Tuesday, December 3, 2013
I sat on the cliff and watched the fog roll in towards me. You weren't even able to see the horizon line, the mist was so thick. It was turning pink and purple with sunrise and for a moment, I imagined that the sea ended right there--a perfect crease; a folded corner in a paper earth.
Veda stretched out her legs and pressed closer into my side. I thought she was dying the other day and the world became a lot scarier and darker. I had held her in my arms, buried my face into her chest and sobbed as we sank deeper into the back of my car, parked somewhere in a neighborhood I didn't recognize. She's my partner, my sidekick, and more than I could ever explain to you, she is what I love most in the world. It was the loneliest night I've ever had.
The fun of traveling, at that point, had ended. I had left Southern California to escape to the wilderness of Big Sur when Veda got incredibly sick. And after a hellish couple days of vets and plans of emergency surgery and medication, everything became balanced and we made our way to collapse on the coastline.
My hair started to turn to wispy, sea-air infused curls when I was sitting in the grass and drinking the last grittiness of my black coffee. I picked out the things I loved most about being on my own and about being on the road. I love the sound of the camp stove flame roaring, screaming my favorite songs at the top of my lungs with my arm out the window, how my cold hands fumble in the morning through the moves of getting the coffee started. Right at that moment, I loved how scared I was of the sea beneath me, looking black and swallowing the rocks I had sat on the afternoon prior. But as much as I loved those things, nothing seemed to compare to the idea of home in those moments. I missed the creaking of the floorboards and the woodstove in the living room. I wanted to see the sun creep it's orange rays through the window in the morning and throw my fly line into the Yellowstone River. As most people know, I love the road. I find answers there, and have, most of the time, felt the most like my own self while travelling. But my heartstings ached for home and the comfort of the familiar. I felt like I had been stripped of everything- down to my barest of bones this time around and I was ready to be back.
On that cliff, I made a list of things I wanted to do in the next year and a list of things I wanted to do in my lifetime. I made a list of things I wanted to get better at, and things I'd like to improve in myself. It's been awhile since I've re-assessed my goals and dreams, or at least written them down. Sadness has a way of wiping the slate clean, like starting over. I wrote "Day 1" on the top of the page of my notebook above the list.
Only days after I sat on the beach, my car died. It was a mountain burial, and she decided she was done when we were in the middle of the National Forest. For all the places for her to die, I'll take that place. For the most part, she was great. She had character right up until the end.
I'm sitting in Montana now, 29 days after I left to California. The feeling of restlessness that I've felt for the past 8 months has subsided into a dull whisper. I feel different now, and like I needed a trip like the one I just had to remind me that traveling isn't always the answer.
For now, building on what I have here is more important than seeing something new every day.
I've always been good at travelling and leaving, but on the top of my notebook list of things I'd like to improve in myself was this: to grow where I'm planted.
Posted by beccaclimbsrocks at 9:54 PM
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Golden light poured through my windshield. The frost covers the windows and turns the light into sparkling fractions, pressed up against the box of the car we were sleeping in.
I thought a lot about the anatomy of happiness in those moments of sleepy, drifting ideas you get when you are first waking up. I thought about falling asleep in my sleeping bag with the cold air surrounding me, and the quiet mornings of pink, burning skies. I thought about watching fires turn to embers and the warmth of whiskey felt in my face.
The mornings of coffee in the backcountry will, for me, be the best ones and I am coming to love the desperate situations that turn to the best stories later on. I love the tired muscles when I've walked for miles, and the alpine lakes that are so cold that they take away my breath when I'm brave enough to dive under. I love the turning of another day in a different place, makeshift dinners made in parking lots, and late night talks that turn into early morning conversations.
We went to the Salton Sea, Zion National Park, the Grand Canyon, Denver, Jackson, Bozeman, Glacier National Park, Yellowstone and then finished the grand road trip by shooting a wedding outside of the Tetons.
I think when I dissect the happiness into pieces, these moments are the ones that help me lift my head through the heaviness. When I think of what I'm thankful for in this life season, I think of the screaming laughter- tears pouring from the corners of my eyes driven from smiles. There's been a lot of those lately, and the freedom of the road brings out that happiness in me. It allows me to let go, to observe, to think a day at a time, to seize opportunity and chance and keep a cup of coffee as my only routine. It allows me space to create and think about the person I want to become.
Because how can you not fall in love with the world like this?
Posted by beccaclimbsrocks at 1:53 PM
Saturday, August 10, 2013
I thought a lot about the word "home" as the Sierra's slid by out the window. The morning light was turning them pink and I saw a sleepy reflection of myself in the side view mirror, having woken up at 4:15 to get an early start driving.
I feel at home when there's a long stretch of highway in front of me, the sound of an oar digging into the water, the way the wind tangles my hair around my face and drinking a beer when I feel like I've earned it. Home is the stack of duffle bags I've been living out of, the bangles of plane tickets around their handles and opening my eyes to see the sky lit up with the milky way. It's the coffee mug I never wash, the conversations of desperate adventures told around a fire, and the beaming grin I always have when I reach the summit.
I guess home for me, in the broader sense, has never been a place. It's been found in souls that I've met and laughing until my stomach hurts. It's been found in kitchens, kindness of strangers, couches donated to my vagabonding and embracing hugs of old friends. I love having a place to base out of, but I've always loved the freedom and the inspiration I get from being on the move.
This past trip to Yosemite was one of the best trips I've had. I love the burning of my calves up the hillside, the scabs on my hands from climbing, the blood donated to the wall with the cause of reaching the top. I love watching the headlamps from the climbers on El Cap, laying in the meadow, eating pizza at the end of a long day spent running around. I love the sound of cams hula-hooped on a harness and the dinners made in the dark.
Those things are the things my heart returns to and my soul aches to be a part of again and again.
I'll keep traveling for another bit of time, bringing this season to a close. It's been a season for the books, and I can tell you that I've never been happier than I am these days.
Posted by beccaclimbsrocks at 1:01 PM
Friday, July 12, 2013
I couldn't catch my breath.
I rolled onto my back in the lake and felt the line of water along my sides, my clothes feeling like tissue paper jellyfish around me and little gasps of air escaping my lungs. I voluntarily jumped in here but I couldn't calm myself down enough to float; I can't seem to remember how to relax enough to forget the idea of sinking.
The fog was starting to set in on top of the water, and patterned rings were drifting out from where I lay in the milky blue vastness. The setting sun was starting to cast everything a dull pink and I continued to try to remember how to sit still.
I laid in the water, counting my deep inhales and thought back to when I first started travelling 8 weeks ago. I drove from Jackson to Denver to Taos to Lander to Salt Lake City to Yosemite to San Francisco, Santa Cruz, Ventura, Los Angeles, took a plane to Washington D.C., to Charleston to Chapel Hill to take a plane all the way back to the opposite side of the country again and start a full work week.
My rushing is a different kind of rushing than most people's. I jump from city to countryside, all beautiful places, but it's still rushing. Being a freelance artist, it's a constant fight to make sure I have an upcoming job or project to work on. This line of work encourages you to live in the future, but no plans are ever set. Because of this, I forget to take moments to float and pause. I don't want to reach the end of my life always having been constantly living falling forward.
It's something to work on.
Posted by beccaclimbsrocks at 8:45 AM