I have always been an open spaces kind of guy. The vast majority of my best memories are where the buildings, if there are any, are less than one story tall.  Learning the ways of the mountains with my Boy Scout group in Camp Ben Delatour outside of Ft. Collins.  My dad teaching me to spin cast on a farm lake near Lincoln.  My uncle (and dad) teaching me to fly fish and surf in Montauk. Suffering up the talus of a 14er with Devin.  Scared out my mind on a run-out pitch in the Garden of the Gods with Jon.  Splashing through thigh deep water with my Lincoln Running Company buddies at Living History Farms race. . .

All of them different.  All of them special.  I have been incredibly lucky in my life so far to have been exposed to some of the best landscapes our country has to offer.  There are many, many more to be seen.  This is a celebration of those places that are near and dear to you and your soul.  Not that soul that you might talk about in church, though that might be accurate here as well.  But this is that part of you that has the sense that despite the sheer luck of you simply being in existence you have some way to connect this world. That there are places where you feel utterly, completely at home.  In spite of your personality traits, your outward appearance, your abilities; you simply belong.  Many people have been fortunate enough to have found these places.  For some, they are elusive and maybe impossible to discover.

Of course I can’t speak for everyone. But pay attention.  That person at the café with their feet propped up sipping a cup of coffee or glass of wine.  An individual at the bar watching a game.  Someone reading a book in the corner of a park.  The guy I met near Winfield, CO in his camper his wife gave him just hanging out for a weekend.  The artist spending hours in their studio.  The photographer in the darkroom (or computer as tech dictates).  Everyone can have a place, no better, no worse.  Just theirs.

For me, it is through the physical realm.  The world of movement.  I am most at home with my feet in the water, dirt on my hands, spikes on a cross country course.  My heart rate pounding in the last quarter of race. Maybe my pulse is low with the rhythm of my cast.  Solo is fine.  Family and friends nearby?  That is the best.  Sweating dripping into random patterns as I bend to the effort.  Wondering if I will make it through.  The warmth of just sitting there and looking.  Just being.  Every chance I get, I make my way to these places.  These are my important places.