What I Live For

It is a summer night in Colorado,a somehow similtaneously warm and cool evening. Riding my bike home from work, dark clouds were settled over the west, and the mountains dissolving into the sky. Driving past the lake to pick up some dinner, all the hills were different shades of pale blue, with the sunlight cutting through the dark clouds in bright shafts over the water. The lake is brimming, and all the trees are greener than I have seen them in years. The air is thick with my leaving.

I was saying to a friend the other day how the fact that I'm going away gives me permission to savor every little detail of life here and now. It is always this way for me... I just barely get to the point of feeling secure and settled before I inevitably pack off on another adventure. In the meantime, every morning I walk to work slowly, looking at the houses on my street, waving to my neighbors. I learn the names and the drinks of all the regulars who come to the coffee shop. I have dinner with new friends from church. And when I start to question the logic behind all these unsevered connections, I try to keep in mind that home is not a place, but is an act of faith.