Chasing The Sun Pdf

[Saran Bascas]

Ifigured that the best way to make people feel good about the outrageous cost of shipping from here in BC, Canada was to simply absorb the cost of postage and packaging in the price of the book. The price you see includes worldwide shipping to anywhere regardless of where you live. If you live outside of Canada, your country may impose duties when purchasing products from other countries. This is the responsibility of the buyer, not the exporter. Luckily these duties (if any) should be negligible.

Gavin is a professional landscape photographer from Nanaimo, Vancouver Island, BC. He teaches photography workshops all over the world and writes extensively about his experiences on location. You can read his photo guides and tutorials here at Fototripper.com.

SS: And just writing about that is enough to put you in that mindset to carry that over, to continue that stretchiness even when you find yourself in very different circumstances today.

Brown, B. (Host). (2020, September 9). Bren with Scott Sonenshein on Stretching and Chasing. [Audio podcast episode]. In Unlocking Us with Bren Brown. Cadence13. -with-scott-sonenshein-on-stretching-and-chasing/

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I wore suits as a kid because I felt that it would give me an edge and I wanted to look the part. Even though I was bullied a lot, I wore them anyway. I played make-believe, first as a bank teller using Monopoly money as currency, and then promoting myself to the role of bank CEO. That curiosity led me to my first hustle of reselling pens. For many inner-city, state-funded camps, if you wanted to go on a field trip, you must come up with the money to go. Our group sold pens. I sold my pens at a premium so that I can pocket $1 per pen sold. After realizing that my side hustle can only help afford some basic groceries, and feeling like I could do much more, at 14, I wanted a job. It was slim pickings for a 14-year-old, and I got a job as a junior camp counselor.

Working in retail, I would often see the corporate executives walk in the store, pointing fingers, instructing us where to move the merchandise, and asking for the sales and conversion reports. I naively assumed, 'Wow, they are so powerful, look at how happy they are". It was then my mission to figure out how to enter this corporate world that felt a million miles away to find the happiness that they appeared to have.

After various retail corporate roles and pivoting across different industries, I began to understand that chasing titles felt like being on a hamster wheel. It's a never-ending cycle. You can chase the thing that you think will make you happy all day long, but if you aren't clear on your purpose and you're why, then no amount of titles will fill you up the way you'd expect.

It wasn't until I experienced burnout, onset pneumonia, and surviving 2020 that I felt I had to reevaluate my understanding of happiness. I was always taking on extra work projects, mentoring, advocating for others, coaching, helping others with their presentations, pouring from my cup even when it was empty. When you are forced to stop because your body tells you to, you begin to evaluate what truly matters. You are forced to finally take a break.

Sure, those who are ego-identified and enamored by titles will justify their work as helping solve societal dilemmas and while your field of work may be improving our world in some way, once you remove yourself from what you get paid to do, who are you? Society glorifies titles, publications highlight and celebrate them. That alone has been a driver for most to chase those titles and that sense of achievement. When you strip it all away, however, are you truly happy? Have those titles given you the happiness you sought?

Achieving success by other's standards and corporate America can make you feel like success is attributed to a title. I may have a fancy title today, but my legacy is not to be remembered by a title. My legacy will be known for the countless number of women I've motivated, helped step into their purpose, and helped launch their businesses. My happiness comes from my contributions to eliminating the gender and wage gap, supporting and fighting for equal rights and opportunities for BIPOC and first-gen children. Regardless of my title, I showed up as my authentic self, absent of ego, made others feel good while taking care of myself too.

The first time I went powder chasing was in April of 1999. Used to skiing on icy terrain in Vermont, I moved to Vail, Colorado for the winter, where I sold ski boots and slashed as many turns as possible. It was a particularly good season for snowfall in Vail, and in January and February I skied more powder than I ever had in my life, logging some ten days in the white room. Powder skiing is addictive, and when a big high-pressure system planted itself over Central Colorado during the month of March, bringing with it sunshine and warmer temperatures, I went into withdrawals. By the time my father came to visit in early April, I was jonesing.

These days, with better weather forecasting and multi-resort passes, chasing powder in North America is easier than ever. But as I get older, I prefer far-flung adventures. So when I was writing 100 Slopes of a Lifetime, a guide to some of the best ski trails in the world, I was sure to include plenty of international runs specifically known for their great powder skiing.

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The catalyst that lead to my moving certain posts over to a non-Lit'n'Lat blog was my rant about the Battlestar Galactica finale. One reader of that rant has just contacted me to say that he is sorry to see it go, though, as he liked the term "chasing the pigeon". I will thus proffer and elaborate on the term here.

There are already two great terms with similar meanings that have become widespread:

Both refer to the moment when a series completely loses the plot and the viewer suddenly realises that something he or she once loved, something once brilliant, has now, definitively, disappeared up its own backside. "Jumping the shark" refers to a TV series; "Nuking the fridge" refers to a film series.

I would like to propose another, a variation:

For me, the moment I saw Lee Adama chasing a pigeon around his apartment in Battlestar Galactica, in a scene that was neither meaningful nor relevant (flashback scenes attempting to add depth of character in the final episode?), I knew that one of my favourite TV shows of all time had lost it. Not only was the scene irrelevant, it was also one of the most tired clichs ever... A bird representing someone or something (Kara) out of reach. It invited an unfavourable comparison to the dove at the end of Bladerunner (and also made me think back to Cavil's speech to Ellen about wanting to smell supernovas or whatever, and how that harked back to "teardrops in the rain" from Bladerunner too - not comparisons you want to invite).

Below is what Ron Moore, the show runner and writer of the finale, had to say about Lee Adama (and by extension the show itself) chasing a pigeon. This is following an explanation of how he was trying to tie up the plot, all the loose ends, and how he was finding breaking the plot "frustrating and annoying":

I went home and had an epiphany in the shower and said, "It's the characters, stupid!" And it really always has been, and I went back the next day and said, "Let's forget about the plot for a moment and just trust that it will work itself out, because it always does. What do we want the characters to deal with; let's talk about the individual stories and resolutions." I just had an image of someone in their house chasing a bird from the room, I didn't know what it meant but it's an image and let's put it on the board.

(Before going any further, yes, I know that writers often have images that come to them that they want to include; I know that writers make stuff up as they go along all the time. That is fine. What is not fine is if the writer includes the image for no reason other than that he likes it, or if the writer cannot tie up or explain within the rules he set up in his fictional universe the stuff he made up along the way. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, of course, and I know that as many viewers loved the finale as hated it. By anyone's definition, it was not good storytelling, though. Whether the finale as a whole was good or bad is subjective; the way it changed the rules at the last minute and frustrated expectations of explanations is, objectively, bad storytelling. And let me just say that I watched BSG for the characters, primarily. I would have been happy without any of the great mysteries, with just the characters developing and surviving while looking for a new home. But it wasn't me who decided to introduce a lot of mysterious elements and conundrums - I was invited to ponder those questions by the writers; it's a bit late to say "it's about the characters" after you made an active decision to lead viewers down a different path. Well. I could go on parenthetically all day. Let us move on...)

The pigeon thus actually becomes a symbol for a writer making stuff up without knowing where it fits - which is exactly what the writers of Battlestar Galactica did with the opera house scene, Kara's death and resurrection, and Head-Six and Head-Baltar (all of this is well documented, not my personal opinion - search for interviews with Ron Moore; he is very open about how he made it all up and "felt" his way through the story). There is nothing wrong with making stuff up on the fly and later working out how it all fits together later, of course, but the pigeon seemed egregious (the perfect word in the circumstances), and in the end Moore couldn't come up with satisfying solutions to most of what he made up and instead threw up his hands and said, "It's about the characters and God did all the stuff I couldn't think of an explanation for."

"Chasing the pigeon" is thus a nice variation on "jumping the shark": it is the point in a show at which the viewer becomes aware of the writer struggling with the plot to the extent that it becomes so clumsy it feels as though the writer has just given up. It is the point at which the viewer finally loses all faith in a writer who had previously gained his or her absolute trust. It is the point at which the viewer feels cheated by a cheap trick and starts shouting at the screen in disbelief at the hours of his or her life spent in awe at smoke and mirrors; hours that are never coming back.

As in:

Battlestar Galactica really chased the pigeon in its finale.

End of line.

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