Growing Roots

Each morning I follow the same path to work. I half run down the gravel slope, try not to hit a bicycle under the bridge, and then wander along next to the creek circling around my building. I listen to the creek tumble and skip over rocks. I stop next to the pond and look at the flatirons and put in my headphones as I settle onto a rock for my morning meditation.

Sometimes I leave early and stop at the swingset. Sometimes I walk out on the rocks in the creek and throw sticks, watching them navigate the ripples. And sometimes I walk a different route, and surprise myself by missing the routine.

It wasn't easy to settle in. After one week in Colorado I woke up surprised to find that I wasn't packing up and moving. Restraining myself from getting into the car and driving somewhere else. "You signed a lease and a job contract, Katie," I whisper to myself, "This time you have to try staying put."

After two weeks I would walk home in tears. Work is hard. Talking to new people is exhausting. My brain hurts, my stomach hurts, my heart hurts. I just want to go somewhere. Anywhere.

So I went. For a morning of skiing up in the mountains. On a hike up one of the hills above town. To read my book on the creekside. Little things to ease the heartache. A few weeks later I found myself looking at plane tickets to Guatemala online. And then broadening the search: is there anywhere I could leave for tonight for less than $200? Eventually I closed the window.

Later I went to happy hour with the grad students. And a funny thing happened: I laughed. Not out of nerves or because I didn't know what to say. Just the honest, happy laughter that comes of being part of a group enjoying the start of the weekend. And in that moment, I was happy just to be here.

While I was traveling I made a policy of saying yes to as many things as possible. Trying new drinks and new foods. Going to random concerts or town meetings or book signings. Spending time with people even when it was hard to communicate. If it was scary it was probably worth doing (within reason).

Sometimes those lessons are hard to hold on to when coming home again. The carefree feeling of endless time. And yet, I've found that the days are the same length here. That there is still time for wandering through bookstores and smiling at strangers and stopping to watch street performers on Pearl Street and knitting in front of the fireplace. For saying yes when new friends invite me to join their groups.

The climbing wall is conveniently on the way to work (and has a slackline)

Turkey Bowling at Frozen Dead Guy Days: BYOFF (bring your own frozen fowl)

After a few more weeks I noticed I was walking home happy. Excited when some new idea would finally make sense, less worried when they still didn't, and less afraid to ask questions. Grinning at the views of snow in the high peaks. Stopping in new bookstores and coffee shops.      

And just like when I travel, I keep a list of everything I want to do. A list scrawled haphazardly across sticky notes on the covers of my books. Of bookstores and museums I want to visit, of mountains I want to climb and trails I want to explore, of shows and festivals that sound fun, of upcoming speakers at the university that sound interesting, of restaurants that I want to try, and of obscure historical markers that my friends make fun of me for wanting to visit. And for the first time in awhile, of things that I've been invited to by new friends. And adding to this list the other day, I realized that it has grown rather lengthy. That I once again have far more ideas than time. And that somehow, while I was so busy trying to convince myself not to run away, I seem to have started to grow roots.