Resilient and Resourceful

It’s not breaking and entering if you’re not breaking anything to enter, right?

The front door’s partially missing, and I duck through a gap in the existing frame. This is the first home I’ve been inside in over a month.

Chad and I are out exploring, and the narrow dirt road we’ve been bumping along for the last half hour has brought us here: an old abandoned homestead.

I’m in what used to be the living room. It has hard wood floors; the type people drool over these days. I tiptoe deeper inside, into a back bedroom. The floor creaks, and I shudder. The air feels heavy. The curtains – hung who knows when – are badly tattered and frayed at the bottom.

There’s a small closet. Beside it a closed door that, when I attempt to turn the heavy cold brass handle and see what’s on the other side, doesn’t budge.

I head into the hallway.

The linoleum – an ornate patterned print of roses against a dark bruised greyish-purple – is cracked and peeling. Curling up in places. It carries me into the second bedroom. The windows are filthy, but the view! Who woke up to this? Who lived and dreamed with this powerful dynamic view right outside?

The kitchen is painted orange and yellow. A 1970s paint job perhaps, the orange now peeling like a bad sunburn.

The fridge is still there, though I don’t dare open it.

In the restroom I catch a glimpse of myself in the milky medicine cabinet mirror.

“Holy shit,” I mouth.

I’m creeping through people’s ghosts, people’s memories. A place once teeming with life now abandoned. Out the kitchen window you can see the original home, a log cabin. The one I’m in is a little more advanced, built in early 19-something.

They’re both vacant. Slowly disintegrating in a valley of tall grass. Surrounded by towering orange and red canyons and boulders that remind me of huge Costco-sized slices of carrot cake.

People were resourceful. People knew what it took to stay alive.

There’s a covered wagon right by the home, foxtails intermingle with the big wood wheels.

What Chad and I are doing now seems mighty tame in comparison to this. And yet, I’ve never pushed myself this far before.

Even when moving to Ireland at 21 without knowing anyone there, I quickly acquiesced; using whatever was directly in front of me to “save” me.

I never bothered to run it through a series of questions first. The most obvious being, is this what I really want?

I’d startle at discovering the answer was “no” after I’d committed. Then the old sunk-cost fallacy kept me in place for a few more years, until I could take it no more.

I repeated this pattern, over and over. It played out primarily in jobs and relationships. Each time, I became more and more detached.

So yes. This adventure is happening way outside the narrow confines of my normal comfort zone, and the trench of old habits runs deep. I find myself thinking about getting a job. Temporarily forgetting that I have one – I’m actually making money writing – but nothing’s happening quickly, and there are none of the guarantees I’m so desperately used to grabbing.

That’s what savings are for, Chad reminds me.

Yeah… I’m not very good at this whole ‘not knowing’ thing.

But that’s the biggest lesson, right? Learning to sit through a transition, put in the necessary work, the necessary time, despite how uncomfortable it is not knowing what’s going to happen next. Learning to trust yourself, and not panic prematurely and pick the easy way out.

I’ve become so used to handing over huge chunks of myself to others. Having them tell me what to do, show me the way, give me a little compensation for my time, effort…life. It’s interesting to remove yourself from all of that. You really get a chance to see what you’re made of, and how much (think: a disproportionate and disappointing amount) I base my self-worth on validation from others.

There’s no better backdrop for all of this to play out, though.

Right now, as I peer out the back window of our 14-foot home, I’m looking down at a valley. Below that are huge canyons; orange and white exposed slabs that light up when the sun hits them on its descent.

There’s no one around. Just sage, wildflowers, birds, and an intermittent breeze. The only indication of humans is a metallic dot of an airplane, leaving an etch-a-sketch line in an otherwise clear sky.

Last night as I lay in wait for sleep, I looked out the back window at the bright display of stars against the black backdrop of a Colorado night. Are you getting what you want out of life? The thought came into my head, seemingly out of nowhere. I looked at the big dipper and other constellations I can’t name.

Yes. I answered, from my snug spot surrounded by everything I love, this is exactly what I’ve been waiting for.