Daniel Trussell
Stories (4)
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When a Man Meets a Mountain
Life sure has a strange way of revising. Often it critiques us in ways we'd rather edit ourselves, but there seems to be no way of changing it. Some catch breaks early on, while others go to the grave wondering where they went wrong. Every story gets told, regardless of how glamorous or glum. Fortunately, unless you take the quick road out, life keeps going on. This story serves to thank myself for being, well me. Nothing has been easy about the past five years of my life. At 20, I got west nile virus, my spine curved, love for fitness waned, and with that, my heart sank. Three friends around committed suicide, and I became curious as well. Who signed me up for this life of self-discovery? Deep down, I loved to sing, dance, give everyone hugs, and be nothing but a friend to all, but something kept me blending with the crowd. Several mental and physical health constructs got in the way of self-expression. I cared what other people thought of me, and this often kept me from singing and dancing; you could say I was living life for others, not myself. Because I acted out from this disingenuous place, it's no wonder I didn't thrive. As a yoga instructor now, I'm quite aware of the energy/aura people carry, and mine was certainly off-putting. Maybe I was justified in my sadness, but there wasn't a whole lot of action aimed at change. Depression had it's way with me, and I was just in survival mode. Enter yoga. In an unlikely place, I found a teacher who would ignite a shift in my heart. At eighteen, I developed an interest for writing, which helped me reflect on the hard times, but yoga gave me inspiration and a calling, a direction. Stevi, as a junior in college, taught me to breath for the first time. Just how I think there's little l and big L, love, I believe there's little b and big B, breathing. My whole life had been taking in oxygen, not Breathing. Stressed out, I'd run toward external stimuli for a release, but I never knew answers could be found internally. She began teaching me that knowledge could arise from others knowledge, but wisdom had to be found on the road to self-discovery. The "woe is me" anthem in my head started to change. Instead of complaining about arriving in this universe without asking, I began asking why I'd arrived here. My christian background really didn't assist me in finding peace. This fear narrative of hell loomed over, and I didn't feel any form of free will. The whole live to die or die to live rhetoric repeated itself over and over, and I had to get away. Yoga connected me to the universe, and ironically, to God, for the first time. You could say a light switch had turned on, but it didn't make me any more accepted. Around campus, I was seen as different. In church, my beliefs made me an outlier. I had become everyone's acquaintance, but nobody's friend. When I took a magnifying glass to analyze the situation, I could see my life had no purpose. Will power comes from falling in love with something, and I had no love. Many things I thought I loved had been stripped away from me, and the chalkboard needed attention again. Years went by, and life felt like nothing but a drag. I thought I was digging a hole that couldn't be climbed out of. College days were nearing a close, and I felt hopeless. Graduating with a general studies degree doesn't guide purpose too well, I found. Funny things is, I was wrong. Summer felt strange for the first time, but my shell was about to be cracked. After applying for numerous jobs without a reply, I stumbled upon coolworks.com. While my friends were sleeping a hangover off at Hangout music festival in Orange Beach, Alabama, I was applying for jobs. They all told me of their "big boy" opportunities they'd found, so I felt a bit sheepish looking for an opportunity here. Little did I know, as coined by David Brooks, life has two mountains to climb, and I had already summited the first one. Society had encouraged me to follow the traditional route, and it did nothing but eat me up. This was not my framework of existence, and Camp Walt Whitman, Piermont, NH, would open my eyes to the second mountain. I was at base camp, ready to climb. Ironically, maybe serendipitously, I became a hiking guide for the summer. Based in the White Mountains, along the Appalachian Trail, Campcraft would facilitate hikes for all campers. Campers, 6-15, would load up for a weekly hike for seven weeks of summer. Mount Moosilauke, Lonesome Lake, with the youngins, The Presidential Range, Mount Washington, Franconia Ridge for those interested in a challenge or an overnight. Each of these hikes left an impression on me. Much of the summer felt like resistance to the life my peers thought I should live, so Whitman's words, "Resist much, obey little," reverberated in my ears as the summer moons waxed and waned. In many ways, I felt like an utter failure being here, but it was my the first step towards my "personal legend." The reigns of my being had been let loose. While "Baseball Song" by Kenny Rogers played over campfire, I acted out the song, singing front in center by the fire, with all of camp around. I caught bass in the lake, ran them into the main office, and a fishing activity came to life weeks later. I'd come to bear the name Mississippi, and I wore it with pride. Different was my tagline, and it was beautiful. Of all the life changing moments experienced over the summer, one reigns supreme: A three day overnight with seven nine-year-olds on the Tuckerman Ravine. By no means had we arrived with perfect timing. The forecast promised rain, and it didn't lie. Tuckerman's, a popular backcountry ski destination, can be skied in June of most years, and this trail is known to be brutal at all times. The fastest wind speed was recorded right here on this trail's peak: Mount Washington, 231 MPH. We were not exempt from this weather in July. After a leisure uphill climb and a nice bowl of NE clam chowder at the summit, the temperature plummeted. Unfortunately for us, we had to brave the weather. The forecast was not looking to trend towards sunny skies. Temperatures plummeted, the wind started howling, and I was miserable. Three miles out from shelter, it was no surprise the kids had a meltdown. For a moment, I panicked, but the pressure made something in me shine. A story-telling light switch turned on, and tears of misery turned to laughter in a moments time. Meesah was born, a fictional critter that can be thanked for eyebrows we have today. I'm working on the copyright, so the whole story won't be shared, but his story captivated the audience of campers. We set a blazing pace back to Hermit Lake Shelters, and by golly it was a changed group. Long into the night, extended stories of Meesah's journey's were told, all because I started acting out of my genuine self: a story teller. The following morning I'd awake to the kids bowing at my sleeping bag, repeating over and over again, "all hail Mees king, all hail Mees king." The story would make it back to camp and take over my time. Every camper wanted to hear the legend of Meesah. After all the years of asking God, or whoever rules over the universe, for directions, I felt a calling. It happened when I finally let go of what the world wanted for me and took off my shackles and chains. I had the key to them all along and made myself captive. This story does not serve to praise this moment for opening a world into a mental or physical utopia. Life is still quite difficult. Some days the stories don't come, but I discovered a gift through stepping off the paved road. Writing may always be a hobby, but I sure have big plans if something hits. Over 500 works have been written since Meesah's birth in 2018, and I don't plan on stopping anytime soon. I've had opportunities to touch lives in spectacular ways because of a commitment to words. I couldn't be more thankful for books that act as guides: The Alchemist, where I learned to explore my personal legend; The Gita, where I've learned to believe in myself; The Celestine Prophecy, where I learned to search for moments of serendipity. Cool to think their visions were birthed from nowhere but a desire to tell a story. Life is still unbelievably tough, as I still battle health problems daily, but there are sweet messages to gather from living a life of purpose. Maybe my stories will always be shared best when spoken. Maybe I'll be a best selling author one day. Apparently only God knows, and I'll leave it to Him to guide. I'll keep living a life in tune with my genuine nature, smiling through the highs and lows. There's a life worth living out there, and you just have to find it. Feel free to give me a call 769-218-7606
By Daniel Trussell4 years ago in Motivation
A Hermit Named Mervin
Legend of a hermit lived a little village outside of the Badwood Forest. In recent times, few good things came out of this dainty town. A bad spirit loomed over the few homes and businesses, believed to have been cursed by dark magic back in the civilizations beginnings. Let’s just say the truth got a bit lost in the woods, but magic certainly lived within the swamp. One legend kept people around, and soon you’ll see why. You could say the reward was as good as one of pirate bounty or stumbling on a gold mine, yet you couldn’t seem to find a soul who knew of the reality. Meer speculation loomed around, but the mystery was enough to keep people going. Men were driven to stay here, believing if they found it, their life as well as future generations would be bountiful. Endless money equated with endless power in a town where these two possibilities seemed an impossibility, there was a worthy cause. As the story goes, a guy named Mervin became a hermit after becoming the town's scapegoat. Growing up in the Badwoods, his life was good. Industry was booming in the town of Bitterbrew, as the Balabac River came on the map for production of root wine and beer stemming from seepage in the boggy roots of the swamp. Known to have a quality of euporia and glee when consumed, people fought tooth and nail to get their hands on this magic. Occupants labored day and night to keep up with the demand, but the good times would not last. As greed welled in the heads of undeserving tree tender’s, unsustainable harvesting preceded the trees growing black. Production continued, as the farmers did not have another opportunity for profit in the swamp, but the root no longer provided ethereal qualities to those who consumed it. Demand plummeted, and without answers from Mervin, the only botanist around, someone had to be blamed. Hunched from year in the lab and detested for his inability to solve the dilemma, Mervin was blamed for the change within the trees. Labeled a witch and villain of the town, he decided to flee into the woods with nothing but a cane and a little black book. Anyone who spoke his name was cast away. Down the Balabac they were sent on a shanty boat, and the river was known to consume many who found their fate left to it. Miles away in the darkest part of the vast forest, Mervin found a place he deemed undetectable. Hidden by rock formations all around and a cave system with only a peep of light stemming through, he grew what he needed to live and enjoyed life of solace. His friends were the birds, trees, and animals belonging to the forest. He felt no need for anything more. Never having much of a life, this seemed like paradise. How worthy Mervin stood to receive a blessing, but nothing would make him leave the first place he called home, not even a gift capable of driving a sane mane to insanity. One girl, who never spoke his name out of fear, searched far and wide for Mervin after finding a little black book. Although writing was illegible, Celia could tell someone had written words, and surely the book had been placed in her path for a reason. Her head ached as she attempted to discern the book’s meaning. Celia thought Mervin might have known she was searching for him out of love, so this was left as a map, but what good did an empty map serve? See now, Mervin discovered the serum of the trees still served a powerful purpose after all. As he sat by a fire one day before being expelled, serum spilled onto the pages of the black book in his lap. The black liquid turned clear and vanished into the soaked pages. As he left it by the fire to dry, the pages turned black again, and an uncontrollable smile streaked across his face. What he would need this secretive ink for he did not know, but he had to acknowledge the discovery of this ink as meaningful. Having a similar belief, Celia forcefully turned the pages of the book she saw the hermit leave with on the day he was outcast. Maybe there was a magic word to say, timing of the day, or correct lighting from the sun. She did not know how to unlock this secret, but hope was not gone. Years went on, hairs turned gray, but something continued her desire to press on. And then, she slipped up. A grievous action by the standard of bitterroot was committed. In her unconscious state of dreaming, Celia spoke Mervin’s name. As she pleaded to be released, no mercy was given. Being the first perpetrator in years, Celia was cast into the river without boat. The rapids turned and churned, and tight was the book in her hand. After all, it was all she had, and the belief of Mervin’s goodness too powerfully resonated in her head. It was the dead of winter, and Celia, beaten and bruised had survived the easiest part of the new journey. She had to get warm, and fast. Using her skills developed over all the years searching for Mervin, a fire grew quickly. Moss and twigs made enough kindling to light the damp wood around. The book she had taken such meticulous care for over the years was ruined, Celia feared. Exhaustion caused her to fade into oblivion. The book sat by fire to dry, and soon enough Celia awoke to the awakening of the woods. Embers burned, and Celia’s eyes exploded into excitement. “The fire, the fire! There are the words I’ve been searching for!” A map it was after all. Her hopes were not in vain. For Mervin had been granted a gift unfit for a hermit undesiring wealth or fame. Celia, oh Celia, one day you will find me. The words were a mystery, for they were too dangerous for just anybody. Soo much I’ve wished to go out and find you. I see your love as true, but a hermit I am, fine without anybody. One day I was blessed with a seed from the skies. Wondering what it might be, I analyzed it for quite some time. Unlike another, I put it in the ground. Like the rest, it began to sprout. Year one, only green leaves erupted in the spring, but it grew fast and tall, year two leaves beamed. Yet this time it sprouted, I could not believe my eyes. These were not just leaves. Real money grew before my eyes. Soo badly the desire came to go out and tell the world, but then I remembered how they treated me, and I swore not to tell. Many times, you searched, and I saw another following your tracks. Although I wanted to tell you, I had to speak through dreams. It was not safe to disclose this location, nor will it ever be. Here is a map, by the river I know you found me. See the secret came from within the very thing that dispelled me. The serum served as a secret writing, unlocked through fire. Thank you for believing a connection with me matters. Here I am happy, but so much money has grown. This map will show how to find me, and I know you will use these resources to change the world. Celia believed she had to be dreaming. All along she had not chased the hermit for wealth. Money, she had never known, and she lived by herself. How much money could this possibly be, she thought. Then she let the thought come to pass. She just wanted her moment with the hermit to come, and finally, it could be seen at last. Hidden so well, it’s no wonder so much time passed. Mervin would not be found again without a map. There she stumbled upon the cave. It was as if Mervin knew. He came out from the ground and grinned, no longer hunched and even younger than she had remembered him. His words, written many years in the past, still stood, but the desire for love grew as he saw Celia prance and dance through the woods. After years of singing of them being one together in time, they took their fortune and went out in the night. Legend has it, they ferried and moved to prosperous lands away; Celia and Mervin, money grown from a tree in a cave. The people of Bitterbrew bickered, as Celia sent money to build up her family that remained. Curse of Mervin’s name turned to legend, and one thing still looms around the Badwood forest today. Word of a money tree lives, and indeed it may be found, but only through Mervin, Celia, or the little black book, and they'd vanished as the dreams of this once prosperous, greedy town.
By Daniel Trussell4 years ago in Fiction
Awkward is Alright
A little story about being a late bloomer Today I’m a pretty difficult person to figure out. Hell, I’m working on understanding my “brand” daily. Over the past 10 years, my jobs have scattered as dust in a desert, as have my passions. Few have any correlation, but it’s all been a journey away from being defined by my peers and grabbing those reigns myself. From the time I was born, it was clear I was different. I loved wandering the woods, picking up critters, and received the nickname “bug” after refusing to refrain from picking up spiders in a Mississippi Swamp. I wowed teachers with my voice at age 7, a time when I had perfect pitch, and I walked with my head held high. My teeth were so wacky, I was the first of my class to get braces in 2nd grade, and even that drew my shoulders back a bit. You could say I felt like a king of elementary school. I was cool. I’d go on to become quite the athlete, friend to all, and wearing a Livestrong bracelet and Phiten necklace (ensured perfect balance), tube socks, and smedium shirts, I’d start dating a 6th grader in 4th. Standing 6 inches shorter and just a few weight classes under, my charisma could not be shaken. Her friends and sister would pass me notes in the hallway, and we’d rarely talk in person. The parents couldn’t know, so we’d secretly talk on the home phone, and I’d sneak over to the neighbor’s house to, awkwardly, pick up love packages for holidays (Santa claus build-a-bears and one lb Hershey bars). Thirteen years later, common law must apply, cause we never broke things off. Exiting Elementary school, you could say things seemed to be on the rise. Middle school was supposed to be grand, sports were only ramping up, and this summer was poised for grandeur. My, was I in for a rude awakening. Braces would become uncool, growth spirts would be delayed, the singing voice would be marred by upper-classmen bullies, and I could not have been less prepared. The future Eagle scout motto I’d embody, be prepared, was not in the mental wheelhouse, and the vehicle driving my life began to break down. I’d been passed up on the sports field, my friends were hanging with girls while I was searching for critters in the creek, I gave up singing and started speaking in a deeper, forced, voice, and I used sharpie to try and create armpit hair (until I got called out for it). I rocked one hell of a bowl cut, and did erroneous things to gain attention: nearly got kicked out of summer camp for bringing cigars I'd found walking around my neighborhood and cut my own hair in the locker room to avoid in school suspension. I was the laughing stock of the whole school, and I’d join them in banter. My insecurity blanket was up, but I was hiding behind it. The world couldn't know I was hurting. I’d get my youth pastor to pick me up on CrossFit days to avoid the potential bullying if had to take a shower with my 15-year-old, still prepubescent body. It’s tough when your balls don’t drop till your 17. I’d given up on pursuing music or becoming a professional athlete. I found little joy from anything. I’d let other people define what made me “cool.” Instead of walking with the head high, picking up chicks with braces, singing at the top of my lungs because it made me feel good, walking up to swing a baseball bat knowing I’d hit the ball (dad always told me to keep a loose booty), and picking up critters to continue with Steve Irwin aspirations, I’d fallen victim to the cultural norm storm. The fact that I was different had not changed, but now I was just entertaining for it, rather than accepting raw form Daniel. I ended my sophomore year of high school alone and totally unsure of who I was. Just as summer approached, I was just getting curious with fitness for the first time. Sitting at a buck twelve, bench pressing all of 70 pounds, I got under a squat rack for the first time. Lineman from the football team were set up on a rack with 3 plates on each side, making the total weight 315 lbs. For some reason, I saw it a good idea to give it a shot. Five spotters, scared I’d collapse under the load, surrounded me as I stepped under the bar. I politely asked them to provide no assistance, and proceeded to inhale deeply as the hips sank down. To everyone’s amazement, no assistance was needed as I exhaled up from parallel. Endorphins pulsed through me, my mind was stupefied for the first time in years.. From where did this strength come from, I asked myself. Apparently, my scrawny little body did have some fight after all, and I left from the gym different that day. I now know that true strength in life come from the mind, not the body, but this moment provided a powerful Segway into that mentality I embody today. The next week I would be told I couldn’t come over to some “friends” house because my presence would be embarrassing, and I would call my best friend to have his butt answer on a Bluetooth call. I listened to my name belittled to the point of hilarity. To be frank, I was heartbroken, but I could not be more thankful for this page of my story. I elected to upend my life in search for true friends, who embrace me for who I am at the core. After a transfer of schools, lonely experience in college, and a big move out west, I’m thriving again. I’ve gone on to love soo much more fully, and life smiles back at me in return. I got back into singing, started dancing hard whenever music turns on. Journals are now being filled about life reflections, and I’m totally okay with not fitting in. Life’s thrown me more curveballs at 25 that I ever bargained for, but that’s why I learned the game of baseball, not to be a professional. I’ve picked people up in the darkest of times and watched happiness switches turn on. I’ve fly fish guided, hated it, ski instructed, loved it, guided on the Appalacian trail, became a story teller, used that to become a poet, write children’s books, and become a yoga instructor to expand my mind to continue meeting life’s storms. My health’s taken a shit, but I’ll figure it out. It’s still hard for me to trust friend’s these days, but I’ll still try my dardest to make people feel love every day. There are soo many more steps to be taken, and I know the miles will be tough. Sometimes the bad weather must come to remind us of the good times past and to come. No weight you hold over your mind can ever be too great if you remain true to yourself, just as the greatest storm can produce the most beautiful rainbow. It's silly to me how this all started with iron weight on my back, baby pit hairs finally finding their way to my armpits and other undesirable places. It just goes to show the silliness of what we yearn for in life and the true beauty of the awkwardness when we embrace it. Storms are good. Bring em on. I only ask for a rainbow at the close. I feel the leprechaun stands at the end to show us that we are gold. That's more precious than some metal you can hold. I’m a misfit, you might be too; smile about it; be original .
By Daniel Trussell4 years ago in Humans
Desire's Dearest Friend
I woke from a dream this morning with a smile, no unusual occurrence. Yet, walking over to the mirror, that smile welled larger than life when red stained teeth stood before my eyes. You know the feeling when you wake up from a dream too good to be true, and you can't help but fantasize if it were. In this rare moment, real memories flowed in and filled the mind with butterflies. A river of hope and glee, not sadness and disconnectedness, flowed. Months of dating in a new, unfamiliar world, with little more than a sexual, pent up drive behind each encounter. A real date had transpired, not ending in sex or even a kiss, but a hug that gave me goosebumps all the way into fingertips. We matched on a dating app, as did I with the rest. I sure didn't see it going anywhere and stepped out for one more chance. His profile bored me, but I didn't see it fair to judge his ability to swoon me. Maybe a changed perspective could lead to something less casual? I only selected that option because I believed people feared the serious word these days. Anyways… I’m getting carried away. See last time I went for the pickup line, the guy left me in the middle of the night… No note, no message, no call, nothing. Looking in the same mirror, a blank face stood before me, no smile, no hope, and no sleep, much less dreams. Well, there were dreams, but one’s of discomfort and uneasiness, a rustling which woke me to realize I was alone. Oh, how good it felt to grasp something real for change. Thankful to have interacted with a heart beating whole, not torn, something was different. The heart sank for a moment as I walked down my stairs and out the door. I thought I saw his truck pull away, but couldn’t tell. God, please tell me he’s not a stalker. Why would he run away? Surely, he saw me if that was in fact him. Scratching my head, don’t overthink this Desi, you are meant to be desired and loved. What’d I even come out here to do? Oh yes, the mail. Letting out a yawn, it stopped half way. Aarzoo had stopped by after all. A bouquet of meticulously selected flowers, the daisy and the daffodil, hand-picked and wrapped in Mississippi forest picked twine. Not only had he heard me last night, he noticed me. The bouquet on my blouse he brought to life. Of course, I closed my eyes as tight and slapped myself silly. Desi, you are dreaming, and this is not reality. Nestled in the mailbox, a little letter sat. The mind settled into euphoria, arms crossed, the letter cradled into the chest. Opening the heart to receive words, no longer daydreaming, but living, breathing, breaking a seal of a letter written to her. How the emotions ring different in this moment from the rest, a seal being broken, not my heart. Well, don’t speak too soon Desi, read the words first: Desi, I’m not one to jump to conclusions until now. You asked me to set up the date, and to each event selected, you were wowed. Two beings united for one simple night. I left from you feeling love existed last night. From the hammock sunset on Lake Lorman, to the char-grilled fish we attempted to eat, to you laughing at my wine matching, Merlot unfit for the fish we caught, much less chocolate fondue dipped sweets. You lovingly enjoyed every moment, as did I, and the conversation rang in my head long into the night. Thank you for bringing light into the world in these times. I know this wasn’t your first rodeo with dating apps, but I hope it’ll be the last. When our mouths opened and stated this at the very same time, something within me changed, and I had to grow tough not to cry: You make me believe in love at first site. These words we both carefully selected as we considered each other’s eyes, laugh, smile, touch, voice. Maybe this moment was too good to last, but I bring you these flowers to continue a night unsurpassed. Pick your poison on how to respond. Your words sure don’t have to be poetic, but “if music be the food of love, play on.” This only stands at my attempt of being your modern-day Shakespeare. Soo until we meet again, may your dreams be vivid and beautiful, and may I be included. For you filled my heart again to believe in love, and for that alone I am thankful. Smiling into the Mississippi Sunset, Aarzoo The letter grew close to Desi’s chest again. What she had longed for so long finally came in. Unlike the creeping love had done before, loved poured over her every pore. Love disconnected from her body and attached in mind, spirit, soul. Desired for who she was at the core, not the surface, of course she wanted more. So back inside she ran, again looking to the mirror to let out a grin. Teeth stained from the night before, desire met desired, and true love emanated like no time before. Pen met paper for Desi as well, and there flowed her sonnet. Dear Aarzoo, No matter where I run to, it will always be with you…
By Daniel Trussell5 years ago in Humans
