And like the last time, I’ll comment on why they matter to me.

1.

I took this out the front window of our house. With the fog it seems like we’re in completely untouched surroundings. In truth, we have neighbors and easy freeway access, but this is our view. Every time I see this photo I feel profoundly blessed that we have our house. The things that aligned to put us into this place are a clear moving of divine providence in our lives. I try to sit and look out this window every morning before going to work. It reminds me.

2.

I work very hard on Everyday Driver. In fact, it is a genuine second job and often very difficult to balance in the midst of real job, marriage, parenthood and writing for this blog and plot-driven purposes. I love the show and the experiences it has granted us. I’m also proud of much of our work. This is a 2011 BMW M3 I photographed during one of the most epic shoots we’ve ever produced. It reminds me of all the things we have accomplished. All the things I still want to improve. And how well we do when everything is working.

3.

As a rule, I really don’t like pictures of myself. That may seem strange considering the amount of time I spend on camera these days (see #2), but I’m much more comfortable seeing myself in motion than frozen in time. Strange, but true. I didn’t know this photo had been taken, as Paul snapped it while in our front yard for Thanksgiving. I like the adventure suggested in this photo, with home base represented by our address marker as we head off toward the distant mountains. And the dog, realizing I really am going for a walk and scampering happily to catch up. This is what free-time looks like.

4.

Now that everyone has camera phones, Bodie is constantly documented with his own troop of paparazzi. I can’t even fathom how many thousand photos have been snapped of the little guy. And when pics of his younger days are brought out I find a strange realization… I don’t find him cuter as a baby. I don’t miss or long for those days. I look forward to the little guy he can become – and this picture hints at that future. On the move. Focused and headed somewhere with happy purpose. And thankfully, Carrisa Uribe captured this moment for us with her great eye. More of this.

5.

In some ways, this is a family pic which wouldn’t wind up in the “best ones” pile. Another photo from our shoot with Carissa, but this one tells my favorite story. Bodie is hating being confined and is prepping for meltdown. Catherine is doing her regular job of beautifully keeping him in check. I’m making some absurd commentary on how our life is going and she’s finding me funny. And though I’m making light of the situation, I’ve also got a hand on the dog, because she’s the real wild card of the group. As much as I don’t like pictures of me, this photo is the story of us.

Who knows what 2012 will bring. I’m looking forward to seeing it captured.

These first five come from sources worldwide. The next five are more personal:

1.

Amidst the riots and “occupations” around the world this year came this surreal Hollywood moment. A young guy kissing and comforting his girlfriend while the tension roils around them. Sadly the reason for this riot was a sporting event, but the emotional weight is the same. Mob mentality may be overwhelming, but the moment the person you love is injured… rage is replaced by the desire to comfort, cradle, and love.

2.

The President and his National Security Team watching Osama Bin Laden get killed via live Satellite link. The closest most of us will ever get to this is the film “Patriot Games”. From a nice, well-lit, and unremarkable office in DC, our country is overseeing a man getting tracked down and ended. Looking around the room… For some this is a moment of somber power. For others a realization of the importance of human life. And for a few, just another day at the office.

3.

Steve Jobs definitely lived up to his quote “put a dent in the Universe”. I write this blog on one of his computers. I use one of his phones. I work on one of his programs. But I’m most intrigued by his moments of humanity: He hired a biographer partially so his children would have a record and understanding of why he was so rarely home. And at his last Apple Keynote address, an obviously very frail man retreated backstage and laid his forehead against his wife. He was a visionary, yes… but I like that he was also human, flawed, loved, and loving.

4.

This is the funeral for Navy SEAL Jon Tumilson, who was one of 30 killed when their helicopter was shot down over Afghanistan. His dog, “Hawkeye” is laying close to his master for the last time. I realize I’m a softy dog owner, but this makes me cry. Hawkeye gets it, and yet, will never understand. Like all of us.

5.

The Egypt protests which gridlocked the country and eventually brought down President Mubarak had this surprising subplot. About 10% of the country are reportedly Christians. A suicide bombing attack at a Coptic Christian church had killed 23 Christians at the beginning of the year. And yet, during the protests, Christians encircled the praying and vulnerable Muslims to allow them to pray in peace and protection. How much would we change the world if these were the kind of actions Christians were known for? And how likely would it be for a potential bomber to blow up the same people who protected him while he prayed?

In 2006 this 19-year-old Israeli boy-soldier gets abducted by the Palestinian Hamas movement. He’s held in isolation and mystery for more than five years while his parents fight tirelessly for his release. Protests, demonstrations, and mentions of his captivity happened all over the world. Finally, in October of this year he’s released. Parents rejoice. Events are held. The press swarms.

Heartwarming. Yes.

But I can’t help the feeling that the difficulties of his life may be yet to come.

He lived in captivity, which I can’t even imagine. He was literally off the map for half a decade and he’ll never get those years back. But on the other hand there was a singularity of purpose in that time. Survive. Live to be released. His parents were living in a similar world of singular focus and laser guided love for their son.

But what now? Real life will have to invade for him and his parents. He’ll need a job and they will need something new to do with any free moment. And all the while I wonder about the elephant in the room:

He wasn’t just released, he was traded. Israel got one twenty-five year old, normal and unremarkable young man by giving up more than 1,000 prisoners of all kinds.

Elsewhere in the world more than 1,000 families celebrated the return of loved ones they thought they’d never see again. New lives were started. Old lives were returned. Because of one kid.

Gilad Shalit is worth 1,027 people. He can quantify his worth in human lives. His life for more than 1,000 others. And I’m left wondering if there’s anyone in the modern time who can say anything like that? Is there anyone else alive who will have to endure that reality?

Is there anyone on the planet who is worth 1,000 lives? Would 1,000 people give up their lives so Steve Jobs could have lived longer? What about Christ? He’s worth more than 1,000 lives and he did the opposite… He gave up His life so we could all live.

Gilad didn’t give up his life, he gained life in exchange for 1,000 others. He didn’t do anything but play bargaining chip for 1,000 other people. If Gilad had died so 1,000 people could live he’d be a hero. Instead he’s just going back to try and live like a normal guy. Years of political posturing and the result is Palestine going… “Okay, for 1,000 people… we’ll give you one guy.”

Now if Gilad goes on to cure cancer, or raise up Israel to newfound glory, or disciple thousands to be better than they were before… what a story that would be. But it’s more likely that he’ll just get an unremarkable job, get married, start a family, find himself out of shape and overweight and pissed at his kids about something. Just another guy.

What if some of those 1,027 released decide to cause more damage? I have no interest in getting into a Palestine vs. Israel discussion, I’m just acknowledging reports that some of those released were in prison for murder and/or terror attacks.

Yet I never saw this question in the Press. No one seemed to ask “Wait a minute…is this kid worth 1,000 lives?”. Does the family have a counselor prepared to talk to Gilad when the weight of this comes crashing down on him… cause I bet it will.

I’m reminded of the film “Saving Private Ryan” where Matt Damon is finally rescued but the entire squad that went to get him has now been killed. Tom Hanks, the last of the squad, is dying and he looks up at the kid and says “Earn this…”.  Then we return to present day and the kid is now an average grandfather who turns to his wife and says “Tell me I’m a good man….”. Cause how do you do enough to make your life worth the life of someone else?

As a father I ponder “Is my son worth 1,000 people?”. I don’t mean emotionally, as I’m sure Gilad’s parents would have (and did) anything to get him home. I mean intellectually, realistically. In one room, 1,000 people. In the other, my son. What’s the better call?

God chose the room full of people. Gilad’s parents chose their son.

What am I worth? What are you worth? And I’m not looking for a Sunday School answer here. If you were going to be traded for 1,027 other people… hell, 27 other people… would you feel worth the cost? Could I do anything over the course of my life to be worth 1 person? Or 27? Or 1,027?

Gilad Shalit will have to live with that question, and I bet it will be far harder than his time in isolation.

In the last few years I’ve taken note of a few people who have remade themselves in their late thirties, forties, and so on. And in every case I’ve marveled at how they become ageless in the change.

I know a film executive who, upon losing his high-ranking position, looked at his life and said “I want to be a chef.” At the age of 39 he enrolled into a prestigious culinary school in New York. And since then he’s cooked for a living in high-profile jobs on both coasts.

Another friend who basked in the glow of the 90s internet bubble, made a killing, and then traveled the world when the bubble burst. Early this century he asked himself “what’s next?”, and inexplicably went to grad school and became a pharmacist. He seems very happy about it, and while I didn’t think anyone actually chose to be a pharmacist, apparently they do.

A former roommate of mine dabbled in nearly everything he could find all through college before winding up in strange third world countries working in public health and crisis management. When he decided on change, this marginally dedicated student headed to medical school. He’s well on his way to becoming Dr. Smith. (Not a pseudonym… he will be Dr. Smith and his patients will think he’s kidding.)

And then there’s the relative of a friend who has systematically changed careers every five to seven years and now, in his 50s, he’s a well-respected child psychologist. At least… for a few years I suppose. With wife and kids in tow he’s lived all over and made money in the internet, been a vet, had a corporate job in traditional business, and been a paid artist. “He gets bored easily” I was told when I first heard this story. But all I could think was… “Sounds like he succeeds easily!”

And I bet he’ll live forever. Well, maybe not forever, but at least until he stops shaking things up. That’s the lesson I’m finding in all this.

I have two living grandmothers, 85 and 90 (as of this writing…). And in the last year their lives have driven this point home. The 85 year old has been fading fast. She hasn’t been able to drive for decades and her social circle and number of activities has steadily decreased at the same time. The 90 year old has outlived two husbands and seemed to be fading herself until about a year ago when she got herself a boyfriend.

I promise this is not a blog about the dating life of 90 year olds.

The lesson has been seeing the huge improvement and new life provided by change. Sameness and lack of opportunity has worn and weathered my younger grandmother. Newness and activity is pushing the other into new health and awareness.

So where does that leave me?

Well, maybe life is a screenplay, and I’m nearly 40 pages in. I’ve past the first Act break where things really turn for the intriguing. And I’m marching my way through the destination part of the story. Problem solving. Striving. Working to advance the plot.

But Act 2 needs help. Without careful planning it sputters to an unfinished halt somewhere between 60 and 80 pages. With new ideas, and maybe a twist toward the unexpected, you can launch your story strongly to a triumphant 100. Maybe you can get to 110 or more if you’re telling a really great story.

So I’m pondering Act 2. Thinking about new things. Looking for character development and a good action scene to liven the plot. I’m just not sure what it is yet.

The truth I’ve come to is that change makes you ageless. Rewrites make better stories. And apparently life, like screenplays, needs good Act 2 surprises in order to have a strong ending.

I simply love driving. I didn’t even like it this much when I was 16.

Last month we took a family roadtrip to LA. Between the trip itself, two days on a racetrack, a half day in the Malibu canyon roads, and full days evaluating the new Cadillac CTS coupe, I logged more than 2000 miles behind the wheel in that week. And I didn’t even drive every day. In fact, I would have happily driven more.

Somewhere in the midst of this marathon of wheel-time I realized something quite odd. I’m not a sports fan, and I’ve known for quite some time that the sports which interest me (Climbing, Cycling, Skiing, etc) are all sports of individual achievement. I’ve somehow avoided the typical interest in sports with “ball” at the end of the title. However, my driving obsession closely resembles something else I’ve always blown off: Golf.

For years I’ve listened to golfers go starry-eyed while they talk about their perfect round. I shake my head because I simply don’t get it and don’t care to find it. Yet, now I must admit that the similarities are quite glaring:

Golfer’s always talk about how much they enjoy being in the outdoors and interacting with nature. While I find walking on the manicured lawns of a manmade creation to be a pretty anteceptic way to enjoy nature, I have to admit that I’m not exactly a mountain man as I race down a ribbon of asphalt cut into a mountain as the air-conditioner keeps things perfect.

Then there’s the maddening exactness, where golfers keep returning to their hobby in the hopes of achieving fractions of improvement. I know I can infuriate or mind-numb just as easily as I go in search of the perfect corner exit or a lap time two-tenths lower than my personal best. “Yes, I realize this is my thirty-fifth lap of the same two mile course, but this time I think I’ve really figured out the apex of corner five.”

See… you’re asleep already. Now start talking about your new putter or nearly getting under par, and I’ll wish for a coma.

Then there’s the social aspect of golf, where grown men stand around talking about nothing while wearing terrible clothes and looking jealously at the guy with the newest piece of gear.

Again, I’m without a leg to stand on, as car guys stand around wearing clothes with more logos and badges than the cars they own and talk about the best synthetic oil until someone pulls in with that exotic which got released last week.

Truth be told… I find this to be just as mind-numbing as the golfer’s discussion, but the concept is at least the same.

My conclusion? Well, I guess I’m just as boring as every other adult male. And I’ve finally found a common understanding with the avid golfers I know.

Except I could die in a spectacular crash next weekend… you don’t find that in golf. Maybe that’s what it needs.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ve finally figured out the perfect line for that chicane I did this morning.

Sorry… it’s like a Par 5 with a water hazard. That help?

So amidst the packing, I’ve found another way I’m a lot like my dog.

Everything in the world she’s known is being uprooted. Items pulled out of their places. Boxes being filled. All her normal places to nap or hang out are being disrupted or removed systematically.

And each day she gets a bit more unsettled. This is a dog who truly hates suitcases, so I imagine our packing 100 boxes must seem like Chinese water torture. Her tail dips a bit more, creeping down between her legs. She follows closer, scared that things will turn for the worse. Then, she finds herself even more in the way, and more concerned.

This is the same dog who hates the heat. Loves the snow. Revels in the mountains. Finds wildlife of all sizes to be her obvious playmate and long-lost friend. Essentially, this short haired dog thinks she’s a forest raised husky. She’s up for a good adventure in the outdoors and she’d really like to be let off leash to go explore.

But in her mind this situation is all bad. She has no comprehension of what Park City, Utah has to offer a pup like her. In her mind, she’s being forced into a change. And any decision she didn’t make for herself is bound to be something she will hate.

And just before I really shake my head at her… I stop.

Cause I do that with God. Every time change comes I brace for the worst. If I didn’t choose it for myself, then I know I’ll hate whatever’s next. I never really believe that God would push me reluctantly into something I would actually enjoy.

Yet my dog doesn’t want to risk or step out of her comfort zone. She wants us to stay in Los Angeles. Never leave this rented condo. Never alter her schedule. Stay unchanged because change is bad.

While on the other side of the change is a world she can’t understand, but one her master knows will be so much better.

Ouch. I’m doubting God a lot. I don’t trust my Master’s plan any more than my dog trusts me to move somewhere she’ll like even better.

So my first thought is I should be back on leash. No more of this running around.

Then I have a better thought. Quieter. Stranger. Which means it probably didn’t come from me at all.

Maybe God has had a bunch of things to teach me: about my pride, my cynicism, my trust issues. But he couldn’t tell me directly because I wouldn’t listen. He needed to show me.

What I needed, was a dog. A needy, hyper, intelligent, suspicious furball to fear change so that I can learn that things beyond me can be better, and change can be good.

Makes me wonder what He has in store for me. For us. And what other lessons I’ll learn through my dog.

Read Part 1.       Read Part 2.

Two Southern California Teenagers are in the news. One, a sixteen-year-old girl currently solo-sailing around the world… non-stop. The other, a thirteen-year-old boy trying to scale Mt. Everest.

They get press because their endeavors bring outrage. Shock. Calls to child protective services because their parents are clearly unfit. People whisper about how these kids are going to die and any proper parent would never support such aspirations.

Maybe that’s true. Or maybe… Just maybe…

We’re all scared alarmist chickens and these parents are doing it exactly right.

What about the fact that this 13 year old climber has already done 5 of the world’s 7 summits? (The Seven Summits refers to the highest peak on every continent…) Most climbers in the world will never do the seven summits. Nearly all the folks who’ve done Everest, including the sherpas, haven’t done all 7. And he’s climbing with his parents who happen to be hard-core adventure racers. The result is a 13 year old with goals and enough dedication to train harder than most adults. This is hardly a kid going from PS3 to Crampon boot.

Or how about the fact that the 16 year old sailor comes from a family of sailors and her brother did the trip a year ago? I’ve met this family. I worked with this boy who did the trip. I don’t agree with everything they’re doing, but I know that their daughter wanted to do this long before her older brother decided to pull up anchor.

Truth be told, I’m pondering all of this for one simple reason: I have dangerous pastimes. I was jumping my bike as soon as I could balance, and when I was a kid we weren’t wearing helmets and kneepads! I’m obsessed with performance driving. I love rock climbing. I enjoy solo trips deep into the backcountry. And my favorite kind of skiing is cutting fresh tracks through tight trees. Yet I still feel like I never really pushed the envelope enough. I’m not half as daring as I’d like to be, and yet my interests scare the hell out of a lot of people.

I know I’ll definitely introduce my son to these pastimes. And there’s a good chance he’ll like one or two of them and want to push the envelope himself. Which means… he’s going to get hurt. And it’s going to be on my watch.

Now before you start filling the comment section, know that I’m far from reckless. I’ve embraced the use of helmets, and I wouldn’t tree-ski without one. I don’t go out into the backcountry without leaving plenty of info on where I’ll be. And anyone who’s climbed with me will tell you they felt very safe.

But I hope I never embrace the growing fear that permeates our culture and is shouted through megaphones toward all parents. I stand astonished to find that everyone can tell you a horror story about everything from sleeping to vaccinations. Do not go onto the internet to see if something is bad for your child. I’ll save you the google time; yes, it’s terrible. Someone knows someone whose child died from it… Anything you can think of, no matter how innocuous, can kill your child.

Into this stupefying din I accept the fact that there will be blood: From skinned knees, and scraped palms, and probably some random headwound which will bleed like a broken damn but only leave a tiny scab on a big lump. That’s growing up.

Heck, that’s just life.

We could all die doing anything. Hanging a picture or hanging from a cliff-face. But I truly believe that taking risks and pushing yourself is the only way to stay young. And my son IS young… so hopefully I can push myself long enough to at least keep up for a while.

A part of me really hopes he ends up world-class at taking risks. I’ve accepted that I won’t be a cutting edge climber or F1 racing driver. But if that’s in his future then I’ll be on the sidelines grinning so much it hurts.

I’ll like it almost as much as doing it myself. Almost.

The real battle will be everyone else. Because now, suddenly, the tiny percentile chance of something going wrong is the only percentage we’re supposed to care about. It’s like believing you will definitely win the lottery every time… and the prize is pain and suffering. Best to not play at all!

Dream big. Take risks. Do something that scares you.

I say that for me. I need to remember. I need to hear it over the rumble of doom. And if I’m really blessed, I’ll raise a son who’ll hear it too.

Are You Ready?

And there’s really only one answer.

Of course not.

Prepared? Sure, we’re as prepared as first time parents can be.

We’ve got a mountain of new items which are either bright plastic, absurd softness, or some strange combination of the two. We’ve got a car seat. And stroller. And bottles. And enough clothes to uniform a little person army. Books about newborns. Long discussions about our approach. Advice both warranted and non. Meetings with Pediatricians. The list goes on. And on.

But Ready is a different question.

“Hey soldier, you’re about to storm Normandy Beach… You ready?”

Um. No.

Prepped. Cautious. Apprehensive. Thoughtful. And weighed down with gear.

But we really don’t know what we’re in for until we’re storming the beach. When parenthood finds us neck deep in the surf with bullets whizzing by we still won’t be ready. But we’ll live through it or die trying, right?

It’s not like we’re going to Mars tomorrow. People have been doing this since… well… as long as there’ve been people. And it worked out. Even back in the dark ages before the internet and iPhones.

“Parenthood… there’s an app for that.” Actually, there probably is. But it still wouldn’t make us ready.

Elsewhere is seems that couples in their twenties are dealing with their second house and second child, and out here men in their forties rent apartments on Sunset and date mid-twenties models.

I find myself influenced by both. I’ve never been the nightlife kind of guy, and I’ve been happily married for more than a decade. But we still rent our home (not for lack of home ownership interest, but for lack of affordable options) and the majority of our friends are childless dream-chasers like ourselves.

Yet in the last year… things have changed.

The obvious change is impending fatherhood. Of course becoming a parent alters conversation and concerns, it’s a foregone conclusion. But starting in the fall of 2008, when the economy took a dive, I’ve noticed a fundamental shift in the issues at hand.

My former boss at New Line found himself without work at the age of 50. More than once we sat across a lunch table from each other trading websites and contacts to inform our job searching. We meet as equals and friends with the common problem of our industry shrinking beneath us.

A long-term mentor and friend since college has always offered me very relevant and insightful advice on how to survive this industry and fight discouragement with hope. Now he finds himself asking “Do I keep doing this?” and “is this vanity?” over everything related to the film industry.

Two friends have recently come to me in quiet moments to give the news that their marriages are ending. People I’ve known for years. Friends whom Catherine and I have shared dinner, and laughter, and similar lives… yet never will again in the same way. I’ve found myself sitting across from these men hearing their stories, asking questions, and being asked for advice.

And it’s in all of these moments that something dawns clear and true.

These are not the issues of children. These are not the musings of Peter Pan.

This is very adult.

I still have friends who drink themselves into a stupor every weekend at some hyper-hip hangout. Others who’ve paid the price with a DUI or three. Thirty-year-olds with a foot still planted in the frat house.

But those ranks are thinning.

Most around me are marching into a sea of heavy issues. It makes me ponder:
Peter Pan never grew up. Never felt responsible. Never struggled with the things that make us “grown-ups”.

But I don’t think it’s possible to appreciate the care-free times completely until you have cares to be released from. In these dark and heavy discussions with friends I’ve found a greater love for every one of them. And when they smile again it hits with actual force.

I’m honored to be walking tough roads with companions. And I’ve felt them lift me when I’m exhausted just as often as I’ve been asked to lift them.

I think the curse of Adulthood is not the pressures, the struggles, or the issues. It’s never stepping back long enough to see freedoms beyond the responsibility. Never-land… the place of where you never have to be grown-up, becomes Never-Land… the place where you never get to be a kid.

I hope I always remember to step away. Or always have someone who knows me well enough to drag me away. And I hope I can do the same for others so we can live where we are and not envy Peter-Pan.

It was like every other morning. Days that change your life often start that way.

Don Merritt moved through his waking routine like a human metronome. Everything in its time. Everything in its place. A world just… so. By the time he exited the house and entered the garage, he was two minutes behind his optimum schedule, but still well within the ten minute buffer zone he’d added to his timeline after the backed up toilet incident of 2007.

No problems this morning, he just felt tired.

The latte in his stainless steel mug filled his Jetta with its sweet earthy aroma as he rolled out into traffic and started the stop and go dance. His commute took him between forty-three and fifty-one minutes depending upon the morning. Of course that was not including that time two years ago when it took ninety-seven minutes because of that terrible wreck on the other side. Don would never understand why people slowed down to see mangled metal going the other direction. What a morbid fascination, and it didn’t do anything but make things more congested.

So Don settled in, finding himself bored of XM radio, and wanting to talk to someone. He couldn’t remember when he’d become displeased with silence. The stereo continued to blather on, but it wasn’t enough. He watched the cars around him, or to be specific he watched the bumpers in front of him and the occasional motorcycle whizzing by between lanes. He hated that about Los Angeles. Come to think of it, that was only the first of a good list of really irksome qualities in this town. Too many people for one thing. “Too many chiefs and not enough Indians” as his mom would say.

That’s when he remembered he owed his mom a call. Seeing the SUV in front of him stopping again, he was braking to a stop as he reached for his iPhone. Witnesses would later report he was looking down at his center console and didn’t see the crash coming.

A blue V8 Mustang was charging down the HOV lane, thundering past all the stop and go rubber-band drivers to his right. The driver had started to pay more attention to the stopped cars than his own lane and that’s why he was rocketing along when he saw his lane stopped as well.

The tires spit smoke and screeched as the Mustang lived up to its name with unpredicatable bucking and darting. Still doing over sixty, the car ducked left, bounced off the concrete divider like a banked cue-ball and blindsided Don’s silver Jetta.

The Jetta was sitting still with a Chevy Tahoe inches in front. The Mustang curled back the left rear like a pull tab and spun Don’s door flush with the Mustang’s grill. Both cars embedded themselves into the Tahoe’s rear door, sheering off the third row seat and making Don’s Jetta the new second row bench. At least three other cars had obvious destruction as this growing metal snowball thudded to a stop against bumpers and sheet metal. When it was all over, the police would have twelve drivers on file claiming damage from the wreck.

Don was aware of smoke all around him. The smell was acrid and almost metallic, but he didn’t realize these were side effects of the numerous airbags exploding during the wreck. In fact, Don had no clear awareness of where he was in the world, let alone what was going on. He only knew someone had spilled a latte and it was all over him and everything. What a mess.

There was darkness for a long time. Then someone speaking to him, calling him “Sir” over and over and asking inane questions as if they thought he was a five-year old. “Can you hear me?”. “Can you tell me what day it is?” “Do you know your name?”

Absurd. Of course he could hear them. And today was… well, he couldn’t think of it right now, but it would come to him. Asking his name was the really offensive part, what person over the age of two doesn’t know their own name? For that matter, what dog or cat didn’t know their own name? His name was… what was his name?

“Don. It’s great to see you. Beautiful day.”

He was lying on a perfectly manicured lawn and a man was standing over him backlit by the sun. Don tried to get up, but the man reach down and offered a hand. Now he could see who was speaking, a mid-thirties paramedic in a dark blue jumpsuit.

“I never get tired of these breezes,” the paramedic was saying.

Don stood now and looked back at the grass. It wasn’t manicured, in fact it was quite wild. Yet somehow it felt more perfect than any carpet he’d dug his toes into. He stared at his toes, barefoot in this dense green paradise, and realized he had no idea where his socks or shoes were. Or his coat and tie for that matter. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember what a coat and tie looked like or why they were important. Just as he tried to focus this line of thinking it vanished as if the breeze had taken it hostage and pulled it away.

“It is nice,” Don mused, feeling his hair flutter as the cool swell flirted up this grassy ridge and on toward distant mountains.

“And the view?” asked the medic.

“Yeah. Nice.”

“Wow. You’re either a tough critic or you don’t like anything.”

The valley was more beautiful now. Maybe Don was paying attention for the first time, but it seemed as if the groves of amber leaved aspen and a whitecapping river had materialized as he stared.

“I just don’t,” Don started, but then stopped himself to examine what he was really wanting to say. “I don’t think about scenery. It’s nice, but that doesn’t resolve my day.”

“Resolve your day, huh? Too many management courses for you, maybe?”

Don looked at the Medic, expecting to be annoyed and tell the man exactly what he could do with his blue collar assessment, but two odd things occurred to him. First, there seemed no way to embrace anger while looking at this man. And secondly, instead of a paramedic, the man now looked more like a construction worker. The blue jumpsuit was the same color. Maybe he hadn’t seen the man correctly when he first awoke.

This posed a new question for Don. Where was he?

“Let me show you,” the construction worker said and turned like a man leading a buyer through a build site. He had a yellow hard hat all of a sudden. Don didn’t have one, but also couldn’t see buildings or construction in any direction.

This would have been the first thing to ask if not for the impression of the mysterious construction worker opening a door from apparent nothingness. It was as if a square of the world had been sliced with utmost precision and a thick chunk hinged back to reveal a room. Don suddenly wished he understood more about multiple dimensions, but all thought fizzled like a sparkler as he stepped through the door.

To call the room a stadium would be like suggesting a bottle rocket was the same as a Saturn V. Every concept of an indoor space was revolutionized by the size of this warehouse. It was as if he’d shrunk to the world of mice. And all around him were huge stalls of perfect white, each one clearly labeled with a destination.

“It’s snow,” Don said as if speaking it aloud would help him believe.

“Do you have any idea how many types of snow there are?” his guide asked. Don decided he must be a guide because now the coveralls seemed very high-class and fitted like a NASA flight suit. “Snow is a bit of a hobby of mine,” the man said.

“But every snowflake is unique right… so you’re asking a trick question,” Don’s head was clearing now and he wanted to make sure this guy didn’t take him for some patsy.

“Ah, you’re right. But I mean types of snow, wet, dry, light, heavy.” The guide was excited, scooping up handfuls of each one as Don stood over his shoulder. They weren’t walking and yet the whole room seemed at their disposal. The guide would only reach down and find yet another stall of snow available. “I have so much fun watching those little guys debate the consistency or the crystalline structure.”

“What guys?”

“Well, there’s Ahmil, Alfonse, Anthony, Armando…

“Okay, I get it,” Don hated the bite in his voice. For him this was the nicest way to stop the list of names, but even so, any tension felt ready to rip the fabric of this place. “Elves or something.”

“No. Of course not.” His guides said, flat. “But I realize you don’t know any of the snow scientists, so I’m not surprised you don’t know their names.”

“Snow scientists. Right.”

“How can you not like snow?”

“I’m more of a warm climate kind of guy”

“You say that,” the guide began, challenging him. “But when’s the last time you walked on the beach? Or sat outside and sipped a glass of wine?”

“Just last week,” Don responded, annoyed.

“You were inside. Drinking iced tea. And paying more attention to the game than the sunset.”

“How do you know?” Don demanded. But his guide didn’t seem to hear the question.

The man reached for nothing, but when he turned his hand around a doorknob it opened a door which hadn’t been there a second before. Another huge chunk of the world parted and his guide motioned him to step through.

It was night on this side of the door, a dense perfect blackness without any manmade light. Yet, Don shielded his eyes as they adjusted to a blazing white. The moon hung closer than he’d ever seen, it’s craters and ridges distinct . And in the blackness all around this blazing orb hung more stars than Don thought possible. Somehow they shone along-side this overgrown moon, visible when he looked for them, but vanished when he focused on the moon again. Simultaneous, and individual. Impossible, but true.

“Am I dead?” Don asked. Suddenly the thought overwhelmed him. This couldn’t be real, and it wasn’t a dream.

“No,” said his guide. “But the life you lead is but a walking shell. I would not wish to continue.”

Don didn’t respond, but his mind screamed out “Who asked you?” and stirred in defiant silence that this odd workman would dare question his existence.

“I am right to question you,” the guide said. “It’s all mine. This moon, and sky. The snow I mix and remix into a trillion combinations. And you and your unhappy existence.”

Don was really going to let him have it now, but one look at the guide’s face and he couldn’t remember why he was angry. Instead he felt the thing rising up from behind the anger. The hidden thing. The staggering thirst for beauty which brought him to tears under these million stars. He was lonely. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen something beautiful in his daily life.

“It’s alright, Don. There’s still much to see. Much you’ve missed.”

The first blue sliver of the impending sunrise revealed mountains on the horizon. Don realized he was standing on a beach of sand so soft and fine it felt like ground marble. And then he heard the crash of waves, unknown until this moment.

“Wait…” he pleaded, though unsure what he was asking for. But he needed more time here to figure it out.

The guide put his hands on Don’s shoulders and looked him in the face the way a friend does to build you up. A look of safety and support, with needed truth arriving soon.

“Time is a fabrication. Beauty is eternal.” his guide said. ““Check your schedule.”

The moon faded, taking the stars and the horizon as well. A blackness took him, dense enough to reminded him of his childhood hiding place so deep in his parents closet that he risked his own terror every time he used it for hide and go seek. A darkness filled with menace and texture. Immune to light.

And then his eyes opened to a sunny day. The sound of traffic, helicopters, and shouts of men crushed his ears as if a giant mute button had been turned off. He could feel hands on his neck. More on his shoulders. He was moving, but all his limbs were still.

He was laid onto something, then strapped tight to a gurney. He was now looking up at four paramedics. They looked like his guide, but they weren’t.

“We got him,” one of them said in a rush of adrenaline and stress.

Don could hear the squeak of a gurney wheel as they rushed him across the ground. He smelled gasoline, water, and sweat. Each distinct and somehow pleasing to him. They smelled like life.

Then he noticed the palm trees reaching up into the perfect blue of the day. Spaced and leafy, soaking up the morning sun like an image on a postcard.

And as the gurney tilted, Don could now see the freeway. Cars snarled around a terrible wreck. Flares on the ground. Onlookers slowing in the traffic going the other way.

But most shocking to Don was the palm trees. Here, just above this freeway which he recognized were the beautiful trees. He’d never noticed them before, and now their mere presence overwhelmed him.

Tears filled his eyes as he noted the hundreds of faces in the cars. None of them looked up. How many had even noticed the palm trees or the cloudless sky. But he knew the answer.

None of them. And he wanted to tell them.

But it was just as likely he’d forget as well.