I used to think context was physical. That meaning was rooted in longterm commitment to a specific place. I don't know that this is false now. (I don't know much I've discovered, to tell you the truth.) But, I've discovered a new joy in exploration. Not knowing the backroads down here, not knowing the reputations of the different towns, not knowing the best (and worst) places to grab a burger, this is all becoming exciting rather than daunting. Moving away from my home initially made me hyper-sensitive to my outsider status in a place where most of the people I know now grew up. Now, I was the foreigner, the one gives you that blank look when you have to get more and more general when telling me how to find a great hike you're recommending or what town you grew up in. I hated that transition, from knowing all the nooks and crannies of Puget Sound to not even knowing if a town is on the east or west side of the state. I dunno what fog is finally lifting but I'm starting to chomp at the bit to get out and wallow in my ignorance. I want to buy a black and white map of the state of Oregon and starting filling it in, with color, as I figure out what's where. I'd always imagined living somewhere open when I was a kid. I fantasized about yawning landscapes and pine forests. That was an impossibility in the tucked in, cloud covered, soggy Puget Sound basin, that place I never thought I'd leave. Now that those ties are cut, at least for the time being, I wonder what sort of weird prairie Oregon is hiding. The Willamette Valley has already claimed a portion of my heart. Corvallis started digging in before I ever considered Oregon. Now it feels like my home away from home. It's even starting to get some depth and hold a little bit of sadness rather than two-dimensional good times. Like any good place, history isn't going to be all roses. But, getting back to the point at hand, I think I may have set aside the urge to feel at home somewhere. I'm not sure yet, it's been such an obsession for so long, but I don't feel that same intensity to feel belonging right now. I just feel excitement for discovery. Maybe this is the whole point. Maybe in releasing that need to control your comfort, you open yourself to a vulnerability that's necessary to truly be welcomed home. I suppose there is only one way to find out.

In the backyard the piled leaves lay soggy and stubborn as the wind kicked the last remaining maple leaves from the branches. Sky, the color of doubt, thickened and drew near, unapologetically eavesdropping. The woodstove grunted as I dropped in the still-wet hunk of fir. It looked like a dog had spent the summer gnawing the edges. I was just grateful this piece didn't drip with fat black carpenter ants. Earlier, the intrusion of my rusted old maul into a round of cherry explosded ants across the concrete patio. I danced across their flash mob, thoroughly crushing months of practice and choreography. As the woodstove groaned and creaked, James Taylor pleaded, "Go on and do as you please, You ain't gonna see me gettin' down on my knees." Most of the rain outside missed it's landzin zone, the overflowing koi pond (minus the koi), and pelted into the plastic awning over the patio or thudded on the grass, already an inch deep in water. Then it paused, taking a breath like a falled toddler, and the blitz continued. Stepping outside, hands in pockets, I walked the ten minutes to the mailbox. The wind held me as if it were thinking of someone else, but still eased in through the gaps in my layers to touch and chill my skin. The skyt was wooled and heavy to the east, thinning as it extended, reaching west to the horizon and the ocean. A sliver of blue lay across the western sky like the last slive of pie in the pan, or the answer you wanted to a question you didn't want to ask. I looked across the field of Christmas trees surrounding the house, wondering when they'd be harvested. I assumed they'd be cut one day while I was away at work and I'd return to find they'd finally taken what was never really mine.

Sometimes things open up in ways you don't expect or anticipate. Sort of like playing sports. You may have had one play in mind but you can't control what the other team is going to do. You could take the ball and run (my prerogative usually) or you can look up, see what the defense is offering you even if it seems they're taking something away. It might make the most sense for you to keep the ball, muscle your way upfield, drive as far as you can. Or it might make sense to pass. I've never been good at passing. I get blinders on and only see what's right in front of me. I tend to go deaf and mostly get bloodthirsty and just want to hit contact and drive through it - the dumbest, simplest, sometimes most rewarding way to achieve progress.

I'm not real sure where to go from here. A lot has changed, some in ways I orchestrated and anticipated and some in ways I hadn't considered... those damn blinders again. But, lessons are learned every day, every play, every decision we make has repercussions. When you feel like you aren't getting any momentum on the field the key is to always go back to your most basic gameplan. Move the ball. Those meters turn into tries eventually if you're willing to give a little to get a lot.

Maybe winning isn't what I imagined it to be. Or maybe winning is beside the point in this game.