Today Was a Good Day

Today was cold, and it snowed a lot, perfect because the fair weather hikers don't pollute the trails with their meaningless chit chatter and over-friendly labradors on days like this. Today was too cold for them, and so it was just me and my not-so-friendly-but-very-loyal dog hiking in one of the most beautiful landscapes. The snow was untouched and seduced me deep into the woods.

Usually, I stick to the trails with little deviation. But today was different. Today, something about the forest took hold of me, and demanded that I abandon the trails I know and listen to my heart. So I did, and headed deep into the forest with my ipod sinking me deeper into my own world free of rules, norms and standards. The further we hiked, the louder my music played, I entered my own world away from the one I don't like.

After about an hour, I recognized my destination. My legs were popsicles, but my escape outweighed anything trivial. My journey led me to truth, and I realized that there are some paths that need to be followed without knowing where they lead. I could breathe again, I listened to social distortion and watched my dog run across the veranda to meet his friend. Rejuvenated, I went home to find myself in the second season of Lost.

Never Say Never

Returning from the mountains, my head was clear. I connected with my new Burton board, and thought that the purchase was a lucid, intelligent, well though-out decision, despite my manic state. I got home, on the edge of peace, exhausted, but I unloaded my car anyway.

I carried my new board to the sports closet, dried it off, and placed it inside. To my surprise, my very first RIDE board, out of no where, fell into my arms. I stared at the board. Its edges were rough, its surface worn, but something about this board made me pause. I closed the closet, and carried the board to my living room.

I stared at the board all night, I had totally forgotten about this board. But how could I? This was the first board I had ever ridden, the board that broke my wrist, the board that first taught me of freedom before ravaging my mind and body across a slick patch of ice. What could this board offer me now?

I hesitated. Does this old board deserve a ride? Shouldn't I have outgrown this board by now? Maybe... but on the other hand, I'm an entirely different rider than I was fifteen years ago. Maybe this board is better for me than the new board after all. Of course, there is only one way to find out (and it's not by ending a sentence with a preposition...).