In a scene from the movie "Dances with Wolves", when a decomposed body is found on a barren trail, a less than sympathetic character mimics the deceased's imagined loved ones asking, "Why don't he write?" In many ways, the Keith of self-supposed Chronicle fame was that dead traveler. Murdered in a pre-meditated return to California, the deceased traveler continually refused to cooperate in the completion of this long-threatened correspondence. Without his voice, all attempts to write in this format seemed hollow.

Perhaps, it wasn't the writing that was hollow, but the emotions (squashed by an un-diluted overload of modern America). Or, maybe the traveler was just "mostly dead". After all, aren't deaths just the inevitable end of one experience and the beginning of whatever comes next? Didn't that traveler learn anything about impermanence? No wonder re-entry to the Western world was challenging. OK, maybe challenging is a gross understatement. My re-entry was torturously painful and much of it was masochistically self-imposed (if you like that sort of thing, pinch yourself real hard and read on). That being said, it should also be noted that my re-entry included many wonderful experiences. That I chose not to focus on them here is primarily a reflection that I learn more from the challenges (and a hunch that the challenges are more interesting to read about).

A traveler's perspective is not inherently better or worse than any other, but I arrogantly wore mine as a badge of honor. Some viewed this badge as a stain on my resume or even my character. If I had only been wise enough to avoid judging them for their (arguably myopic) judgements of me, things would have been easier. However, the real challenge was (and continues to be) resisting the temptation to judge myself by anyone else's standards. When respectable (i.e., employed) friends asked what I was doing, I felt a self-imposed need to validate my un-vested existence. Conversely, when travel friends inquired about my life's path, it seemed as if that path had been paved over and regulated by traffic signals. Surely, somewhere between these half-empty extremes had to lie a healthy balance (still just a hypothesis, but I'm running with it).

In hindsight, I see that my quest for balance began defensively. Having developed practices while traveling that led to brief but wonderful glimpses of peace and awareness, I felt it essential to protect and nurture those practices through the culture shock of re-integration. While far shy of my retreat-honed peaks of mindfulness, regular doses of meditation, yoga/exercise and nature made the landing somewhat smoother.

	a local sanctuary for birds and humans

I felt lucky to have an understanding partner to share the ride with. Were it not for our common experiences, some of the absurdities of life in the states might have begun to seem normal. What passed for normal frequently looked alluring, (because it was extremely well marketing). It was frighteningly easy to revert to my pre-travel persona and swim effortlessly in the familiar pool of conventional behavior and pre-programmed responses. It was when I recognized these relapses that I most enjoyed stirring the tranquil water by questioning accepted norms (can we turn the TV off?) and challenging standard answers (maybe gasoline isn't too expensive, but too cheap). If society wanted this awkward thrashing in the club pool of life, then the dog paddle would be an Olympic event. But that sport has no future because making waves lacks grace and is uncomfortable to watch (let alone televise). It wasn't really the attention I was after as much as the exercise. It made it slightly easier to accept things (including myself) as they were. In those calm moments I found peace. It was seldom crowded there.

Calm (not to mention quiet) was not in vogue. Instead, everything seemed artificially rushed. Busy had replaced happy for the preferred state of being and few question the faster is better philosophy. It is only when the frenzy comes to a screeching halt (i.e., traffic, computer crashes or a couple of really tall buildings get knocked down) that most people have the time to observe the frenetic pace. But in these moments of relative stillness, reflection is often usurped by the anxiety that accompanies the inability to do anything. Doing is king. Experiencing, accepting and just being merit titles far lower down the organizational chart. Nobody has a "to feel" list.

I tried to start "doing" too. My first purchase upon return was a calendar so I could slice my life into bite-size pieces. After six months of chewing on those pieces, not much had changed except we had gotten a little more comfortable at Casa Okano (after transforming two rooms of storage into a meditation center, a four-workstation home office and another generation of stuff migrated to the garage).

In December, I finally came across a job opportunity that made too much sense to ignore (up until that point, we had both effectively sabotaged the limited interviews and prospects we had accidentally stumbled across). Working as a contract consultant, meant that my time would no longer be mine, but at least I would be getting paid for every hour of it. Giving up the perceived stability of a "full time" position for more money was not a difficult concession considering I was accustomed to none of either (stability or money). Toss in an effective exemption from office politics and I was back in the work force.

Having money again seemed to quell many of our philosophical arguments against spending it. One car, two health club memberships and some new clothes added to the existing burden from a new computer and a fantastically successful laser-eye surgery and we were back among the ranks of true American consumers (working hard and saving little). But the true reality shift came in how we were slicing the pie of time. I was adamant about keeping my morning meditation, so my morning wake up bell moved up to 5AM. That made the weeknights (already crowded with gym, friends and personal maintenance) essentially early adventures. When the weekends became engulfed in a wonderfully engaging but time intensive art project for Burning Man (an underwater-themed, bicycle-powered carousel), I had achieved another unintended symptom of reintegration, a maddeningly full schedule. It didn't help that each destination (work, home, carousel and friends) was at least a half hour drive (usually more) from wherever I needed to be next. Yet, by adopting a car as the companion with which I spent the most time, I was once again certifiably American.

Just in case you didn't know what an underwater-themed bicycle-powered carosel was...
start with six bikes and a crazy idea	many weekends of paper mache	trial-by-error engineering
endless attention to detail	unbrideled creativity	and you can build a dream

I accepted (and frequently enjoyed) my life for what it was. There were still ghosts of the traveler that favorably affected my perspective, but the balance had definitely shifted toward the mainstream. I considered this a phase, an ebb that would eventually turn to flow. That change happened when Cary and I separated in July. To say it was because I had returned to my western ways and Cary had not would be an oversimlification (but it does kinda fit nicely in this context). Re-entry was officially over. "Whatever comes next" had just begun.