Winter is fading from the mountains. Although we’ll probably have a couple more big snows before spring really starts to set in, I can tell that this winter season is on its way out. The clumps of grass in the yard are turning green, and I saw a little woolly mullein plant courageously making its way out of the ground (I will let this exotic weed live for now, though).
The temperature was sixty-five degrees today and the sun stayed out. I came home for lunch and sat on the porch in my camp chair, with Rascal on my lap and a sandwich in my hand. After Rascal’s curiosity about the type of sandwich I had wore off, he decided to take a nap. Once the sun warmed his black fur, he relaxed a bit and detracted his claws from my jeans.
Once Rascal removed his claws from my legs, I was able to relax a bit more, too. While Rascal was deep in sleep, I was deep in thought.
It’s hard to believe I’ve seen almost a full cycle of seasons here. I haven’t stayed in one place for this long since I left Nebraska in 2006. I’ve liked settling into this little mountain town, and it makes me sad to think that I might be moving on in a couple months. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have a solid sense of place. You know, like ranchers or farmers or others who have spent their whole lives on one patch of earth, breathing and working, laughing and loving, living and dying. They’ve established themselves, known a community, and called it home–for good. I can imagine them remembering their lives by season, or by the coming and going of certain people in their lives.
But me? I remember my life by departures. I’m the person that comes and goes. It’s not that I’m unhappy with the way I’ve lived, it’s just different. I fell into a pattern of living that was determined before I could really make decisions for myself. When I was younger, my family moved around several times, stopping in Colorado, Utah, and Nebraska. Now on my own, I’ve lived in California, Thailand, and in another part of Colorado.
And while a part of me wants to plant my feet on a patch of earth and call it home, there’s another part of me that wonders what might still be out there. So I’ve applied to jobs in New Mexico, Idaho, Alaska, Utah, and California. I wonder where I’ll end up?
The trade off of wandering, though, is that it’s hard to make long-lasting, meaningful connections with people. A friend’s blog got me thinking about this. Everything’s fragmented. You get to be a part of someone’s life for a season, and then you move on. Perhaps you stay in touch, perhaps you don’t. Having worked seasonally for a few years now, I am starting to see what this is like. For instance, last summer I got to know four amazing, fun, strong women: Kelly, Dana, Sere, and Renee. They were all “parkies” and worked either trails or resource management. We choreographed a dance, held a Taco Nite, went climbing, and generally had a great time. But they are in different corners of the States now, and I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again.
This fact is a bit saddening, but I remind myself that I must live in the present. I want to enjoy life in its richness and vastness, even if it is in fragments. I think I’m okay with wandering for now, although comfortable days on the porch with Rascal on my lap make me second-guess myself. Maybe someday it will be the right time to settle down for a while. I’ll be able to see the seasons circle around more than just once, and I’ll get to know the people at Safeway who sold me the sandwich I ate for lunch today. Maybe I’ll even have a cat (or a man, haha) to enjoy it with.
But for now, I am watching the winter melt into spring from this mountain town. Although I’m a little anxious because I don’t know where these next few months will take me, I think I am ready for the adventure.
Until next time,
-A.
