Heather Flyte

Now I’m wondering what stirred me from writing the first mountain story. I remember being unsure, a sense of flapping helplessly in a valley of doubt. I remember not having a job, or an apartment or a forseeable future. That was a long time ago, back when I thought moving 3,000 miles would help focus my mind and lift my spirits.

But, like the old man says, “no matter where you go, there you are.”

So a change of scenery isn’t always the necessary tonic for life’s woes. It’s a temporary redirect, shifting of attention to what’s always been wrong to what’s wrong right now. It’s a never ending series of new address forms, resumés, mixers and maps. It’s a distraction of the food-and-shelter variety that always superscedes the ego.

It’s nonsense.

It’s beautiful out here, I love my friends, I love my job, I love the life I’ve created. And I realize that I love it because it’s me living it. The same old, flawed me. I did this, even though the me-that-was is no where near the me-that-is, it’s still me.

Oh! I’ve got to go cook that chicken. Laters.

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