Catching up on Change
The rivers here bleed with the high alpine sediments that are finding their freedom by grace of the melting sun. While they run muddled by the color brown, as you wind your way up to some of the source points, the water changes into this mystical, soft blue and green. We are surrounded with comfort by the consistent flow rushing between the trees and the steady disappearance of Winter.
Riding up from the base of the canyon yesterday evening, I was reminded of the small treasures. It's really easy during these adjustment periods, to feel more lost than found, and to feel like you are moving in no given direction but you aren't moving backwards somehow. The money grows tight as the experiences squander your existence with grace and divine truth; it becomes an addicting cycle of losing yourself to the depths and resurfacing with the first bit of light. We've chosen our way, knowing that at any time it's always easier to back out and return to a different lifestyle. We've chosen our passions over our pockets.
I fell so very hard for Wyoming; I loved the canyon walls before the spring melt could take it's turn at them, I loved Snake River before I could recognize how it was going to push me to grow, and I loved the peaks like hormonal adolescent: obsession. Alpine was a treat, a spectacle of my existence, so quickly apart of my life and even quicker to disappear. The move to Montana suffered many comparisons to Wyoming.
I realized, while looking at the ridge line from the base of the canyon this morning, that I have been taking Montana by a grain of salt each day (I think) in order to prevent the love lost that I had with Wyoming. The similarities that I have otherwise tried hard to keep independent of each other are finally finding their grounds. Every single day, the rushing water brings a smile to my face.
Montana is helping me disconnect and rewire myself back into my roots; it's helping me return to the most fundamentally based desires that I have been bringing up from the depths of my childhood and allowing me to combine both passion with lifestyle. It is giving me the space and time to reflect but most importantly the time to change. I always wonder how folks from small towns deal with feeling the need to start over, to start fresh; sometimes I am intrigued by how much stronger they must be than me, to know that they need change, but to accept their circumstances and to stick through it in the best possible way. I am a cop out, I start looking at every available direction I have when it's time to run. Three years in Park City pushed me to this point, a point that I do truly fear experiencing again, because the desire to settle down is becoming far more overwhelming.
For every five thoughts of wanting to settle down, I have one that creeps into consciousness that tells me "...but what about freedom", leaving me in an over analytical mindset of what I need to be doing with the short time I have been given on this Earth. I look at Zukini and feel every fiber in my body ready to bring another one into our lives, I dream about the front door I'll own one day and not the house because I guess it doesn't matter if it moves or is built into the ground. I stay lost in feeling like I know what I want and selfish for never being able to make a steady decision.
Finally, the last thought that has been weighing on the reality is that I think that I have opened a new door into understanding exactly what kind of person I truly am. I have struggled with wanting to have a strong network and never trying to keep in contact; it's the easiest way to lose someone you care about and yet I continue to aid in these practices, but why? I believe at this point, that I am destined to remain secluded and very particular about who I keep close. My family serves as the strongest unit to have ever dealt with my wrath and with all that they have witnessed as part of my growth, I could never be without them. That's four people, four humans. On two hands of five, my limitations of trust lie within a very few and very special folks outside of my family, with one spot consistently reserved for that one person who decides we're both worthwhile enough to put up with.