For people who have homes, reminders of memories are typically visible all around. Photographs, trinkets, books, music, and artwork decorate the walls and shelves that surround lives. There’s the photo of the family in front of the U.S. Capitol from one of our 3 free trips to D.C. for the National Spelling Bee. There’s the book about the the creation of the national parks. There’s the Taco Bell hot sauce packet – with the line “Will you marry me? – that was given to me by Taco Dave the night of a somewhat annual backyard campout. In front of the fireplace stand 3 pictures of our Polish, German, and Belgian exchange students. Back in my parents’ house, practically everywhere I look reveals objects that hold memories.

Thanks to my nomadic, seasonal lifestyle, I have no home of my own. I affectionately refer to my storage unit as “home” – although I have yet to sleep there. When I’m living in a field camp, I typically have minimal possessions with me. I don’t have much “fluff” beyond the obligatory clothing, camera, music player, computer, and books/Kindle. The touches of home are fairly absent from camp until our crew creates inside jokes that give the camp personality. Thus, I don’t see many visual cues that trigger memories for most of the year.

Today I ended up working on unpacking from my latest travels and organizing in my unit for a few hours. “Lost in My Mind” is a song by The Head and the Heart that I frequently find running through my head. Being an introvert and often on my own, I get lost in my mind all the time. When I’m digging through my possessions, my mind bounces along on various tracks.

One box in storage contains mostly things I feel inclined to save from my college years + field seasons. Contents have been pared down, so the remainder has meaning. All I have to do is open the box to see the few pictures and signs that decorated my dorm rooms and cabin. Opening the black raspberry scented candle sweeps me inside my freshman dorm and into a bank of memories surrounded by year-round, in-room Christmas lights. When I open the small bag of NZ-related travel information and unscrew the cap of a tiny bottle of manuka oil, I’m instantly transported to the East Cape of NZ around New Year’s. A whiff of a liner glove takes me back to last winter’s fish processing. Skimming my field journals reminds me of how goofy some field crew members have been.

I look at my photographer’s backpack and think fondly on the North American Nature Photography Association’s Summit in McAllen, Texas, I attended on a college student scholarship. One tour of my box of outdoor gear makes me reflect on recent backpacking trips and the stories behind various pieces of gear. As a result I find myself practically hugging my backpacks and dreaming of the next trips. A look inside my boxes of dishes and cookware (oh how I miss using you, crockpot!) elicits a sigh of desire. Just pulling my bike out of storage and walking it around town brings back memories of my summer working on the Riverboat Discovery.

The specific moment that almost evoked a slightly red-faced response came when I saw my field maps and color bands from black brant work on the Tutakoke River. Each band has a story and belonged to a bird with a unique life history; each dot on that map represents a specific nest I found and followed through to hatch. That map shows part of my coverage territory from last summer, and it’s killing me to know I won’t be back there checking to see where nests are this summer. The Tut camp impacted my life, and I’d like for nothing more than to be right there and on St. George at the same time this summer.

The general result of all this digging around is exhaustion. Going through the stuff isn’t physically exhausting, but it sure is emotionally as my mind races from one memory to the next. Most of the time I end up slightly sad as I try to relive episodes from the past. While this sounds strange, a part of my core must appreciate it.

Recently I took the Myers-Briggs Personality Test and was categorized in the INFP group known as “The Idealists.” Previously unbeknownst to me, I’m part of a group of people who are often attracted to sad things. I’ve known for awhile that quite a few of my favorite songs could be classified as sad. Somewhere in the psychology of thoughts and emotions, making myself sad must actually be fulfilling.

My guess is that – in this case – essentially looking at my life thus far makes me recognize how fortunate I’ve been for the variety of experiences I’ve had and the people I’ve met along the way. I’d love to be able to call up friends from various stages of my life to just hang out whenever the way normal people do. Unfortunately that’s not how my lifestyle works. My time with everyone is compounded to a degree where I have to enjoy every moment deeply, whether good or bad, and then remember it later.

Living with Kelsey again over the winter confirmed that we really do lead rather lonely lives. (We’ve seen each other more than anyone else over the past year, and I’d say it’s rare for 2 field techs to spend seasons working together on various projects.)That’s why time to see friends is so satisfactory. I’m an introvert when I’m in town, but I crave to see the people and puppies I care about. (it’s actually another trait of INFPs)

Fairbanks is as close to a home as I really have, and it’s been good to me. “Stubborn Love” by The Lumineers has a fitting line that I think about frequently when I face these strange bouts of sadness … or whatever I should call it:

It’s better to feel pain, than nothing at all / the opposite of love’s indifference.

My gratitude for friends and experiences can sometimes border on pain, but that’s how I know I’m alive and human. If I was indifferent to Fairbanks, Alaska, New Zealand, Washington, Alberta, or California; you wouldn’t know me.