And When I am Gone to the Farther Camps
May my name sound on the green hills
Welcome to the midweek(ish) version of An Irritable Métis. This is where things are usually a little less … irritable. If you forgot what this all is even about, you may remind yourself here. If you want to help me keep the lights on, well….
I arrived home from band practice the other night somewhere around 9:30pm. I refreshed the birdfeeders in front of my office window so that in the morning the locals would find their breakfast waiting. While I puttered around I could hear a great horned owl calling out, not so far away, and it brought me great pleasure. I stood at the edge of the pool of light emanating from my porch for a time, in the cold and otherwise darkness, and absorbed the joy of it. Every few moments, “Hoo-HOO—hoo-hoo … Hoo-HOO—hoo-hoo.” Hearing owls isn’t unusual at all but in this season of sealed-up windows it doesn’t happen as often as I’d like. It was the perfect way to end a long day and I was grateful.
I think often about where I live and how I feel about it. Missoula, a dozen miles away, has changed drastically even in just the last 5 – 6 years so that in many ways I hardly recognize it and don’t much care for it anymore. I would leave if I could but stay mostly because I doubt I could live as inexpensively as I do anywhere else. The places I would like to retreat to are already becoming too expensive and newcomers are forcing out the locals. That sucks for everyone.
Part of my desire to leave is centered on my own issues with nostalgia and the ghosts that live in my head. For example, downtown Missoula is largely an emotional ghost town for me of places I frequented when I spent so much time there and now I don’t. So I avoid the area as much as I can. Other places around the city that I invested time and attention in, like restaurants, simply don’t exist anymore and I don’t have the heart to replace them. There’s really only one restaurant I visit with any kind of frequency at all1, generally at odd, unfrequented hours, which is probably for the best anyway because, well, Covid. There is a coffee shop off the beaten track and close to where my writing space is that I’ve got my eye on, though….
There remain those frequent moments though when I am out on one of my saunters and there is no one around, and sunlight is flooding distant, almost painfully-white mountaintops with golden light, and maybe there is a big flock of ducks flying over with wings whistling, or there are signs in the snow or mud that at some recent hour a coyote chose the very same path I have, and I realize my heart is near to bursting from the beauty of it all and the gratitude I have that I get to live here.
I wonder how other people reconcile feeling “stuck” somewhere? Is this you? Or maybe you have the opposite problem: you love where you live and are seeing yourself forced out and are struggling to stay. Or maybe you live somewhere you love that is transforming to something unrecognizable. Or maybe there is just something you love about where you live and want everyone to know about it. I’d love to hear about any of this.
I know here, in this Missoula Valley, as long as I have access to quiet, and to the trails I haunt, I think I will be okay….
Cut Yourself Slack
I don’t know anything really about Robin Harford but this crossed my radar and I liked it. He seems an interesting guy.
Almost Last Call for This
I’m sure you’re tired of hearing about my Silence: The Daily Practice workshop in Yellowstone National Park, from the Lamar Buffalo Ranch. It’s only a month out, and I’ll be sending out some stuff to registrants in the next week or two. So if you’ve been thinking of getting on board, we are very near the last best time to do so.
Here is what the workshop is (allegedly) about:
Silence and observation are key to the creative process, whether that process is found in some discipline of art or in simply maintaining a well-lived life. This workshop will focus on writing, even if you don’t consider yourself a “writer.” It will feature unique exercises that include sitting in observation; walking as a key element in breaking free creative energy; and practicing live storytelling. You will be encouraged to recognize the importance of making time for reflection; to celebrate the absolute importance of being curious and kind; and to recognize the importance of your personal story.
If you’ve got time and some extra money, you can register here. It should be gorgeous there by February.
And Finally….
Be kind to each other, friends. These are weird times.
Shout-out to the dude filling my water glass at Fiesta en Jalisco during lunch the other day who said, “I think I’m subscribed to your newsletter….”
"I wonder how other people reconcile feeling “stuck” somewhere? Is this you?"
YES! I moved to Washington DC for graduate school in 2009 (remember the heady days of the Great Recession?) I graduated college in 2008, moved home with my mother for a year, applied to graduate school like everyone else, moved to a city I could never afford even then, racked up six-figures of student loan debt, managed to finally get a decent job with the federal government in their largest cultural heritage institution, got married, bought a house in the suburbs, and have hated living here since the beginning.
This job I have, it is permanent and it is good work that I believe in. My coworkers are creative and smart, my managers particular but trusting. I could literally do this forever. But living here, especially the last few years, is becoming less and less tenable, spiritually. It is expensive, the traffic so bad that it snowed 8 inches and folks (even the Senator!) were stuck on the road for more than 24 hours, and the vibe...well the vibe has never been that good, but it's even worse now.
Over the holidays I went back to Michigan, where my husband and I are from and where our families mostly still live. It was cold and it was dark and it was quiet and it was so beautiful. My husband and I have a tradition when we drive home for the holidays that we spend a night just the two of us in the city we met, where we went to college. It is easily the most romantic thing we do. Every time we stay an extra night because it is one of those places where our souls clicks into place and we don't want that feeling to end. This trip was the first time that moving back home, to this city specifically, felt incredibly urgent. That *not* living there was wasting the most important parts of my life: my happiness, my family, a sense of peace and belonging I have never felt in DC.
I resent that at 22 I was made to feel that staying home was the wrong choice. That people like me moved to places like DC because we think we matter, that places like this are meant for people like me. I don't want to be that person anymore. I want to go home.
As you know, I've been bitching (probably too often) about how Livingston has morphed from a town of interesting artists, hunters, and tradesmen into a bougie suburb of Bozeman full of rich retirees. But I own this house, and where would I go? Where would we go? is the conversation I have the most often here now.
But on the other hand we have Himself's cabin on the edge of Emigrant peak up the end of that dead end road. I've got neighbors like Hippie Mike 2 doors down who helps out with odd jobs and who showed up at my door yesterday, so thrilled to share a 5lb chunk of the elk he got last weekend. And there's the Parade of Tiny Children from the day care around the corner, who crack me up a couple of times a week. So here we are.