If you wait for…

If you wait for the perfect moment when all is safe and assured, it may never arrive. Mountains will not be climbed, races won, or lasting happiness achieved.
-Maurice Chevalier


words of wisdom for a tired Tuesday mind: a “Swiss Army Knife of Mental Tools”


Bill Watterson (creator of Calvin and Hobbes)//Kenyon College Commencement//May 20, 1990

I have a recurring dream about Kenyon. In it, I’m walking to the post office on the way to my first class at the start of the school year. Suddenly it occurs to me that I don’t have my schedule memorized, and I’m not sure which classes I’m taking, or where exactly I’m supposed to be going.

As I walk up the steps to the post office, I realize I don’t have my box key, and in fact, I can’t remember what my box number is. I’m certain that everyone I know has written me a letter, but I can’t get them. I get more flustered and annoyed by the minute. I head back to Middle Path, racking my brains and asking myself, “How many more years until I graduate? …Wait, didn’t I graduate already?? How old AM I?” Then I wake up.

Experience is food for the brain. And four years at Kenyon is a rich meal. I suppose it should be no surprise that your brains will probably burp up Kenyon for a long time. And I think the reason I keep having the dream is because its central image is a metaphor for a good part of life: that is, not knowing where you’re going or what you’re doing.

I graduated exactly ten years ago. That doesn’t give me a great deal of experience to speak from, but I’m emboldened by the fact that I can’t remember a bit of MY commencement, and I trust that in half an hour, you won’t remember of yours either.

In the middle of my sophomore year at Kenyon, I decided to paint a copy of Michelangelo’s “Creation of Adam” from the Sistine Chapel on the ceiling of my dorm room. By standing on a chair, I could reach the ceiling, and I taped off a section, made a grid, and started to copy the picture from my art history book.

Working with your arm over your head is hard work, so a few of my more ingenious friends rigged up a scaffold for me by stacking two chairs on my bed, and laying the table from the hall lounge across the chairs and over to the top of my closet. By climbing up onto my bed and up the chairs, I could hoist myself onto the table, and lie in relative comfort two feet under my painting. My roommate would then hand up my paints, and I could work for several hours at a stretch.

The picture took me months to do, and in fact, I didn’t finish the work until very near the end of the school year. I wasn’t much of a painter then, but what the work lacked in color sense and technical flourish, it gained in the incongruity of having a High Renaissance masterpiece in a college dorm that had the unmistakable odor of old beer cans and older laundry.

The painting lent an air of cosmic grandeur to my room, and it seemed to put life into a larger perspective. Those boring, flowery English poets didn’t seem quite so important, when right above my head God was transmitting the spark of life to man.

My friends and I liked the finished painting so much in fact, that we decided I should ask permission to do it. As you might expect, the housing director was curious to know why I wanted to paint this elaborate picture on my ceiling a few weeks before school let out. Well, you don’t get to be a sophomore at Kenyon without learning how to fabricate ideas you never had, but I guess it was obvious that my idea was being proposed retroactively. It ended up that I was allowed to paint the picture, so long as I painted over it and returned the ceiling to normal at the end of the year. And that’s what I did.

Despite the futility of the whole episode, my fondest memories of college are times like these, where things were done out of some inexplicable inner imperative, rather than because the work was demanded. Clearly, I never spent as much time or work on any authorized art project, or any poli sci paper, as I spent on this one act of vandalism.

It’s surprising how hard we’ll work when the work is done just for ourselves. And with all due respect to John Stuart Mill, maybe utilitarianism is overrated. If I’ve learned one thing from being a cartoonist, it’s how important playing is to creativity and happiness. My job is essentially to come up with 365 ideas a year.

If you ever want to find out just how uninteresting you really are, get a job where the quality and frequency of your thoughts determine your livelihood. I’ve found that the only way I can keep writing every day, year after year, is to let my mind wander into new territories. To do that, I’ve had to cultivate a kind of mental playfulness.

We’re not really taught how to recreate constructively. We need to do more than find diversions; we need to restore and expand ourselves. Our idea of relaxing is all too often to plop down in front of the television set and let its pandering idiocy liquefy our brains. Shutting off the thought process is not rejuvenating; the mind is like a car battery-it recharges by running.

You may be surprised to find how quickly daily routine and the demands of “just getting by: absorb your waking hours. You may be surprised matters of habit rather than thought and inquiry. You may be surprised to find how quickly you start to see your life in terms of other people’s expectations rather than issues. You may be surprised to find out how quickly reading a good book sounds like a luxury.

At school, new ideas are thrust at you every day. Out in the world, you’ll have to find the inner motivation to search for new ideas on your own. With any luck at all, you’ll never need to take an idea and squeeze a punchline out of it, but as bright, creative people, you’ll be called upon to generate ideas and solutions all your lives. Letting your mind play is the best way to solve problems.

For me, it’s been liberating to put myself in the mind of a fictitious six year-old each day, and rediscover my own curiosity. I’ve been amazed at how one ideas leads to others if I allow my mind to play and wander. I know a lot about dinosaurs now, and the information has helped me out of quite a few deadlines.

A playful mind is inquisitive, and learning is fun. If you indulge your natural curiosity and retain a sense of fun in new experience, I think you’ll find it functions as a sort of shock absorber for the bumpy road ahead.

So, what’s it like in the real world? Well, the food is better, but beyond that, I don’t recommend it.

I don’t look back on my first few years out of school with much affection, and if I could have talked to you six months ago, I’d have encouraged you all to flunk some classes and postpone this moment as long as possible. But now it’s too late.

Unfortunately, that was all the advice I really had. When I was sitting where you are, I was one of the lucky few who had a cushy job waiting for me. I’d drawn political cartoons for the Collegian for four years, and the Cincinnati Post had hired me as an editorial cartoonist. All my friends were either dreading the infamous first year of law school, or despondent about their chances of convincing anyone that a history degree had any real application outside of academia.

Boy, was I smug.

As it turned out, my editor instantly regretted his decision to hire me. By the end of the summer, I’d been given notice; by the beginning of winter, I was in an unemployment line; and by the end of my first year away from Kenyon, I was broke and living with my parents again. You can imagine how upset my dad was when he learned that Kenyon doesn’t give refunds.

Watching my career explode on the lauchpad caused some soul searching. I eventually admitted that I didn’t have what it takes to be a good political cartoonist, that is, an interest in politics, and I returned to my firs love, comic strips.

For years I got nothing but rejection letters, and I was forced to accept a real job.

A REAL job is a job you hate. I designed car ads and grocery ads in the windowless basement of a convenience store, and I hated every single minute of the 4-1/2 million minutes I worked there. My fellow prisoners at work were basically concerned about how to punch the time clock at the perfect second where they would earn another 20 cents without doing any work for it.

It was incredible: after every break, the entire staff would stand around in the garage where the time clock was, and wait for that last click. And after my used car needed the head gasket replaced twice, I waited in the garage too.

It’s funny how at Kenyon, you take for granted that the people around you think about more than the last episode of Dynasty. I guess that’s what it means to be in an ivory tower.

Anyway, after a few months at this job, I was starved for some life of the mind that, during my lunch break, I used to read those poli sci books that I’d somehow never quite finished when I was here. Some of those books were actually kind of interesting. It was a rude shock to see just how empty and robotic life can be when you don’t care about what you’re doing, and the only reason you’re there is to pay the bills.

Thoreau said, “the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”

That’s one of those dumb cocktail quotations that will strike fear in your heart as you get older. Actually, I was leading a life of loud desperation.

When it seemed I would be writing about “Midnite Madness Sale-abrations” for the rest of my life, a friend used to console me that cream always rises to the top. I used to think, so do people who throw themselves into the sea.

I tell you all this because it’s worth recognizing that there is no such thing as an overnight success. You will do well to cultivate the resources in yourself that bring you happiness outside of success or failure. The truth is, most of us discover where we are headed when we arrive. At that time, we turn around and say, yes, this is obviously where I was going all along. It’s a good idea to try to enjoy the scenery on the detours, because you’ll probably take a few.

I still haven’t drawn the strip as long as it took me to get the job. To endure five years of rejection to get a job requires either a faith in oneself that borders on delusion, or a love of the work. I loved the work.

Drawing comic strips for five years without pay drove home the point that the fun of cartooning wasn’t in the money; it was in the work. This turned out to be an important realization when my break finally came.

Like many people, I found that what I was chasing wasn’t what I caught. I’ve wanted to be a cartoonist since I was old enough to read cartoons, and I never really thought about cartoons as being a business. It never occurred to me that a comic strip I created would be at the mercy of a bloodsucking corporate parasite called a syndicate, and that I’d be faced with countless ethical decisions masquerading as simple business decisions.

To make a business decision, you don’t need much philosophy; all you need is greed, and maybe a little knowledge of how the game works.

As my comic strip became popular, the pressure to capitalize on that popularity increased to the point where I was spending almost as much time screaming at executives as drawing. Cartoon merchandising is a $12 billion dollar a year industry and the syndicate understandably wanted a piece of that pie. But the more I though about what they wanted to do with my creation, the more inconsistent it seemed with the reasons I draw cartoons.

Selling out is usually more a matter of buying in. Sell out, and you’re really buying into someone else’s system of values, rules and rewards.

The so-called “opportunity” I faced would have meant giving up my individual voice for that of a money-grubbing corporation. It would have meant my purpose in writing was to sell things, not say things. My pride in craft would be sacrificed to the efficiency of mass production and the work of assistants. Authorship would become committee decision. Creativity would become work for pay. Art would turn into commerce. In short, money was supposed to supply all the meaning I’d need.

What the syndicate wanted to do, in other words, was turn my comic strip into everything calculated, empty and robotic that I hated about my old job. They would turn my characters into television hucksters and T-shirt sloganeers and deprive me of characters that actually expressed my own thoughts.

On those terms, I found the offer easy to refuse. Unfortunately, the syndicate also found my refusal easy to refuse, and we’ve been fighting for over three years now. Such is American business, I guess, where the desire for obscene profit mutes any discussion of conscience.

You will find your own ethical dilemmas in all parts of your lives, both personal and professional. We all have different desires and needs, but if we don’t discover what we want from ourselves and what we stand for, we will live passively and unfulfilled. Sooner or later, we are all asked to compromise ourselves and the things we care about. We define ourselves by our actions. With each decision, we tell ourselves and the world who we are. Think about what you want out of this life, and recognize that there are many kinds of success.

Many of you will be going on to law school, business school, medical school, or other graduate work, and you can expect the kind of starting salary that, with luck, will allow you to pay off your own tuition debts within your own lifetime.

But having an enviable career is one thing, and being a happy person is another.

Creating a life that reflects your values and satisfies your soul is a rare achievement. In a culture that relentlessly promotes avarice and excess as the good life, a person happy doing his own work is usually considered an eccentric, if not a subversive. Ambition is only understood if it’s to rise to the top of some imaginary ladder of success. Someone who takes an undemanding job because it affords him the time to pursue other interests and activities is considered a flake. A person who abandons a career in order to stay home and raise children is considered not to be living up to his potential-as if a job title and salary are the sole measure of human worth.

You’ll be told in a hundred ways, some subtle and some not, to keep climbing, and never be satisfied with where you are, who you are, and what you’re doing. There are a million ways to sell yourself out, and I guarantee you’ll hear about them.

To invent your own life’s meaning is not easy, but it’s still allowed, and I think you’ll be happier for the trouble.

Reading those turgid philosophers here in these remote stone buildings may not get you a job, but if those books have forced you to ask yourself questions about what makes life truthful, purposeful, meaningful, and redeeming, you have the Swiss Army Knife of mental tools, and it’s going to come in handy all the time.

I think you’ll find that Kenyon touched a deep part of you. These have been formative years. Chances are, at least of your roommates has taught you everything ugly about human nature you ever wanted to know.

With luck, you’ve also had a class that transmitted a spark of insight or interest you’d never had before. Cultivate that interest, and you may find a deeper meaning in your life that feeds your soul and spirit. Your preparation for the real world is not in the answers you’ve learned, but in the questions you’ve learned how to ask yourself.

Graduating from Kenyon, I suspect you’ll find yourselves quite well prepared indeed.

I wish you all fulfillment and happiness. Congratulations on your achievement.

“snowflakes are falling / i’ll catch them in my hand”

December 2011

Dearest friends, family, and followers of Going Glacial,

With the New Year upon us, I finally find myself in the position to remedy the fact that I have been absent from my Going Glacial alias for the past six months. I have adventured, traveled, concert-gone, laughed, cried, changed plans, made new ones, and returned to school in that time frame. As we near the beginning of 2012, I find myself in the same high-alpine location (currently shrouded in snow) that spawned the original inspiration for Going Glacial in the summer of 2010. After a successful (and, at times, turbulent) return to my undergraduate life at Stanford in September after approximately fifteen months of freewheeling and globetrotting, I am safely nestled in Utah’s Wasatch Mountains on winter break before resuming classes in mid-January. My time away from the pen and notebook has been colorfully marked by a solo, mid-July ski descent of a rugged alpine chute (a first for me in several regards, as I will soon explain); an on-foot adventure on the seldom-visited Italy-Slovenia border; a spontaneous ultra-run/hike across the posh and similarly seldom-visited Mediterranean island of Corsica (complete with exclusive lodging on the rock-hard Corsican ground); ample hours spent plugging and chugging in a sterile cubicle in suburban Pennsylvania to replenish my adventure fund so that I can continue to “go glacial”; and an unprecedented stint working as a volunteer farmhand on an organic vegetable farm in the rural wilds of eastern Iceland. Needless to say, I have much to report on in words and photos, and I plan to do so in coming weeks. In the meantime, stay tuned for a forthcoming series of photo posts featuring a mix of committed work and quicker snapshots, both of which capture the unbridled adventure and sublime surroundings that detailed the latter half of 2011.

Back in July, after recovering from a 32-mile, overnight, on-foot stunt in the steamy wilds of the Grand Canyon and a subsequent Alps adventure (more on that in forthcoming posts), I returned to the Salt Lake City area to catch up with friends and with the welcoming Wasatch Front. By a stroke of fate, I arrived back in Salt Lake City just in time for a concert held at a University of Utah venue that would mark the end of an exclusive summer tour by David Gray, my musician of choice and something of a dark horse in the acoustic/alternative music worlds. The lyrics to David Gray’s tunes are etched within the depths of my brain, but the Salt Lake City concert offered a new and reinvigorating music experience. Gray lovingly strummed his guitar and belted into the microphone for almost ten years before hitting it big in 2000 with the hit single, “Babylon,” which, to date, remains his most popular tune. “Babylon,” with its pop music vibes and catchy refrain, frequently obscures the softer tones of Gray’s earlier acoustic work and his later series of tunes that features prolonged instrumentals culminating in passionate–and resonant–vocal segments. Gray’s July concert in Salt Lake City served as the grand finale for his summer 2011 “Lost and Found” tour, during which he presented intimate, acoustic reinterpretations of the pop-influenced tunes that earned him success and acclaim over the past decade. For the full effect of intimacy, Gray strategically placed living room-appropriate lamps around the stage. Suffice it to say that Gray executed a successful effort to downplay the pop-like pretense of his more recent hit music and to thus reconnect with his devoted audience; I shed a few rare tears during his soft rendition of “Babylon.” Gray, in fact, had opted to seat himself at the beginning of the tune due to the “weight of the song.”

The days following this stirring musical experience were, par for the course, action-packed and replete with the unexpected. As I explored the craggy contours of Little Cottonwood Canyon, baked cakes, sifted through electronic piles of expectant photos, and eventually returned east to my equally expectant cubicle, I cued some of David Gray’s “underground” tunes as the soundtrack for my daily escapades. The playlist so much as accompanied me to Iceland, where the farmer-in-command [aptly] commented that I had selected “interesting” music to soften the otherwise painstaking process of planting individual arugula leaves in a field we had recently finished weeding–also by hand. Perhaps Eyglo, the matriarch of the Vallanes farm, had expected me–the sole American residing in the sparse mobile home on the edge of the farm property–to rake, plant, and harvest to the tune of David Guetta, Cobra Starship, Katy Perry, or something of the sort. (I am likely several months behind the vogue in writing this, but I think the comparison is clear enough.)

Backyard blues. The "Monster House," living quarters for international farming volunteers in Vallanes, Iceland. Photo: AK, 09.2011.

At the conclusion of my first week at Vallanes, I finally found the strength and mindfulness to overcome my post-farming exhaustion and munchies so that I could complete a solo-stroll across spongy marshlands sprouting even spongier (read: unpalatable) wild mushrooms en route to Lagarfljot, a narrow glacial lake that sluices across eastern Iceland’s forbidding landscape. In keeping with my summer soundtrack, I cued some David Gray “hits” (certainly a subjective interpretation) as I treaded away from the hand-painted mobile home past thoroughbred Icelandic horses and an abandoned antique car. Soon thereafter, I found myself engaging in my rote listening pattern: humming contentedly in sync with the initial instrumentals, all the while subconsciously awaiting the ultimate vocal crescendo. At the conclusion of “Slow Motion,” a lengthy song with sparse lyrics, David Gray belts: “Snowflakes are falling / I’ll catch them in my hand.” At once, this lyric bestowed perfectly fitting surround sound as I arrived at the banks of Lagarfljot and as the timid Icelandic sun, a mere speck against the expansively creamy melange of blue and white, danced toward the low horizon.

The seductive Icelandic sky gracefully dominates Lagarfljot and rolling farm-scape. Photo: AK, Vallanes, Iceland, 09.2011.

I had booked my ticket to Iceland scarcely a week prior, determined to conclude my time away from the university setting with a solo adventure of grand, but inexpensive proportions. “Snowflakes are falling / I’ll catch them in my hand” thus instantly conferred a sort of personal (and, of course, Going Glacial-appropriate) interpretation of the carpe diem adage, or “seize the day.”

We get what we get, and that is life’s reality in its simplest and crudest form. But the “snowflakes” refrain seems to enliven this truth by adding an active, positive dimension to our seemingly inescapable realities. That is, we get what we “catch,” and if we operate via the carpe diem tenet, then we are infinitely more likely to learn from and grow from those “snowflakes.” The powerful lyric recalled, more specifically, the spirit of reinvention and reconnection with which David Gray had imbued his “Lost and Found” tour, and more generally and personally, the spirit with which I had been fortunate to ski, run, hike, cook, and socialize during my year away from what I have come to know as the daily grind.

While I had firmly convinced myself that my return to Stanford would translate to a complete departure from the holistic, balanced lifestyle that I had crafted during my time away, I found myself pleasantly surprised as I settled back into life in the high-traffic, fast-paced Silicon Valley this past September. The daily “grind” took on new contours, as I was scarcely content to fall victim to the often irresistible traps of the local rat race. Rather than compartmentalize my distinct stresses and pleasures, I managed to import the [simultaneously] do-good, feel-good mentality from my time away, thus allowing me to realize fulfillment in the polarized spheres of life at Stanford. Mind you, I certainly encountered stumbling blocks along the way: foul moods, mild to moderate breakdowns, and intermittent attitude. But as I reflect and write from the mountains that have humbled and instructed me over the past year and a half, I feel fortunate to have come full circle–at least in its current incarnation. I find myself approaching daily challenges and opportunities with the fullest extent of my energy, curiosity, and dedication–on par with the exuberance I would commit to a sunset adventure in Little Cottonwood Canyon or to an 110-degree day on-trail in central Corsica. I know full well that each experience in the Stanford milieu is simply another in the mosaic of many experiences, and I can thus keep the gravity of any “situation” in check, if need be.

And for now? I am happily back at home in the white room, where I can revel in the opportunity to catch a few real snowflakes daily.


Please stay tuned in the next few days for vivid visuals of the aforementioned adventures. I promise to maximize visual effect and to at least attempt to minimize the writing.

Best wishes to you and yours for a happy and healthy New Year,


Alta, Utah. 12.2011.