go.

taking the lead, individuality, going fast & kickin' ass

13 August 2020

"YOU GO, I GO! YOU GO, I GO!", he yells, knuckles white on the wheel.

The sedan ahead accelerates in approach to the intersection. The yellow light holds on long overhead. Punching the gas, his minivan finds high gear, pushing forward vehemently. The disco ball he installed swings back and forth. Narrowly beating the red light, a rush of adrenaline kicks in. Yet, he is in absolutely no rush.

Dave leads a life that is authentically his own. He has spent years traveling North America in his van, meeting folks and climbing mountains, finding good music and good times. We became fast friends in Nashville two years ago, at one time living together and calling ourselves the "B-Boys", a reference to our apartment unit (ask around East Nashville and the B-Boy moniker will surely elicit a reaction).

Dave marches to the beat of his own drum, living unapologetically and true to himself. I will take one friend as such over a hundred. He can often be found picking fights over pool tables and stirring up social justice warriors for the sheer sake of entertainment. Dave is unabashed at how he conducts his dance through life. From the outside looking in, or as our coworkers would often point out, Dave is clearly playing a different game than the rest of us. He lives simply, enjoying sous vide steaks, golf and taking his boat out on the lake. His religious practices include making sure he watches the sunset every evening and a healthy dose of classic rock.

As a young man he worked as a delivery driver for Jimmy John's, racing through the streets of Milwaukee to deliver sandwiches. He did so quick enough to allow a brief stop at his friend's to watch the end of a Packers game. It was in this chapter in life that Dave came to accept his "You Go, I Go" philosophy. En route to a day of fishing, he tells me how he came to adopt said philosophy. Claiming if ever he were to be pulled over for running a red light, he would be given pardon. The police officer would surely understand the need for a good samaritan like himself to deliver these sandwiches in a prompt manner, bravely taking his life into his own hands to make sure the city of Milwaukee was well fed. I laugh. Of course this is how Dave looks at the world. Going for it.

We really ought to have more people like Dave in this world, though, maybe not more than one at each intersection. We could all use a friend who inspires us to be unique, to be true to ourselves. Dave is certainly that to me. In life we never know who may be following our lead, who may be looking to us to push forward. When it is time to be bold and move through an obstacle, a hard time, a tough decision, remember someone may be right behind you, ready to follow your lead.

Hit the gas.

Zachary H. Christy, and the H is for High Noon

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to change you is the greatest accomplishment.” 
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

remy boyz.

gettin' after it, dude

9 August 2020

It's a sunny Saturday morning at the park. Joggers, families and housewives descend upon the trails to exercise, escape, do things with their legs. I follow a long line of cars into the park's entrance. Cars are parked a half-mile away from the trailhead, not uncommon for a weekend morning. Those driving in front of me find a spot here, a spot there, pulling off the road. They take what they can get, convinced that the hundred or so spots closer to the trailhead must be taken.

I've spent most of my driving life in the same mindset. Just take the bacon and get to walking Z. Don't bother driving around in circles looking for a better spot.

But why?

Determined, I turn up Fetty Wap's '679' and drive right to the front. Voilà! Plenty of open parking spaces! This has happened to me so many times of late that I figure I ought to share it with you.

Perhaps this is how we view our lives as a whole. Goofy as it may be to make the analogy between parking lots and life, I saw a parallel and figured, hey, why not go for it? Why are we settling for acceptable, when in all actuality, what we truly want is there for the taking?

Take the chance! There will always be a spot far away from where you really want to be, so why not try for the best you can possibly imagine?

Next time, see for yourself! You may find a spot next to a 2000 Toyota Camry LE. Chrome rims and all. That's how we livin' baby, front row. 

Zachary H. Christy, and the H is for Hopeful

"Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect." - Mark Twain

love.

opportunity, chance, Burgermeister

5 August 2020

The sun sets over Germany. A large group of world travelers meet over dinner at the EastSeven Berlin Hostel. It is an eclectic mix of solo-backpackers, Northern-European party goers, and foreign-exchange students. My Swedish friend Jacob, a self-acknowledged Viking, both in dress and demeanor, prepares a coconut curry dish for the ensemble. It is a Saturday night in the fall and we collectively enjoy a meal together. The group of thirty or so share stories of travel, parties and their homeland. It is a wonderful scene as people from all over the world gather in good spirit.

Jacob's roommate and fellow Swede, a young man named Hink, rallies the group and makes a plan for the evening. Jacob and Hink frequent the German party town and they willingly share their advice on which clubs to go, how to get there and most difficult, how to get in. The plan is set. We will meet at midnight and catch the last train out of the east side. Our destination is a nightclub called Sisyphos, a favorite amongst my Swedish friends and several in our dining group. Vodka-Mates get poured and the house music gets turned loud. In T-minus two hours we will be on our way to the best nightclub in town.

The morning of the same day I meet a young man named Hendre. He has made his way to Europe from Perth, Australia, where he works as a bodyguard and bouncer at a strip joint. We hit it off in the hostel lobby, both having had long overnight bus trips from Amsterdam and Krakow, respectively. We spend the day on a walking tour, learning of Berlin's fascinating and heavy history. In between stops on our tour, Hendre tells me stories of his work as a bodyguard, teaching me different ways to defend myself and how make people unconscious. Quite an interesting life this young man leads. We have descended upon Berlin during their lauded 'Berlin leuchtet' or 'Festival of Lights'. Quite a spectacle, the city shines in bright colors as projectors highlight the famous sights at night. Hendre and I make plans to see the town reinvented.

Back at the hostel, the after-dinner party is in full-swing. I meet eyes with a girl across the room. She is remarkably beautiful and carries with her a peaceful spirit. Remembering my trip's motto, 'say yes to life', I walk over and introduce myself. She smiles and tells me her name is Ulla. The music seems to stop, the conversations around fade. I soon realize this girl is something else. We share a chemistry that I have never felt so quickly. Not to sound ridiculous but I feel she reciprocates. She comes from a small farmland outside of Copenhagen, where I am planning on meeting my Godmother in two days time. Something very special is happening. Perhaps not love at first sight, but I feel my heart beat strong through my chest. The time passes effortlessly as we share stories of our home countries and experience abroad.

Hendre taps my shoulder. At once, I become aware of the loud music, the conversations around, feeling as if I was just awoken from a dream. "Hey man, you ready to go see the lights?", he asks. I've promised him I would join and I let Ulla know that she and her friend are more than welcome to join. They respectfully decline. "Will you be joining us at the nightclub?", I ask. She lets me know that they will be returning home in the morning and will pass on the festivities. "We'll be here in the common room, reading and drinking tea instead." At this point, I begin to reconsider if I am dreaming. A beautiful girl who vouches for reading a book and drinking tea over nightclubbing on a Saturday night in Berlin. Am I in love? Awestruck, I ask if she will be here in an hour's time when we return. "Yes, of course. I'd be happy to have tea with you and continue our conversation." I excuse myself and join Hendre. As we walk down the hallway he remarks how beautiful Ulla is.

"Did you get her number bruv?", Hendre asks. 
"No, bro, she'll be here when we get back." 
"Are you sure? We can turn back around." 
I turn back and meet eyes with Ulla for what I didn't know would be the last time, sharing a smile. 
"No worries Hendre, let's go see the lights."

The Berlin Leuchtet is remarkable. The already beautiful architecture is exemplified. Thousands fill the streets to enjoy the colors. Though, for the entire walk I can't seem to shake the Danish girl from my mind. Hendre rolls spliffs, making mention to the bright colored lights upon the Berliner Fernsehturm. In my mind, I see only Ulla's eyes.

When we return to the hostel, the party is still going strong. Empty bottles of Club-Mate cover the tables. I see my Swedish friends smoking wood tip cigars and discussing blues music. The young men from Toronto soliciting group members for molly, MDMA and the like. The girls from Brussels fixing their hats in the mirror and passing cigarettes. Americans still being loud and obnoxious. But no sight of Ulla. Perhaps she'll be back, I tell myself. An hour passes to no avail. Midnight strikes and my heart sinks. It's time to head out into the cold Berlin night to chase down the last train.

I never again saw the Danish heartthrob. As days pass, I call my godmother Amie from Hamburg, telling her of my misfortune and odd heartache.

"Zachary, you never know how many chances in life you will have at love. Look at me, nearing sixty years old and alone. Love is something that you have no control over. In life we only have so many chances, so many opportunities, so make the most of them. Always give love a chance."

Amie's words resonate with me everyday, a constant reminder that life is fleeting and we must go after what we want. In retrospect, I am so very grateful for this experience in Berlin as it has consciously changed how I approach my life everyday. Hopefully it can change you too.

Zachary H. Christy, and the H is for Happenstance

“There is no need searching for love, it cannot be found-it happens!” - Itohan Eghide

sexy shots.

naivety, alcohol and the importance of communication

3 August 2020

It's the first of May, the year 2014. Tyler and I leave the Claremont McKenna campus en route for LAX. Making our way through traffic, we narrowly miss a huge accident. This is the first sign that we may be putting our lives in jeopardy. We arrive with little time to spare for our 8pm flight to Tucson, Arizona. In our own naivety, we get seated at an airport bar and order dinner. As our meals get delivered the PA sounds. "Last call for Tyler and Zachary Christy aboard flight UA 6445". We pay in cash and hurriedly throw a Cobb salad into a to-go box, racing through the terminal. We make it just in time, salad and all. Wheels up for the University of Arizona.

We arrive in the Grand Canyon State. The airport is small and desolate. We flag a cab and head through the dimly lit highways toward the university. Our cab driver is an interesting fellow, striking up conversation and sharing the music he has made with us. It is an eery mix of Arabic vocals over synth-laden dubstep beats. At this point neither Tyler or I have any idea what is going on, musically or otherwise, but we laugh and enjoy the tinnitus-inducing bass drops. From a distance the university stands out, not unlike when descending upon Las Vegas after hours of driving through darkness. Brightly lit, skyscraping apartment buildings our North Star, we carry on into what we have long assumed to be the mecca of college party havens.

We have made our way to Tucson upon our friend's invitation to join her sorority's mixer, a party where socializing with another Greek organization is encouraged. We as outsiders have been welcomed as dates of the ladies of Pi Phi. Tyler and I could not be more excited. Having gone to smaller schools, everything seems bigger, better. We meet our childhood friend who has for the past two years enjoyed her time at the university a great deal. We are informed of the details of the mixer, a pool party called 'Tropical Madness'. Elated, we are told that we must wake early to make the trip to the country club where the party is to be held.

The alarm rings at the crack of dawn. A rush of adrenaline and testosterone leave no room for feelings of grogginess. We are told that if we would like to drink, we must do it all here and now as the event will have a strict dry policy. Note taken. The three sorority sisters swap orange juice for vodka and line up double shots as the sun rises. Putting back the bedazzled shot glasses is far from enjoyable, but we do our due diligence with the assumption that we will be riding this buzz through the entirety of the event. As music plays, we dance and prepare for an unforgettable day.

We must have done about eight shots of vodka before eight in the morning. By no means ideal, or healthy for that matter, but we are young and misguided. Next we know, the five of us are cramming into a two door VW en route to the party, or so we thought. A quick stop at the sorority house to check in and take pictures. No problemo. The booze kicks in and we are feeling like a million bucks. We have a proper breakfast and are offered a few more drinks. Down the hatch. Alright, on to this party, right? Apparently not. We are to head out to a satellite house where we will meet and take buses to the venue. Back in the VW we go. The air conditioner does little to combat the desert heat. Tyler and I, both taller fellas, are in the back seat, thrown about with every turn. Starting to get a little dizzy back here ladies.

We drive for a good while into the desert. A suburban neighborhood welcomes us and a pre-game party is in full swing. We'll only be here for a few minutes we're told. We walk into the house. It is a scene out of a movie. Pretty girls in bikinis, dancing, music and drinks, lots of drinks. Any concern for having had too much too soon is thrown out the window. We hit the dance floor, meeting the ladies of the sorority and some frat dudes too. Girls are walking around in pool floaties, offering us liquor which they pour liberally from the bottle into our mouths. I remember seeing a liter-sized bottle of black cherry flavored Three Olives vodka upside down above my head. I remember little else.

We must have been at this house for well over an hour, maybe two. Tyler and I are not prepared for this pace. We welcome it all, but we realize we are in far too deep at this point. The bus arrives. Mania ensues as the girls trickle in to the school buses. Our friend is concerned of our current drunkenness. "Tyler, if you and Zach get sick at this party it will get cancelled and I will get kicked out of the sorority!". The warning falls on drunken, yet understanding ears. I step outside and force myself to purge, knowing there's no way the spins will stop otherwise. I gather myself and join the festivities on the bus. We sit atop coolers of beer in the front of the bus, as the proper seats are all taken. Peace at last. I look over to Tyler. My comrade, my brother-in-arms, is as white as a ghost. "Excuse me, how long is the drive?", Tyler slurs to the bus driver desperately. "Should be about 45 minutes young man". Instantly, Tyler shoots up and out of the bus, knowing all too well that there's no way he makes it another 45 minutes in this state.

We quickly get off the bus and throw up into the cactus garden outside. Our dear friend is losing it. Here she is babysitting two twenty year olds in vodka soaked Hawaiian shirts. The bus, and our hopes for a good time, leave without us. Embarrassment kicks in. We have sabotaged one of the most important events of the year for a friend we have known for years. A young lady who is truly as kind and caring as they come. We feel horrible, both physically and emotionally. She calls a cab, throwing in the towel and accepting our fate.

A yellow mini-van appears. We sit in the back. Tyler holds in his hands a trash bag, in case of the need. We make our way from the suburban neighborhood back into the wide open desert. The spins find their way back and I ask Tyler for the bag. I relieve myself as quietly as possible but the driver notices, turning his head to ridicule me. Upon seeing me, Tyler raises his hands to cover his mouth. It is of little use. I look left to see an projectile mist shoot between his fingers to cover the entirety of the car. The seat back is soaked, the driver is soaked. We get kicked out of the cab. Our poor friend is given a bottle of windex as she tries her best to clean the stained suede seats. The driver, in his frustration, leaves the three of us on the side of the road in the middle of the Sonoran Desert, hopeless.

On the horizon we can see the tall buildings of the university. They seem to be several miles away. The desert heat is taking its toll on us weary party goers. We start the long, arduous walk back. Tumbleweeds roll down the road in which we drunkly stumble down. A mile or so in, Tyler is still carrying with him the clear trash bag full of various alcohols and bodily fluids. We are an absolute mess. Tyler places the bag on the ground and we carry on. I have no recollection of how we got back.

The next scene I remember, Tyler and I are holed up in the bathroom of the high-rise apartment we started our day in. Feelings of excitement at day's start have been replaced with feelings of absolute desperation. For several hours I can be found worshipping the porcelain god. Tyler, in the same time, leans helplessly against the shower wall as the water soaks his fully clothed body. We do our best to compose ourselves but it does little. Our friends back home receive videos of us in our perturbed state. At least we can provide someone some humor.

At long last, we gather ourselves and head out for dinner. We find our way to the Chiptole on campus. In typical fashion, the line is long and filled with drunken college students. Tyler and I both lean on the handrails and battle the dizziness that has held us captive for the past eight hours. It feels like an eternity but we make it to the front of the line. We thank the heavens above. The food looks amazing. Hope at last.

A young man, the only customer in line ahead of us, turns to us woefully. "I'm so sorry guys but I have to make this order for my fraternity." I look up, confused, distraught, starving.

"Welcome to Chipotle, how can I help you?", the employee asks the polo clad frat star.

"I have an order for a hundred burritos."

Zachary H. Christy, and the H is for Hopeless

"You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take." - Wayne Gretsky

on the run.

on goals, pursuit

28 July 2020

The marathon. Greek messenger Pheidippides' final run. A feat celebrated by those brave enough to put themselves to the test. My friend Ryan signs up and lets me know it. It is mid January, the race set for the twenty-fifth of April. I am far from excited. My mind already races to come up with excuses not to purchase the admission, citing it is too expensive. Or maybe I can simply run the distance on my own, avoiding the crowds. Perhaps it will cause too much damage to my joints, my heart, my already fractured foot. The voices keep turning over every stone, looking for some point to stick. But I'm tired of being tired. Tired of waking up with nothing to challenge me. No clock ticking in my mind. No stick with which to measure myself, my decisions, my morality. I sign up. With no prior experience, I figure in three months I'll be ready. I'll train a bit. My friend Kailey runs the race every year with no training. She does not at all enjoy pushing her unconditioned body for twenty-six and one-fifth miles, but she gets through it. I figure I can do the same.

The next day I meet a man named Dennis at church. He has a light in his eyes, that unexplainable sign of life I am always seeking. We strike up conversation as he notices the walking boot on my right foot. I tell him of my predicament, my marathon inspiration. Now in middle age, Dennis was once a devout distance runner. I ask his advice and he goes into great detail. The passion this man has for running is fascinating. His face lights up with every word. At his ripe age, he no longer puts his body through the training, citing his knees for cause of concern. This man has run his race, he has completed the task at hand, and now, in this stage of life, his calling is found in the service of others. I humbly find myself his student. Over coming weeks, I find and consult him at each church service. We go into detail about training regimens, nutrition, rest. He shares stories of the different marathons he has run. He paints pictures, step by step, of the races he has conquered. Winding paths through the Redwoods of California. The delusion-inducing altitude of the Rocky Mountains. Every week he checks in, inquiring about my training and offering new insight that motivates me to take to the hills for another week.

In running, I have found a joy that which I now look forward to everyday. Surprisingly, I have found my decision making process change significantly, particularly regarding my health. The training can be incredibly challenging and it is by no means easy, but always worth it. Due to virus concerns, the marathon was postponed, but I could not care less. It is no longer about a dopey race, a ribbon, a time. Deciding everyday to hit the ground running has propelled me in so many ways, far greater than I would have ever assumed. Granted I have only been training for six months. Yet, the act has provided a sense of challenge, control and discipline that which have been of great benefit in these uncertain times.

I sure hope that as Dennis has inspired and mentored me, I can do so to you. You know the goals you have for yourself, the fears you hold, the mountains you wish to climb. This life is so short, so incredible. Whoever you wish to be, however you want to live your life, you can only get there one step at a time. You have nothing to fear. Take the first step today, that is all. Soon enough you'll look back and see how far you've come.

Zachary H. Christy and the H is for Hilltopper

"It is only the first step that is difficult." - Marie De Vichy-Chamrond

art.

On creativity, persistence, courage

26 July 2020

It is a hot spring day in Austin, Texas. I call my Aunt Patsy to catch up. The Laguna Beach native has always been a consummate maternal spirit, inquiring as to how I have been, how travels are going and such. She has been a wonderful influence to both my sister and I in our creative pursuits, encouraging us to see the world and enjoy the beauty in all things.

"So what are your plans? Where is your focus?", she asks in succession. "Are you pursuing a career in music?"

I have asked myself these questions everyday for the better part of the past five years. I tell her how excited playing music makes me feel. I try to describe the impact music has had on my soul, providing hope, eliciting joy, tears, the whole spectrum of human emotion. I express the moral obligation I feel to contribute to this world through the sharing of music. But negativity creeps in. I lower my head in response. "I don't know Pats, perhaps I'm too old, got started too late. Maybe I am not talented enough to be successful." She quickly shuts down these notions. "You've got your whole life ahead of you, you're just a baby!" she exclaims. We both laugh.

"Could you imagine this world without art?", she asks.

I stop to think, never having asked myself this question before. It sinks deep.

Art is everywhere, in every medium. The clothes we wear, food we eat. The cars we drive, homes we build. It's all art. It's the music we sing to. Memories we hold dear. Artwork. Patsy's words fall on eager ears. Again, I find myself hopeful, inspired, thankful.

In sharing this story, I hope you can look around and notice the art, the creativity, the intention that is ever-present. In today's age, we as a society often overlook creative endeavors, always seeking to attach purpose or value to things, time, effort. Perhaps we can be reminded that this world needs art, needs expression. It needs a story, a thought, a dream to be shared.

We are all artists and art will always be worthwhile.

Zachary H. Christy and the H is for Hopscotch

"The dreamers are the saviors of the world." - James Allen's 'As A Man Thinketh'

saving face.

On skin care

20 July 2020

For much of my young adult life, I struggled with cystic acne. It was always embarrassing and I remember always being insecure about my skin. In conversation with someone, often I would see their eyes divert to look at my skin. Some would be kind enough to offer their advice. For years I tried anything I could to remedy the inflammation.

Recently, due in large to dietary and wellness changes, my skin has cleared up. Some scarring remains, though I feel healthier than ever before. This change came about when I was educated on gut health. Quite simply, the state of our skin is often a reflection of the state of our internal organs. For years I would apply products topically, not knowing that the issue, like most regarding our health and wellness, lied within.

Everybody has different skin, hormonal balances and needs regarding their health. What worked for my sister didn't always work for me, and that is ok. I am not a dermatologist, though I have learned a great deal about skin care by trial and error, baptism by fire, if you will. A simple philosophy that I have applied, and would recommend without hesitation is this:

When eating, ask yourself: "Would I put this on my face?"

Strange as it may sound, this philosophy has worked wonders for me.

When you look at the body as a whole, a wonderful network of chain reactions, it may make more sense to you. Our skin serves as a filtration system for our body, working wonders to keep our ecosystem in check. Think about it. Would you put a piece of pizza on your face? It may make for a good laugh but not good skin! Now, I recognize that you probably love pizza, and I do to. I am not telling you to rid yourself of all the food you enjoy, just to be aware of what you are consuming (this in all facets[i.e. food, drink, media, etc.]). When struggling with breakouts, it was sure easy to mask my insecurities with food(often the greasier the better!), though this was actually perpetuating the issue.

I spent a lot of time and money on products and services to aid the redness of my face, trying anything that gave me any hope. Some products worked, some didn't. Clear skin was always a moving target. Something would make my face dry and crack, then to ease the dryness I would apply a lotion, making my skin greasy, and on and on. Quite the carousel.

A few simple principles that I feel universally apply are such:
Eat healthy (lots of greens, vegetables)
Drink good water (and lots of it)
Exercise (body, mind and spirit)
Practice cleanliness (of body, thoughts)

As my father often tells me, "Moderation in all things... including moderation."

Enjoy yourself. Quit busting your coconuts.

Fascinating. Frustrating. All the above. Taking care of yourself will always be worth it.

Again, I am no doctor, but I hope you can learn and apply something to your own life.

Zachary H. Christy, and the H is for Health

“It's Dr. Evil. I didn't spend six years in Evil Medical School to be called "mister," thank you very much.”

the walk of shame.

on zombies, actually flossing

18 July 2020

A young man is seen wandering the campus of the University of Southern California. Blood is pouring from his mouth as he stumbles through students who look in horror. He is unaware, due in large to the Novocaine injected into his gums, that he looks like a zombie. If only he could close his mouth, he may be able blend in. But no, he is in the middle of root canal surgery and his mouth is wired open. Like most Hollywood depictions, this zombie-like creature is wandering hopelessly.

It is a beautiful day in Irvine, California. The sun is shining and flowers are in bloom. I am eighteen years old and the summer has just begun. I am crying. The dental assistant returned to me my X-rays and the estimate for the dental work necessary. The bill far exceeds two thousand dollars. My heart has dropped into my stomach. I have never had more than a couple hundred dollars to my name. My job at the grocery store pays about six dollars an hour after taxes and union dues. I do the math, figuring I would need about ten weeks worth of paychecks in full. This is not the first time I have cried outside a dentist's office, or found myself ridiculously broke.

When I was a child, every time I went to the dentist I would have multiple cavities that need be filled. My sister never did. She could drink soda, eat candy and put off brushing her teeth, and yet, whenever she went to get her teeth checked, she received a clean bill of health. If I so much as looked at a popsicle, my teeth would seemingly rot away. When I was twelve, I had thirteen cavities. I remember running out of the office and crying in my dad's Volkswagen Vanagon, feeling wholly responsible for the financial pressure put on my father. I remember him being disappointed with me, assuming that when I was staying with my mother, I never took care of my teeth and left him to foot the bill. This was not reality.

I call my father, telling him my dental curse has returned, six years later. The giant whole in my molar, forged when eating almonds (case in point), has spurned a sharp, unrelenting pain. At eighteen, I am on my own. I have left the nest, so to speak, and my father is holding me accountable for my life and dental health. I feel helpless. I consult his advice in what to do. He recommends going to Tijuana, Mexico to have the work done, claiming the dentists charge a fraction in comparison for work of the same standard. The Mexican party haven is only a hundred miles away. Though, my friend had just come back from a bachelor party there, wherein his friend was drugged by a gorgeous woman at a bar. He woke up, in a motel bathtub. The c-shaped scar near his waist poorly stitched. Blood trickling down the bathtub drain. His kidney, and peace of mind, were gone. Without sharing this story with my father, I take Tijuana off the table. (Disclaimer: This is not at all representative of Tijuana, or Mexico as a whole for that matter. The country and its people are lovely and I am in no way insinuating a need of fear. This could have happened anywhere).

I am recommended the USC School of Dentistry, where dental students and residents provide dental care at reduced rates. This appears to be heaven sent. I call and make an appointment for the coming Saturday morning. Peace at last, I had hoped.

I fire up my truck, sending a prayer that the engine won't overheat en route to the university. I have just a forty-five mile drive ahead. For those unfamiliar with Los Angeles and Orange County, this could easily, depending on the time of day, take four hours. I arrive in two. Finding parking, per usual, is a nightmare, but I am able to make my appointment. Waiting in the lobby, my fellow toothache-stricken brothers-in-arms look miserable, hoping here they receive treatment. Very much like a dive bar. After an hour of reading months old People magazines, my name is called. I can't wait to have this pain go away, from both the tooth and magazine subject matter.

I am introduced to a young man from New York, whom will be providing my treatment. He is a kind fellow. We talk sports and his experience at USC, both topics of not much excitement to him. He tells me of procedure and we become acquainted with the war zone that is my mouth. After X-rays, he tells me this will be a long and arduous process, due in large to the fact that they are being taught while giving treatment. At this point, I am simply grateful to have these needs addressed. He puts a temporary crown on my tooth and sends me on my way.

Over the next two months, I find myself driving to Los Angeles every week to continue treatment. More traffic, parking troubles, gossip magazines. The torment. Each go round, off comes the temporary crown and a little more work is done. Come time to address the root canal (rising action!), I buckle up. I am shot with painkillers. The long needles feel cold as they slowly go through my gum tissue. Blocks are put in my mouth so as to not illicit closure and the tooth is isolated. I look the Predator. The drilling begins. It is the sharpest, most acute pain I have every experienced. I remember getting hit in the face with a baseball bat well, but this pain is exhausting. I hunker down and accept my punishment, assuming that the feared "root canal" elicited this sorrow. After an hour of drilling, the nerve was hit deeper, more violently. I scream in pain. The entire office, or classroom, turns to look in dismay. "Can you feel this?", the teacher asks. I mumble a few slurred words. "You shouldn't feel anything! Get him more Novocain!", the teacher apologetically. I am shot with several more needles. Everything becomes a blur.

Next I know, the timer on my phone goes off. I try to explain that I need put quarters in the meter where my car has been parked for the three hour maximum. I am in the middle of a root canal surgery, yes, but I know if I do not address the matter my car will be towed away. "Well, ok, go for it, if you insist." the young dentist relented, preparing my mouth as best he could. He did not want to undo any of the preparatory work in isolating the tooth so he sent me on my way with rubber blocks, latex and metal contraptions coming from my mouth. "Do your best to keep your mouth open." he explains. In my sedated state of being, I stumble my way through the campus. I find my car, elated. Searching for quarters, I catch my reflection in the rear view mirror. Blood is everywhere. My shirt collar is soaked. The rubber dam in my mouth looks ridiculous. How did I find myself here?

This long and painful story I share in hopes that you can prioritize your health and well-being. This chapter in my life was unforgettable to say the least, and not for the good times. We are all given different bodies that we need to take care of. If ever I find myself too tired to floss my teeth, vouching that brushing will do on its own, I can hear the drill, see the blood shooting from my mouth into the air. In remembering my slightly different, yet also awkward, "walk-of-shame", I grab the floss.

Zachary H. Christy, and the H is for Healthy

“It is health that is real wealth and not pieces of gold and silver." - Mahatma Gandhi

beauty.

On photography, dance, pecan pie

16 July 2020

Walking the streets of Broadway, Mark Sellers has his eyes wide open. The passersby hurry along the sidewalk, looking rushed and often dismayed. Mark is at total peace. He stops abruptly. Our conversation respectively comes to a halt. From around his neck, he takes hold of a digital camera, a seemingly ancient photographic technology in these times. Analyzing the proper angle, he holds the camera still. The walking traffic continues to rush past. Mark stands tall, unaffected. He takes his shot. The way he sees the world, captured. "This city is most wonderful to shoot after a rain", he tells. We continue walking, resuming our conversation, assimilating into the mass of tourists on their way.

Mark is a man of artistic passion. If you've met him, you remember him. His talent in dance led a starry-eyed, small town Alabama boy to the bright lights of Los Angeles. He performed his art at the highest of levels. You can find him, immortalized, in Michael Jackson's 1983 "Thriller" music video. If you have yet to watch it, please enjoy one of the most groundbreaking artworks of all time (thankfully, Mark looks much more lively these days).

Mark is a captivating storyteller. He weaves words, varies intonation and cares deeply of true expression. Before you know it, you find yourself in the story. Suddenly, you feel the rumble as you ride motorcycles through the lost highways of California with Billy Gibbons and Dwight Yoakam. You feel your stomach turn when the siren, who has long been seducing you from high in the Hollywood Hills, leaves you heartbroken for another lover. As time passes and the mind settles, you are not entirely sure whether you've lived these memories yourself, not unlike a great novel.

On a late Christmas night in Nashville, Tennessee, where Mark has for several years made his living telling stories to music, we find our way to a small Italian restaurant. "Wait till you meet this girl", he says, struggling to contain his excitement. The restaurant is empty. From the kitchen walks a young lady. Her features dark, resembling that of an Eastern European supermodel. They embrace. Prior to moving to America, Kateryna, meaning "pure" in her native Ukranian, was a world-champion ballroom dancer. They discuss their background in the art, lighting up. Admittedly, both dancers have since lost a step, their bodies no longer nimble and bendable to each and every wish the mind imposed. Mark offers his hand. She looks at him quizzically. "Here?", the ballerina asks, blushing.

On cue, we clear the restaurant floor. The oak tables are pushed to the walls. The Christmas tree thoughtfully placed so as to compliment the feature. They take their stage. Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" plays over the restaurant's speakers, setting the tempo and mood. To an audience of one, the leather jacket clad rockstar and the ballroom queen put on the performance of a lifetime. Cowboy boots effortlessly slide, making way for Kateryna to follow the lead. It is truly remarkable to be in the presence of those doing what they are divinely put on this planet to do. The emotion comes out in every turn of the hips, every gracefully touch. For just over four minutes, we are transported to another world. A world where nothing else matters but the unbridled expression of two passionate artists.

Experiences like this have become common since Mark has become a friend and musical mentor. His sense of wonder, his constant seeking of beauty, of life, has had a remarkable impact on the way in which I now see the world. He has been patient in showing me how to best use a film camera, how to optimize aperture, lighting, shutter speed. Mark has developed in me the confidence to dance, to perform, to live. His life is led by the virtue that in every day there is opportunity for truth, for expression, for artistry. The digital camera he carries with him at all times, an intentional reminder to always be looking for beauty, always be looking for your shot.

Thank you, Mark.

"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you." 
- Matthew 7:7

when exploring.

On the journey, Danish hot dogs

14 July 2020

A huge thank you to my cousin and mentor Eric Christy Manchester for inspiring me to get out there. In his wisdom, he said traveling would be the best education I could give myself at the time and he was absolutely right. If I can be to you what he has been to me, I will be eternally grateful.

I would like to say that the thousands of phone calls and emails I get from all over the world would be regarding travel recommendations but unfortunately they are soliciting my apparently recent expired car warranty (or some other trivial life and death matter that which my SSN is needed). I wish these robotic voices, instead, would ask about anything of interest. Perhaps, they would sound a little more lively! 

Having made plenty of mistakes, all of which I needed to experience and learn from, I will do my best to distill said experiences into some simple recommendations, if you will. To preface, I recognize I am naturally somewhat of a contrarian and quite enjoy the great unknown. We all take to the path differently. Hopefully you can take with you something from these principles, per se, and apply them to your travels, whether they include exploring the corners of the world or your own backyard.

For what is life but a journey?

Here goes:

BE THERE

Ever realize that pictures of sunsets are not even close to as beautiful as the real deal? My life's thesis concludes that sunset photographs are 10% as captivating. Challenge me on this. Open your eyes, for the sun will set sooner than you know. Fingers crossed, it will rise again. The most beautiful memories in your life came from you being absolutely present. Your first kiss. Your graduation ceremony. The birth of your child. Flipping a pancake gracefully. Whatever they may be, in these moments, you weren't thinking of what you were going to do tomorrow, or what happened yesterday. Let it rip.

LEAVE ROOM FOR THE UNEXPECTED

We can plan our days down to the finest of details. Sure it is great to have a plan, quite necessary actually. Though, ask yourself, why are you traveling? Are you seeking something new? Striving to learn? To discover? Keep some room in your mind, in your schedule, in your heart, for the unexpected.

SAY "YES" TO LIFE

My brothers Joaquin and Ben both, unbeknownst to one another, told me this and only this when I asked their advice before leaving them in Madrid and Munich. Taking heed, I found myself in many situations I would have never been with my own judgement. Whether it be dancing until sunrise at an illegal nightclub in Gothenburg, Sweden or having to leave a bar to feed Icelandic horses in the middle of the night, these experiences, which I hope to remember as long as I live, would never have been made if I would have listened to my own, oft fear-based, judgement. Be safe out there, please, and follow your intuition, but have some fun and embrace the journey. Eat everything.

THIS TOO SHALL PASS

Like everything in life. Enjoy it all. The good, the bad, the hungry. Hold nothing back when "Unwritten" comes on the radio. Go dance with the girl, dude. You may never have the chance again.

OUT THERE, IT DOES NOT MATTER

Get over yourself. People don't think too much about you, thank GOD! They love and care for you, yes, but they are probably not as concerned with how good your hair looks. When I stared seeing life from this perspective, I felt like I was in one of those Claritin commercials where the foggy lens was lifted and life became unprecedentedly vibrant (Claritin is paying me 1 bajillion dollars to write this). When you realize we are all intwined in the great dance, you can get your ass out of your overpriced VIP section and onto the dance floor with the rest of us. Get down baby.

TRAVEL LIGHT

We carry with us our belongings and they get heavy, both physically and emotionally. Friends of mine have dreams of moving to Portugal and enjoying "o boa vida", but looking around at their house, full of belongings, as well as their storage unit (arguably the bane of my existence), the idea of making the move seems too daunting, as it would mean, heaven forbid, getting rid of their cherished, yet unused, crap. See my homegirl Marie Kondo, the G.O.A.T. Keep it light, keep it moving.

EXPECTATIONS

I traveled for a week through Scandinavia with a fellow student from Germany. We flew from Stockholm into Kiruna, Sweden, rented a car, and made our way through Norway and Finland in search of the esoteric Polar Lights. They were beautiful, the way they swayed. We were fortunate enough to see them on our first night above the Arctic Circle. Thing is, my fellow compatriot wanted to see the Northern Lights that looked like the photographs. You know the ones. Think your laptop's default wallpaper. Vivid green and captivating red bands set upon a clear, starry Nordic night. Well, those photos, like most online, are edited to look better than they appear. Think Instagram and dating profiles (GUILTY). Saturated, whitened, shined, and insert verb here. Long story short, we braved blizzards, drove hours on what we hoped were proper roads, in an effort to see the perfect night sky. I was stoked that the car heater was working, my traveling buddy, not so pleased. She was cursing the heavens above for not giving her the experience she had hoped and planned for. We both saw the same sky, yet while I was in a perpetual state of awe and gratitude, largely that I could still feel my toes, she was utterly disappointed and viewed the time and money spent as a waste. This was a profound learning experience. Shoot for the stars, aim high and strive for your best, but you get what I'm throwing.

I could go on and on. If you are planning on taking the first step, considering "taking on the jellies", so to speak, let a player know! Again, I would be elated to be of service in any capacity. Thank you for reading, now get out there my friend! If you found this far from helpful, YOU CAN GET LOST!! Hopefully.

Zachary H. Christy, and the H is for Houdini

“It is possible to avoid pain? Yes, but you'll never learn anything. Is it possible to know something without ever having experiencing it? Yes, but it will never truly be part of you.” 
― Paulo Coelho's 'Aleph'

savior.

on listening, seeking, hustlin' baby

14 August 2020

I have always enjoyed how present my father is. In conversation, he will truly listen to anybody, reserving judgement and ensuring the speaker knows that he or she is appreciated and worthwhile. Anybody who knows him knows this to be true. Quite often throughout my childhood, my father would meet someone at the grocery store and talk with them for an hour. My sister and I would roll our eyes and begin throwing things at each other. Needless to say, the ice cream would melt.

Once, in my youth, two young men from the Jehovah's Witness came to our door. Their button-up short-sleeve shirts covered with sweat from a long day of biking throughout the town. My dad greeted them and exchanged pleasantries. The gentlemen went into their spiel, asking the oft taboo questions of religion, morality and the afterlife. My father perched up against the door frame, entertaining all questions, often returning with one of his own.

Having always been a seeker, my father relentlessly pursues his passions, finding answers to any and all questions posed. My childhood was spent open-mindedly going to all kinds of religious establishments: churches of varied denominations, Buddhist and Hindu temples in faraway places, synagogues, ballparks and Bluegrass festivals. Our bookshelf held copies of the Holy Bible, Koran, Tao te Ching, Bhagavad-Gita, Calvin and Hobbes. The sacred texts.

My dad must have spoken with the Jehovah's Witness for well over an hour, maybe two. It was a riot. You could see the young men, who assumedly spent their days of solicitation wrought with denial, completely relax and break free of their monotonous pitch. He asked questions, never condemning or criticizing, encouraging the young men to speak their mind. The time was spent sharing laughs and stories, deep, philosophical questions and small talk regarding sports and bicycles. As the sky began to go dark, the Witnesses realized they needed to return home. My father let the missionaries know that their time and concern were greatly appreciated, but at this junction, he was not quite prepared to jump ship and join their ministry. The young men understood, giving thanks and handing over some educational materials. In closing, one of the well-dressed young men pulled out the last and most lauded of his pitches:

"But sir, don't you want eternal life?!"

My father paused, turning to look at his home that my sister and I quite often made a mess of.

After awhile, perhaps in his mind asking himself the great questions to life, he said, smiling,

"An eternity of this?

No, thank you!"

Everybody laughed hysterically and went on their way, much better for it.

Zachary H. Christy and the H is for Hallelujah

"Love is the bridge between you and everything." - Rumi

popstar.

On expression, perception, vulnerability

13 July 2020

It is a warm summer night as the sun sets behind us to the west. The year is 2017. My father and I are driving from Palm Springs into the high desert. My palms are already sweating, my heart beating. My father is calm, happy to be en route. We pull in to the dust laden parking lot of the Joshua Tree Saloon.

It is here where the desert kinfolk will come to congregate, enjoying the air conditioning and camaraderie. Per usual my father is recognized upon entry, this happening pretty much anywhere he goes. His western shirt and cowboy hat are clean, well-presented but not to elicit any envy. The charisma my father carries is bound to leave an impression. Live music is being played on stage. This is why we have trekked through the desert. My father signs our name upon the list of those willing to stand under the lights and perform.

We step outside and pull our guitars from the trunk. They have gone out of tune, due in large to the weather. We have rehearsed a few songs that which we will play for the bar goers. It has been years since I have performed on a stage. The guitar and I have been getting acquainted for two years now. It has been my constant companion since leaving home. Music ensemble and theatre in elementary and middle school are long in the rear view, the skills and confidence developed then have since waned. We set our guitars behind the stage and take up a table. In the high desert, the community is tight knit. We are welcomed as would be tourists or weary travelers making their way west toward the ocean or east to escape the Golden State. 

My dad is an incredible musician. His passion for the art form is remarkable. Learning of the craft from him has brought us closer than ever. How he approaches arrangement, how heartfelt and unrelenting his lyrics, his phrasing of a solo section, have taught me more about life, love, loss than we have ever shared in conversation. 

The time has come. "Craig and Zachary Christy?", the emcee reads into the microphone. My father takes his hat, having been carefully laid to rest in the seat beside him. Our heads held high, we make our way to the stage. 

The performance is a blur. The songs come and go. My fretting hand gets stiff and struggles to make the jazz chord shapes often used in the songs my dad writes. "Cosmic Western Soul Jazz" is the genre he self proclaims. The cosmic bit is rather all-encompassing. I think of psychedelic, colorful sounds. Western: Heartfelt stories of a simple life and time. Themes of the lone ranger, rolling stone, to which my father draws parallels. Soul: necessary in any form of expression. Jazz, as my father jokes, "whenever you play a wrong note, that's the jazz. Just go back to it and make it work." 

We give it all we got. The thirty or so people in attendance largely seem uninterested. I want to give 'em hell. "Listen to these songs!", I wish I could yell into the mic, "This music is incredible!" But most are content continuing their conversations, drinking another relatively cold beer and trying to get lucky. 

We play our set, thank the crowd and quickly gather our belongings. What a rush! My dad enjoyed the performance. I am happy to see him in his element. Upon returning to our table, a man walked over, clearly enjoying himself. "Man, you guys were great!" he tells us enthusiastically. My father gracefully accepts the compliment and entertains conversation with the man, talking of folk tunes, cowboy hats and western boots. 

After staying to listen and pay respect to the other performers, we left the saloon and embarked back down into the low desert. 

"Well, Zach, one out of thirty people in there thought we were great. If one out of every thirty people in the world thought we were great, we would be the most popular musicians in the world!" At the time of this writing, one out of thirty people on Earth would amount to just over 250,000,000 people!

How great is that perspective? I share this story with you to shed light on our endeavors. It can be so easy to look around in comparison and think that we are not appreciated, worthwhile, or even acceptable. Whatever ideas you have, talents you have developed, and dreams you hold, know that this world needs your voice. If you ever feel that people around you don't care, won't understand or even listen to you, remember, there are a lot of us here. There is without a doubt one person whose life will be made better because of you, or perhaps hundreds of millions!

Thank you for your time in reading this. Go share your story! The world needs to hear it, see it, dance to it.

Zachary

"You can’t stay in your corner of the forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes."

– Piglet

jeanie.

On love, reading, children

13 July 2020

Our grandmother Jean Ensign Christy was the embodiment of kindness. The consummate maternal spirit. My sister and I would spend time at her home in Ellicott City, Maryland. It was our safe haven. A place of peace, of understanding, of comfort. Our parents divorced early in our childhood and we spent much of our youth in flux. The time spent with our grandparents provided stability, an environment of love and respect.

My grandmother was a wonderful artist. She instilled in us kids the importance and appreciation of art, of literature, of cooking. Jeanie was adamant about cultivating, or rather uncovering in us an appetite for learning and expression. She would tote us along to the grocery store, showing us where to find the ingredients needed for one of her immortal cookie recipes.

We spent a great deal of time at the Howard County Library, where she volunteered at the Friends of the Library bookstore. We were always urged and often required to check out a book that peeked our interest. This being before the time of conveniently accessible internet and smart phones, to which I am very thankful to have enjoyed adolescence without. She never forced a certain book or subject matter upon us, letting us wander the aisles until we found something to pique our interest. To our grandmother I owe a great deal. The allowance of us to seek and find was so beneficial.

Throughout my formative educational years, I seldom enjoyed, or even read, our required reading. I wanted to read about Tony Hawk flying through the air, not Washington slowly crossing the Delaware. Our lives do not always fit the curriculum. We all have ranging and evolving interests and passions. Jean recognized this and supported us in the education that we chose. Communal reading in the classrooms surely can provide a great sense of togetherness, of sparking discussion and varied interpretation, but will students, or anybody for that matter, find success or enjoyment from that which they are not enthused?

I am not a formal educator, I have no degree in teaching, though I do feel children need be supported in the pursuit of their interests. Of course as adults we can project our life experience onto our children, telling them how they should think, act, dress and so on. Surely we as adults would be coming from a place of care and concern, wanting what is best for our children, the lives they lead and the world they are inheriting.

But we are not our children. They are coming up in an age much different than we did. Hopefully we can learn to follow our hearts, our interests. This world need not our generations to come to be unintentional about their education. We all have unique and worthwhile talents and ambitions and we need to support and foster environments in which children are encouraged to learn what excites them and why. For if we support children, and anybody for that matter, will they not be better off in their lives? Would encouraging and protecting one's childlike sense of wonder do any wrong?

Thank you for taking the time to read this. Hopefully you have found inspiration in some way. I'd be pleased to hear your thoughts on the matter.

Zachary

"Start children off on the way they should go, and even when they are old they will not turn from it." - Proverbs 22:6

coach.

on movement, health, life
12 July 2020

Class gets out later than expected. I pace quickly out of the Boccardo Business Complex on the east side of San Jose State's campus, making my way through the student body. I have to be at work in less than an hour. When I get to the 23 bus stop, I realize I've missed the last bus that can get me to work on time. At this point in my college tenure, working has taken the priority to my course studies. I seem to be learning much more on the job than I am in these classrooms. I won't be late to work. I throw my shirt in my bag, lace up my shoes and take off down the Paseo de San Carlos. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I have a five mile run ahead. I fail to pace myself accordingly, getting winded about a mile in. A girl whistles in my direction, giving me motivation to keep it moving. Ridiculous. Near the midway point I arrive at the intersection of Meridian and San Carlos. Its a busy throughway and I decide against running through traffic.

I look to my left and see an older man walking his groceries home. He is spry for his age. He looks to be in his eighties, sporting a bright red letterman jacket. "Coach" is embroidered across the breast. He stands tall, his feet moving well. We make eye contact and he smiles. Seeing my near exhaustion, he ruffles his way through his bag. He pulls out a magazine and hands it to me. It's January 2016's Gentlemen's Quarterly, The Body Issue. He points to the cover. Cristiano Ronaldo. Soccer superstar. Alessandra Ambrosio. Brazilian supermodel. "That's you!", he says, pointing to the Portuguese footballer. I laugh. He tells me to keep the magazine and I thank him. We make small talk and time seems to stop for awhile. His spirit is uncanny. The light in his eye is burning bright. This is a man who has truly lived, I can feel it. The light turns green and we both, without words, acknowledge it is time for us to part. I place the magazine in my backpack, thanking him once more. He turns to me. "Son, remember this. You're either moving, or you're dying". We smile and I take off, suddenly recharged. I look back after crossing the street but he is long gone.

I reflect on my interaction with "Coach" frequently. His words have resonated deep. Initially, I took them at face value. Sure, we ought to keep the body moving or it will atrophy, slow down, grow stiff and still. But his words have taken a deeper meaning over the years. I try to apply his proverb, his distilled wisdom, to life as a whole. Life is constantly moving, the world spins, the wind blows. We have to keep moving. Moving forward. Moving mountains. When complacency sets in, the words of "Coach" seem to find their way back into my mind. In taking heed to his counsel, I grow evermore thankful.

So ask yourself, are you moving?

Zachary

"Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it." - Proverbs 4:23

"YOU SEEM TO HAVE REALLY LIKED THAT EUROPE STUFF"

On travel, growth, the unknown
11 July 2020


My brother Caleb gave me a call this week to catch up. Actually, no, he called to ask what car our friend Tyler drives, as he thought he saw him on the freeway. We got to talking and began to reminisce on the past, sharing laughs. He asked when I plan on coming home to Southern California, a question imposed seemingly anytime I talk with my friends there. I do my best to take the question in stride, holding appreciation for the place in which I spent most of my first twenty years. Having left to attend college then moving to Nashville, Tennessee just over three years ago, I have learned a great deal about the idea of "home".

We all have our paths, our education, our dreams, and these tend to take us apart, bring us together and move us in every way. I respond honestly, saying I haven't any plan to return. I care deeply about my friends (whom I consider family), but I feel intrinsically that my time, more so my education there, is finished. At least in this chapter in life.

This has been a topic that has weighed heavily upon me since leaving. Many nights I have contemplated why I left. I have felt alone, I have been heartbroken, I have looked forward at times to see only darkness. When I hear from my friends they want to know what it's like "out there". Not sure where to begin, other than saying wonderful.

I have always enjoyed the story of a hero. I remember being absolutely captivated watching Ridley Scott's Gladiator back in 2000. These larger than life heroes, always brave in the storm, make great sacrifices, defy the odds and inspire six-year-olds watching from the living room floor. I am not likening myself to a Roman gladiator, but I feel there are parallels in all of our lives. To know our limits do we not have to reach them? Confront the fear, the unknown?

Strange as it may sound I feel it is an absolute necessity to expand our horizons, our limitations, our preconceived notions. Since leaving "home", I have felt a great sense of growth, humility and humanity. Where would I be if I had never left? Would I be cursing myself, asking what if? The fears I had prior to leaving home never came to fruition. Everybody is doing alright. The people who I felt needed me around are going strong. The girl I was convinced was the one will surely be for someone else, and I am happy for her.

Now don't get me wrong, I am not writing this from the top of the mountain. I know my work here, my journey, my battle in the arena is just beginning. Quite simply I am writing to share that this life thing really is wonderful. I would have never expected to be where I am just five years ago. There have been moments that have changed the course of my life, and everyday comes the opportunity for redirection and reflection. Be patient with yourself, your growth, your shortcomings. Life is truly infinite and I hope you and I remember that everything, everybody, was once unknown, once out of our comfort zone.

Caleb, the truest of friends, knows that we all have to do what we have to do. I pitch him the idea of heading abroad next summer, trying to convince him that the people are beautiful, the food is unforgettable and the culture need be experienced. I try to explain that it would be an "antes y después" moment, that life would never be the same after as it was before. He laughs at my enthusiasm, pauses and says to me, "you seem to have really liked that Europe stuff". We laugh and get back to talking. It feels as though we are back home, running around our neighborhood, making questionable decisions, getting in fights and making it home later than expected.

There were times back then in which we felt completely lost, when we looked around at our peers who seemed to have it all together and wonder "what are we doing fighting?!" We kept each other's back for years. When I was hospitalized he was by my side. When he was hit by a drunk driver and had his legs shattered I couldn't have been anywhere else. It was in these moments, when everything seemed chaotic, when there was no semblance of hope, that we realized how strong we were. I guess we were gladiators after all.

Ten years have come and gone and I still feel the same way at times, though we are thousands of miles apart. Lord knows what will come next, where our journeys will take us. Maybe someday we will get back together, perhaps in a new arena, in a new town. I tell him I'll be home later than expected.

-Z

"One thing that comes out in myths is that at the bottom of the abyss comes the voice of salvation. The black moment is the moment when the real message of transformation is going to come. At the darkest moment comes the light."

Joseph Campbell's 'The Power of Myth'

time to share.

Go for it

11 July 2020

Having known in due time I must impart what I have learned, my frame of mind has shifted. Waiting for an esoteric day in the future when I will be more wise, brave, well-versed will lead to nothing. I recognize that we will always be in motion, always be a work in progress, never fully arrived or completed.

In retrospect, the moments of most joy, the times when feeling truly alive, connected, understood have come from moments of sharing, non-judgment and uncertainty.

In short, I feel responsible to share what I and others are learning, doing and striving for. I am in the process of developing a proper blog, podcast and music studio to get these ideas, conversations and art to you. Hopefully this finds and inspires you. Let us make this time we have together worthwhile.

"This moment is as it should be."
Deepak Chopra's 'The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success'