Experiences you don't write home about.

In Ernest Hemmingway's book In Our Time, the predominant character, Nick, finds resolution for his restless soul by going off into the wilderness alone, to be alone with nature and his own thoughts. In the simple actions of pitching a tent, and fishing a mighty river, Nick calms his mind--rattled from the great war, and the ensuing disillusionment from living in Europe--and seems to find himself again right where he had left it, the forests surrounding his old home.
My english class let out into the rain that night, Monday. I walked with my friends through the cold and wet to my car. We said our usual goodbyes, the promises of seeing each other next week, and went our seperate ways. I sat in my car, dark and cold ruminating on the class we had just left. Had everyone else read the same book I had? Had they heard the same conversation I had? I felt like Hemmingway had reached through is book across time to touch my forehead and say "I wrote this for you."
At the end of every week on Saturday morning I sit in the quiet and I reflect on the past six days, trying to find some common thread of self-improvement that gives me life meaning, or at least direction. I should say that "quiet" isn't exactly that. There's something playing on my laptop, the TV may be on, some idito is screaming out his window across the park, no matter how "quiet" it is, there's always noise. It seems that everytime I try to concentrate on self-reflection, there is a little bit of flotsam from life's gutter openly trying to distract me. That was before Ernie taught me about finding my voice in absolute quiet, and that it is the only way to center one's mind. Hemmingway taught me (in this single book) that if I cannot find absolute solitude near me that I must seek it out, intentionally and willfully.
I learned that on Monday night.
Tuesday progressed normally, I didn't have any classes so I slothed about, ignoring my cluttered desk for the instant gratifcation of 99 channels of cable that I'm not paying for. Wednesday was hectic, bogged down with classes and insecurities of what the rest of my week was supposed to hold--so far it was turning into a normal week. So why this nagging feeling? What was this deep, gruff voice with a midwestern accent berating me about how trivial and idiotic I was being? Hemmingway was still there, in the back of my mind watching over me.
Thursday came, another break from classes. A second chance. A letter from the cable company remding me that if I did not return the cable box to them they would hire goons to come and break my face reminded me that I needed to take a trip out to Topanga Canyon to turn the cable box in. After looking up the address for the cable company, I realized that it was very close to Stony Point, the small moutain jutting up from the earth. A few miles before the nothern wall of the San Fernando Valley, it stands as the gate keep to the kings posing behind it. Stony point is a mecca for local fee-climbers, adreanline junkies, and adolescant romantics feeling their need to blossom in it's fertile trees. As I saw it's jagged rocks on the map, I felt a rough heavy hand slap me on the back of the head. That heavy, gruff voice was back "Go climb you idiot." Hemmingway isn't very nice...
Thursday afternoon I found myself at the base of stony point, starin up at it's summit. My car had driven itself there, my cameras and waterbottles packed themselves into my back pack, I felt after so much effort on their part the least I could do was oblige them. I hiked. I climbed. I found a trail and skittered along, barely taking time to breath I was going so fast. Each step propeled foward with greater tenacity than the one previos. When I came to a wall, I climbed. When I came to a view, I stopped and took a picture. After an hour I reached the summit and turned and looked out over the valley. I was standing on the shoulder of a giant, and he whispered his secrets in my ear with heavy gusts of wind. Secrets so big they nearly knocked me off his shoulder. I stayed on the top of Stony Point and found a comfortable notch on a ledge at the top of a very tall and sheer cliff. I sat down in the notch, I pulled out my Hemmingway and I read.
After that, everything made sense.