Remembering Rosel

The aspen trees and narrow-leaf cottonwoods dance and twirl in the wind. Their song is a soft crinkle that layers upon the consistent rushing of the neighboring stream.

I have probably lived over half my life. At fifty-one, I have no desire to get to 102 as my grandma Rosel did. She was a stout and strong woman with opinions, a big heart, and a twinkle in her eye. At age 102, she was incontinent and forgot to take her pills and which son she was talking to on the phone. She had outlived two husbands, 99% of her friends, all siblings, and one grandchild. She was also stubborn. When she decided to die, she willed herself to death in sleep.

I think of her while nestled among the Absaroka-Beartooth wilderness and the Gallatin National Forest. She would have loved this place: the brilliant green meadows and towering granite mountains where the snow can stick all year round on its highest peaks. The alpine waters and plentiful wildflowers would have thrilled her. The birds and deer would have extended her joy. The black and grizzly bears would have brought out her fear, worry, and awe. I can hear her chastising me for hiking alone. I can imagine her low, Swiss-accented tone as she would couple that concern with her respect for my needing to be quiet in the breathing and sentient cathedral of the Greater Yellowstone ecosystem.

I can also hear her speak of the heart. And time.

“Timing is everything” is one of those life axioms that seems, to me, to be fact. At fifty-one, with no direction in life, I was gifted a summer to work on a secluded ranch in an area I had been pining for the last two years. Every day, I smile at the rising sun and its magenta reflection on the western mountains behind my dawn silhouette. Every time I drive through the locked gate, I am keenly aware that I am just a handful of people that gets to call the vast forests, meadows, sagebrush, and riparian areas beyond home. I give thanks to the sunset with a bow of gratitude every night. I smell the sage and rub its pungently sweet scent on my body. It is my way of connecting with the land and trying to enfold my scent within it.

The other aspect of this timing part deals with the heart – something my grandmother strongly encouraged me to flex and engulf. She loved fiercely and passionately. I have the same qualities. When my heart starts fluttering, it is hard for me to control. I usually don't, but now I do. Not because I want to. I feel I have to.

At fifty-one, I am middle-aged according to today's standards. In Celtic tradition, I would be coming into my crone years after passing the maiden and mother stages in life. My moon cycle tells me this will be true in the coming years, if not sooner. So why am I attracted to and pulled toward someone twenty-eight and a half years younger than me?

His age is the same as some of my friends' sons. I am even older than his mom. Yet, the charm, wit, curiosity, intelligence, humor, and moodiness are the perfect blend. It is the combination I am always attracted to. But, at my age, I feel it is inappropriate to feel this way about him.

At twenty-three, he is Gen Z, while I am Gen X. He is still bar hopping and talking about "gorgeous" women or chicks. I rarely drink (except for this summer), though I talk about hot cowboys (did I mention he is a cowboy?). He has a fear of missing out. I know when to quit. He has childish tantrums when he's in a mood that pisses me off but also sparks a compassionate note that makes me want to fix whatever is wrong. He tells me his life story while I keep most of mine unspoken. He feeds off the energy of others, gobbling up their stories and dancing with their vitality like a glutton on a feast day. I prefer the company of a few or none. He can recite random facts gleaned from National Geographic that I have long since forgotten. He plays pool like his age: confident and improving. I play like I always do because a guy is involved.

One night, after a pool game, several drinks, and some flirting, I stressed my age (he thought I was in my forties). He looked down at his Tony Lamas, eyes hidden by the brim of his cowboy hat, and pouted, "I know." When I asked his age (I thought he was in his early thirties), he turned to me with a playful smile and answered: "Do you really want to do this to yourself?" Did I mention he's cocky and assured while I am a confident introvert with insecurities?

Did I mention he could be a dad soon? He doesn't believe her. He says she's crazy. He's not convinced until he can visually check on her when he returns to the area after this job. He needs to hold the sonogram in his stout hands if it exists. She wants to keep it. He feels it is up to her. He will be a great dad. I've seen him with kids. He is a natural. He is easygoing, empathetic, and athletic. He knows every sport and yard game, hunting, fishing, and how to play.

Did I mention I could have been a mom? I was nineteen and a sophomore in college. I was a big drinker and loved cocaine and sex. When I found out the timing of my pregnancy, I called my ex at a distant college and told him. He didn't believe me either. I chose not to have the kid. The trauma of choosing not to be a mom and the hurt of being perceived as a liar etched themselves into my heart with a rusty knife. After being yelled at by anti-abortion protestors in Birmingham, Alabama, and having my best friend at college ask her parents for the money so I could get one, I knew I never wanted to be a mom. I couldn't imagine looking into the eyes of the one I chose and not seeing the one I didn't.

Here, in the Montana wilderness, I live in grizzly bear habitat. There is one special female grizzly that everyone in the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem knows about, Grizzly #399. She lives in the Teton Mountain area of Wyoming. Today, she is twenty-seven years old and emerged this spring from hibernation with one cub. "Exceptional" is a word used to describe her. She truly is unusual. In human years, her age would equate to roughly 113.4 years. How old are the boars she flirts with before mating? Does she ask? Does she care?

Maybe that is the key? My grandma Rosel would only be concerned with how I feel. Are butterflies present? Are you intrigued? How do you get along? Is he kind? If she were alive, I would tell her that butterflies are present, yet I feel calm. I feel at ease, but I pull back. I don't want any part of my heart to be exposed.

I would tell my grandma that words and laughter are easy. He is kind. I would awkwardly express that I feel drawn to a young man I've only known for a month. I would confess my confusion as to how this could be so. Maybe it's just the isolated bubble we live in. He and I work and live together as part of a small group on this mountain. But maybe there is something, or as my mind restates that question: maybe there could have been something if I was twenty or thirty years younger or he that much older?

Timing is everything: middle-aged and youth. The age discrepancy is too much for me. I realize that it should be enough to appreciate a new friend.

But my grandma and Grizzly #399 might advise that if I can look around this magical place where I will live once in my life, and only for a short time, why worry about anything? Perhaps, that is the point about timing and following the heart?

-Janay Brun

Janay Brun relates better to an outside world devoid of humans than an inside one full of them. She roams the saguaro-studded mountains and cottonwood creek beds of southern Arizona composing poems and narratives along the trail. She is the author of Cloak & Jaguar: Following a Cat from Desert to Courtroom.