Early October morning at the top of Snake Mountain I am twenty-five,  I am between state lines, and I am happening right now. Below there are photos to edit, there are papers to write, there are road trips to plan, there are logistics to figure out (despite how much I would like to ignore them), there is the west to explore, there are people to see, there are jobs and graduate schools to apply for... Stop. Return to yourself, unwind the knot in your gut, you are of this geography; even with your eyes closed you can see clearer from the top of mountains.  
Early October evening at the Flat Spot in Bethel I am twenty-five, I am gathered here with my dearest friends, and I am the only place I want to be. Tonight there are goats to feed, fires to build to an irresponsibly large size, there are coals to throw, there are adventures to be had, there are handshakes to remember, there are shoulders to lean on... Put your damn phone away. Return to the people you love most, you are your best self when you are with these women, they too are of this geography; don't forget to take the time to design a really good monster truck.

I don't have much to say about last week except that it is fall in the mountains and I am doing my damnedest to find ease in the between spaces. 

Last Saturday I had the real privilege of photographing the wedding of these two incredible women, Allie and Lynn.  Here is a tiny preview of the wedding photographs. 

 Do not speak: fold all the unknowns onto the tip of your tongue and press your lips to the corners of their mouth; pray they speak in tongues. Make two piles: label one work worth looking at and the other chaos, leave the first pile empty and dismember yourself; place all the parts of yourself in the pile called chaos. Return to your hollows: forget how to say your own name and curse at the sky for not showing you the stars; it is so much harder to find North without them. 

Here in my grandparents house is the light from two of my most beloved windows. In the morning there is the window in Margaret and Cary's bedroom. Behind the white cotton curtains is that Eastern light rising over the road home, back to the place that built me, back to my beginnings, back to the comfort of knowing how the light falls in the corners of a room. Don't you know I feel that firelight in my bones? I'll come back... but not yet. In the evening there is the big window in the stairway. Over the farm is that Western light falling through the arches and over all the roads I say I will travel, onward to make the work I want to be making, onward to adventure, onward into the utter discomfort of the unknown. Don't I know that you are tired hearing me talk about this? I know the road is dark, I am going... I have to go. In the afternoon is the quiet moment between the rise and fall of these two lights, between the "this is what you could be doing" and the "this what you should be doing", between the "this what you told everyone you would do" and the "this is what you have actually done". Don't you know I have nearly learned to tell the time of day by the sun's position in the sky? I've got time, I am here... I am fine.