This happens to me all the time: no matter how much at home I feel at any given moment, no matter how often my heart sings with joy at being in the mountains, no matter many epiphanies or transcendental experiences I’ve had, whenever I hear of someone leaving Taos, my first reaction is almost always one of envy, however brief.
This puzzles me. So many influences and deep passions of my life lead directly here, and here I am. What a huge accomplishment! It wasn’t easy, though, and one still learns. Sometimes I think, can I go home now? Except I am home, so the “home” thing must mean something else. A dollop of complacency, a little ease? Feeling safe in my own skin?
Today I heard someone was moving back to Portland, and there was that familiar pang. This makes no sense, however. I’ve never wanted to move to Portland. Maybe it’s the thought of newness or just the change itself. Taos is so isolated—wannabes have no idea—and that’s why I picked it, but no wonder I jump on road trips like a dying man.
In the end, of course, it matters not what others do. The other day I felt like my wife and I were in our thirties and just starting out. It was the strongest damn sensation, and I rode it for a while.