divine right - if it's meant to be, of course. Or, perhaps my illuminating months on the road, evermore enlightening years off it thereafter in hermitage are what actually compel me to not only be at peace with never seeing that bag again but genuinely hopeful that that kindred spirit is reunited with it. There's no doubt certain Biblical authors still motivate my actions in precarious situations but I believe wholeheartedly in the lessons Chance taught me, one of which was to make my own luck.
While the generosity of others, divine or earthly, will always be appreciated I know in my heart to have a fondness for happening across opportunities that can make something of myself - learning how to fish rather than be given one, so to speak. That bag belonged to someone with a story who was just trying to get by, too, and stepping on him to get a leg up might make me a little more "successful" in life but not necessarily happy.
And there it is.
Ladies and gentlemen, when I gave up the high life to take to the dusty road, I was seeking answers to a handful of existential questions, the last of which seemed just short of being answered on account of a both literal and figurative fall from grace, then consequent premature end to the soul-searching quest. The peculiar thing about this universal question of "what do I want to do with my life," is that the answer tends to be right under our nose like all things simple and pure.
Happiness. We pursue it relentlessly. We aspire to achieve it. We abstain from it when we don't believe we deserve it. Yet, that's what we all want at the end of the day, isn't it? To have made it, as they say. To reach to a point in our lives where we can declare proudly, that we are, indeed, happy.
It took me a spontaneous little jaunt on a fresh set of wheels to teach me - no, remind me - within a mile's tear-filled joyride, pun-intended, that happiness is not a destination. It is very much a state of being that we can actively choose to be in right here and now. You've heard it before, seen it parroted by those more or less hysterical than myself, probably uttered it under your own breath at some point but perhaps it is that semantic satiation that causes such a simple truth to lose its inherent profoundness - but I digress. Be happy. Easier said than done, yes? Now forgive the following kumbayah vernacular but how to genuinely tap into such a present and readily-enjoyable state of earthly nirvana and how to stay there is the real head scratcher and what makes the world go round. Though more often than not, the "how," as I've mentioned, is also in our reach and often overlooked. So if you've read this far into my incoherent babble, you must be curious as to the way of life I lead in order to be happy.
When I got home and opened the dusty pages of my travelogue to the particular passage that served as my moral compass this morning, I smirked to myself seeing how aptly named the chapter was. Dated the 20th of May, 2012 - "I Get By." That's half of what does the trick for me: knowing the difference between success and having enough, then making sure my fellow man has enough too. The other part of what keeps me happy was found in those very pages as well, or rather, the entirety of that inspiring chronicle of which I soon aim to rekindle: the story. There's nothing more precious to me than getting by and coming away with a good tale. How else am I going to sleep at night, knowing I left a practically gift-wrapped bag of tools with my name on it in the goddamn woods?
So here's to cracking these rusted knuckles, switching these shattered keys over to ignition and typing away once more, now about the charming story of an old bomber jacket doubling as a seat; a cunning account of a Coca-cola can sealing a leaky exhaust; a clever, if not foolhardy tale of a wine cork plugging an oil line; and, of course the uniquely serendipitous, second chance at the future misadventures only this haphazard steed can promise.
Before closing the chapter on a story still in the making, there's something to be said about cycles - motored or monomythic: there's no true beginning nor end. Just that they keep going.
