Grateful.

I've come to know the importance of foundations. Of finding a sturdy base for myself. As this school year wraps up, I am experiencing what it feels like to put down roots. I've never stayed in a place for more than a year. I was constantly on the move -- learning how to live out of suitcases and boxes. I figured out what the necessities were. I learned how to live simply. I learned to not get too attached to people or places and to never let down my guard.

It's a strange feeling knowing I'll be in Bozeman for awhile. Maybe even longer than awhile. It's strange realizing that I don't have to say goodbye to everyone and everything I became familiar with over the last year. It's quite a pleasant reality to wake up in, actually. Roots are really very nice.

I still find myself wanderlusting. The week before Spring Break, I was tired of school and papers and brick buildings with fluorescent lights. So, I started pricing airplane tickets to Patagonia and Argentina. There were English Tutoring positions available and a new world of strange languages and dirty bus trips. And I almost cracked. 

But it was the familiar face of Emily Jo bursting through the door, a glance across the desk at my smiling boss, Michelle, a worried look from Miles and a text from Autumn that kept me from pushing "send."It was the walk down 11th that has become familiar, the surrounding mountains that I adore and the yell of a "hello" from an acquaintance. It was walking in my apartment and feeling at home.

Foundations are good. 

Home.

   I realized today that I haven't brought friends home since junior high. Especially for long periods of time. I think I'm protective of it. Home is a safe place -- A place where the food is warm and full of goodness. The hugs are long and full of love. The walks are brisk in March and void of many colors, save brown, light brown, dark brown and a special shade of mud. The cow shit even has a certain romance to it. That's a lie. Cow shit always smells like shit. But even that smells like home.

   It took moving away, then back again, for me to realize how much I love it here. I like being able to drive up the road for a cup of sugar and walk away with a whole bag. I love being welcomed into (nearly) every home with a hug and a smiling face. My walks to the river and through the feedlot allow my mind to quiet in a way that seems impossible. I love it here. I really do. It took a while for me to learn what home meant, but I know now.

   The ice is jammed up on the Yellowstone. The ditches are full of rain water. The sky reaches a type of blue that only Montana can provide and the gravel road is a disaster zone. The feedlot is a soupy mess. The fields are waiting to be plowed and the cattle are itching for grass. The birds are starting to sing and the sun is starting to shine. The brown is ready to slide out of the hills and the green is ready to settle back in. The yucca plants are the start of the new summer. My lungs feel full. And the meadowlarks sound divine.

   Anyone can love the mountains, but it takes soul to love the prairie.

Adventures in "Iceland"

   This historic ice jam has left our farm with a large amount of damage in irrigation pipe and machinery. The total damage won't be tallied until the ice has washed out again. It's eerie to see over forty feet of ice up and over our river bank. Chunks the size of cars are lying halfway up the fields and entire trees have been uprooted and twisted in the chaos, sticking out from various places. Litter has washed up, including some rather *vintage* bottles. On our first day of the Farm Adventure, my roommate Emily Jo, sister and I went climbing over the ice that had breached the bank. Obviously, we did not climb out onto the river, but it was an adventure nonetheless. When the jam first occurred, my parents went down to the river and heard the cries of a cow that was stuck somewhere in the ice. Mother Nature never ceases to amaze and awe me -- sometimes with her beauty, but always with her power.

Solitude.

   You know it is bound to be a hell of day when you fill the coffee maker, then forget to put the coffee pot back in. When this happens, a lot of coffee makes its way onto the counter. And floor. And it stains things. And bleach only does so much. YEAH, SUNDAY!

   Today, I met up with a photography friend at Wild Joe's, laughing about how weird boys are and how excited we are to finally be breaking into the photo world. Seriously though -- why are boys so weird? The real answer is that I'm, in fact, the one that's weird. But, I don't want to admit it. If I do, then I damn myself to a life of spinster-hood. I've already been warned by several, single, middle-aged neighbors that my eggs are drying up. That's always a good way to initiate neighborly conversation (in case you were wondering.) Start talking to young girls about their biological clock running out. Helps them to build confidence. And stuff.

   I do pretty well on my own. I've never minded being alone, but the thing about being alone is that it usually leads to feeling lonely. I don't understand how you are supposed to meet people. In high school, they tell you that you'll meet your spouse in college. Then, you get to college and you think, Dear God, I hope not. Sad thing about college -- the boys just have beer bellies and often forget that things like personal hygiene are sometimes necessary. Neither of these is a benefit to their cause. So, you go out into the world and everyone says that you will meet the man of your dreams. Then, you go out into the world and realize that the majority of the men in Europe wear tighter pants than you do, don't know what the word "deodorant" is and have never fixed a flat tire. You also realize that you are getting older. And things like being able to fix flat tires are now attractive. This causes you to feel like the wrinkles by your eyes are getting deeper and the biological clock is in fact screaming TICK TOCK, DAMMIT. All of the above then lead to a marathon of chick flicks and a large chocolate consumption. 

   Needless to say, I'm still single. 

   I try to embrace solitude. In fact, the majority of the time, I thrive on it. I am incredibly independent, much to the frustration of those around me. I like hiking by myself. I like taking drives by myself. I like shopping by myself. I go to movies by myself. I cook by myself. There is a lot of "self" time. Over the last two days of Spring Break, I've spent a lot of quality time with me, myself and I. I fixed a clogged drain, which revealed a nasty damn hairball and resulted in my dry heaving for about fifteen minutes before laughing hysterically at the comedy of the situation. I then stopped laughing because I realized I had to clean up the hairball. I cleaned (a lot). I bleached everything (God, bleach is so incredible). I washed clothes. I cleaned my room. I did homework. Then, I had nothing else to occupy my time. You can only do so much before your thoughts start to catch up with you.

   I used the afternoon to escape to Hyalite. Despite the ever-present snow, it was beautiful. I breathed in the mountain air and sat for awhile. By myself. And when I got back into my car, to drive back to my empty apartment -- I was okay with being alone. 

Part 2.

I just met a man while crossing the street to come to Zocalo (the best little coffee shop in Bozeman) who was spending the day walking Main Street. He had just come from a cross-country skiing trip in West Yellowstone, where he said the weather had been "divine." He held my elbow as we crossed the street, him bumping his long white cane on the ground and repeatedly pushing his sunglasses up his nose while I tried to walk slowly. Once we reached the other side, we stood for a few minutes talking about school and his trip. This man (who happened to be blind) told me, "Enjoy every minute of school, before the real world comes up to snatch you. Don't waste a minute."

So, here I am.

I've wasted the last year bumming around Montana, wondering where I fit into this mess of mountains and moo-cows. I left the University of Portland to begin a double-major at MSU, flying from Austria to Billings, Montana, where the culture shock was all too real when the man next to me had to remove his cowboy hat for landing. I chopped my hair off, embraced a healthy lifestyle and faced my diagnosis of clinical depression, anxiety and OCD with an open heart and open mind.

I spent the summer hiking through rural riparian areas, collecting date for the Bureau of Land Management. I blew more than a fair share of tires, got lost only slightly less than the year before, put 9,000 miles on our truck and acquired an anti-government stalker. Needless to say, it was an adventurous summer. I sit, bouncing on my chair, waiting for May to come around so I can jump up into the cab of that ridiculously large, green Ford and take off on a dirt road again. The bouncing may also be caffeine induced, but... whatever.

I have made my home in Bozeman, loving the surrounding mountains and hating walking to school when the weather dropped below zero on a regular basis. (Let's be real -- I hardly ever walked. Cars were invented for a reason. Getting to school in sub-zero temperatures is one of them.) I am living with two incredible women who inspire me on a daily basis. I have made leaps and bounds in my knowledge of writing, photography, artistic communication and snow reports. I now own a Subaru with stickers on the windows, which puts me one step closer to achieving my life goal. I'm working on the next step (Spoiler Alert: it's large, golden and a "retriever" of sorts). I started a new job at the MSU Writing Center that allows me to start conversations with strangers over writing and enables me to grow in ways that I never knew would come from a forty-five minute tutoring session. I have made my home here -- and I'm happy to call it that.

I've wasted the last year ignoring my writing. So, because of my nagging conscious and a kind, blind stranger, I'm here. I don't want to waste another minute.

Here begins the Entfalten Journey: Part 2. Stay tuned.