You know how they say we become like the things we love? If it’s true, I hope I'm gettin' golden like the alpine grasses and brave like the giant volcano peaks I shout about every time I see them from the passenger side window. I hope to be as humble as the big blue lake we live on, who doesn’t need to be anything but a big blue lake, who has nothing to prove or nowhere to be. Who isn’t there to be looked at or appreciated, it is just there. To be. I know it won’t feel special and good, always. That it won’t always feel like something worth writing home about. But still, all the things I love, I hope I’m becoming.