Home
We went for a ride yesterday. Headed east out of town toward Bobcat Pass and then down to the town of Eagle’s Nest. It was a lovely drive. One I’d never taken before because we always come in from the west from Questa. The scenery was lovely and I decided I’d love to see the place in summer when the river was running and everything was green.
And as we rode, I wondered what must it be like to live and work in such a place, and it was the same thing I’ve wondered a hundred times before as I traveled around. I wondered about it in Creede, and the Black Hills, and the lakes of Maine. How would it feel to be tied to such a place, to have it form a core part of your being. And it struck me that I’ve spent most of my life looking at the world through the window of a car. Disconnected. Moving from place to place as a child, then traveling the world and the country as an adult.
At first, I felt a little sad, jealous even, of all my friends who had places to call their own, with stories and tales to tell and long-lived friends. But then I thought of my children, and my family, and my cousins, and my current friends, and thought perhaps that having a life spread an inch deep around the world, was okay, because I still had roots and the world is a place and I am lucky to call it home.