28 Jan. 2014
It occurs to me, lying in bed with the
silence of the house pressing around and the moon shining through the
curtains, how easily I acclimate to being alone. Jesse is in Peru for
six weeks and the solitude comes back as naturally as breathing,
which is both reassuring and a little frightening. There are people
from other places and other times that I consider good friends, and
yet we interact rarely — they're like ships on a sea, summonable if
I capsize but mostly just distant lights on my horizon. I go through
my days independently, interacting mostly with the people who happen
to be here with me in this place, at this time. Our orbits have
randomly crossed, and while I'm grateful to walk into the brewery
after work and know at least eight people by name, some bitter,
cynical part of me can't forget that before long, they'll be gone
from this place and so will I. We are all transient and rootless, all
following our own paths. Sometimes I have to remind myself that that
doesn't make our time here less meaningful.
1 Feb. 2014
Today I drove to Crested
Butte, taking the longest of the three possible routes because the
other two were blocked by snow. The drive to and from Gunnison was lovely, and the valley up to Crested Butte even more so — worn
wooden barns tucked against hillsides, a cloud settling into the
muted pink sky, a deepening dusk punctured by the lights of
town. I have a drink at the bar where my friend
works and talk to an older man, an engineer. Crested Butte is still a little funky and not as gaudy as some Colorado ski towns, but still clearly wealthy, with log beams and pricey boutiques. I am happy that I can drive
here for a visit and happier still to come home to a town
shaped by people who actually live there. When I'm wakened at night
by the whistle of the coal train as it passes through Paonia, I sleepily smile that I live in a place where people still work with their hands
in the earth.
8 Feb. 2014
It's been snowing on and off for a week
now, a real winter like I haven't had since that one in Vermont —
that winter carrying armloads of wood inside, clomping up the stairs
in heavy, wet boots, driving up the hill after work and getting out
of the car and standing for a moment in the frosted air on the
mountaintop, my head tilted to the stars, the night perfectly still. This
winter is different — I'm in town, for one thing — but every
morning I wake up to a fresh inch or two of snow.
This morning I drink coffee and listen
to KVNF as more snow falls outside. There's an old guy named Don doing
the Saturday morning children's show, reading a story about going
owling in the forest. Don struggles with the broadcasting technology
and there's dead air but it's endearing because he's old, and has a
sidekick named Wally who keeps saying, 'Yeah, Don. Yeah.' And Pete
Seeger died and they play Pete Seeger songs, and then they talk on
the phone to an 11-year-old boy and discuss pancakes and
sledding and school. The boy gets to shoot .22s for science class.
When a baby is born, Don and Wally welcome him or her over the radio
and play a song called "You're My Little Potato." Life
carries on. The seasons change.
14 February 2014
Walking to Joanna's house on a February
night, carrying a jar of wine in my coat pocket, it feels suddenly
like spring — a mild weekend coming in. The moon is nearly full and
the streets are quiet, houses glowing from behind curtains. Faraway,
a dog barks. Melting snow drips off a rooftop. Below the street,
fresh snowmelt gushes through a sewer. How can such an ordinary night
be so beautiful? Bare branches; grainy snow giving way to bare
ground; a smell of wet soil and cold water in the air. Sometimes I
love this place too much.
One Sunday in February
I've come to the edge of the San Juan
mountains to stay in a friend's cabin for the weekend, and the snow
is nearly gone, the landscape brown and soft. This is my dream: To
not know or care what the date is; to wake up and sit outside on the
steps of a cabin with a book and coffee in a hand-thrown mug; to feel
the air on my face and hear, maybe, the rushing of water or of wind;
to see the birds and the mountains, or maybe the sea. If this could
be my morning at least one day a week, Lord, I will not complain
about the other six. I will be happy.
Let this be my Sunday; let this be my
church: morning sun, cold air, birds and a cup of strong coffee.
"And I will be to her a wall of
fire all around, declares the Lord. And I will be the glory in her
midst."
--Zechariah, 2:5
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