Eagle

Out of the airplane window last night, flying over some unidentifiable Eastern city, I got to see lightning below me instead of above. Illuminating the sky between gray clouds like a little boy flaunting a flashlight, it shocked the darkness into view, but only intermittently. Every once in a while, a thread of electricity would shoot skyward or between two clouds, bridgelike.

As I left another chapter of this project behind, the drama in the sky offered a parallel. Maybe we won’t shock anyone with earth-shattering thunderclaps or awe-inspiring journalistic rainbows. If you’re patient, and observant enough to turn off the garish overhead lights above your seat, we promise a great show. The two long weeks of editing to come will undoubtedly bring their share of storms, but if we work hard, I know we’ll make stuff worth craning your neck for.

Yesterday, our last in Eagle County, was a strange day. The bright dawn lent an exuberance to my last morning jog around town, but then again, it could have been the excitement at going home.  Home — that unsung place of permanence, familiarity, comfort. People I love, clean clothes, cupboards of the simple food I’ve been craving, music and asphalt paths and suitcases stored away.

But there’s always something sad about leaving. Even if the things you’ll miss have little instrinsic value, something unravels when you say goodbye. It was only four weeks of my life, but it’s still a closing book.

And so, in good Sufjan Stevens-meets-Decemberists fashion, here’s my song with its own too-long title: An ode the things I’ll probably never do again, Eagle County-style:

Drive too much. In a blue Ford Focus. Eat out every day. Have someone other than Mark make my coffee every morning. Watch FOX news over breakfast (ech). Listen to Coffee House on Sirrius Satellite. Visit Colorado and only hike twice. Visit Colorado and not climb a mountain. Take half an hour to explain how I ended up in a place. Ask hundreds of random strangers how they’d change the world using technology. Invite myself to an 8-year-old’s birthday party. Get rejected from an 8-year-old’s birthday party. Eat Nature Valley Honey Oat granola bars daily. Drink Coors Light on the tailgate of a truck with a paving crew. Have an oatmeal raisin cookie every night before bed. Talk to an ex-bull rider about his recent divorce. Watch ice skating in July while eating peanut butter gelato.

Tucked between these, there are many things that I just might get to do again. And the lessons I learned in storytelling (as in life) will keep surprising me I’m sure.

Hello Eagle, and Hello World. I doubt there are many eyes on this, but that’s not going to stop me today. Words for thousands or words for one still have meaning.

We’ve got four days left and I’ve been slow to keep you in the loop. We’re supposed to be reporting on what makes you “Eagle the boom town,” and yet we’ve shared so little along the way. You’ve kept us busy chasing local legends: people committed to causes, teenagers testing their limits, young people telling their life stories unabashedly.

Every day I ask myself where I fit in here, as a storyteller.

I wish I could give you more, report on everything worth reporting on. Tell what needs to be told. Trumpet your successes and raise your best folks up for the world to see. But the truth is, I’m not doing a very good job, and I’m still trying to figure out why.

I could explain it by complaining. The goals of our project are lofty, and its parameters narrow: How do you stitch together youth, technology and boom-town dynamics in a 3 minute compelling, visual, and emotional package? I could talk about feeling unprepared. But all these are empty excuses. I’m here, I’m alive, and I need to respect the task at hand.

I read this quote the other day from Donna Tartt, and I’m still letting its wisdom feed me: Storytelling and elegant style don’t always go hand in hand.

Elegance. Honesty. Being myself. Letting my boots get dusty. These are today’s gifts, wrapped up in crinkly brown paper and without a pretty bow. Today tumbles out at our feet: maybe with something worth telling, but then again, maybe not.