A friend told me on a video call the other day that “no one is a real person until they’ve gone through trauma.” As children, we’re pure but lack real empathy. We’re fearless but empty. It’s the bad stuff that makes us grow.

A defibrillator is an interesting case study on life. If lightning strikes a person, their heart stops. But if you rub some gel on Mr. Cardiac Arrest, send 1,000 volts through two little paddles, and smack him in the chest, his heart starts right back up again. Either way, it was electricity the whole time.

What I’m getting at is that sometimes trauma derails our lives. It brings us to a standstill. It breaks our hearts. If we can take a little trauma and capture it--point it in the right direction--it’s the one thing that can bring us back from the dead. I know there’s a lot of fear right now. A lot of loneliness. A lot of trauma. Despite the obvious fact that pandemics really suck, I know we can use this to restart something great together.

I’ve been struggling with whether or not to post the remainder of my short story “A Desert Rain” for the past few weeks. Much of my best work includes themes of isolation, despair, and futility. Mark said, “You write what you know,” and that’s honestly what I’ve known lately.

I did what I do with most difficult decisions. Completely ignore it and find a way to distract myself from the problem. That’s why I was up at 1 AM reading a copy of The Outsiders I had swiped from the school library. As I came to the closing pages, I read about what it means to be gold. What it means to still believe there’s good in the world.

I thought about golden times. Times the world looked beautiful.

I used to lay on my trampoline as a kid and stare up at the sky looking for shooting stars. Sometimes I would fall asleep out there, and my bed would be empty in the morning. It scared the hell out of my parents.

When I got older, I had too much restless energy to lay around. I’d go for a run, while looking at the night sky. I went to my high school football field mostly. It had a nice track and one of the best views of Las Vegas at night. I got caught sneaking back in once. It scared the hell out of my parents.

On camping trips, I ran on the beach around the old lighthouse. Just me and the crashing waves in the moonlight. It scared the hell out of my parents.

I even ran to a girl’s house to read her a poem I wrote and see if she’d invite me inside once. I didn’t have a car, but it was only five miles each way. If they had ever found out, it would have scared the hell out of my parents.

Thinking of Ponyboy racing his brothers home through the moonlight, I strapped on a pair of shoes and went for a run just before 3 AM. I cut through the crisp night air with those golden memories. All that faith in the future. All the wonder at what might be. All the times as a kid I nearly gave my parents a heart attack.

I was so busy thinking that I ran right past the trail down to the lake and had to double back. There’s a short path through the forest to a small dock only big enough to launch kayaks. I stood at the edge of it with my chest leaping and falling in an attempt to catch my breath--I’m not a teenager anymore. Tiny lights from houses lit the opposite bank. The water made a mirror of moonlight behind the clouds pushing through the sky. There’s still beauty in the world. There’s still gold.

I honestly haven’t been all that golden lately. A lot of great writing has come out of that. But I wouldn’t say it’s golden. In light of recent events causing enough fear and isolation, I’ve decided to postpone releasing the remainder of “A Desert Rain”. (Sorry I couldn’t have given you a happier ending, Silas Hanover, but then it wouldn’t have been all that interesting.) Right now, I want to focus this blog on words that bring people together and show some beauty in our world.

Stay Gold, Ponyboy. Stay Gold.

Please, leave a comment below of something that makes you feel golden.