Red Letter Days

Graduation looms over the weary. The cumulation of all the blood, sweat, and tears that your average university student excretes over his or her 4+ year tenure have come to this one point, and it passes rather inconsequentially with a lengthy 2-hour ceremony which climaxes with silly hats being tossed into the sky. After the bouquets are handed out and the pictures are taken, the newly dubbed alumni slowly trickle (or rather, matriculate) out from the gymnasium-converted auditorium, out into the streets, and on with their lives.

I look back to my high school graduation, 4 short-long years ago, and remember the significance of the procession. The ceremony took place outdoors in the pall of oppressive summer heat. They had seated us in alphabetical order and I do not recall who sat to my left or my right. I just kept looking at the floor, trying not to move in my black gown because it would incite furious bouts of itching, heat rashes and perspiration. I sat and sat, vaguely listening to the unending stream of speakers with their formulaic speeches.

A Harvard-bound student spoke of the challenges of adulthood and the promises of success. Her words were carefully chosen and her voice remained firm. She spoke as if she had already gone through the hardships which would ultimately define who she would be. "Let us embrace the future, because it this relentless drive that defines our greatest levels of excellence!" I thought little of those words at the time, much less the significance of its redundancy. I kept my hat on as everyone else threw theirs up and away, which always seems happen in slow motion -- just like in the movies. We then crowded the field, crying, hugging, laughing, and reminiscing one last time. I left the field, the heat finally dissipating as my silhouette grew. I never looked back.

Four years later, I'm back in the same predicament. I'm not wearing the gown and silly hat yet, but I see the uneasy faces of my friends who are making the second huge leap in their lives. I'm pretty sure that the same questions reside in the back of their minds: "Am I going in the right direction?" "Is this who I want to be?" The difference here is that many of these faces appear more resigned to their fate, less optimistically youthful, and ultimately, framed with the clarity of reality. There is no greater sobering ingredient to a person than the choices presented to them from which they must make and commit to. Hopefully, instead of thinking about the heat and the dreary speeches, people will actually think, and think damn hard, about which fork to take next.

So say your goodbyes now, farewells in the evening, and save those thank-yous for next week Monday. And make sure to throw away that stupid hat.

Up a mountain, down a hill

Mount Diablo is a 10-minute drive from my corner of suburbia, buried deep within a residential area with no apparent access. There is only a small sign that designates the path to ascension; it is easily missed if you speed past the turn-off. I've been visiting this landmark to view the greater Bay Area from up high. And perhaps a deeper unspoken purpose, I suspect, is to gain some kind of perspective. Mount Diablo serves as sanctuary when I can find no other retreat.

There are many points along the twisty road that lets you turn off in order to take in the view, but the real reward still rests near the rocky peak, more than 3800 feet above sea level. Once at the peak, one can view the Bay all the way to San Francisco, where the Golden Gate bridge appears to be made out of toothpicks. You wouldn't be alone however -- the peak is actually the most crowded part of the mountain, any time of the year. Solace is found elsewhere.

On the rare occasion, clouds smother the mountain 3/4ths of the way up, obscuring the the peak like a fabled Olympus (the picture of a frightening shield volcano with nearly vertical walls come to mind, with angry clouds dancing around the peak -- I wish). On those days, I take great pleasure in creeping through the clouds in my car with the windows rolled down, the chilly mist soaking into my skin. I would emerge a bit later, over a rolling carpet of clouds and into a harsh sun which saturates the colors so intensely that I am forced to squint while using my hand as a visor.

The colors of the mountain change in accordance to the seasons; it gives the location palpable moods. Thus, in order to appreciate the full volume of emotion, one must return to the mountain at different times of the year. The thriving spring greens that spill into every crevice in March is not to be overlooked by the thirsty amber thistles alongside the brown grass of September (which puts the fire hazard sign at the base of the mountain at "High").

Up here, the mind leaves for new cities while the heart dwells at home. There is a wistful dialogue between these two things -- The frenzy of New York minutes; the deafening still of your home town. The fog that settles in the San Francisco harbor; the sticky heat you wake up to during hottest months of summer. These callings take you across great distances and through fragments of memory. Up here, you can see both sides equally. You get to choose which side of the mountain you go down.

Coasting down is fast. The mountain becomes a hill; the mind seeks greater peaks.