So, I haven’t been writing very often lately.
I know, I know. Sue me.
Still, you should all know that I missed my own blogaversary. That is a crying shame. So, here I am, trying to keep this writing thing going.
I’m trying something a little different. I’m writing this from the kitchen, listening to the cold, autumn rains come splooshing down from the mountains. It is a chilly, wicked kind of evening. It is the kind of evening that craves the comfort that a fire provides. I have no fire. Still, there is something to be said of the simple act of listening to rain.
There is a cleansing that comes with rain that goes beyond just the simple washing of mud and road debris from my sadly dirty car. In the fall, when the rain is frigid enough to make you seriously contemplate the cost of moving to Latin America before the bone-shattering winter arrives, it washes away the last remnants of memory of the rankness of summer. It takes those hot memories and simmers them down to a place where they can be enjoyed fondly. It makes you forget that a few weeks ago, sweat was pouring out of your stinkiest bits and making your clothes cling to your heiney in an ultimate wedgie.
Yet, it isn’t cold enough to make you want to hide away from the world in your thickest blankets, safe from the biting teeth of winter.
I like the fall.
September is a special month, not just because I was born in it (though, that does add to its divine relevance). It has this pretty magic too it.
In Missouri, the leaves will be all of the beautiful shades right now, peppering the world with a shaggy beard of pretty color.
Sadly, here in the mountains, the trees are all pines and cedars. They don’t change their shades with the frigid rains. They just sit on the mountain, soft blue-green, and waiting for the eventual, inevitable blanket of snow that will come soon enough.
There is a beauty and majesty to the mountains. It is a somber, strong beauty. It is the beauty of the land meeting the sky. It is a beauty of eternity shining through the stars in the night. It is not the same as the beauty of my home.
I have been here in Montana for a couple of months now. I have grown to appreciate it and enjoy it. I can almost love it in the way that my parents do. But, Montana is not my home. It is just where I live.
That’s the theme for the next year, I think. Enjoying where you are, who you are, without forgetting your roots.
There is a lot of promise here. A lot of possibility in the endless night skies.
Still, no matter how tall the mountain you climb, there is a part that always longs for the woods, valleys, and home.