Rain. And somehow we know it will soon be snow. I take great comfort in that, awaiting the days, yet savoring the mild meanwhile. The long cold winter peaks coyly around the corner. Lures me with promise and intrigue, a sweet melody drawing me in to the dance. I am unable to resist.
Our season. Our half of the year. Farewell to the fair weather folks. Then it is our time, our place, our mountain, and we learn to breathe again. We flourish like winter blossoms, brilliant of color and rich of fragrance. The dormant season in which we awaken, spread our petals to the glaring sun and soak in her soft white wash of snow.
How comforting to say it is finally mine. My home. The place where I belong. How many have told us that this summer. So glad to see us back. Their map of the world somehow more complete knowing we are here to stay. I am jarred by their comments, flattered and frightened at the same time. Accepting of the truth.
It often takes walking away to realize what matters most, leaving to find your place. If we had never left, if we had not had to fight for what is ours before then, if all the drama and trauma had never happened, the deep binds that I now feel clamping tight to my toes while roots grow deep each day from heels, bare feet becoming the soil, allowing the dirt to become me, between my toes, whilst I can still adorn naked feet in the field.
This is my home. Not what I had expected it would be. Where are the gentle brook and shade trees and hot summer nights and cow pasture I used to dream of? This dream evolved. Still evolving. As if every day I rub my eyes and see the world before me more clearly.
And still I am confused. I don’t fully let go, give in, accept. Perhaps one should not. One should always put up a bit of fight, keep the claws sharp, though let the tongue soften. For you never know when you might need to charge into battle again. I have proven this if nothing else. I am willing to fight for what matters most.
Though now I see. It is because of the battle we defined our space. We became this land. We found our home. If it was easy, it wouldn’t be mine.
I’m ready for a little easier.
Scattered thoughts like early autumn seeds. Does any of this make sense to you, dear reader?
Gin Getz 
Makes sense to me!
Home is where the heart is and there is no doubt where yours is .Sometimes it just takes a while to know it for sure . I am happy for you !!!
Yes, I understand what you mean Gin, as I have a similar struggle in the opposite direction. It does make sense. Sometimes we have to quiet ourselves, empty our minds and spirits of pre-conceived ideas and leave them open to whatever surprises God has in store for us :-)
I just want you to know how much I enjoy your thoughts. I don’t know why I haven’t told you how I check my e-mail each day and search for a new insight from you. We have just started back to school; I am content with this because I am one of those teachers who really love what she does. And yet, I also yearn for the days you share your thoughts with me and other readers. I treasure those few minutes that I am able to let me mind travel back to 38 miles above Creede. Thank you, Thank you, Thank you.
After I visited the Rio Grande headwaters yesterday to fish, and was shocked by the utter devastation of the Englemann Spruce, I found your blog while searching for explanations. I’m in mourning now – and I mourn with you, too. It’ll be centuries before the forests are even a tiny bit close to what they are now.
I am enchanted by your thoughts, and look forward to reading more and more of your writing.