86 MHz

The adrenaline rush was incredible. The pedal smashed to the floor, shifting harder and faster then ever before, burning through tight turns, flying up and down steep, daunting hills and across the dam. The iPod is bumpin, my window is down and the lake smells like cool summer evenings. My escape. My sanctuary. My own little world.


At the north end of the lake I switch the iPod playlist to something more chill and light up a cigar. The only lights to be seen are from the park ranger's boat on the water, and dim glow of the dashboard inside the car. Laying across the hood of my tired ride under a blanket of darkness and twinkling lights, I stare into space, hoping to see a distant flash of brilliance streak across the sky.

I begin to ponder and my mind wonders. Think about how incredibly far away the nearest star is. Yet we can see it. Some stars are hundreds of light years away, yet we can see the light that emits from it. Insane. We are nothing. Insignificant. Minuscule elements of unknown vastness. Yet our minds wonder and we continue to ponder.

I wish I was in Denver to spend the day with you, instead I'll be at the library all day. What kind of state institution schedules our last weekend of studying during Mother's Day? I'm going directly to the top on this one, I'll organize an angry mob of pitchfork and torch wielding protesters-I may be detained for civil disobedience. You'll bail me out of jail, right? Cool, you've always been there for me, I knew I could count on you.

I hope you have a great day, you deserve it. I can't wait to come visit in a couple of weeks.

I love you.

"When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained." -Mark Twain

"Don't ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive." -Howard Thurman

In my bedroom on the floor next to my computer desk is an old radio/record player—it was given to me by my father, and it was given to him by his father. The record player is a wooden box that sits on the ground with two distinguished knobs on the front, a bit larger than a milk crate. The knob on the left adjusts the volume while the knob on the right tunes the frequency. Outmoded, obsolete and forgotten, the old fashioned radio is the eldest of my possessions—ageless, quaint and nostalgic.

I try to picture my grandfather as a young teenage boy lying on his belly across the floor in front of the radio, patiently and methodically adjusting the knobs. Static. He tweaks the knob on the right just slightly. Nothing. More static. He adjusts the knob on the left and takes the volume down just a touch so as not to wake anyone. Again, he slowly turns the knob back and forth, waiting…listening…feeling…

The radio is tuning into a frequency—quiet, invisible radio waves transmitting signals and messages through the air. Without a way to receive and interpret such frequencies they go unnoticed—but don’t vanish. Radio towers transmit radio signals 24 hours per day, 7 days per week. Without his radio, my grandfather couldn’t see these frequencies, hear them or feel them, but he had a radio, a listening ear and some patience—and with all factors permitting, my grandfather tuned into a clear frequency. Lying on his belly for hours at a time in silence, listening attentively and patiently to the scratchy, static voices playing over the airwaves, my grandfather is in tune.