A Gentler Crusade

    


     The longer I dwell on it, the more I realize that religion (no one in particular, just the persistent general hold it has on its population), is mindboggingly integral in the struggles that taint the way of life for millions of people, especially hunger.  From the blistering few months we've been on the road, we've run into a myriad of religious organizations who are making real and meaningful contributions to ending hunger in their own communities, and it has that unique duality of being humbling while at the same time provoking a reaction in us to follow suit.

     I was never an advocate for religion personally, in my younger days, and still to this day I'm still not.  For me, it's almost akin to a hobby that I simply weened my interest away from.  I do remember fondly my days in youth groups, mucking around with my church buddies while at the same time laboring through the otherworldy Mojave Desert dryness of sermons we had to succumb to in order to advance towards the church potluck.  Of course, even that was a double edged sword; the newly expectant mothers with their pre natal taste buds and cold war era geriatrics felt it their duty to experiment with new fangled ways to prepare Spam and packaged soy meat substitutes that would make even the most gut wrenching hunger pangs vanish in a wisp of vapor.  A word of advice: soy dog casseroles are an abomination, and a war crime in any other part of the world. 

     That being said, I truly did appreciate the earnestness in the people I was surrounded by that were determined to make a saint out of me, which made it all the more awkward when I couldn't keep up the facade any longer, essentially abandoning my faith altogether. 

    I still to this day can't really pin point that exact moment that prompted my abandonment.  Perhaps it was that general air of pompous stuffiness I snatched a whiff of from the white suburban house wives , (or maybe that was the cheap Sunday sermon perfume?), and some of their snotty kids who had already racked up a check list of truly horrifying and sinful acts of debauchery that would make their priest blush.  Or maybe it stems from those nights in my household where I took up my usual post aloft in my bunk bed, whispering hoarsely under my breath with my clenched shut eyes burning white hot, pleading for more than just the typical one sided spiritual exchanges I had in my head as my ears pricked up at the sharp, sound barrier crack of skin colliding with skin emanating from the adjacent room.

     In any case, I've been generally dismissive of religion since then, and as a result I regarded it with a sort of blackened amusement as I come in contact with more people who put it in the center of their lives.  I pitied them, in a way that is borderline juvenile in its narrow mindedness and sickeningly asinine in its condemning.  At the time, however, I though of myself as a self sustaining force of nature; someone who didn't need a crutch to vault over my demons to achieve what I strived for.  And, I was in this blissful state of arrogance for a large chunk of time, at least until Dan and I passed through the Salt Lake City area. 

     When we heard about the Welfare Square in Salt Lake City, we new some basic little factoids about the organization: run by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, and essentially a hub for the impoverished and needy.  Reflexively, a part of me recoiled when I discovered the religious affiliation, and I braced for the teeth grating on my part.  Our scooter ride over to the complex was fairly brief, and we eventually found ourselves in their main lobby, where we happened across a convenient tour group.  After exchanging brief pleasantries, we were corralled into a large conference room of sorts with a projector screen, where we were informed that a brief movie would be shown to highlight the mission of the church and the facility, at which point my brain was screaming in my ear, "It's a trap!"  Too late, I inwardly flexed, as the projector flickered to life and we patiently sat through the usual religious montage of smiling children and soaring brass and string sections.  Actually, not to bad compared to others I've sat through. Eventually, we were finally led through the actual facilities, and it was then that my jaw finally started to scrape the floor.

     To me, the whole complex seemed like one massive shopping center with top of the line appliances and furnishing.  Every where you turned the fluorescent lighting glinted off of the polished floor underneath us and the stainless steel walls and machinery tucked in a multitude of corners.  For the next couple of hours we were led through a grocery store packed to the brim with canned goods and fresh produce, a bakery with spotless machinery and massive stores of food neighboring it, a scientific facility to test for food quality and safety lined with beakers and gadgets I couldn't even fathom their purpose, a thrift store with the clientele of GoodWill and the selection of major name brand chains, and even a facility where they make their own cheese and dairy products, free of preservatives and unnecessary additives.  With my head still swirling in overwhelming scope, we were made aware that everything, EVERY SINGLE THING in this complex is entirely funded by something called "fast offerings".  Essentially, members of the church are encouraged, (however not required ), to donate money that they would otherwise spend on a couple of meals on one Sunday of every month. This is completely separate from the standard tithe.

     As I absorbed all this information I still could not fathom the astronomical support this community was lending to this institution, and the almost fanatical fervor I saw in the people trying to make a sizable difference for their community was quite possibly the most evident when we finally reached their employment center.  There in front of us was a smattering of volunteers, buzzing away diligently as they pecked away at keyboards and shuffled papers across desk and cabinets, all the while chatting away pleasantly with each other.  As if prompted by our questioning gaze, our tour guides informed us that these volunteers were all primarily from the church community, and that they all held separate jobs themselves; they just do this on their spare time. 

     Up until that point, I never truly understood the implications of being part of a church going community that truly embraced the divine message they govern themselves around.  I've always had this degrading sympathy for anyone who chose the religious path; a sign of weakness on their part, to put it bluntly.  With my troubled past, coupled with my stubborn resolve to improve myself with divine intervention, I diluted the surprisingly pungent effects the Word of God can have on a struggling community, and now I find myself questioning my narrow minded mentality.  Who am I to dismiss His word, when it has provoked those to create so much for the good of their community?  They have no monetary gain to follow in the divine scripture; only a reassurance that their contributions will better the lives of their fellow man.  Sure, I could continue with the usual argument over discrepancies  regarding the Word of God, as is my antagonistic nature towards a subject I have a certain stigma towards, but then what would be the point?  Perhaps I'm jealous; to witness a positive change in people through the influence of something I hungered for long ago. 

     Regardless of my lack of "faith", I concede that this world is plagued with a Pandora's Box of problems, especially in our own country.  There was a time when I advocated the separation of religion from any possible solutions that would benefit our troubled citizens, but I realize now that it is not only a necessity for the combination, but also an inevitability.  It is a crutch for that family that hasn't eaten a decent meal in weeks, and a banner for those who are willing to devote their time and energy to make sure that aforementioned family is satiated.  In this day in age religious affiliation is met with leers of disdain due to some of it troubled past, but it's time that I respect its influence and the potential social progress it can promise.  In essence, religion is that secret dash of spice that one tosses into a bubbling pot of nourishment that ties the whole ensemble together.  Without it, the whole presentation is liable to fall apart.

     That being said, I think I'll still sleep in on Sundays and forgo any sermons, for now.  Baby steps. 

    

   

A Balancing Act, Of Sorts

The hiking pack fell off the scooter for the 3rd time in the past 15 minutes.


     I'd spit out the dirt and grime kicked up by the wheels on this dirt path leading to our next camping spot, if I had any saliva left.  The day started out innocent enough; a steady breeze kept my shirt from adhering to my back as the sun sulked behind a waning sheet of clouds.  It was persistent, however, and inevitably I found myself cursing every bone rattling second on this haphazard road through the mountains as if it were carved out with a jagged ended trowel, all the while that heat lamp up in the big blue giving me a nice crisp on the skin.  Eventually, I started to classify the bumps in the road to avoid boiling over with rage: there are the craters, the boulder graveyards, the stretches of traction robbing loose gravel and dirt, the squiggles which are shaped like the surface of a riffles potato chip, and of course, the scooter swallowing trenches that are unavoidable and crunch up your spine like an accordion.
     Thunk!  I don't even bother checking the mirror, at this point.  I squeeze out of my cramped throne and notice the tent bag and my hiking pack sprawled across the narrow road, again.  I look for a second, and I chuckle a little "Of course!" as I realize I've lost my third water bottle, which is probably rolling  maniacally away as it escapes down the mountain.  Doesn't matter, you have to console yourself.  Slamming my pack and tent back onto the creaking backside of the scooter, I shimmy back into the seat and start her back up, all the while shoving desperately with my legs to get her past the next big hill.
    Maybe this is the last hill.  Of course, I know better, and my scooter groans in answer before I can even muster a response.  I'm not even sure I can even bring her to  our customary 5 miles and hour on this one.  I try my best, however, and eventually come to a stand still on the middle of the hill, prompting me to jump off and give the beast a push, now that my weight wasn't added to the load.  Scorching thighs from the exertion further fuel my frustration, and the nagging thoughts crash my brain uninvited behind my migraine clouded eyes as the sweat droplets pool down the bridge of my nose to the red cushion seat under my head.

 These debilitating thoughts,

Loathe, repulsed by, addicted to,

Thoughts, crippling,

Fraying of nerves...

     An hour of this and we miraculously pull into a spot, and I slump out onto the grass and gravel and mechanically start to tear down the baggage and plop them carelessly onto the ground.  I go through the motions as I strain to continue the thread of conservation with my traveling buddy, yet my heart isn't into banter and it shows through my body language and my almost comic frowning mug.  I curse myself for it, yet I can't shake my gut instinct, immature gloom because it's so sickeningly satisfying,so satisfying, satisfying in it's deceptive warmth.  

     The migraine drives in that final ice pick into my consciousness as I desperately try to bring myself out of this idiotic self paralysis, and I strain to play the fun loving, joke cracking travel buddy I used to be a mere couple of months ago, out on a noble quest, and I succeed only partially.  But with each passing minute the thoughts and feelings continually slam into the inner wall of my brain, berating me for the inconsequential and revolting me in the mistakes of past, and the onslaught rolls over in waves as I make my way to the tent, and the dirt and grime from days of build up saturate my skin and clothes as I slink into my sleeping bag and let sleep take on its nightly shift, praying for some sort of reprieve until morning...

No images, no wait, definitely images, images of shapes, 

shapes of words and words shaping images, they're whizzing by, 

slashing by like a highway in my aching head, 

head overflowing with trivial, inconsequential, 

no wait they are important STOP IT they're not,  

outlines of words, 

words in bold print and angry coloring,  
RAGE in crimson red   
Melancholia in oppressive shades of shadowy tones sometimes blue sometimes that same red but always blue 

a color that finds its way into my thoughts, thoughts of past and present and the 

unknown and the past I slave over with my mind as I comb over my mistakes 

and my faults and my fears for what's to come or what won't come Oh God 

what have I done I lament the familiar the familiar sting and soothing 

balm of home and certainty how long can I last CAN. I. LAST I'm in a spiral spiraling in the sprawl of space of my sanity suffocating my sanity severing my psyche

 Stop it stop it stop 
wake up wake wake u-

    The ear splitting ringing in my head cuts out and I'm warped back into being fully conscious, my eyes still shut, but I decide not to open them for the moment, and let the crust in the corner of my eyelids keep them glued together.  I can feel the morning coming on, but it's stubbornly too frigid to crawl out of my cocoon.  I toss and turn, shifting my weight to get some blood flow back into the arm I had been cradling on the entire night.  There's a tingling in my fingers as circulation works its magic and I eventually decide to come top side.  I glance out the front of the tent entrance and notice once again a  mountain side that looms over our campsite, with the neighboring slopes steep with piled logs and loose boulders.  Deep breath, stretch my chest, another deep inhalation.  Dan is awake.  He asks if I'm going to climb that.  You know what?  I think I will.

     The thoughts are still untamed for the first couple of minutes as I stumble on some loose gravel and stones up the mountain side, straddling toppled over tree limbs awkwardly and trying to find hand holds to steady my ascent.  Eventually, though, the chorus dies down to a pitiful whimper in my head as the steady crunch of twigs beneath my boots take shape in my mind, and then it turns oddly quiet.  I can hear some far off bird with its mildly pleasant cackle reverberating around me.  Sweat droplets haltingly drip off of my reddened face, but I don't mind; the breeze is cooling the sheen of sweat on my forehead.  There is a steady fire in my thighs again, yet it feels good; the burn is a welcome sensation in my waking body.  My eyes aren't clouded by any debilitating migraine; the throbbing in my forehead is a faded whisper.  My heart pounds in my chest as I make a last mad dash to the peak of the climb, eventually scraping stone and moss underneath my feet.  I clamor up the last few feet to the ridge of the cliff, and I look over past the edge to the mountain valley that lays before me. 

      Some people label these unfiltered episodes as "anxiety" or "panic" attacks; something that is jarring in one instance and and then a split second later washed away.  But for me they are, as I stated, a faded whisper, yet still ever present, nonetheless.  It'll still be there wherever I go, and I'm changed for it, whether it be for better or for worse.  With that knowledge forever known to me, I guess the only thing I can do at this point is to soak in the scenery, inflate my lungs with that pine tinged air, and methodically make my descent back to the now tamed madness below.
  

Leave The Past Where It Belongs

     I was puttering atop the cracked pavement that ran through South Sioux City as I was flanked by a trove of Mexican restaurants and fast food chains, sprinkled with a couple thrift stores and auto body shops thrown in for good measure.  My sweet tooth had been tugging incessantly at my jaw for some time now, and the sun was doing my already chapped skin no kindness that day, baking me into a fine piece of leather. Involuntarily, my eyes darted from side to side, trying to pin point at least one building with a sign proclaiming fresh, cold ice cream.  After some fruitless meandering my eyes, stinging with sweat droplets, eventually honed in on a diner sitting far from the other businesses on the street.  After pulling up and parking at the curb, I booked it to the entrance to escape that merciless heat.  Yet as I touched the handle of the door, pulled halfway, I caught a sign in the window out of the corner of my right eye and, almost comically, did a double take and paused for a good few seconds.  My sweet tooth wailing away, I pushed my initial gut feeling to the back of my mind and stepped through the entrance.

One word: Subtle

     The first and, for a time, the only thing to greet me was the concussive blast of the A/C that my dripping forehead thankfully swam in, and the shirt on my back began to peel itself away from the accumulated sweat . Wiping my feet on the mat, I scanned the dining room, starting over the two gentlemen separated by two bench seats as one of them worked on some steaming coffee while the man to his left played with his chicken steak, making it dance around his plate.  My eyes hovered over a solitary man by the window while he labored on a phone call with someone he had no interest in talking to; his thick plastic cup of ice water sweating profusely and puddling into a ring on the table.  I guess I focused a bit too much attention on these details, seeing as how for the first fifteen minutes after I had entered that no one came by to seat me.  I could clearly see movement in the kitchen, and there were surely people passing back and forth past the opening to the kitchen.  I shuffled my feet, ready to pick up and step back out onto the toasty sidewalk when a blond woman poked her head around the corner that led to the bathroom and took a few almost defiant steps towards me as she laid down her serving tray on a neighboring table.  "The kitchen's closed today."

Abrupt. Curt.  Staccato.

     I had been wearing my best smile that day only a few seconds earlier, but I promptly exchanged it for an almost pleading scan around the dining room, followed by a lingering gaze at the stained white apron appearing in the slit to the kitchen, flanked on either side by two hands that were prepping lunch plates.  I didn't meet her eyes at first.  The embers of discomfort tickled my throat as I mumbled some verbal acknowledgement...but it felt wrong not to prod the bear.  "You sure about that?"   I made another visual pass over the customers, hoping that she'd follow my gaze and seal my point , but she had already forgotten about me.  "Yep, sorry."    She walked off on a mission, completely blanking out this short conversation she just had with me, and left me standing under the bitter air of the A.C as I tried to re stitch what had just happened.  After a few seconds, I lost my customary smile .  My jaw was set in a grimace as I raised my eyebrows and backed out of the place, the hunger pangs in my sweet tooth a fleeting memory as I collapsed back onto my ride, feeling suddenly alone in this street.  "Are you kidding me?"  I half laugh to myself as I pull away, still processing what was to be my first run in with someone stuck in the past.

 

      You can't help but register a barely tangible feeling of disconnect when in places like Sioux City.  Roaming through the streets you half expect to see some scattered tumbleweeds to lazily careen across the streets as you pass building after building that is either vacant or occupied by a seemingly derelict business.  The downtown is like any other: rife with bar life and a smattering of late night burger joints, occasionally dotted with real estate offices and public attractions like museums and art galleries.  When we arrived in town, we were hungry and on the prowl for anything that could shed light on the hunger situation in the area.  We craved to see a flourishing farmer's market that stretched for blocks, or maybe a handful of farms in partnerships throughout the city to spread their earth born wealth of resources.
     Curiously, however, we found a town that is comprised of some parts that are stuck in the past, oozing with racial indignation and petty feelings of superiority over the minorities of the area.  Not to say the entire city is like that; but at this point there is a lingering cancer located in the crevasses of this city, and it troubles me.  How can we even hope to solve problems as encompassing as hunger if we can't live in relative harmony with each other, instead of regarding each other in an almost acrid air just because the cover of my book is in a darker shade; that my ink stems from a more exotic background?  It's disheartening to have to stand back and let events unfold, hoping that the world would erase these ancient horrid artifacts of a time when equality was parceled out to a select few and retracted from the oppressed multitudes, much like a bully tempting a baby with a lollipop. 
     It's in these instances where I long for the chance to look these people in the eye, get down on one knee as I squeeze their shoulders and say, " Grow up."  No venom in my bite; no chastising of a ruler toting nun; just two words a man says to a child, to save them from wasting his or her life with such frivolous and outright discriminating ideologies.  It's a future that I still have hope in, however, despite my fuming.  And yet, if we are to tackle even an epidemic like hunger and expect any form of tangible change, then the other aggravating strands that stubbornly cling to our progress from an unfortunate past must be severed.  In this country overflowing with potential to change for the better, it's a shame when almost absurdly comic levels of discrimination get in between me and my chocolate dipped waffle cone.

 Blink and You'll Miss It...

     For the most part, deviation as far as the route on this trip has been kept to an absolute minimum.  However, as I sat on the side of the river in Waycross, chucking pine cones into the coffee tinted bed of water we were resigned to camp by, I decided a little research into other areas wouldn't hurt.  In a flash, I geared up and scootered on over to the local public library, checked in at one of the computers, and started investigating.  It didn't take too long, I soon discovered, as I stumbled across a cyclists' blog who highlighted a particular spot in Brunswick, Georgia: The Hostel in the Forest.

Raised eyebrows. Open new window.  Scan their information page.  Jackpot.

  My brow is softened in relief as I punched the number into my phone.  A creeping suspicion attempted to plant some doubt into my plans, but that was quickly squashed.  A handful of rings later, and a voice crackles to life at the other end.

"Hostel in the Forest, how can I help you?"

     "Hi, my name is Myles Chung, and I am traveling with a buddy of mine...."


  

 As luck would have it, the pieces started to fall in place as I talked with the man at the other end.  Being only fifty or so miles away, the hostel already seemed like a detour that was worth the effort.  And, seeing as how a severe thunderstorm was ready to bear down on us on the day we left the area, I figured it would be nice not to pack up in blankets of rain and tumbling tree branches from heavy winds.  I went into detail about our mission, highlighting some of our more unique encounters and experiences, and the man's interest was appropriately peaked.  Eventually, I brought up the topic of their work exchange program, which would potentially replace our one night stay charge in place of a few hours working in their gardens or wherever they need an extra couple pairs of hands.  Crossing fingers, at this point.

     My anxiously tight grip on my pen relaxed as the man's voice crackled back to life on the other end, confirming a possible work exchange at their site. My fist silently punched the air above my head, followed by a string of "Thank you's" on my part and a couple "Looking forward to seeing you's".  I hung up, and relayed the good news to Dan.  Come twelve noon tomorrow, and we'll  have a roof over our heads and a pillow to lay on.

     The next morning we shuffled around and rolled up our belongings, going through the motions as we packed up our 49cc mules and puttered off to the hostel.  It was a fairly quick ride; perhaps our eagerness gave us a MPH boost.  Missing the signage for the place, we backpedaled and finally made our way down their crater speckled driveway.  One of the first things I noticed was how absolutely lush this forest is with its  Gothic architecture like tree trunks reaching out towards the sky and its vibrant foliage canvassing the skyline.

  Involuntarily, my body pumped out its chest as it took in a large breath to taste the beauty we stumbled across.  We dismounted in the parking lot and I ventured out in search of the main office.  My none- too-dainty boots stomped on the path as I spotted some of the facilities "tree houses", remarking to myself how naturally they seem to be a part of this area.  The main office came into view and I ventured in, converging on the hole in the wall where a man by the name of Andrew Douglass sat behind a computer.  I come to find out that this was the man who confirmed our stay just the other day on the phone, and it was nice to finally connect a face with the voice.

 

 We exchanged greetings and I already felt at home here.  Dan and I checked in with our I'D's and gear, but not before being warmly hugged by some of the staff members who crossed our paths, and at that point I realized how much I despised the stagnant feeling of handshakes for first encounters.  After successfully checking in, Andrew informed us that there is need of some work in their garden and blueberry plants, and we changed our clothes in anticipation.  Andrew himself had quite a large checklist to finish that day, but we eventually made our way to the garden.  We were given a nice little tour of the area, and made our way with tools in hand to the blueberry plants.  We could tell that there was a lot of work to be done here, and we proceeded to clear the choking vines that were wrapped around the branches and deep in the soil underneath the plants.  It was refreshing to be doing something that didn't feel at all like work. We put in some solid gardening time and headed back to our rooms, and I commissioned the camera for a little photo shoot of the facility. 

     Every aspect of this place left a sliver of envy in my awe as I marveled at all the quirky intricacies littering the area, while at the same time soaking in the sights and sounds surrounding me.  Granted, this all may not be noteworthy for some who have experienced this before, but being a shut in of sorts myself, it all felt like some sort of intoxicating aphrodisiac, to me.  It surprised me to learn that this facility has been around for quite some time, being founded by a man named Tom Dennard in 1975.  It's had its share of facelifts since then, but its primary focus is to leave a lasting impression on its guests and on the Earth.  From its composting toilets and outdoor showers to the thoughtful and loving attitudes of all who live there, I came to understand the wholesome impression this place left, what with its emphasis on embracing a lifestyle that is not only good for the body and soul, but also for the soil and leaves that I squished in between my toes.

     Tearing myself away from this other world, I made my way back to the main house and we were invited to pick some items from their garden in preparation for the group dinner.  Making our way back to the garden, and we start to pluck some lettuce leaves with the subtle sounds of our greedy munching on the offerings filling the air.  Dan and I at this point have contentedness written all over our faces, as if some sort of drug was being gleaned and leaked into the air from the compost pile itself.  We pick our fill, and headed back to the main area, chatting a bit with some of the residents before the dinner bell rang.  We hurry on over to the dining area and form a circle of hands with staff members and guests alike, highlighting what we are thankful for and opening up to each other.  We make the rounds, and then proceed to pounce on the Mexican inspired meal, including a salad made with the lettuce we picked.  Despite their produce output being only around 11% , they do an admirable job with keeping their meals wholesome and clean, and its only bolstered by their own little chicken farm that is right on the property.

     Our bellies pleasantly lined with bone sticking goodness, we took turns cleaning up the dishes and transferred over to the fire pit and conversed amongst each other as the smoke stung our eyes and the cool night air lapped at our backs.  Exhaustion eventually laid its hands on us, and we slunk back to our respective beds, cataloging all the sensory details of the day as my head sank into the pillow.  I have no way of telling, but I like to believe a permanent grin was languishing on my face as I dreamed about composting and howling roosters.

     I can't avoid being sappy about this place.  The reception towards us when we stepped onto the property was humbling, and the love for Mother Nature is interwoven into every nook and cranny as we investigated even further.  I wouldn't even call it low impact: just living like we should be.  If you take away the constant overbearing sheen of money, power and superficial life requirements, and in turn embrace not only your own health and sanity but also your neighbors and the world,  then what excuse do we have of having such epidemics cripple our livelihoods?  Cure homelessness.  Evict costly and blood stained wars.  Refuse a foothold for hunger.  This place is a tantalizing glance through a window to a world where common sense and love for your fellow man should be aplenty, and it's a vine that should not be ripped out from the ground, but instead allowed to be invasive in its influence and spread throughout our society. 

Leading by Example

   In an Ideal World...

 

  "Stigma" can be such a debilitating word when it looms over the heads of a particular city, especially one that is hampered by a, shall we say, waist band problem.  Riding into the Tennessee area, Dan and I were informed about the health epidemic in regards to the mass consumption of fast food chains and a lack of embracing a healthier, cleaner diet not consisting of preservatives and dye ridden condiments, the catalyst for a state with such a high obesity rate amongst its occupants   It was only the first day, and we could already smell the influence of these processed food havens in the air as we puttered along, noticing throngs of cramped vehicles being chaperoned through drive-thrus like chromed cattle to the slaughter.  Noticeably, however, as we lazily rolled over the cow dotted dipping hills of the more rural country side, I could taste in the air what I can only describe as something that was unmolested and unadulterated by the hustle and bustle we just left behind.  For miles I could see the vibrantly green waves blanketing the country side with the burgeoning nimbus clouds casting cooling shadows over the stark naked trees lining the road we were traveling, and in time I soon became enamored with my surroundings, almost to the point where my oblivious attention towards oncoming traffic almost got the better of me.  

    

 

     And then we met Jason and Mindy, our hosts in the Tennessee area, along with the new member of their growing family, Parker, and my admiration for this family is only slightly tinged with a tendril of jealousy.  Nothing negative in its connotation, mind you; it's just that they are a family with pure Americana stenciled in everything that they are and do,  and it's humbling to see this healthy and happy family achieve a lifestyle that I imagine all of us aspiring to be like, one day.  As we start to talk and trade each of our fair share of stories, Dan and I are invited to a dinner being made by Mindy, which we are informed consists of wholesome ingredients gleaned from a combination of their own farm and through the friendships they've built with other local farms.  On the menu:  authentic biscuits and gravy, made from scratch.  My stomach growled a bit too earnestly, which prompted me to hide the thunderstorm in my belly with a couple well timed coughs.  

   

    At the tail end of the week we rode over to their house located in the town of Norris, and Jason, upon our arrival, invited us for a lengthy hike up to the blueberry patches that are owned by Mindy's parents which we gladly accept, giving us a chance to stretch our legs for once.  We inhaled the earthy bark and brush as we clamored our way up the trails leading to a look out,appreciating the scenery of the barren foliage and steep hill sides, properly kindling and fueling our appetites as we made our way back down the trails and to their house.  

     Once we had arrived, we were treated to Mindy showing the process of making the meal, all the while demonstrating the ridiculously simple and yet time consuming process of making fresh mozzarella.  I resisted the urge to toss the camera aside and make off like a bandit with the bowl.  Later, I'm informed that she also tried her hand at kimchi, a Korean spiced fermented side dish, and my eyes blossomed to the size of saucers.  For the record, this half Korean concedes that her first try ranks up there with some of the best I've ever had.  

What particularly intrigued me about this whole process was that rarely anything is wasted in this kitchen.  The raw milk that they get from a sort of "Groupon" cow that they co-own (which, by the way, has officially converted me from the watered down reduced milk I am used to), is used to make this fresh mozzarella, and the eventual whey by product of the whole process was actually used for the kimchi she whipped up, along with a myriad of other food items bulging from her refrigerator.

 Soon the kitchen is cluttered with the unfair and sinful combined fragrances of rising biscuits and sizzling crumbled meat, all the while a bubbling pan of white gravy is practically begging me to chug it.  Self control.  Just keep taking pictures, Myles.  She tops off the meal with a couple of farm eggs straight from the source, and the meal is ready.  To be quite honest, I can't exactly recall the transition from the kitchen to the dining room table. The smells and my salivating were blocking my immediate memory. I can, however, reminisce spreading that golden broken yolk with a gravy slathered biscuit around the perimeter of the plate and shoving it into my mouth.  For a split second, I couldn't exactly handle what I was tasting, for that processed air I was swimming through in the city area choked with fast food restaurants was not at all present in this house.  It felt wholesome, and it tasted alive.  It.Was.Blissful.

  

 Top it off with freshly juiced organic apples, and we finally laid down our forks, feeling satiated and rich in goodness.  It's a wonderful feeling, really: to consume something that weighs down your stomach not with chemicals and overly saturated mystery ingredients, but with a heft that invigorates you instead of prompting you to regret that last bite.  I have to say this is the first time that, after eating biscuits and gravy, I didn't feel like a  total slob and feel compelled to take a three hour nap.  With the meal wrapped up, we lounged in their living room and bathed in our own personal puddles of contentedness. as if we had just proven something to the world and are now reaping the rewards of our enlightened sensibilities.

    

     For me, this is how I envision a healthy America.  I crave to see discover these places not with a layer of the aforementioned stigma hanging overhead with its health statistics and obesity rates, but instead stitched together with families like Jason, Mindy and Parker; a family whose collective smile is infectious, and whose day to day lives are fueled by clean and wholesome meals (not to mention absolutely delicious) ,and steadfast relationships with their farmer friends and neighbors.  I picture this idealistic future, and it emboldens me as we climb back onto our little scooters, ready to continue to spread the word and influence of the influential families we meet along the way. 

Virginia Beach: A Taco Well Spent

   

Meet Taz.  Taz has been homeless for the past 4 years.  I bought Taz a taco.

 

 

 

Kodak Moment

 

In all honesty, he practically blindsided me.  I had decided to cut off about three pounds of my curly locks at the local barber shop while we took a two day reprieve in Virginia Beach, and the day had already a warm blue sheen from the receding daylight.  I was tucking my collar back behind my slightly scratchy neck when I turned my head to see him galloping over, a stitched together gait interlaced with strands of past addictions and scuffles.  With the diction of a fresh faced public speaker, he immediately launched into a convincingly well rehearsed boiled down timeline of his life on the streets.  As with anyone who has dealt with this type of encounter before, I could taste the point of this conversation coming to a head.  Sure enough, the subject of how many green backs were in my wallet at that time came into the spotlight, and it was then that I decided to embrace the mission I had set out on all those weeks ago. 

 

 

 "Sure, man.  I think I got a couple of bills here, somewhere."

 

   

"God Bless you, man, God Bless." 

 

      

   Some part of me cringed at the color by numbers lines he was rolling off of his tongue.  My turn in the conversation, now.

 

 

"Actually, man...you hungry?"

 

 

Even Colgate couldn't fix that grin he flashed me. 

 

"Now THAT'S pretty funny, man, haha."

 

 

I chuckled and nodded my head, and the hook sunk in.

 

 

"Yeah, well, I mean, if you want man, I can get you something, you know, close by, if you want to, bud." 

 

 

I shifted my weight to my other foot and gestured towards the littered Virginia Beach Boulevard, lined with neon veined chain restaurant signs and soccer mom vans.  He doesn't bat an eye.

 

 

"Yeah uh, so there's a Taco Bell like two blocks down, man.  I like tacos man, like, for real, man."

 

 

Can't argue with him, there.  Tacos are awesome.

 

 

"Alright, yeah sure, Taco Bell, man.  Hey, uh, do you mind if I like ask you a couple of questions, like a testimonial, type of deal?  You think?"

 

 

 

Momentary hesitation quickly proceeded by, what I imagine, a high pitched squeal from his stomach.

 

 

"Sure, sup' man, whatever, sounds good."

 

 

I have trouble keeping up with him over to the Taco Bell.

Margate City, New Jersey

                                      

Sappy Life Time Channel Moments

 

                         

     I've come to the conclusion that I am destined to become a disheveled fisherman on a rickety old fishing rig with a six pack tucked underneath my fold up lawn chair and a sea salt encrusted radio blaring 60's/70's one hit wonders behind me as I cast out my line for the millionth time that day.  That image has soaked into my sub-consciousness since our arrival here in Margate City.  It's a nice suburb town, but nothing that would differentiate itself from the usual sea side attractions you tend to run across.  What really gives it its tantalizing flair is its proximity to the beach, and what a beach it is. 

    
     Don't get me wrong; I realize there are infinitesimally better beaches in other tourist trap towns that exceed the beauty of this one.  However, since being on this trip, I have come to truly appreciate the small wonders that we all take for granted due to certain luxuries and accommodations. 
    
     When I decided to go for a run on that beach, I was lost in some cringe worthy sappy emotions as my lungs bulged with the sweet sea breeze and my skin lapped up the addictive rays of the evening sun.  I wasn't surprised when my skin felt as if it was on fire, due to the lack of exposure since we set out on our journey. 

     And, with a primal urge that overtook my still introverted demeanor around complete strangers sauntering on the beach,  I unleashed a guttural challenge to the frothing ocean sheets receding back and forth on the beach sand that managed to somehow expel all of my pent up anguish about various things, as if yanking the stopper in a sink and witnessing all that build up of toxic sludge just spiral down the drain, leaving a sparkling porcelin bowl in which to dump the next load of thoughts into; ready to start again replenished and invigorated.
     
     I don't need a therapist. I already have myself.  I just desperately pined for the right catalyst to ignite that fuse towards my eventual catharsis.  It's almost embarrassingly beautiful how such a simple landscape can have such a soothing impact on the things I deemed stressors in my life, and from then on I cared less about trivial matters that would normally invite an overly saturated level of negative self critique.
    
     Take my on going weight loss struggle, as an example. My first day on this magnificent stretch of sand and I manage to clock in at a 6:50 mile average during my jog, and yet the external signs of my athletic progress are abysmal.  I criticize my failure every day in whatever available mirror I catch my reflection in, and then my sink begins to accumulate a fresh layer of self doubt and sickening pity. 
     
     The next day, while on my way over to the beach for my next jog, two fairly attractive females pulled up next to the stop sign I had just passed and decided to yell out in unison, "Fat-Ass!", followed by a peeling out with audible cackling emanating from the car.  Now I don't honestly know if they saw something that warranted a response of that nature,  or if they were just messing with whomever crossed their path. Regardless of that, it prompted me to wonder in my head, How could something so outwardly beautiful project such a grossly hateful exclamation towards someone who is desperately striving to change their image towards something acceptable in their eyes?"
   
      ...And yet when I stepped out onto that sand, my toes forming fists and clenching the sand encrusted shattered shells littered across the dunes,  I realized that I had finally discovered my answer.  It certainly didn't justify their actions, but instead unraveled a plan for my response to these negative empty painted shells:

     I care about me,

       Not you or your judgments,

 

      And as long as I am constructively improving myself  in whatever way I can,

 

 I am content with me, and that is the single greatest weight off of  my shoulders.

      It's funny: you hear countless throngs of people preaching this sappy verbal discharge to the innumerable helpless schmucks stuck in various ruts, and yet the words are somehow transcendent once you are dipped in that blissfully relaxing eureka moment, yourself.  At this point, this stretch of sand on the border of Margate City in New Jersey has given me a gift that will never be equaled, and I'd be remiss if I said I wouldn't miss that golden, ocean washed stretch of pavement.