You can take the girl outta the country, but you can't take the country outta the girl. I've spent the last six years living in the greater Seattle area, and don't get me wrong there truly is nothing more romantic than a rainy day paired with a perfect cup of coffee. But everyday was a day spent living with only half my heart. Due to recent life events somewhat out of my control I've found myself living back in the shadow of Heart Mountain. This little beauty doesn't mean much to anyone who didn't grow up in Powell, or Cody, Wyoming. It is, however, more near and dear to my heart than any other landmark on God's great earth.

I cannot describe the feelings I've felt recently every time I step out my front door. One can only imagine the concurrent delight and dismay of finding oneself all at once entirely lost and entirely found. There is no certain direction, no far reaching goal. There is no longer a paper to write, a book to be read, an unmanageable thought to be thunk. There is no husband to cook dinner for, no particular errands to be run, no rush to do laundry or dishes. There is only an empty, delicious freedom.

What I do see I grew up taking for granted my entire life. There is a sky so vast that you again remember what it's like to feel small. There are stars so big that you remember what it's like to want to reach them. There are mountain views so epic you really might cry. There is a lawn and golden sunshine and quiet streets and people with warm eyes and simple smiles. There are gentlemen in cowboy hats with worn silk scarves particularly tucked into Carhart coats. There is peace. And here rests my heart.

Life is far from perfect and most days it just hurts like hell. But there is a lot to be said for knowing when you are home. I am finally home.

Today is a new day. Today is the day I begin again. Today is the day that I let my camera lens take over my heart and my worldview once more. Today is the day that I am late for coffee with a good friend.

El

I think you were young once
peels of laughter
rolling off craggy mountain walls
like fireworks in a small canyon

You must have had golden wild curls
dancing freely all over your head
blown by the dry and lonely
southern palestinian wind

I bet it was nice
to be sought only by
freedom-loving nomadic people
to revel in your reckless glory

Now that your hair is grey
do you miss the country?
do you wish for sunshine on your face
having taken up the burden of the world

Morning is black
teapot humming
vacant fireplace
heater wheezing
coffee in mug

Morning is gray
kitten on table
old university sweatshirt
Kirkland sky
dim apartment

Morning is green
wet dew drop grass
tree soaked in moss
vines hopping fence
fence molding

Morning’s glory

When rain falls on cobbled streets
And washes off Big Ben’s second hand
When white geese glide on black water
And weeping willows spill over the path
When London Bridge find itself falling down
And businessmen discuss things in suits
When pubs are filled with smoke and beer
And thick wooden chairs on thick wooden floors
When the stale air of the Tube rushes
And multi-colored lines take us places
When breakfast happens in red leather chairs
And people play rugby or cricket
When money runs out and accounts run dry
And Shakespeare finds work in the street
You are my home in foreign lands.

Lamentation

Oh so long we waited, anticipated, deaden this bone numbing chill
I am the one who waits for the midnight of the soul to end
So many times we traded, made it, nauseatingly about we feel
You did not look like the rising sun.

The old men have left the city gate, the young men their music
I am the one who waits for the midnight of the soul to end
We weep bitterly in the dark with tears on our cheeks
You did not look like the rising sun.

There was no expectation, no elation, quicken our concentrated blood
I am the one who waits for the midnight of the soul to end
All those days have faded, dissuaded by a sense of mortality
You did not look like the rising sun.

Her gates have sunk in to the ground; vast as the sea is our ruin
I am the one who waits for the midnight of the soul to end
We live between the first break of dawn and the full light of day
You did not look like the risen son.

There is a place in my mind
that my thoughts drift slowly to
like a cumbersome summer cloud
drifting alone across the sky

past the friendly old farm house
with its prim and proper lawn
I sit in the long wild grass
where unkept things belong

my feet are tan and dirty
I wear a disheveled crown of hair
the smell of sun warmed earth drifts slowly
I am without a care

the tire swing hangs lonely
creaking on its old and worn rope
a sound that echoes distant
with youthful vibrant hope

far above the tree leaves rustle
a happy flash of green and gold
today I have escaped
I wish never to grow old