A Better View The barren expanse of the plains stretched seemingly infinite. As I glance off my phone for a moment, I see Tuc completely asleep lying next to me, appearing to be partially consumed by the seat. Looking down the endless road Jordan, another close friend, is also starting to fall into unconsciousness. We have been driving for close to 5 hours at this point and time starts to get slower. Thankfully Jordan’s father had been taking the reins for the duration of the voyage. As I glanced up from my phone every fifteen minutes, I noticed that the barren planes of beige tall grass started to give way to marks of civilization. Tumbleweeds and wind blocks gave way to military recruitment billboards and rotted out homes. I couldn’t help …show more content…
We needed to find some remaining supplies from the nearby town. So we would and after driving around for a while, we found a local Kroger vendor. After getting most of the groceries, we started drifting out again on a road that seemed angry to be traveling on, and I was just waiting for the truck to park. As the tall grass around us started shifting from a brown to a deep emerald green, the barren plains transformed into a beautiful forest. As we finally finished unpacking after only an hour or two, the area's calmness and clear air started to kick in. The mountains looked at us, almost begging to be explored. Tuc started to feel unbalanced internally as he lay down. Over the course of the next few days his illness would turn into a small fever, he would be bedridden for most of the …show more content…
Unlike in a town, there is no light pollution or even lights for that matter that are far into the woods. If you look at the blank night sky, it is something grand. With the stars fully in view, like a field of blooming flowers, it made the voyage worth it. I remember one night specifically. It must have been eleven or ten in the night. Tuc was per usual in a coma unwakeable, Jordan and I were still awake, looking at the fire die out. Suddenly, he spoke. “Look up.” Still focused on the fire that was letting out desperate flames and too tired to even register that I was being spoken to, he chirps up again. “Look up” he said louder than before. I manage to muster out a drowsy “What?” as I meet his sepia. “Look at the stars.” He uttered. As I look up and see the timeless mosaic, I start to appreciate how clear it is. The specks of color ranging from red to purple start to hit my eyes and as they adjust I start to see hundreds go to thousands very quickly before me. He begins to spur “You see, This is what I wanted to show you. Oftentimes we are so caught up in the moment we fail to see the small things. That’s what being human is, the small things.” As he talks, I realize that I have been caught in the rush for some time now. Caught in a river that keeps pushing me. Out of ignorance or out of simple stubbornness, I refused to leave the river. I refused to look upon the small things, I ate and walked fast for the past several
The drive to cross the Kentucky border had taken hours and hours of strenuous patience to finally arrive in another state. The view was by far country like as hints of cow manure could be smelled far from a distance. We drive through small towns, half the size of our hometown of Glen Ellyn had been the biggest town we've seen if not smaller. The scenery had overwhelmed us, as lumps of Earth from a great distance turned to perfectly molded hills, but as we got closer and closer to our destination the hills no longer were hills anymore, instead the hills had transformed to massive mountains of various sizes. These mountains surrounded our every view as if we had sunken into a great big deep hole of green pastures. Our path of direction was seen, as the trails of our road that had followed for numerous hours ended up winding up the mountainous mountains in a corkscrew dizzy-like matter.
The Hero’s Journey is a basic template utilized by writers everywhere. Joseph Campbell, an American scholar, analyzed an abundance of myths and literature and decided that almost all of them followed a template that has around twelve steps. He would call these steps the Hero’s Journey. The steps to the Hero’s Journey are a hero is born into ordinary circumstances, call to adventure/action, refusal of call, a push to go on the journey, aid by mentor, a crossing of the threshold, the hero is tested, defeat of a villain, possible prize, hero goes home. The Hero’s Journey is more or less the same journey every time. It is a circular pattern used in stories or myths.
After three weeks of waiting for the grass to grow, it finally sprouted up and we started our journey for Oregon. After the first towns in the beginning, The people guiding me began to throw materials out of the back of the wagon. That's when I noticed that their was all sorts of stuff scattering the trail. That night, my guiders unloaded a pile of assorted materials. In the morning, not to my surprise the wagon was lighter and easier to move. The journy was very dry for the next few weeks it was very dry, except when we hit these little towns. We would stop for no more than a day to stock up on energy, then keep on walking.
Joseph Campbell studied ancient greek mythology for many years. Joseph filled each stage of the journey very well. He accepted all the challenges he got and all the help he needed. He really knew how to fulfill all those stages. Like everyone goes through a heroic journey everyone has to have a story to tell. My story is very contrasty from Joseph’s because he really knew what all the stages meant. My hero's journey consists of my threshold crossing which was when I started depending on myself more than I did on others, my helpers/mentors like my parents, teachers,my sister and many more influential people in my life and my rewards were getting awards in school, having a nice family, and many friends.
I wasn’t even outside but I could feel the warm glow the sun was projecting all across the campsite. It seemed as if the first three days were gloomy and dreary, but when the sun on the fourth day arose, it washed away the heartache I had felt. I headed out of the trailer and went straight to the river. I walked to the edge, where my feet barely touched the icy water, and I felt a sense of tranquility emanate from the river. I felt as if the whole place had transformed and was back to being the place I loved the most. That day, when we went out on the boat, I went wakeboarding for the first time without my grandma. While I was up on the board and cutting through the wake of the boat, it didn’t feel like the boat was the one pulling and guiding me, it felt like the river was pushing and leading me. It was always nice to receive the reassurance from my grandma after wakeboarding, but this time I received it from my surroundings. The trees that were already three times the size of me, seemed to stand even taller as I glided past them on the river. The sun encouraged me with its brightness and warmth, and the River revitalized me with its powerful currents. The next three days passed by with ease, I no longer needed to reminisce of what my trips used to be like. Instead, I could be present in the moment, surrounded by the beautiful natural
Dr. D is a cardiothoracic surgeon. He was my hero. He may well still be, even though he is a throw-back to the days when I was more concerned about science than symbolism.
In the heart of the bustling city of Arkania, where the clang of steel echoed through the narrow streets and the scent of spices hung heavy in the air, I, Kai, lived a life bound by the rigid rules of tradition and duty. At twenty years old, I was already a skilled martial artist, my every move honed by years of training under the watchful eye of my master, Sensei Hiroshi. But despite my proficiency in combat, I harbored a quiet yearning for something more, a longing that whispered to me in the stillness of the night. Little did I know that my journey toward self-discovery was about to take an unexpected turn.
December 2016 – We wish you all a very joyous Holiday season!! THE WALTHER family has been blessed watching life unfold in so many exciting ways right before our eyes! The days fly quicker, boys grow and mature more at every turn, their classes are more challenging to understand, and we are excited for what the future holds for all of us. But in hindsight, it’s been another wonderful year!! We have so much to be thankful for – and so little to complain about – though we need to remind ourselves how fortunate a life we have – red or blue state matters not, we’re all lucky to be living under the Stars and Stripes.
As I walked through the rundown city, there was no other living thing in sight. Everything seemed bleak and lifeless. It was strange to see a place that used to be so lively, deserted, and ugly. The air was orange like it had been stained with rust, and the water was completely green and covered in algae blooms. The air was crisp, it was the type of lonely wind that sends shivers down your spine.
I am so astonished and honored to send you a letter from your very special admirer. I now know the struggles and difficulties that you withstood during your lifetime, and no one in this world can feel the same way you did after World War II, including me. Your life story has given me so much inspiration and insight to the philosophical wonders of the world, and this has influenced me to become a better person. I appreciate the gifts that God has given me, such as love, family, and companionship. Again, I feel sorrow for the losses and hardships that obstructed your goals to becoming a successful person.
In The Big City of New York, when the Empire State was Orange, White, and Green a boy was born. The date was Wednesday, August 15, 2014, as known as, Shrey Patel’s birthday and also Indian Independence Day. The things I cared about all after the moment my eyes opened was to explore the world. I always cared about family, traveling, and sports.
It seemed like yesterday when the car chugged down the seemingly empty road, black smoke pouring from the overheated exhaust pipe. We were only ten minutes away, not like I was counting, but this was a big moment for me. The car suddenly slowed, pulling onto a bumpy gravel driveway, I knew this was it. I slid my door open with ease and excitement, thudding my feet on the firm ground as I enthusiastically awaited what was to come. As I entered the serene landscape, nature filled the misty air with a fresh, invigorating fragrance.
With each heavy footfall, my eyes drooped further and further, enticing a permanent scowl on my face, accentuating the monotony of travel. My bag followed me, making sounds of its own for each inch of ground gained, as if fighting a losing battle. I was traveling with my family, tired-looking, although the flight was not long. Spring break was only beginning, and my mind was still chained to school. We left the airport, standing and waiting at the counter to receive a rental car, and drove into Munich, the manufacturing heartland of the German nation, with gray skies scowling down on me as if mocking my mood and buildings that survived the testament of time.
Walking, there is no end in sight: stranded on a narrow country road for all eternity. It is almost dark now. The clouds having moved in secretively. When did that happen? I am so far away from all that is familiar. The trees are groaning against the wind’s fury: when did the wind start blowing? Have I been walking for so long that time hysterically slipped away! The leaves are rustling about swirling through the air like discarded post-it notes smashing, slapping against the trees and blacktop, “splat-snap”. Where did the sun go? It gave the impression only an instant ago, or had it been longer; that it was going to be a still and peaceful sunny day; has panic from hunger and walking so long finally crept in? Waking up this morning, had I been warned of the impending day, the highs and lows that I would soon face, and the unexpected twist of fate that awaited me, I would have stayed in bed.
I slowly trudged up the road towards the farm. The country road was dusty, and quiet except for the occasional passing vehicle. Only the clear, burbling sound of a wren’s birdsong sporadically broke the boredom. A faded sign flapped lethargically against the gate. On it, a big black and white cow stood over the words “Bent Rail Farm”. The sign needed fresh paint, and one of its hinges was broken. Suddenly, the distant roar of an engine shattered the stillness of that Friday afternoon. Big tires speeding over gravel pelted small stones in all directions. The truck stopped in front of the red-brick farmhouse with the green door and shutters. It was the large milking truck that stopped by every Friday afternoon. I leisurely passed by fields of corn, wheat, barley, and strawberries. The fields stretched from the gradient hills to the snowy mountains. The blasting wind blew like a bellowing blizzard. A river cut through the hilly panorama. The river ubiquitously flowed from tranquil to tempestuous water. Raging river rapids rushed recklessly into rocks ricocheting and rebounding relentlessly through this rigorous river. Leaves danced with the wind as I looked around the valley. The sun was trapped by smoky, and soggy clouds.