when you hike a trail a lot, it becomes a member of the family. like when you recognize something has changed – someone had a haircut, someone has new glasses, someone has lost weight, someone looks tired – it is no different. the trees have leafed, the underbrush has been knocked over, the game trail is tamped down, the may apple has flowered, the wild geranium is prolific, the river is high, the river is low, the turtles have come out, the beaver dam is bigger.
we talk about our river trail a lot because we hike it a lot. though we’d prefer it to be different, we see it more than we see any member of our family.
this particular day – when the sky was a perfect sky-blue, when the river was high enough to cover the logs where the turtles sun, when purple fleabane budded next to its white-daisy-bloom predecessor, when the great blue heron joined the cranes flying the river, when the color green had more hues than any person might imagine – this day was a reminder of how well we knew this trail, its turns, the gifts of the familiar and the magic of the unexpected.
and there is this high spot on the trail where we stand and look out over the meadow, over the marsh, over the river. and i stood – still – looking at where the trees met the sky, all glorious, listening to the sounds on the breeze, feeling the sun on my face and my feet on the ground – standing still – and felt the insanity of being alive.
it goes by fast on the train – almost a blur, but not quite.
“you are beautiful,” painted on the side of an old building.
in the middle of all the ugly going on right now, it is a good reminder: not to lose – or forget about – our own value, our own light, our own beauty.
somehow the most basic gets distorted in the chaos. somehow we put our joy to the side, we drop our view from the kaleidoscope of exquisite, we forget that this one and only moment is ours and we are here for it.
we entered the tranquility of sand dune arch. we had passed by sandstone discs of giant proportion, climbing into a slot that took us into the almost-hidden area tucked between towering rock formations. and suddenly, we were in the midst of graceful lines of years gone by, of weather that had formed gentle arches, softly curved stone, a garden area like no other.
if there was a designated female arch, this must be the queen of them all. such beauty, color, sunlight playing off sweeping angles. it was stunning. and in here, taking in all of this, the temperature – that was soaring in the nineties – was cooler. this was a place of serenity, of peace, of revitalizing, of comfort. it was, no doubt, one of my favorite spots in all of arches national park.
without fear, d and i stepped into the slot at the back of this courtyard of red rock. we slid along the narrow passageway until fallen rocks blocked our path. we marveled at what seemed frozen in time but was in reality ever-shifting, never static. we were truly in wonder.
there was a certain camaraderie as we stepped out of these discs, out of this beautiful sand-rock-garden. we spoke to other people, all amazed by the sheer power of this place. there were no lines drawn, no differences, no fingers pointed. it was utter embracing of the moments we had experienced. we were all thrilled to have experienced the kind of beauty into which we had stepped. together we tried to come up with superlatives that even just began to describe this place.
this is the america i understand.
the appreciative, the generous, the together.
it was quite a while before i scrolled after that. not only because scrolling in the car is motion-sick-worthy, but because i wanted to stay immersed in all we had seen, i wanted to stay wrapped in the beauty of this land. driving in the car and staring out the window gave me tiny insights into new places that studying my phone – and missing it – would not have afforded me. i wanted to stay in the america that I understood.
but time – like these red rock formations and arches and hoodoos and canyons – does not stay still. time is fluid and, in due time, we were back at our airbnb and checking in on our phones was of the moment.
and then, i was astounded by what i saw and read. and now, i am astounded by what i see and read.
this is not the america i understand.
this place – with half this country supporting a presidential candidate full of hatred and fascist intention – is not deserving of this beauty we were witnessing. this place – with a party claiming to wish to make america great again – pushing people under water, drowning fought-for freedoms, amplifying extreme bigotry and xenophobia, annihilating the rights of women and of the LGBTQ community, eliminating the ideals of democracy. it is dangerous. it is utter madness.
this is not the america I understand.
there are 63 national parks and 429 national park sites in these united states. there are innumerable state parks and tribal park sites. we visited 5 national parks, one state park, one tribal property. merely the tip of the iceberg, as they say. the sheer number of people viewing these beautiful places demonstrated a love of this land – by so many.
so how can one stand in a place so glorious – in this country – and have such an ugly heart as to align with the fascist ideals of a madman who surrounds himself with the most evil?
i don’t understand.
america, we are at a crisis point.
all the beauty put together – from across all our land – from every national park, every state park, every tribal or historic site, every everyplace under the sun from sea to shining sea – will not rejuvenate our democracy if we lose it in this election.
and no graceful arch, no sandstone hoodoo, no soaring mountain or bottomless canyon, no rippling stream or rushing river or glassy lake, no sunlight or moonlight or bluebird sky day will be able to change that.
i cannot tell you how excited we are about this. for, as in most things, the beginning of something is almost always glorious, full of anticipation and expectation. and the-season-of-the-adirondack-chair is no different.
even with thermals and down vests, even with warm and fuzzy boots, there is no distracting us from the advent of this time, there is no disconcert about temperature or our sedimentary layers of clothing. the possibility just seems limitless.
we easily turn our perfectly lightweight chairs to the sun. we look at each other and smile. and deep inside, we hear bob marley singing, “every little thing is gonna be alright”.
we have waltzed on this patio, sipped wine on this patio, eaten delicious dinners on this patio, played ukuleles on this patio, had band rehearsal on this patio, entertained family and friends and scores of people who are or had been a part of our community on this patio, planned our wedding on this patio, watched our dogga on this patio, had hard and hopeful and healing conversations on this patio, planted tiny farms on this patio, laughed till our bellies hurt on this patio, cried till our bellies hurt on this patio, wished on the moon and the stars on this patio, watched the flame of our firepit dance with abandon on this patio, contemplated on this patio, grieved on this patio, napped on this patio and felt finally-awake on this patio.
and now, a new time will start, overlapping all the other times, weaving in and out of all the rest, a foliated-metamorphic-conglomerate-sedimentary rock life.
and the patio greets the adirondack chairs with glee. they all face the sun. and they smile.
and we are witnesses. to the thistle. to the meadow. to this slice of the earth.
we watch, as time passes. we note changes, dramatic and subtle. we are aware of the nuances of these moments – transitory. we are inside the ephemeral.
we are intentional; we fritter away.
and the thistle is witness to us as we stand still – for little bits of a while – in admiration. our gaze is focused, memorizing beauty, not questioning the randomness of our attention.
just holding it all in wonder. just perceiving the glorious. just unmoving and moved.
sharing this space of time – together – within the perpetuity of it all, what do the thistle, the meadow, this slice of earth see – looking back at us?
the light lit up the sky, a golden glow in a fog toward the heavens. it is one of the chicago botanic garden’s iconic displays, this tunnel of light, begging you to look up, be wrapped in its light, acknowledge the goose bumps. the luminous winter cathedral drawing people toward it. they stood, marveling, they strolled slowly, they posed for photographs, the millions of starry twinkling lights enveloping all.
i’m not much for cathedrals, really. i never have been; it’s nothing new. while i can appreciate their stunning beauty and the incredible feat it often took to build or install, they have never brought me closer to faith than any other place…outside, in the presence of others, at the piano, alone in wonder.
in my life – and in three and a half decades of my work life – i have found churches to not only house beauty. i have found churches to also house ugly. and so, i was relieved to read the words of john pavlovitz. it is important to distinguish the difference – the building is not God. and, sometimes, the best place to find the supreme deity you are seeking – no matter the name, no matter the denomination or affiliation, no matter the book of written word – is not in a place, not in a building.
the people – so many gathered there – under the arch of the winter cathedral seemed softer. the glow of light on their faces, they moved slower, offered to photograph others, gazed up. just as a community of people in a church often do, they seemed to come together, one of the benefits of “the building”. but, as i have found time and again – and, if we are to speak truth – those benefits sometimes run out. and people within become consumed by that which would never be considered a basic tenet of faith – the hypocrisies of power and control and discrimination and subjugation and competition, toxic things that “[don’t] feel like Love anymore”*.
as i walked under the night sky i knew that the cathedral would be close to the last installation on the guided path. i steeled myself for its overtones, even with its undeniable beauty.
we stood back and watched people enter it. in awe. it is truly glorious.
we approached and there was this tiny voice inside my head naysaying “church” to the other tiny voice exclaiming “wow”. both.
yet ethereal was there and it shone down on us as we walked through to the other side. and then we were once again under a night sky, full of stars we could see and stars we couldn’t see. just like faith.
“you are fully freed to run into the wide open spaces of this world, and to experience life and faith and beauty in ways you never thought possible…”*
reverse threading 