by aramatzne@gmail.com | 6 Nov 2015 | Musing, Roads Taken
The answer is “yes”. We make everything more complicated.
Every good thing we put out into the universe comes back multi-fold. Every bad thing also comes back multi-fold. The more we worry, stress, and project bad stuff the more it suffocates us. I want less of that and more freedom to do things that matter to me.
People have often accused me of running away but I never thought of it that way. I always thought of it as running to something. Not being able to identify what I was running to didn’t make the destination less valid to me.
By default, moving to something means you have to be moving away from something else. It is the nature of motion, unless you are moving in circles.
That is not my path.
by aramatzne@gmail.com | 31 Oct 2015 | Roads Taken
An attempt to describe bits of summer on an Arctic Island –
Through all of this the one thing that I see repeatedly is that mysterious, surreal, ethereal color. The aquamarine of the imagination. Surely there is no real color like this. It is so intense it almost glows and, when seen in deep crevices, blocks all in a pile with a deep hole and light between them, it fairly jumps out of the blocks and into the air around you. This against a sky so gray it is almost violet, that bruised color of dark clouds on bright but sunless days. It makes for an incredible waking dream of time and motion.
by aramatzne@gmail.com | 26 Oct 2015 | Roads Taken
Many years ago, when I was fresh out of college and writing my first résumé, I was instructed to include an objective; how else would my targeted employers know what my goal was? The first draft I wrote stated, “Objective: To find a position as an international traveler. No reports, no deadlines, extensive vacation time, and limitless expense account required.”
Through all the field work, across all the states and all the years, I think this is still my objective.
Have camera. Can write. Ready to go.
by aramatzne@gmail.com | 22 Oct 2015 | Roads Taken
Yesterday morning I took the road to Lostine, Oregon; I drove to the end, the Two Pan trailhead at the edge of the Eagle Cap Wilderness. It was 38º in the shadow, but, above the trees and the ridge to the west, the sky was blue and the fall sun strong.
The trail was flecked with slivers of gold, tamarack needles in spirals and geometric patterns. I passed through a troop of kinglets squeaking in the treetops, then across the single-log bridge over the East Lostine River and up through the switchbacks.
I came out into the meadow at the base of Eagle Cap; ponds, the river, and sun-dried grasses stretched a couple miles south before dissolving into the dark trees at the foot of the mountain. The air was absolutely still and the entire meadow was silent.
Days like this always draw me away from whatever else life insists I do. They are the perfect days to play hooky from work and from memories and old thoughts that linger in my head. To me, the last days of autumn are a reminder that life is short and I need to soak in every drop of sun and life and possibility.
I hiked to the river crossing, sat on the footbridge, ate lunch. Then, with a wild chipmunk circling the perimeter of my lunch space, I leaned back and closed my eyes. The water sang under the bridge. Two ravens had a discussion far up the eastern ridge. The chipmunk scolded me for leaving no trace. I absorbed all that I could.
The sun leaves early this time of year. Rather than continue up, I turned back.
The pikas, silent on my way in, now chattered and scorned me for giving up so easily. Alas, I don’t have a fur coat and haven’t collected grass through the long summer days.
Although the trail back is mostly downhill, I moved more slowly. Yes, I’m getting older, but more than that, I am less willing to leave this place.
Everything is changing so rapidly. How much longer will the pikas survive here? They can only move up the mountain as the lower elevations warm. Late-October and there is only a dusting of snow on Eagle Cap. Maybe I can squeeze in one more trip before winter arrives.
