On Picking Flowers (Really a Meditation on Moving Away)

Last night, I was up the canyon. There were these simple yellow flowers that were blooming, and despite everything I know about not picking wildflowers, I couldn't refrain from gathering a handful of them. It wasn't out of greediness necessarily. I thought to myself, "I can't pick too many because I want future campers to enjoy the bursts of color." However, I wanted to take a little of the prettiness with me.

I often get the same compulsion when I pass a pretty rosebush or lilac tree. I so badly want to take a flower or two--even when it is in someone's yard. When I was nine, I had an old man yell at me for taking a shiny rock out of his meticulously landscaped lawn. I cried a little bit because I hated getting in any kind of trouble, no matter how insignificant my crime. I dredge up that memory when my hand drifts perilously close towards a very snap-able stem.

I know you are suppose to leave beautiful things in that one place where they belong so other people can enjoy them, but I don't stay in one place. Sometimes you want more than a memory. Even though, inevitably, every flower I have ever picked has died. I guess that is the unavoidable fate of trying to cling to things that are fleeting.

In less than three weeks, I will board a plane to New York City with no return ticket. Moving to the city has been a fantasy of mine probably since I first understood the concept of New York City: 8 million people crammed into 5 burroughs and exponential opportunities in a city where everyone is trying to get by and/or make it big.

Last November, I stood with my friend Jessica in a small park in Brooklyn with a stunning view of the looming skyscrapers of lower Manhattan just days after superstorm Sandy had wreaked her havoc. Jessica and I are kindred fatalistic spirits. As we marveled at the metropolis, Jessica talked about the inevitability of New York City slipping into the sea--becoming the next Atlantis. It is right on the coast and we are in the throes of some major climate upheaval. She concluded that we may be one of the last generations to be able to dwell in the city. Her assessment may have bordered on extreme pessimism, but there was a ring of truth. Nothing is forever.

I have to live in New York City once in my life and not just because it could one day be underwater, although that does add a sense of urgency. Maybe I will love it. Maybe I will hate it. I will miss my mountains and I will miss my familiar haunts, but most of all, I will miss my people--my family and friends. Just last week, I was listening to "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters" by Elton John in my car and let loose a flood of grateful tears when he sang the line "I thank the Lord for the people I have found." I really feel there are so many people in this world to connect with and love, but it feels so rare and magical to meet people who make hours feel like minutes. People who make you wish you that your body had no physical need for sleep because even though it is 4 a.m. you don't want the conversation to end.

However, nothing lasts forever, and sometimes you have to make do with a memory.

To end, a quote by Charles Bukowski because, man, that guy says some stuff worth thinking about:

“Love is a form of prejudice. You love what you need, you love what makes you feel good, you love what is convenient. How can you say you love one person when there are ten thousand people in the world that you would love more if you ever met them? But you'll never meet them. All right, so we do the best we can. Granted. But we must still realize that love is just the result of a chance encounter. Most people make too much of it. On these grounds a good f*** is not to be entirely scorned. But that's the result of a chance meeting too. You're damned right. Drink up. We'll have another.”