Writing & Running

Saturday 11:29 am. One week before the Spartan race. One day after WIFYR (pronounced whiffer) 2014.

He planned to run earlier, but at least he felt rested. It’s going to be hot.

The past week was incredible, amazing, and tiring. The drive to the Waterford school in Salt Lake City was an exercise in patience. But once in his classroom, Ann Cannon and the rest of his class blew away his expectations, every, single, day. His only regret was skipping exercises for the race, other things were just more important.

Most important choice today: New Stuff 2 playlist (Grouplove, Imagine Dragons, Of Monsters and Men, Capital Cities), General Conference (prep for speaking assignment tomorrow), or Bruce Hornsby (Hot House and Harbor Lights).

I gotta go with Bruce, last run before the race, I gotta go with what got me to this point. Forty five runs, 382.4 miles, Bruce was his only companion on most of them.

Spider Fingers starts playing, the Nike app counts down, legs start pumping, carrying him away. By the mouth of his cul-de-sac he’s settled into a rhythm, breathing regulated, right hand a cup holder carrying the mini bottle of water that keeps him hydrated.

The goal is to take it easy this close to the race, only eight miles today as opposed to the usual eleven. And the biggest relief is no hill today. He’ll miss the view above the cross overlooking Spanish Fork, and the challenge. But when he’s done he won’t miss the pain.

The first mile feels great; it always does. But he’s painfully aware that the first three miles, can make or break him—too fast and he’ll run out of gas. Even knowing that he’s disappointed when the Nike app gives him a time of 9’55’’, but he keeps going at the same pace. The lesson he learned two weeks ago won’t be repeated today—must remember that next week too.

The trail along the Spanish Fork river always feels safer the second his feet cross onto it. Running against traffic in order to reach the trail he’s compelled to be alert—often jumping into the weeds in the rough shoulder to avoid peril. For the most part people are kind and take a wide path around him. But there are always a few who don’t, the ones in such a hurry he worries they don’t even see him.

Once on the trail he can relax, let his mind wander—people watch. Saturday around noon is a busy time on the trail. There’s pretty people, interesting to look at but they fade as quickly as they appear—that may happen to them in life too, at least on the prettiness scale. So little fabric required to cover them. He’s not jealous.

There’s young people, old people and in-between people. He considers himself more in-between, but expects that a survey would place him in the old camp. He likes the ones who smile and say ‘Good morning’ best, especially if they look as tired as he feels. That’s my people. Tired but still working at it. Nice enough to acknowledge others doing the same. He always waves even if they don’t, sometimes he manages a word.

He runs past most of them. The fast runners, the smart runners, usually go earlier in the day. An old couple holding hands catches his eye. A desire to be like them, happy, and old, well… older, and active, and together out in the sunshine and the beautiful surroundings. Can it ever get better than that?

Approaching two miles Bruce kicks into The changes. This is the perfect running song. A snappy drum beat carries the tune and his feet. Several times he has to shuffle to get back on beat, that’s the kind of dancer he is. Actually this is the closest he gets to having any sense of rhythm at all. He sneaks a look behind him, no one there, no one visible in front either. He bounces his head side to side, then, up and down. His feet keep going whether he’s tired or not. Perfect dancing, er, running song.

He writes these thoughts in his mind as he goes, worried a little that his writer friends will expect a better description of the music. Unfortunately that’s not in his vocabulary, tempo, notes, instruments may as well be a foreign language. This is what it’s like to be a writer—he uses that term because his teacher Ann said he could, not so much because he believes it.

This sparks another thought. He needs to add a sense of smell. Well, that’s right, but the dominating smell is that of himself, not at all pleasant. Sorry other trail people, thank goodness for Spanish Fork wind. The other smells that are more pleasant aren’t easily describable, again mainly due to vocabulary. He’s a city boy. So imagine this, the trail follows a river and is lined with trees dropping cotton fluffs like snow. A horse pasture and open fields are on the other side of the trail—think farm smells and you’ll be pretty close. There’s a golf course and park along the way too, cut grass and the like. If you have allergies think of a lot of sniffling. He doesn’t have allergies, but he doesn’t remember vivid smells either. Maybe he’s just blocking them out. First world problems have nothing on writer’s problems.

The music carries him forward—that’s what Bruce does for him. Still feeling mostly good his lungs begin to strain. Across a wooden bridge he stays between the bolt heads, a thin, straight line. His feet thump out a hollow sound against the wood, contrasting with the pavement. Past the chain link fence keeping him out of the golf course, or the golfers in. Perspective is everything. His body is looking for rest. But he won’t allow it until three miles, plus the hill exiting Canyon View Park. His throat is dry, anticipating the first swig from the mini water bottle clutched in his hand. A second wooden bridge brings him to the park. He rushes past a family reunion in the pavilion on his right, glad he’s wearing the hat his son gave him for Father’s Day this year. Not only does it block the sun, he feels more incognito.

The three mile mark, then the hill happens so fast, and then a walk-break. A gulp of water moistens the dry desert in his throat. He breathes long and deep, crossing the road following the trail to dripping springs. The walk is short, no more than five minutes, then back to running for fifteen. Sections of this trail have a canopy of shade. He revels in the shade, wishing it would last longer; but grateful for it just the way it is--cool.

Beyond the canopy there’s a new bit of graffiti. “Let me tell you about the birds and the bees…” He knows where this is going. This is a popular place for immature, vulgar expressions. But wait, this isn’t vulgar at all. In fact he marvels at the subtleness of the message. For the record he doesn’t condone graffiti in any fashion. But if kids will be kids, kudos to this kid. The penmanship is completely legible without any crude images. Must have been a girl. The spacing is neat. Have you ever tried to write anything with spray paint? It’s no work of fine art, but the length alone deserves some amount of appreciation. And the topic, it was, well, thought provoking to say the least—even if it wasn’t original. It took thought to make this choice. And the ending, really left him hanging, wanting more, “The moon and the stars… .” And it ended with punctuation. Bravo. He wanted to talk to someone right then about any of it, but especially the moon and the stars.

He ran to the top of the paved trail then flipped a u-turn choosing to ignore more graphic expressions painted there. On the way back he couldn’t resist capturing an image of the subtle work for future reference, possibly in a blog post. Who knows? He didn’t want others to see him in the act, that combined with the glare explain the image quality well enough.

Back running he crossed the four mile mark. Feeling as good as could be expected he started mentally planning for his half way task: 60 burpees. If you don’t know what a burpee is just wait, he’ll explain below. He had to wait for several cars before crossing the road again. His patience shrinking with each successive pounding of his feet. Across the street and swiftly past the golf course practice range he noticed some neighbors working on their game. What are the odds? I guess in Spanish Fork they’re pretty good. He followed the high fence to the entrance to Canyon View Park and descended the winding trail there. He passed the tall nets that prevent exceptional drivers (golf driving range drivers) from wreaking havoc on the peaceful park.

As he came around the pond a random guy wearing top-gun-mirrored-sunglasses, in a red convertible, sneered at him. Hey buddy at least I’m working on something more than my social status. Sheesh, everyone’s a critic. This is almost mile five and you know, I’m getting tired. He had to stop himself. Pretty people, with pretty things, always fade, but he wished he could melt into the pavement right there.

Don’t let ‘em see you sweat they say. Too late for that. All he could do was keep running, past the open grassy area back to the pavilion where the reunion was not only still going, but new arrivals continuously poured in. He slowed to a walk as he left the trail heading into the parking lot. He scanned the area looking for a private place, his first choice eliminated by the reunion. The old softball diamond across from the pavilion was empty. And there was a shade tree and picnic tables. In other words cover.

He walked to warm down, to get ready for burpees. He was close to the five mile mark, but didn’t quite make it. After a few minutes he stepped into the shade. He removed his phone from its armband security and placed it on the picnic table. He set down the mini water bottle, took off his hat and sunglasses. After looking around he replaced the sunglasses—he needed at least that much of a mask. Hey, it worked for Clark Kent and Clark’s weren’t even sunglasses. He reasoned that once he started running again he’d replace his hat completing his disguise. He imagined people asking him if he’d seen some sick looking dude with red hair flopping around in the grass in the direction he’d come from. But with his hat on he’d comfortably reply “I must have missed him.” Then he’d break into a run and escape without being detected, all because of the hat.

He twisted his back and stretched his arms. Unable to think of anything else to stall with, he began by jumping up, hands high above his head, then immediately dropping to a planking, or pushup position, legs snapping back in unison. He executed a pushup, then snapped his legs back under him springing up, ending with another jump, hands raised above his head. One. He did it again. Two. By the time he hit ten he was breathing heavy. That wasn’t so bad. Eleven. Bull gato. This sucks. His goal of sixty eroded. I’m stopping at thirty. He made it to fifteen then immediately started walking. Walking somehow eases the pain and the humiliation, maybe because he was now a moving target. It took several minutes before he was ready for the second set.

I can do this. He coaxed himself. After doing fifteen more he changed his mind. I can do forty five. No, sixty, I’m doing sixty. I can do sixty no matter how long it takes. He walked for several minutes again. Then he walked some more. Ready for the third set of fifteen he looked around. More people coming and going. He tried to obscure himself behind the tree and the picnic tables. It didn’t help.

By the time he reached forty five his lungs were burning and his legs threatened to cramp up. His mini water bottle was already empty. He casually walked over to the drinking fountain near the pavilion for a refill, and to buy himself some time. The water was cooler than he’d been drinking and was exactly the refreshment he needed. He trudged back to his spot to finish the final fifteen. It was a struggle, and it took a lot longer than he wanted to spend. But he finished. He reached his goal. His burpee goal.

Exhausted he still had more than three miles to get home. He could have quit there and no one would have cared. He thought about calling his wife. For a second. Another few minutes walking it off and he didn’t think about quitting again. When his legs cramped up he stopped to stretch them out. He ran slower, and walked more, and he was exhausted the entire way. But he saved up enough strength to run up the hill near his home.

Probably not my best work, but I finished. He slowed to a walk after sprinting into his subdivision. His legs felt jerky as he walked the last couple of blocks home. Too tired to miss all the cracks, especially the spider-web broken sidewalk slabs. Sorry Mom. I’ll call her later to check on her back.

Starting is fun and easy. Finishing is hard and grueling. Everything worthwhile requires mental, physical, and spiritual durability. And pacing. Finishing a run is satisfying. I can’t wait for that feeling to be associated with my writing, at least the first draft. I know, I know, I hear the sage words from my teacher Ann last week, there’s always something more. And while I get that, I still look forward, eagerly, for this milestone I’ve been working towards for years.

Can I finish the Spartan race? Is it a metaphor for my writing? Consider the similarities. Completing a race is the result of taking a thousand steps one at a time, enduring through mental and physical doubts, worries, and pains, perceived and real. Writing a novel is the result of placing thousands of words, organizing hundreds of thoughts, writing through doubts, worries, and critiques. But the biggest similarity is that both require pacing, endurance, and determination to finish.

I think I can. I know I can. I hope I can.

Keep writing.

Disagreement: Is there a civil way?

I haven’t written a post in over a month for two months now. During this time I’ve known exactly what I want to write about. I’ve thought about it almost every day. But each time I sat down to write, my emotions would flare up, and I gravitated towards a post I wasn’t proud of. I’ve read so many blogs and tweets recently discussing prominent stories in the news that either take such a hard lined position throughout that the reader is hammered with the theme of “I’m right, and if you disagree you are a hater who opposes human love, rationality, and human rights.” Or they cry out to the Internet for the rest of us to wake up and finally do the right thing; when in reality the right thing, according to them, is to give up a freedom or right that they don’t personally care for or appreciate. So basically they want the rest of us to wake up and willingly give up things we might care about, but that they don’t, so that they can feel safer. And they cannot understand why the rest of us don’t just fall in line with them.

I don’t want to discuss the specific issues that started all this. It’s pretty easy to find them, and many, many others, elsewhere on the Internet. I do want to write something that will have more of a unifying effect rather than a dividing effect. Too many of the articles I read had a dividing effect, at least on me. And I found myself disagreeing with them as much or more based on the way they presented their words, as I did based on the words themselves. That in turn led me to thinking about disagreeing with people, and especially the manner in which we/I disagree. I had to take a tough look at myself, and the way I respond in highly passionate “conversations” and to be honest I can do better, much better. At my core I truly believe it’s possible to love and care for people I disagree with. But in the heat of the moment this important fact, the fact that I should love my neighbor and therefore treat them better, gets suppressed by all kinds of volatile emotions, the strongest of which is the need to be right. Except unfortunately being “right” is often a subjective* thing, and far too often a club we/I wield with fanatic fervor forgetting the recipient of my blows is another human being who always, no matter what, deserves better. But that brings up a dilemma, how does one stand up for what they believe in with dignity and respect without trouncing or vilifying their opponent?

After reading several of the blogs/articles/tweets I mentioned above I had to sit down and ask myself why do I believe what I believe? Am I really a hater? If I don’t consider myself a hater how can I disagree with them and not be a hater? Because that’s pretty much what they said—you’re either on one side or the other. And that’s where their words broke down for me. They presented their case so generally, with such broad sweeping generalizations, that there was no middle ground. You were either with them, or against them. Now, that may be exactly what they were shooting for, and if so bravo. But I think it’s pretty rare that complex issues can be boiled down to such black and white statements.

One good thing came of this though. I took a closer look at my own personal convictions. I tried to better understand myself and my core beliefs. And I tried to prioritize which ones were most important. I think it’s good for anyone to do this. The other thing I realized is that even when I disagreed with the authors of the blogs/articles/tweets I was still able to find some common ground, some points we both agree on. Too often we argue, or preach, or chastise, or whatever from a self-perceived high ground. Unfortunately this immediately causes us to choose opposing sides right out of the gate.

I have my standards, my convictions if you will, those things I’ve come to understand as truths I live my life by. I teach these to my children and give them as advice to anyone seeking my help. But not everyone believes the same things I do. So when it comes to those with opposing points of view some of my standards are difficult to explain and/or difficult for others to understand without walking the miles in my shoes that I have. Starting on the big disagreements tends to have a polarizing effect, and that’s where it typically ends. Which means, for the most part, we end before we really get started—there isn’t much room for a “conversation.” On the other hand, if I search for common ground and build up from there, even when we disagree there’s a much higher probability of mutual understanding.

Going forward I want to seek out commonality, areas where we agree, instead of searching for differences or nitpicking excuses to summarily dismiss another person as a moron. I think more often than not, even when we disagree, we have much more in common than we have in differences. For me it’s stubbornness and inflexibility that gets in the way of seeing that common ground. And we/I need to remember what matters most: our fellow man, our neighbor. If we could put a face on the opposition, and really get to know them, it would be more difficult to label them a dirty rotten so and so.

I’ve heard it said that to make a truly compelling argument you must completely understand the opposing point of view well enough to argue it. That sounds right. If more people took the time and effort to do that I believe we’d all feel more comfortable regardless of our differing convictions.

So before we/I write that next rant, leave that next snarky comment, or let loose on the next person closest to us in our ire:

• Look for common ground.
• Remember our standards, choose our words carefully.
• Remember the recipient of our vehemence is a living, breathing, human being with a heart.
• If we still feel compelled to voice our disagreement, civilly disagree.

My heart goes out to the victims every time I hear a story about senseless violence, especially when it ends in tragic losses—nobody wants that. But it’s also tragic to believe that there’s some silver bullet, some magic solution that will stop it once and for all. Silver bullets or quick fixes are more like mirages than real solutions, the closer you inspect them the more they simply vanish into thin air. Could it be as simple as all of us being a little nicer to each other, a little more caring? Nah, too easy.

And what about our convictions? Where do they come from? How should we use them? Is it possible for one person’s convictions to oppose another person’s? If so, how do we handle that? Choosing to eat here, or boycott there seems to me to be never ending battle. Where in this life do we apply forgiveness? And who are we to forgive? If we want forgiveness for ourselves, shouldn’t we freely give it to others too?

One of the best pieces of advice I’ve received as a writer is to give myself the freedom to make mistakes. Now you know that I will make mistakes, and I’m pretty sure I’m not alone, let’s be more forgiving of each other especially when we disagree.

I openly admit the problem may lie in me. I think it’s always worthwhile to analyze ourselves and our convictions to gage whether or not we’re following a true path or just the winds of the times. Sometimes it’s difficult to distinguish which is which.

I’m not saying we/I can’t disagree. I know it’s inevitable. But I hope that we/I can be more loving in our disagreements. If we could do that I think we’d be a lot more persuasive, or at the very least more tolerable.

I’m going to make a concerted effort to look for the good in everyone, and cling to it tightly; and then to let go of the rest. Does that mean I’m never going to complain about anyone? Well, to be true to my goal the answer should be yes. However, I know I’m human and I know this is a lofty goal. So my promise is this, I’ll try as hard as I can to focus on the good, the common ground I can find, and try to keep my complaining to private conversations which I hope won’t be broadcast to the world.

I consider myself a religious person. I try my best every day to make good choices, and more than anything else I hope I’m not unkind to anyone. But despite that I often make mistakes. In cases where I am unkind I hope I’m man enough to admit when I’m wrong and make amends for it. Unfortunately, there are some in my life who I am no longer able to make up for my poor behavior with them, they’ve passed on. I’ll have to live the rest of my life with those regrets. Hopefully by the time my life is at an end I haven’t added any more to that heavy pile of regrets.

*Okay, let me state that another way, because I don’t believe that truth is relative. Being right isn’t always the most important element of one’s persuasive essay because it’s almost a guarantee that the opposition feels just as “right” in their position.

Denmark: Traveling gives you perspective

When I think of Denmark something stirs deep inside me, a tinge of longing. It could be a desire to connect with the land many of my ancestors left over a hundred years ago. It could be a desire to see what my son Zack saw while serving as a missionary for the LDS church. Or it could be a desire to reconnect with an old friend.

One of my best friends growing up, from elementary school through high school and early college, now makes his home in Copenhagen. He’s a renowned expert on Søren Kierkegaard with a PhD and teaches at the University of Copenhagen. And to think, I knew him when he was just a kid.

In addition to my personal ties, Norse mythology appeals to me. I’ve long been fascinated by Vikings, castles, swords, battle axes, and of course the hammer of Thor.

It’s almost as if it wasn’t a matter of if, but only a matter of when, regarding a visit to the land some people, like Oprah, call the happiest place on earth. (Eat your heart out Disneyland.) We had been casually discussing it for over a year since Zack returned home. But it was an invitation to stay with a family he met there that helped the planning finally fall into place. Coincidentally the father of that family grew up in the town we now live in—what a small world.

Nyhavn

We would have liked to take our entire family, but seven airfares to Scandinavia was a deal breaker. So it turned into a special trip for my wife, Zack, and I to spend some quality time together. We carved ten days out of our busy work and school schedules in early May, 2012. That might sound like a lot, but when you consider the flight can take up to fifteen hours, that kills most of a day by itself. Then add to that the time zone difference, which means the better part of another day magically disappears, right off the bat. And then coming home takes most of a day despite regaining the time zone difference, so that’s three of the ten days primarily consumed at an airport, or in the air. Add in jet lag, I never sleep well on planes, and it’s easy to see the time reduced to only seven actual days for exploring Denmark.

We booked our flight to depart Sunday around noon, and arrive in Denmark at three in the afternoon on Monday. Unfortunately due to weather we were rerouted from Chicago to LA. That’s right, in the opposite direction. It sounds counterintuitive, but since there is only one flight from Chicago to Copenhagen our only other option would have had us arriving on Tuesday, an entire day later. Low on good options we scrambled onto the LA flight with the nagging hope our luggage would make the same trip we did. Going in the opposite direction cost us some extra time, our new scheduled arrival was 9:00 pm in Copenhagen. But again, that was much better than 3:00 pm the next day. My new travel mantra is: nothing ever goes as planned—deal with it.

Somehow we scheduled our trip such that the Monday consumed by air travel, delays, and time zone changes was my birthday. So, my birthday this year disappeared into the twilight zone. I’m not bitter, but I’m also not considering myself another year older. (That means my wife and I are now the same age. Ha.)

We left most of the details of how we’d spend our days on Danish soil in the hands of Zack. We penciled in a few of the must see attractions, but otherwise we just wanted to experience life like a typical Dane.

Monday:

Zack’s friends, our new friends, met us at the airport, drove us to their home in Charlottenlund and helped us get situated. Then it was bed time—for them. For us we really wanted to sleep, but it was a struggle. And it was a struggle for our entire time there. Our typical day started around 11:00 am, our earliest was 8:00 am, because we rented a car and wanted to maximize our driving range; but it was hard to wake up that day. Our latest morning was 12:00 pm, what can I say, when your body says it’s tired you gotta sleep, no matter what time it is. Most of the time I felt guilty sleeping so long, but it was a lot more challenging to control than I expected.

Tuesday:

Our first full day in Denmark was Tuesday. We met up with my friend the Professor to catch up on old times. He gave us a brief tour of the area surrounding his office at the University of Copenhagen. We saw beautiful classic architecture, including several fountains decorating the area. We visited the Church of Our Lady cathedral and saw the famous statues of Christ (the Christus) and the twelve apostles by Thorvaldsen. We even walked as far as Nyhavn, my favorite area of Copenhagen. The rows of colorful buildings lining the canal, boats moored in front, is one of the most recognizable places in this beautiful city. We couldn’t pass up a treat there so we ate waffles sitting outside by the water. The day’s events were simple but so memorable.

During our trip planning my wife read about the Copenhagen card. For a reasonable amount you can purchase a one, three, or five day card which gives you access to all the trains and buses in the Copenhagen area. Plus it also covers entrance fees into the castles, museums, and even Tivoli (just the entrance fee to Tivoli, not for rides). The thing that was nice about the Copenhagen card is we never worried about getting on the wrong bus or train. And we never had to fish for cash when we wanted to see any of the cool stuff. We bought five day cards to begin with, then a one day for Monday. I highly recommend it.

Wednesday:

By Wednesday we had the trains mostly figured out. First thing off the train at Nørreport we stopped at a nice bakery on our way down the Gågade, the walking street where shopping options abound. The narrow cobblestone streets are closed to car traffic during shopping hours. It was always packed with foot traffic and bicycles. A short distance from the bakery we noticed an interesting store dedicated to the game Warhammer. The miniature figures drew me in, but I really wanted to find some comics. They didn’t have comics there, but Zack talked to one of the workers who gave us directions to a comic shop nearby.

We walked down the Gågade further and came to the Round Tower. Admission price covered by the Copenhagen card so why not? We climbed to the top and were rewarded with a spectacular view of the area.

After that we found the comic store and it was impressive. Two stories high filled with comics, action figures, posters etc. I bought a Danish comic called Valhalla. Walking out of the comic store we noticed another interesting shop right across the street. It was in the basement and looking down through the windows I could see it was filled with weapons, armor, clothing and all kinds of accessories for Live Action Role Playing (LARPing). It was the coolest shop ever. And the shop keepers were the friendliest of any shop we went into. I had to buy an amber crystal necklace so I can recharge my magic when it gets low.

We ate lunch outside right on the Gågade. The food was good, but more visually appealing than filling. I think that’s the Danish way. It was a little chilly but we had an enjoyable time there. After lunch we took one of the Canal Tours. The guide gave directions in English, Danish and German. It was impressive to hear him keep all three languages straight. We rode through the waterways all the way out to the harbor and saw the Little Mermaid, from the back side. She faces the land, more on that later. Even though it rained a bit we stayed comfortable and were able to see everything just fine.

Thursday:

Thursday our house host drove us way up north to Helsingør to see the Kronborg Slot, slot is the word for castle but I prefer slot now. It was so foggy that day we couldn’t even see the castle from the parking lot, which was disappointing because on a good day you can see all the way to Sweden across the ocean. We could barely see the ocean. But we did see Holger Danske sleeping in the cellar until he’s needed to save his homeland.

On the way back to Copenhagen we stopped off in Hillerød to see the Frederiksborg Slot. This castle made Kronborg seem modest in comparison. The rooms were much more lavishly decorated. And there is one room which is entirely full of Carl Bloch paintings—that alone is worth the trip. It was fascinating to see how many family portraits have accumulated over the years. I’d have to say hundreds, if not into the thousands, some of them many hundred years old.

We ate lunch close by the castle in one of the nice restaurants on the walking street in Hillerød. Zack and I had kebabs, for the second time. Zack loves a good kebab, and these were among the best we had.

Friday:

Friday we delivered a package to the mission office in downtown Copenhagen. It was fun to visit there for a bit. Then we were so close to the LDS temple we had to go see it. We ate Chinese food from one of the small vendors along the Gågade, just for the experience. Oh, and to save a little money too.

Our goal was to climb to the top of the Church of Our Saviour. It’s the one with a black and golden corkscrew spire that reaches 90 meters high (that’s almost 300 feet). There is a total 400 steps to the top of the spire, the last 150 are outside on the corkscrew spire. Unfortunately we arrived at the Church of Our Savior ten minutes after it closed for the day. We hoofed it back, and took a brief look in Tivoli. We didn’t ride any rides, we were in there just enough to get a feel for the Danish carnival experience. Even though we didn’t hike to the top of the spiral church we still walked a ton this day. And we were beat.

We went to dinner with our host family at one of their favorite local Italian restaurants in Charlottenlund. That food was delicious.

Saturday:

By Saturday we were ready for a break from walking. We had talked about renting a car so we could visit areas outside of Copenhagen. And this was the perfect time to do it. We ended up renting a BMW, which is hard to believe but it was one of the cheapest options. We drove to Odense, on Fyn. There we toured Hans Christian Andersen’s house. Following the tour we strolled down the Gågade there. We ate at Jensen's Bøfhus, a nice little steakhouse.

One of Zack’s favorite areas was Sønderborg on Jutland so while we had the car we had to make it clear over there—far west on the part of Denmark attached to Germany. We talked about making a quick trip to Germany, at one point we were as close as 20 km. But that would have made us arrive back in Charlottenlund close to midnight, something we just weren’t comfortable with. We were kind of late as it was. On the way back we ate dinner at a hamburger place called Bull in Odense. It had an interesting Americana feel to it.

Renting the car wasn’t cheap, but surprisingly the car itself was only about one third the overall cost. Gas was probably more than the car itself. And bridge tolls to get over to Odense, and back combined were nearly as much as the car rental fee. Crazy.

Sunday:

Sunday we attended church in Charlottenlund. Zack served in that ward so he knew a lot of the people. It was fun for him to see some familiar faces, and for us to be introduced to them. Up to this point our days had been so regimented, like we had to make the most of every waking moment it was nice to have a more casual day. We took a short bike ride with the kids of our host family down to the ocean, just to see what it was like. It was pretty, with lots of people enjoying the weather. Sunday was probably our best weather day of the entire trip.

Since it was Mother’s Day we did get on Skype to speak with our second son who is serving an LDS mission in Cape Verde. If you’ve never heard of Cape Verde don’t feel bad, we hadn’t either until he was called to serve there.

Monday:

Rested and rejuvenated, at least we thought we were, we just had to go shopping again on Monday, our last full day in Denmark. The difference? This time we actually bought some stuff. You see, all of the other shopping days were simply exercises leading up to this big day. We tried to find all the good things we noticed on the previous excursions. It’s an odd thing we seem to repeat quite often, and not just in foreign countries. I guess we always feel like we need to scope out the area to find the best deals before we actually hand over any money.

We also squeezed in a tour of the Rosenborg Slot. This castle was beautiful like the Frederiksborg castle. The crown jewels and the armory were the highlights for me. One more thing we had to do was see the Little Mermaid, this time from the front. Going all the way to Denmark it would have been a crying shame to return home and recount we only saw her backside. Unfortunately this little endeavor turned into a much longer walk than any of us anticipated. It was fun to see, but in a sadistic sort of way. We thought Friday was a long walking day, but this day was harder than that.

As a reward for so much unexpected exercise we treated ourselves to dinner at the Hard Rock Café. The icing on the cake followed our hurried meal. We immediately hopped on a train to meet up with my old friend and his son in Farum where we watched a soccer match between Odense and Nordsjaelland. Odense played the role of spoiler in the 0-0 tie.

Tuesday:

Tuesday we packed up and headed to the airport. And wouldn’t you know it? Mechanical problems delayed our departure for a couple of hours. Enough that we worried we’d miss our connection in Washington, DC. As it turned out we made it through customs and to our gate five minutes before our connecting flight departed—after running enough to build up a nice sweat. Just what you want sitting next to you on a five hour flight, right? Be glad you weren’t on that flight. But we were, so glad not to be delayed one more time.

Almost everything in Denmark seemed expensive. It was a struggle to keep the conversion rates in mind as we spent money. Using American Express every chance we could took a little of the sting away. Ok, maybe it just delayed it a month. When that didn’t work we tried to use our debit card Visa. That worked more often because it had a PIN tied to it. They love PIN’s in Denmark, who knew? Only once did we have to run to an ATM in order to pay for a meal. But I think that was because we were out in Charlottenlund.

I can see how the whole public transportation combined with bicycles could be a nice way to go. But for us, it’ll take more than a week to get used to it. By the end of our stay we wanted to get in our big gas guzzling vehicles and drive somewhere, anywhere, even if it was only a short distance. It’s amazing how tethered to our individual vehicles we’ve become.

*That last part was an exaggeration due to our utter exhaustion. Don’t hate us, we were delirious.*

We cherish this visit to Denmark. We experienced so much generosity and help from the family we stayed with. And it was great to spend time with my old friend. Denmark is beautiful and filled with a deep, rich heritage that we just can’t compete with in our young country. Hans Christian Andersen said “To travel is to live.” But the more places I visit, and especially the older I get, the more I feel like massaging that quote from HCA to “Traveling gives you perspective.” That perspective helps you see more clearly how many good things you have all around you, every day. For me it’s the little things: there’s no shower like my own, there’s no bed like my own, choosing what to drive my truck or my motorcycle—both are always there for me, and there’s certainly no family like my own. All of the creature comforts in the world combined could not replace what I have in my own little part of this amazing Earth. Visiting, experiencing, and tasting other cities, countries and cultures is fun, exciting, and a great opportunity to learn. But in the end, there really is no place like home.

What do you miss most when you travel?

Anything Good: Writing Inspiration

Last month I took a trip to Denmark with my wife and oldest son. Less than a week after we returned we bought a new puppy. Those two events have combined to form a direct assault against my writing time. And not just against my time—against my will to write. Denmark was exhausting, super fun and a fantastic experience, but exhausting. Our new puppy as sweet as she is demands my time; time that if I don’t give now I won’t be able to make it up later. So, instead of hands on the keyboard, for more than a month now, I’ve been spinning my wheels simply mulling my novel around inside my head. And it’s killing me, just not enough to get me to do something about it.

Even though I haven’t felt like writing I’ve forced myself to read during short bursts of free time. I’m almost finished with Wolf Mark. I enjoyed all The Night of the Owls comic books (Scott Snyder is one of my new idols), and I’m catching up on Avengers vs X-Men (AvX). In addition, I’ve been watching some TV while matching wits with our ten-week-old cocker spaniel pup; my favorite show right now is The Legend of Korra (I still need to go back and watch the Avatar series, that’s still on my todo list).

It’s times like this when inspiration comes in unpredictable ways and from unpredictable sources. While skimming my twitter feed last week I stumbled on four blogs that really inspired me—there were many, many others but these four each gave me something I desperately needed to get my writing motor going again.

Number 1: Writing Wednesday: Two Reviews for The Princess and the Hound

Mette Ivie Harrison jumpstarted my desire to write in this post. I know it’s a tumblr but it looks like a blog post to me. (note to self: Do I need a tumblr? Do some research.) I constantly struggle with comparing myself to other writers, not only in quality but in my ability to produce. I feel like I write so slowly. Mette’s words captured what I think is a great way to combat the doubts and fears I’ve been having about my own writing:

“In order to get the actual work done, the best thing to think of is of myself as a worker. Just like I can get on a bike and put down x number of miles at a certain pace, I can sit down and write the words that tell my story. They may tell the story well or badly. But my job is to get them down first of all. Then my second job is to figure out which ones are the right ones and which ones aren’t and try to figure out better ones if I can. If I can’t, I do my best.

“In the end, that’s all I can do. My best. I can’t write like someone else. I can’t write with pressure on me about how great or horrible it is. It’s just putting words to the page. Bricks and mortar. Stirring eggs up for an omelet. Putting one foot in front of another. There’s no magic in the actual creating of the words, not really. …”

What Mette says makes absolute sense, all I can be is myself, my best. So I have to struggle, work, revise, and above all else finish. Fast or slow what matters most is that I finish. Hey, someone should write a fable about that.

Number 2: On Television and Writing

Kiersten White wrote this post after suffering from a fever for a couple of days. I guess you could call what I’ve been experiencing with my writing somewhat like a fever, a sort of mental fever. Anyway, even though I haven’t watched all the TV shows she talks about, some because I want to but haven’t got around to them, and others because my personal tastes are different, I think her analysis is very insightful. And I like her voice. I attended one of Kiersten’s sessions at LDS Storymakers last month and really enjoyed her practical tips there too.

Sometimes learning about good and bad writing by watching TV is all I can do. It’s not as good as writing, but it’s better than doing nothing. By the way, before reading her post I already had plans to watch the Avatar series, but Kiersten’s post bumped that task up in priority.

Number 3: 25 Things Writers Should Stop Doing

Chuck Wendig wrote this one. And I just noticed it’s kind of old, at least in Internet time. It was posted Jan 3, 2012. I can’t remember who tweeted it last week, but whoever did thank you, the timing was perfect for me. All twenty five of these suggestions are excellent. I’m taking Chuck’s advice to yell them at myself—my blog post will serve as a permanent reminder of this moment. Several hit me right when and where I needed them to. Like #1 Stop Running Away and #2 Stop Stopping, these two hooked me from the very beginning. Then he reeled me in with #5 Stop Hurrying and #6 Stop Waiting. Finally he served me up on a platter with #7 Stop Thinking It Should Be Easier, #14 Stop Playing It Safe, and #23 Stop Leaving Yourself Off The Page. He wrote a paragraph of detail for each one, but most of them don’t need a lot of extra explanation. I only wish I’d seen this back in January and taped a copy to my laptop.

Chuck’s language is forceful and direct, you’ve been warned, but it’s exactly what I needed. It’s always good to know I’m not the only one who’s ever felt this way. Chuck has loads of writing advice, some a lot more recent than the post I cited above. I need to dive into more of what he has to offer—one more task added to my list.

Number 4: Turning Point (or the Tunnel at the End of the Darkness)

This one is a guest post by Susan Adrian on the blog distraction no. 99. Susan tells her story about quitting writing and then finding writing again in a new light. She said:

“I’d rediscovered my joy. In writing, in telling a story, in creating characters that live and breathe and make their own decisions and mistakes, but find their way. I was a writer. I’d tried to stop, but I couldn’t. It’s who I am.”

And she was inspired by a TV show—something I can relate to. She finishes her post about the new book she’s writing with this:

“I hope someday you’ll get to read it too. But even if you don’t, I’ll still be here. Writing.”

What a great ending. I feel exactly the same way.

My writing life is filled with ups and downs. Thankfully there are plenty of people out there struggling, sharing, writing and reaching out a helping hand to point me back in an upward direction each time I hit one of the inevitable lows.

Here’s a summary of the lessons I relearned this week:

• Do the work, get the words down first and foremost. And remember I can’t write like someone else. It’s ok to simply be me.
• TV can be inspiring. Pay attention to what you like, what works. And also pay attention to what doesn’t work in order to avoid the same mistakes.
• I want to stop playing it safe. (This statement is weak isn’t it? It’s laden with excuses for failure before I even get started. I know. I’m going to work on this one, to figure out the safest risk to take ;-). Sorry it’s the best I can do right now.)
• I hope someday you’ll get to read my novel too. But even if you don’t I’ll still be here. Writing.

I can think of no greater compliment for my own writing than for a single person to say you affected me, you helped me, you inspired me. These writers inspired me! I cannot thank them enough.

It feels good to be back in the chair hands on keyboard.

What inspires you? What do you do when you don’t feel like writing?