Where do I go from here? - #23
Unearthing a dusty compass.
Every day, I wake up on the Western side of the house, tucked safely from the crawl of dawn. The valley to the west rolls down in elevation beneath me, still trapped in shadow. All I can hear is the heavy breathing of the dog and the thump of a kitten suddenly aware of the consequences of being caught on the counter. There is no house hum here, only the occasional dripping of the baseboard, set at a cool 65. My side of the bed has extra blankets. Worn linen sheets, a wool Pendleton just for me, the duvet, and then the tabby’s favorite blanket — an impossibly soft knit of burnt orange and white. Pre-dawn calls to me every day, a child too eager for presents to wait. Every day, during the last vestiges of the dark, I pad my feet down onto an animal skin older than I am, and I make my way to the kitchen. The dog doesn’t rustle, the floor boards don’t creak. When the wind isn’t calling to it, the house doesn’t make a noise.
The snow outside is illuminated under the soft light of the moon, the stars dutifully attending the party. Both cats circle my ankles. Maybe some milk? Maybe just a splash on a little plate? For us? This time of day, Finn’s purrs are guttural, overlapping like a record skipping, like he’s never sure if I will wake up and can’t contain his relief when I do. He’s happier here. More playful, more curious, more relaxed. This time of day, I am still in my dreams. I pour the milk, I refill the kibble, I am unaware of mirrors, moving only through shadows. I know the edges in this house now. And in the glow of the night, I never check the time.
These few minutes, when I am nothing but a creature moving gently in the night, I am at ease, I am free. I open one of the shades and I look out at the ridgeline to the east. Dawn is only just beginning to leak into the sky, but the sun will not show itself until past 9am. I rest my hips against the counter, breathing in the moment. I feel something calling me, stirring in my belly and expanding between my vertebrae, but deep rest calls louder, and I close the shade. I nestle again into the covers as Finn settles back on his blanket between my legs, still licking the milk off his whiskers, locking us into reverie.
When the day really begins, that feeling lingers on my tongue like a dream, and I try to hold the taste as long as I can. It feels like an ethereal gateway to flow, to runner’s high, and to joy. By 8am, it has been diluted by emails from other timezones and drowned out by notifications for meetings about those emails. It is lost to the night, invisible in the bright sun of day, and I am tethered again.
A few years ago, I asked my therapist if she thought I was healed enough to try psychedelics. She laughed. “Your tether to reality is very thin. I wouldn’t recommend it.” One of my family members is on the other side of this reality. He and I, we’re not so different, talking to ourselves in the privacy of our rooms and the great wide opens we find ourselves in. The only difference is someone talks back to him. I am always the other side of my own dialogue.
It was hard to be this person in a city. I felt balled up and folded in. Many years ago now, when my mental health was on the verge of collapse, I fled New York for Colorado. The week before I left, I ran into a guy I had fallen for who had not fallen back on the subway. Maybe he asked how I was, maybe he asked what I was up to, whatever he asked, I practically sang to him that I was leaving. I can still summon the energy I felt in that interaction. It felt like leaning on the kitchen counter before dawn, before emails and meetings and anyone else, with the mountains standing guard around you. It felt warm and fluid and expansive.
Before we left LA, my mental health was the best it had been in decades. My therapist and I agreed I was ready to “graduate.” It had been years since I’d felt the remnants of depersonalization, the things that used to trigger my PTSD were only mild irritants, and panic attacks were limited to only the most extreme of scenarios. I felt like I was on the other side of the pendulum from that last week in New York. It’s one of those things about being human that at the depths of my pain and at the height of my clarity, I was called to the same place.
It’s often Finn that wakes me up in the quiet of night. He climbs onto my chest and purrs until I stir. After the kibble and the milk, when I’m looking at the sleeping giants outside, Finn asks to be picked up and we look out at the wilderness together, his whiskers pressing into my cheek. I wonder if he can feel that expanse in my body, if it’s like purring.
I am happier here. I miss my friends, but I can’t wait to show them my world here. In this world, there is space for my mind to build a stronger tether — not to reality, but to life.
We’ve had a few people tell us they wish they could live this life. They wish they could live in a cabin and spend their days chopping wood and exploring the terrain. I tell them I wish I could too. I am still beholden to a computer, to Zoom meetings, to accrued time-off and embarrassing corporate “benefits.” But at the very least, I have fully unearthed my compass, and I am following it as best I can.
What I wish for them is the same: that they find their North and have the courage and the support to right their ship. This particular life isn’t for everyone, but it is for me. And I can feel the pull of my compass getting stronger and stronger.
Earlier this month I talked to Cole Noble of Cole’s Climb on his podcast about moving to a small town, the anxiety relief that comes with inconvenience, and the sense of duty that living in a community like this instills in you. I hope you like it.
A side note: it appears I have been “shadowbanned'' on Instagram because I went, uh, extremely viral. Like, 125 million views on one Reel viral. So if you liked this, by all means, share it, because I will be waiting this one out. 😬🪵🏔️💛
Kelton, this is really beautiful. I can just feel that kind of silence and connection with land and the stars. I'm so glad you've found some ways to live a life with better mental health. Our un-natural way of living is surely not that good for many of us.
I’m pretty new to this emerging newsletter genre, but yours has become a fast favourite.