As winter acquiesces to springtime in the mountains,
light peals back the darkness of morning
earlier and earlier,
and stays later and later
Like a dinner party invitee,
The Light is akin to that dude who
awkwardly and unexpectedly arrives
way ahead of the appointed time of the soiree.
after all the food is gone and the dishes are put away,
and the roar of the fire is down to its flickering embers,
The Light is that last lingering guest,
begging the host to question:
What the heck is this guy still doing here?
I’m the sorta writer who’s comfortable being a one trick pony; able only to write about my own life and how I live it. I’m not a poet or a comedian but I weave words like spring blooms flowers and I find my own self hilarious on a regular and ongoing basis.
I’m a writer in the same way the seasons come calling and winter is the longest, here in the mountains of the west.
I’m a writer like I’m a Montanan, not native born but chosen – and savored as though any day might be my last. And there’s a good chance I’m a writer in the same way I’m a comic: not at all and only to myself.
I’m a writer who likes to think that one day the book I wrote will be in book form, with a cover and binding and acknowledgements no one reads.
I’m the sorta writer whose heart will be the last thing that gives up – and it’ll take a tank to take me out.
I’m someone whose called to step it up in the being-a-decent-human department. I’m someone who’d much rather be seen as kind than cool. I’m someone not looking to put on airs or parade around pretending to be something I’m not – but you should know that who I am authentically is a standup dude and I have my house in good working order. So if I intimidate you or you think I appear too good to be for real, that’s your baggage not mine.
I’m someone who works hard each and every day to show up well for my fellow global inhabitants. I’m committed to a life lived with a heart open choked and full throttle and high moral standards I’m not willing to compromise on.
I’m someone who holds in high regard such things as virtues and ethics when it comes to modes of conduct and behavior. I’m someone who doesn’t think it’s dope to joke about dysfunction or how someone spends most of their time drunk or high or in a state of perpetual teenagerhood.
I’m someone for whom life is an action verb and I’m someone who is all in.
Sunday morning reflections, penned this morning:
So much unfolds on its own accord, without cause for input or advice. We could pitch a fit and throw it in the direction of so many a thing, but it would be akin to trying to flood the world with a garden hose. Absurd.
How much time is wasted on matters we have no sway over? How much hardship is generated by shirking responsibility over that which is entirely in our own hands and of our own making? On both counts, the answer is: a lot.
The combined daily total of world births and deaths a lot; the amount of times I’ve apologized in my 39 years a lot; the number of stars in the sky a lot.
Remember, a bird has cause to sing and a flower to unfurl each on their own time. If we were to attempt to take over the sun’s job as conductor, the world would be flung to the wolves for rapid devouring.
My morning writings bear the brush strokes of my current influences. And since right now I am reading Mary Oliver, the grace of birds and flowers are finding their way onto the page.
And this simple exchange gives me ripe pause.
We often think of children as sponges and adults as stubborn, who become more set in their ways as they age. Yet, are we not just as susceptible to input?
The answer emphatically is yes.
What is this never-ending thirst we have to live a fictional life?
Are we so misaligned with the cosmos that such an existential crisis is in order?
Are the splendors of whatever landscape we find ourselves surrounded by not enough? And if the answer is no, why not?
Perhaps instead of manicuring and primping our bubble of comfort, we would be better served to hone the art of developing ease in varied environments.
Our communication skills are practically non-existent, in regards to: our self, others, the trees, the birds, the wind, the water.
If we’ve not yet come to terms with how intertwined our mind and body are, what chance do we have for absorbing the message the moon is sending, in its waning ascent over the mountains? How will we come to know what a fallow field of wheat is expressing or what wisdom teachings pulsate on the currents breath of the ocean?
We must learn to lean and settle into mundane landscapes, and bridge our mind and body together with aid of breath.
When we sit in perfect accord with our self, in the graces of our current locale, living a non-fiction life becomes a great deal more than all we need.
Thankfully, I’m not easily intimidated by winter weather driving – I mean really, I have a Subaru for goodness sake, this is, in part, what they’re made for. Now, don’t get me wrong, there are times when it would be ill-advised to venture out, but I did not deem today to be one of those days.
Instead, I labeled today’s blustery conditions and smoke-machine-esque ice-marbled roads as a prime time to uphold my self-proclaimed status as a gal who enjoys pushing against the commonly held feminine norms, such as exists around: traveling solo, driving in inclement weather on sketchy roads, and eating out in public with only the company of a good book and writing supplies.
After an hour spent at the Garden of One Thousand Buddhas in Arlee, I landed at the Dixon Mercantile, a place so delightfully quaint that I instantly felt right at home.
There’s something extremely satisfying and life-affirming in skirting collective modes of operation, such as heading north on a solo saunter on Sunday February 3rd in near white-out conditions, and living to tell the tale.
P.S If you live in the area or are ever in the area of western Montana, the Dixon Mercantile (in Dixon, MT) is only 40 miles from Missoula and they are almost solely only open on Sundays from 9-2 for brunch. The owner Laura is super great, the food was really good, and they make homemade fresh bread and pastries. Need I say more?
Yesterday, I spent 5 uninterrupted hours writing, pretty well glued in the same spot the whole time with only the occasional tea making and bio break to incite bodily movement away from my keyboard. It was glorious.
Today, I road on up north, as any asphalt adventurer knows, it’s unwise to disobey the call of the open road when it summons thee. I followed tire tracks instead of painted lines and in an area thick with mountains, I managed to see none all the way to Arlee and then Dixon.
To be fair, I did consider not heading out on my drive-about prior to leaving the house, once I was confronted with the state of weather happening outside. But it was only about 2% of me that sat in question; the other 98% urged me eagerly onward ho.
Besides, I DID go to all the trouble of running a brush through my hair like two times before putting a winter hat on AND putting on cold-hardy clothes over the top of my pajamas. I was also well equipped with the essentials of winter travel: a fresh Contigo full of tea, my camera, writing supplies, a Subaru, and a good attitude.
And, I figured, one never grows familiar and accustomed to a thing, if said thing is never done.
Sometimes, what’s called for is to foster connection with members of my beloved tribe of humans, as I did last weekend. And sometimes, what’s called for is to bolster the relationship I have with myself, as I’ve been doing this weekend.
Inspired by an Ani Difranco song that I’ve refashioned and have been playing & singing lately on the guitar, here are some of the ways my “I am not a pretty girl, that is not what I do” expresses itself:
I wear the same basic outfit every day: brown pants/green shirt; my idea of hair care involves washing it 2-3 times a week (no cutting, styling, dying, or whatever else-ing most women tend to do); I wouldn’t know how to apply makeup even if I had it; the few pieces of jewelry I own were given to me by well-intentioned people who don’t know me well enough to know I will never wear it; when I’m in a bar to hear music, I’m the girl armed with a pocket notebook and pen jotting down observational notes; I own 3 pairs of shoes: crocs, snow boots, and motorcycle boots; I’m not interested in mirroring my moves on the dance floor so as to best maintain the reflection of a sex-object; and I am not beholden to self-validation and worth (as I was when I was young) through the ability to attract a guy (or 2 or 3 or 12) – I reserve that dignity to be procured from my own well of self.
Written at 5:37am, Friday January 25th, 2019:
Given the expedient fashion with which we managed to both get to and through the airport – checking bags and all – I’m already back at home.
We even lingered in the airport gift shop for a spell, wrinkling our noses at the horrid smell of perfumed, decorative soaps and delighting in the array of stuffed animals, in order to further delay parting ways at the security line.
It was me who made the call. “Okay,” I said, “it’s probably time.”
After a proper embrace, we headed in opposite directions. As I headed out, I glanced back 2-3 times and met his gaze doing the same each time.
And that was that.
I was outside, surrounded by the dark chill of early morning in Missoula – and he was inside, surrounded by bright artificial lighting, soon to take off sky high and land in short order in southern California, where I hope he will be cradled well for the next 3-months.
Over the past week, multiple times a day, I took inventory of the things I would miss about him while he was gone and also the things I would look forward to having a break from. But in the last day or two, the line between these categories grew increasingly blurry and I came to see that I would miss all of it. Even the stuff I really don’t like, such as cleaning up wads of chewing tobacco on the windowsill that serves as his nightstand.
I take solace in the truth of our situation, of the little thing that has happened in our being together for almost 20-years: because we resound in the graces of our interbeing nature, we are strong and strengthened both when we’re together and when we’re apart.
I reckon from here on out, until he returns in 3-months, the ol homestead will be in the same state of affairs when I come home each day as to when I left.
It was only 8-months ago I was preparing dinner each night for 3-4 people. In June, our household reduced to a steady 3. In November, we were whittled down to 2. And now, starting today, I am paired down to 1.