Traces of the Summer 2012

Driftwood piled on a rocky shoreline, with a turquoise lake and mountain range in the background.


There are so many places to go in this vast world, and so much still to do while I'm young—and yet, at times, a deep sense of having no place for my heart creeps in, and I find myself looking back again and again at the path I’ve come. Unresolved questions still linger in a corner of my mind. Every so often, they resurface—bringing with them a fleeting, sweet taste of something detached from reality.

Red kayaks resting on the calm lake under a bright sky, with open meadows and hills in the background.


Times I’ve passed through unrestrained.
At times heavy and desperate, at others lighter than dust—I must have staggered and swayed, carried along by whatever drew me, whichever way the wind blew.

Two mountain goats standing on a grassy meadow near a road, with forest and distant peaks in the background.


I want to be drenched in a downpour—like the rush of ecstasy in the rain shown in The Shawshank Redemption.


A boy mid-flip diving into a pool, with a swimmer in the water and spectators lounging behind.


I want to run endlessly across the plains of western Canada.
Like Forrest Gump, like Jack Kerouac, in search of a conclusion where I might encounter my ideal—wherever that may be.

A camper trailer parked on a gravel path within a dense pine forest campground.


Life, you see...is a sheet of thin ice that might not end in a happy resolution, like a drama or a film. Often—too often—it is the wicked and the cunning who win, all the way to the end. The righteousness and noble values we’ve been taught to admire through what we see, read, and hear—they have become tools in the hands of the corrupt, toys for the scheming. And in condemning their brutal injustice, we sometimes start to mirror them—
catching ourselves in the act with a chill of horror.

A log cabin glowing under a porch light at night, with a swing bench and warm wooden textures.


Me—I mistake small acts done for my own pleasure and satisfaction for “service.” I toss in a few dollars and console myself with the thought that I’ve helped someone. I believe I have faith, despite it lacking sincerity, purity, or devotion. I assume my thoughts and actions are always right, while I think others need correcting. When—if ever—will I change?


A child standing by a turquoise lake, with lodges, trees, and mountains forming the background.

A vast mountain lake under a cloud-filled sky, with two people standing by the shoreline.


Last summer left behind many traces. The mountains and the fields, the lakes—my beloved family, my brothers. Meeting people, talking, sharing hearts. The countless stars that came and went. Those stars felt like our true and noble hopes—ones you must seek to see, ones that don’t show themselves unless you try. They were like precious people we’re meant to walk with. Long-held, painful thoughts came back to me as well.

Now, the traces of that summer seem to be slipping under the shadow of autumn. Like a song that fades from memory unless we call it often, those traces too will slowly lose their color and disappear—but I want to remember them, love them, and savor them for as long as I can.

Canoers paddling across a turquoise lake, surrounded by forested slopes and alpine mountains.


I want to walk that high road. That narrow road. That deep road.

People sitting on a lakeside deck overlooking an emerald lake, surrounded by dense conifer forests and mountains.




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