Lost and Found

I find I have an easy time losing myself. Residing in a city breeds a strong desire for the wild. Consequently, living within nature usually leads me back to urban haunts. Within my life, there is a constant inner war waging between the city and the countryside. The victor seizes nothing more than my idea of home.
Cities are vibrant, energetic beings. When I wander back to the city, I'm struck with the classic case of "kid in a candy store." One night I'm seeing a concert, the next I'm enjoying a palate-pleasing visit to a favorite dish. From there I find myself debating politics with a homeless person.
Soon enough the candy store melts away. Before long all the down sides of the city gnaw away at me. Traffic jams make me long for open highways. Crowded sidewalks transform into misty mountain trails in my mind. Fancy Asian-Brazilian fusion dishes awaken hunger for potatoes and onions cooked over a campfire. In no time the countryside sends snipers into the city to find me. The war continues.
Leaving the city is euphoric for me. It involves a vehicle packed with dogs and my sparse possessions, windows down, music blasting, and some giant shit-eating grins. Forests open their arms to me. The sky smiles at my return. Storms thunder and flash their approval of my decision. At least that's what I perceive.
After returning to nature, I feel whole and balanced again. However, the wild has a way of showing me exactly how insignificant I really am. Those same welcoming forests can transform into dark, twisting rows of confusion that lead me astray. The sky can send so much sun my way that I become dehydrated and so sick I can't move. The same jubilant storms can soak me until I'm hypothermic. Or if I'm real unlucky, lightning can end my life in one electric moment.
Both nature and the city are dangerous environments. However, the pull of wild danger is appealing and frightening all at once. When I experience nature up close and survive, I feel stronger and more well-balanced. When I survive city life, I simply feel hardened.
For now the tides of the war for my home have swung towards the countryside. My wild church called me home with lapping waves and wolf song, a concert conceived with a message that I've been found.

Motion

For about one minute,
tonight's sunset swam in the colors of winter.
Gone were summer's bold hues,
replaced only by chilly pastels.
Pinks the shade of your quickened cheek
draped sky like sleepy lashes.
I swear I saw snow reflected in cloud,
and the icy blue I sometimes see in your eye.
Mostly I witnessed motion, slow,
yet steadily speaking the words,

"Time moves for you."

Rainy Day #1

Remember when you were a child, just before summer, when dreams of staying up all night chasing fireflies invaded your sleep?
Summer is here. Summer rains catapult the mountains into life. Rivers rage with melted snow and flowers scatter among the wide variety of plants commonly called grass. The woodpile, once so meticulously kept clear, shrouds itself with varying shades of green and peppers itself with bright yellows and vivid purples. I've never desired a wild growing yard so much. I'm told this is a fire hazard however, so a day of domestication looms.
After so many months of snow, cold, and wind, summer seems fleeting. Like the left-behind shirt of a lover, summer's scent will fade. The earth will dry up like the tears of happiness. The leaves will change, the chameleons of northern climes.
But for now, glory of life reigns. The elk appear fat, the birds cry out in lust for life, and even the coyotes appear less agitated (I hear them cry out less often).
As for me, I content myself listening to rain meet my roof. I enjoy a cup of coffee and resign myself to my thoughts. Most of the time, and I do mean most, I smile, as only a person who found the end of the rainbow could.

City Girl

Broken silence surrounds me. Silence broken by dogs pounding through snow-smashed grass. Silence broken by woodpeckers working their way towards tonight's dinner. Silence broken by the wind's gentle caressing of treetops. And occasionally, silence broken by roaring airplanes, ambivalent to my whereabouts. After all, escaping the city is hard.
I rest against a rock ledge, my lounge for the afternoon. The ledge presides over a hunting camp littered with half burnt logs and the occasional stray aluminum can. Overall, this is a clean city.
The aspen trees go about their daily commute upwards, while melted snow travels downhill, creating little snow melt train tracks through the city. This city is busy, if you have patience, and know where to look.
Other inhabitants of this city are present too. I discover their calling cards while walking the city's sidewalks. Nearing a mound of grass, I find elk poop, a sign of recent life passing by. Climbing a rock crevice, I stumble upon a moose vertebrae, a sign of lost life, and fulfillment of other life in turn. As I write these words, a baby spider crawls upon the field of my page as if to say, "Don't forget me, this is my city too."
Often this city is cold, but today the sun graces its skies. I sweat as I climb my rock ledge. After finding my lounge, I strip down most of my clothes to cool off. Nakedness is encouraged in this city, and I am a city girl.

Heat

Heavy dog panting woke me up at 3:42 am. My sweat-soaked Virginia T-shirt startled me as I shook every last bit of sleep from my head. The cabin was cooking.
Heat: the quality of being hot; hotness, or the perception of this. This is the first of Webster's many definitions of heat. Reading this makes heat seem simple. For many people, heat is an afterthought, something constant and taken for granted. Heat is a utility, a bill that needs paying.
Heating a house with wood connects me in a deeper way to heat. I appreciate it more. Coming home to a cold house, my first chore is breathing a fire to life. Heat here is alive, another organism living with me, a welcome guest. Heat requires attention and fuel or it dies. In turn, I require heat or I burn out.
Life here reminds me that everything is cyclical. I live no further removed from this ecosystem than the dogs that protect it, the water that feeds it, or the heat that warms it. We all do our part.

Dogsong

Snoopy sang a song for me this morning. We hopped into the truck for another work day, just like usual. My ipod spilled Old Crow Medicine Show's CC Rider from my truck's busted speakers. The static song filled the cab, Snoopy howled for the first time known to me. Apparently Snoopy likes harmonicas.
The song ended. Snoopy appeared a bit bashful about her new found voice. I tussled her hound-inspired ears and kissed her for caressing my human-inspired ears.
Our love session ended in a fury of hand and tail wagging. I wondered if dogsong conveys emotion similar to human song. Surely Snoopy didn't understand CC Rider's lyrics which mention the cruelty of a woman... Or did she?
I noticed in her huge coffee-brown eyes a lonesome aching. That could have been my human lens portraying human emotion into a hound. It might have been the emotion the song pulls from me.
The emotion I picked up from Snoopy was a young dog settling into herself, opening up, and celebrating her life and home. It was a beautiful morning after all.
Snoopy turns three in one month. She always possessed a bit of a timid side. It seems to me that she's finally waking into the hound she always was. She's grown into her ears so to speak. She gifted my ears with a song, making me aware of her new self, all courtesy of an old-timey harmonica song.

Photo courtesy of Stephanie Sposito

Time

Winter's end nears, or so I'm told. Time moved forward another notch recently. We face a new year, while in the middle of another winter, and still, Time moves forward. Up here, Time loses it's grasp on me. My routine, broken as it may be, stays the same. I wake up, I make coffee, I play music, I open doors, I let in light, I swell with life. Time proceeds just the same as it always has, but it holds me with a looser grip.
It's easy to lose track of Time up here, especially in winter. The mountain can be quiet or loud, stormy or calm, but it always embraces me, recharging me for the next phase in life. At work, I watch Time viciously, anxiously awaiting when I can again ignore Time. I grind my teeth, I down coffee, I pace, and I await. I find many verbs occupy my time, while I watch Time. When I climb back home, I find myself awake at all hours having forgotten Time once again. I suffer the next day if I have to work, for the Time called 6 am is unforgiving. It's usually mad that I ignored it the night before. But even though Time punishes me for my behavior, I'm always happy that it allows me to once again lose myself in it the next night.