A Long Goodbye

This is my final summer working in middle Georgia with the bear project, and my final summer as a graduate student.
In 2013, I wrote a blog about coming here; much of my sentiments could be reversed in this post.

This is my fourth summer here, and I could fill a book with everything I have learned here, in this dirt and on this ground. I hope to do just that, someday.  But in the meantime, I'm trying to get my head around the idea that I'll be leaving here soon, and leaving the life I've built here.

The first few days I came down to the field site in June, I was here alone.  It's a good thing, because I was an emotional mess.  I was minding my own business, organizing supplies in our brand new storage building, when it hit me that all these supplies, the storage building, the check station, the trailer, the dirt I was standing on...was about to not be "mine" anymore.  This place has been home for my summers, some autumns, and some winters.  It's been the place I ran to for comfort, for mud, for bears, for new experiences, and for peace.  There's nothing that quite replaces sitting on the front porch watching the sun rise through those oaks in the front yard.

It's been a hard fought four years here: lots of blood, sweat, tears, pain, joy, dirt, rain, bugs, love, and laughter.  Before coming here, I'd never driven a truck (consistently), never driven a four-wheeler, never driven in mud, never handled barbed wire, never hauled a trailer, never touched a bear, never cried so much over bears, never plugged a tire, never cursed so frequently, never loved so profoundly, and never suffered loss so profoundly.

It feels like I've grown up here, even though I was in my twenties when I came.  In a way, I have grown up: I've learned what it takes to be a technician, crew leader, boss, team manager, research coordinator, go-fer, hunter, listener, and doer.  I've learned to deal with conflict that involves me, is because of me, and doesn't involve me at all.  I've learned how to talk to all sorts of people from all sorts of walks of life, and I've learned how to earn their respect.  None of these things have I done perfectly, and some I haven't even done well...but I've tried above all to be aware of opportunities to take lessons from every day I've spent here.  Whether it be learning mechanics, or history, fungus or tracking, hunting or wine-making, I have tried to keep both my eyes and both my ears open, holding my hands out palm up, waiting for whatever someone passed to me.  Not to say that was easy, or always fun.  It hasn't been only sunshine and rainbows.  But, my time here has been invaluable to me.
I think what has struck me the most has been the genuine spirits of everyone I've met.  If they like you, they'll give you the shirt off their back...if they don't like you, you know it--which I think is better than pretending.  Everyone I've come to know here is eager to talk about what they know and how they've learned it, especially if you're eager to listen.  I am forever in debt to the people here for taking me in, teaching me things, and pulling me out of trouble more than I'd like to admit.

***

I've successfully defended my thesis now, and all that remains are last-minute edits, format checks, and wrapping up the fifth and final season here.  After that, we'll all have pulled up our stakes from Ocmulgee dirt and moved on.

Only thing is...I don't know exactly to where I'm moving.  For the first time in my life, I have little direction.  I have, mostly, always known exactly what my next step is.  Now...I could take a step in any direction, and make something of myself.  It is terrifying.  It is also terribly freeing.  The world is my oyster right now: I could go anywhere, and be anything.  Some days I am okay with it: my free spirit soaring at the thought of riding into the sunset.  Some days...I wish to go backwards in time to when I had a singular path.  I know, though, that right now is exactly where I'm meant to be, whether I know what the future holds or not.

I keep telling myself, in my moments of panic, that as long as I can wake up each morning, remember how it is that I'm here--not through abilities acquired on my own, but through what I've been given--give thanks to God for what He has done, and step out of bed knowing that I. can. do. this.  It's not going to be easy, or straightforward, but it will be good, so help me God.

"9Now about your love for one another we do not need to write to you, for you yourselves have been taught by God to love each other.  10And in fact, you do love all of God's family throughout Macedonia.  yet we urge you, brothers and sisters, to do so more and more, 11and to make it your ambition to lead a quiet life: You should mind your own business and work with your hands, just as we told you, 12so that your daily life may win the respect of outsiders and so that you will not be dependent on anybody." 1 Thessalonians 4:9-12

Let it be so with me.

Unless

This day comes around every year, and every year it makes me nostalgic for kid's books, summers rolling in the grass, and a strong sense of discomfort.  Seems a strange combination, no?
Today is March 2nd, Dr. Seuss's birthday.  Every year on this day, I read The Lorax, and every year that book and what it stands for becomes more important to me.
I'll try not to spend time re-typing it, or quoting a ton of it, except for the ending:

"That was long, long ago. 
But each day since that day 
I've sat here and worried and worried away. 
Through the years, while my buildings 
have fallen apart, 
I've worried about it 
with all of my heart. 
"But now," says the Once-ler, 
"Now that you're here, the word of the Lorax seems perfectly clear. 
UNLESS someone like you 
cares a whole awful lot, 
nothing is going to get better. 
It's not. 
"SO... 
Catch!" calls the Once-ler. 
He lets something fall. 
"It's a Truffula Seed. 
It's the last one of all! 
You're in charge of the last of the Truffula Seeds. 
And Truffula Trees are what everyone needs. 
Plant a new Truffula. Treat it with care. 
Give it clean water. And feed it fresh air. 
Grow a forest. Protect it from axes that hack. 
Then the Lorax 
and all of his friends 
may come back." 

I cannot read that without being filled with fear...and hope.  Today, especially today, after our -ah-interesting Super Tuesday, the Lorax's message screams to me.  Yes, I know that Dr. Seuss was primarily talking about deforestation, preaching a preservation message, railing against consumerism, but every year, this passage speaks to a different place in my life.

Sometimes it's about our natural resources: we are soon to be in dire straits in the energy and climate discussion.
Sometimes it's about relationships: we forget to nourish one another quite often.
Sometimes it's about faith: the seeds of truth should be planted and nourished, helped to grow in love and mercy, and flourish.

Sometimes...like this year...it's a little bit of everything: our environment is in trouble, our relationships are struggling, our integrity as a people is failing...
It's no wonder the Lorax lifted himself up by the seat of his pants.
It's no wonder the Once-ler hides in his Lerkim on top of his store.
It's no wonder our culture wants more, more, more!

Part of me wants to run away with the Lorax,
to disappear into the air with one sad, backwards glance.

But.  (That's my favorite word, "but," there's so much potential, so much hope in that one little word.)

But, I can't.  I can't just leave.
While I identify with the Lorax, and speak for the trees,
I can't just leave, because
I'm also in charge of the last Truffula seeds.
So are you, and you, and you!

Whether it's nature, or faith, or people, or space,
It's up to us to improve this place.
We use what we have,
and learn what we don't.
and hope that one day...
the Lorax, he won't:
won't look at us with those sad, oldish eyes,
won't look at us in a way we're despised,
instead he and his friends,
they'll come back.

Zugunruhe

October is only six days old, and yet it feels like an old friend greeting me with open arms.  With it comes orange leaves, crisp breezes, and Oktoberfest--Okay, so let's forgive the fact that the München festival is over...and just pretend that Oktoberfest actually happens in October--
Thoughts of that festival always bring me back to my own roots: Wien, Kaffee, topfenstrudel, sauerkraut, and so forth.  Thus awakens my adventuring spirit.  Crisp air, good food...these things are hard to experience inside an office.

I want to go to Vienna again!  The Alps!  I want to see the Rockies in the fall!  Big Sur! Yosemite! Colorado Springs!  Albuquerque!  Flagstaff! Boundary Waters! Black Hills! North Woods!  Everywhere!  Let me go!  Let me see new things, experience change! Oh to be a bird on the annual migration, able to cross the country and land someplace new, yet familiar!

I have found that often August and September are a mad rush of change, excitement, and preparation for October.  That is not to say that activity slows in October, it just settles into a familiar bustle.  The months preceding this one are hectic and jumbled: crammed full of planning, moving, new clothes, new books, new goals...You get restless.  You get tired of the way things are.  You yearn for a new place, a new space, a new season.  You re-arrange the living room.  You run off on a weekend excursion.  You get new art, maybe on your body, maybe for your house.  You make plans: some to keep, some to forget.  You rearrange the furniture...again.

Ecologists have a word for this in the animal kingdom.  It's Zugunruhe.

You see it in animals as they prepare to take off across the landscape.  They prepare for the change.  They get excited.  They bustle around.  They stay up later.  They eat more.  They make small moves out and about.  If they had clothes, they'd pack.  And unpack.  And repack.
The thing to notice about zugunruhe, is that it's not just a restlessness.  It's an excited preparation to make a change.  It's a readying of the body to embark on a journey.  It's purposeful restlessness.
This concept in itself is remarkable, given that the animals affected have such delicate metabolisms.

Even hummingbirds go through this.  Hummingbirds!  Tiny winged creatures that are perpetually hours away from starving to death!  They undertake this heightened activity, this restless preparation for the Big Change.

If they go through this every year, and make it, so can I.

What I have..it's not just wanderlust.  It's premeditation of an adventure that I know will lead to...well...if I knew, it wouldn't be a change, would it?  It's a great restlessness in my spirit that tells me it's time for a change for the better.  To move.  To take a risk.  To learn a new thing.  To see a new place.  To break that habit.  To make a change.

Have you felt that?  Have you had such a burden on your soul that things need to change?  It's inescapable.  It works its way into your dreams, your conversations, your quiet meditations.  It's October, and it's time.