The various forms of upheaval are often a traumatic state. But trauma is not inherently a negative thing. I return often to the analogies of plants; when a tree is subject to wind, gravity, or the weight of snow, its tissue lignifies, or becomes stronger, in response. This persistent cycle of stresses is what creates bonsai in nature. The result is stunted trees with exceptional dynamism, very much alive and thriving in their environment. Wind and sun persuade branches to bias one way or another. Snow breaks too-proud limbs. Roots coercing their way through granite are limited in water and nutrients. But this creates compact, interesting, and sturdy trees. Too much stress breaks the tree; just the right amount creates something resilient and magical.
Intentionally engaging in massive life changes, upheaving the norms, relocating, and smashing one’s daily patterns into pieces – just enough, into pieces that may still be reassembled – is a path towards change. Doing this with the intention of being in a new location that is in fact an old location, moving back into the woods from which I grew up, might be a brilliant point of reassembly. It stands to be seen. Leaving gainful employment to be a caretaker in the woods, at a camp cum hard rock gold mine, on the Bear River, on a perilous dirt road might be the smartest or the dumbest thing I have done in my life. A quick accounting proves it is in fact not the dumbest thing, but still there is anxiety about the trade offs.
“You can have everything you want in life, just not at the same time.” A wise friend once said.
My life is privileged in many ways, through my network of people, circumstance, and luck.
Henceforth, these will be dispatches from the sylvan landscape. Arboreal abstractions. The necessary ramblings of a dirtbag intellectual who has found an improbable path back to his birthplace.
I have mused often to myself about and even attempted to act upon the desire to be able to represent life in the mountains. Not the urban ideal of being able to blast up the interstate to recreate by the lake, but to reside here and provide an original view of mountain life to the world. The absolute moment the opportunity presented itself, and despite the desperate pleadings of practical logic, I knew what must be done: leave a company I helped build and care deeply for, to reside at a mine camp. For many years I thought it never possible to return to the secret garden, but now I am here, reading, writing, and thinking with a cup of coffee by the fireplace, and considering how exactly I should mark my path forward. I have mundane responsibilities as any human, but these are primarily part of the act of living here and they are structured in a way that I am free to do as I please. And I please to be and to create.