Montana: It's Fucking Huge.
As I am beginning to settle into my new life in Montana, I feel it's probably a wise move for me to resume (or finally take seriously) old habits. For better or worse, this blog is one of them...
I left Evansville in a fury, my mind moving in so many directions that now, six days later, I'm still struggling to find some sense of stability. It's never been easy for me to uproot my life regardless of how excited moving makes me. For me moving represents new beginnings, a rebirth, a chance to do things the right way. How unsurprising it is that these things would be attractive to me. But previous experiences have taught me that, like all things, these feelings of excitement and promise dissipate with each new second spent in unfamiliar surroundings. Eventually, the ugly beast of reality rears its head, and the cold hard truth hits home with the force of a thousand sledgehammers: I am alone.
There is no glory in pursuing the purposeful life, at least not from my current vantage point. It's the ultimate gamble, to try and figure out (and pursue) one's passion with unabashed determination and relentless vigor. It takes a tremendous leap of faith and a level of stupidity incapable of most people. This highly coveted form of freedom does indeed come at a price...and as a family friend commented to me before I left (albeit regarding thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail): "after a while, you're only proving something to yourself." Although I've barely begun to embark on this journey I can't help but to wonder, is there more truth than I'd like to admit in what he said? Pursuing a life of personal purpose and happiness is a noble quest, but does it lack virtue? How do you tell the fucking difference?
Before I came to Montana, I promised myself that I would take advantage of my heavily wooded and incredibly alive surroundings by doing things I know very little about. To ease myself into this new brand of wilderness flagellation, I have been considering doing my first freelance piece on fly fishing. Admittedly, I know as much about fly fishing as BP does about safe offshore drilling practices, but it's something I have done before and thoroughly enjoyed. It's only natural to think I would enjoy it even more if I knew what the fuck I was doing. So, I need to get over my fear of contacting people for the sake of freelance writing (how are they going to believe me if I don't even believe in myself) and get with the tying of the flies. In a few months when I'm standing knee deep in a cold mountain stream, the heat of the morning sun warming the back of my neck, surrounded by trees much older than any of man's stories and struggling to reel in a monstrous Cutthroat, I'm sure it will all be worth it. Unless, in my distraction, I'm attacked by a bear...
They say a journey of a thousand miles begins with a cash advance...But seriously folks, first steps are always the hardest. As I continue to remind myself that nobody ever got anywhere through complacency, I wrestle with myself over the steps I have already taken. Healthy reflection is beneficial, but there is a fine line between reflection and dwelling. Dwelling in a self-imposed prison is detrimental to creativity, for the very definition of dwell is to "live in or at a specified place." Stagnancy breeds ignorance and ignorance is death for the creative soul. For me creativity comes from the experience, from trying something new, learning something about myself and gaining new insight into life. That being said, there is no shortage of creative propellant in Missoula, Montana...
There are no guarantees that any of this will work out in the long run and it has become increasingly harder to convince myself that the end result isn't necessarily the goal; the goal is to have the courage to try. And if nothing else, I know that there is virtue in that...
