we know these trees. we have walked this trail amid these trees for years now, processing life as we go. they are familiar to us; they feel like chosen family – waiting for us, to hear our voices, our laughter, the crunch of our boots on dirt, pebbles, leaves. they are curious – to hear snippets of challenges, of joys, of sorting – bits and snatches of our conversation as we hike.
these trees – all of them – the sculptural, the leafless, the verdant, the not-yet-shed-their-leaves, the evergreen – hold us, help us feel secure in this place, in this world. the curve of the trail – how we know it well – gives us pause in worry, recognizing the reassurance of the known.
there are three or four trails like that here. memorized, well-loved, never surprising and always full of stunning surprises. there is a specific trail – through stands of aspen trees – on a ridge in aspen. there is a specific trail – with the pungent scent of pine trees – along a mountain stream in breck. if we could teleport there – to either of those trails – we would. for they both speak to our very souls.
“and into the forest i go, to lose my mind and find my soul.”(john muir)
we return home – to this place on earth that can both travel with us and be acutely found in our cozy old house – with less-burdened hearts. though sometimes momentary – in a world leaning into insanity – the trail tucks wisdom-bits into us and we bring home space that reminds us to breathe in the very minute we are in, grounding us.
and so, we try to go here – to the close-by – often. especially now.
we are aware of beauty. we both notice it and look for it.
we walk and talk. we walk in silence.
and the trees tap us on the shoulder as we pass and whisper sweet nothings to us.
it was this morning – while i was nibbling on gluten-free cinnamon toast. it was while i was dishing out dogga’s dinner. it was while we sat at the kitchen table, darkness quickly falling outside. it was while i was sending a picture-of-the-day to my children, while i was texting with my dear friend. it was while i listened to george winston’s thanksgiving. it was on the trail. it was at the matinee of the movie here. it was leaving the theatre, tears in our eyes, grateful it was still a little light out.
it is right now. and this is where we are.
there are boundaries to be drawn, plans to be made, worries to be worried, griefs to be grieved.
there is shock and outrage. there is absolute horror.
there is no humor in what will come – and there is disgust at those who laugh with the sadistic glee of getting their way.
there is knowing and not-knowing. there is lostness.
there is uncertainty in the insanity of these moments.
but it is right now. and this is where we are. still.
so i will take stock wherever i find goodness, wherever i find community, wherever i find even a bit of joy, wherever i find love.
and i will dance in the kitchen, make homemade tomato soup, grow parsley in the winter. i will hold tighter to his hand and hug on our dogga. i will be frugal and i will be frivolous.
and i will sit on the wire with the other birds, watching the sky turn from night to day and night again. grateful for the tiniest things – that sky, the birds who love me and who i love, the wire and the still of still being here.
if i were to write a children’s book about clouds, this cloud would have an arrogant name – something aggressive, threatening. this is the cloud that covers the sun, dark, assailing. this cloud would be the cloud that rides the bumper of the others, that drives on the shoulder, that flips you off as it passes. it would be the screaming banshee of clouds with its hulk of stone cold water droplets. it is the cloud that makes a mockery of the other clouds, dominating their practiced and important jobs of precipitation, reflection, insulation. it is ominous and likely indicative of a storm coming. this cloud is emboldened.
we are in the earliest days of fallout from the election. the emboldened are obvious. they are the arrogant ones, the aggressive, threatening ones. they are dark; they are assailing. they are the ones riding your bumper, driving on the shoulder, flipping you off. they are screaming banshees of propaganda, hulking masses of disturbingly evil what-we-are-going-to-do-to-this-country-what-we-are-going-to-do-to-people. they are mocking and they are stone cold, gleefully ominous, dominating, militant. there is a storm coming.
the animals in the forest watch this cloud intently, intuitively knowing that their forest could be destroyed in its wake.
we watch the emboldened insanity intently, intuitively knowing that that our country could be destroyed in its wake.
it’s kind of traditional for this group. our up-north gang is superb at pontoon-boating together. so it seemed like a given we would pontoon on lake powell.
we had spent a lot of time in the rented suburban, driving from one iconic national park to another, surfing the canyonlands of this country – kind of an overview of the wildly beautiful. the idea of being in a boat together was enticing, particularly magical in the middle of the desert.
it was completely different than long lake and bass lake – connecting lakes in northern wisconsin. with awe-inspiring rock formations lining the fingers of this lake, we cruised around – hours disappearing into what seemed mere minutes. stunning us around every corner.
to say that we were overwhelmed by all the intense beauty we saw on our trip is to not be able to put words to it. the incredible vistas were mind-numbingly vast, gorgeous, pride-inducing. not enough adjectives.
here we all were – good friends out in the southwest. we had spoken about this trip for quite some time. some serious health events got in the way, so actually being there was an absolute celebration of life – you could not help but feel grateful not only for everything we were seeing, but grateful that we were able to see it all – together.
this america – with sea-to-shining-sea natural gifts – was the america of which we were proud. this america – that encouraged us to explore, to take to the road, to travel, to have limitless opportunity – was the america of which we were proud. this america – and this was the bottom line for our trip together – that had access to excellent health care which helped in the serious life events, that made it possible for us to stand on the edges of these canyons – was the america of which we were proud. this america – teeming with tourists and languages we didn’t understand – was the america of which we were proud. this america – with so much diversity, so much to learn, to see, to experience – was the america of which we were proud.
i am a native new yorker. i have been to – the iconic – madison square garden (msg) many times. there was the time – during my horse-crazy phase (which incidentally hasn’t ever really ended) – when my parents took me to the national horse show, probably around 1968 or ’69. there was the time i went to the john denver concert in the later 70s. and there was the circus a little later. more concerts and events i can’t even remember. it is – as stated on their website – “a celebrated center of New York life…with an appearance at the worlds most famous arena often representing a pinnacle of an athlete’s or performer’s career.”
i was horrified to see footage of the maga rally held there – on the pinnacle stage of a performer’s career – this past sunday.
what america is this?
there are no words to describe the ultra-ugliness, the bold hatred, the disrespect, the dystopian rhetoric, the clear fascist intent of this rally. it was despicable in every way. i am not tapped out for adjectives like i was in the canyonlands of this beautiful country. i am tapped out for adjectives that adequately describe the deplorable nature of this unforgivable rally.
the intent of the maga candidate and his sycophants is obvious. it is not in question. there is no denying it. it is in plain view.
but you can vote against it.
and so, i ask you this:
are you still undecided? are you still planning on voting for this grossly incompetent maga candidate? do his words – and the words of his platform and his cronies make you proud? are you ready for an authoritarian state of being, for the crushing of this democracy, for cruel undermining and undeterred marginalization, for the treasonous demolition of america, the beautiful? is this what you want?
and, if you are still undecided, if you are planning on throwing away everything – every single thing iconic about the democracy of this country, if you are planning on voting for the candidate who is making you – YOU – complicit in making the united states of america a fascist regime, what in the hell are you thinking?
standing under the desert night sky – zillions of stars and the milky way just lingering out there above me. stunning. it was like an umbrella of humility. we are so very tiny, after all.
yet, on this clear night, on the border of arizona and utah, i stood holding hands with my husband on this stargazing deck, merely feet from dear friends. i thought about recent photos our son had posted of the starry sky in utah while exploring with our daughter. i could feel the love i had for each of them – it felt enormous – and yet, i am so tiny, after all.
last week i was taken by ambulance to the emergency room. i have never been treated by 911 paramedics and firemen before, nor have i ever been in an ambulance. but the situation seemed pretty dire and david needed back-up from people who had medical and emergency knowledge.
in the emergency room, i was struck both by how many people were present for me and how many people needed care. each person treating me was empathetic and caring; each one made me feel like they had true concern for what was happening.
and no one asked me about my political stance before they treated me.
instead, i was one star in the sky and they were each nearby stars. no one was greater than the other. we were all in it together, working with each other to a common goal.
in the period of time i was at the emergency room, two dedicated nurses, a doctor, an x-ray tech, other aides all assisted in attempting to figure out what was happening. hours later, i was grateful for each of them, for their expertise, their comprehensive care, their kindness.
this is the world i wish to live in…where we are all equal stars in a vast sky full of different stars. where we are all working together. where we have compassion and concern for each other, where we strive for everyone to be well.
this is the world i wish to live in…where rage doesn’t exist, where no one makes excuses for bigotry, where people bring their best and do the best they can for each other, no one belittles others, no one dehumanizes any one else – regardless of their gender, their race, their ethnicity, their sexual orientation or identification, their religion, their socioeconomic status.
it was no joke going to the hospital in an ambulance. everything most important to me was needlenose-pointedly front and center in my mind. i was scared and i was counting completely on others.
and i carried this from my experience – now, as i heal from all of it – reinforcing we need live this way. like we are stars in the sky – indiscernibly no bigger or brighter than the rest – all part of the enormous galaxy – all in it together.
we need hold each other up, lift each other up, live present to the moment, hold joy as our north star.
the opposite is toxic.
a punitive, uncaring, narcissistic, demeaning, rights-stripping, rage-filled, hateful, vengeful, limited world is a waste of time.
it was the last arch on the map without going backcountry. we stared down the long hill, weighing the opportunity to see it against the very hot sun and our very tired elevation-trail-challenged bodies. we chose the opportunity to see it.
i’ll never forget the first time i saw this incredible place. our daughter videotaped my reaction – gleeful that i was teary-eyed from the beauty. “i think she likes it!” she quipped.
we left the rest of the group on the top of the hill and started to hike down. and down. and down. tunnel arch pulled us – our thoughts – go now for when will we be back? – drawing us further downhill, even knowing we would need to hike back up.
it was absolutely worth it. the sun was getting lower in the sky over the arch and blue sky shined through the perfect circle worn into the red rock. opportunity knocked and we answered. and, despite the tough uphill, we were grateful to have seen this stunning sight.
opportunity is funny like that. you know that there are sacrifices as well as rewards. and you need to sort it out, choose that which balances you, fulfills you. in this case, immersion in arches national park – as much as possible for that day – was our choice.
and that light. the red rock glowed, the sage was lit. there was no way to succumb to feeling tired at the bottom of the trail we had just taken.
instead, the sunlight was invigorating, outlining the graceful curves of the arch, tempting us to hike closer. had there been time – and had our pals not been waiting on the crest of the hill – we would have hiked into tunnel arch itself.
i can imagine nestling against the curve of its wall, soaking in the sunlight, resting from the day. i can imagine that the sun would have replenished the energy we needed to rejoin our friends, to hike out, to finish this glorious day. i imagine that the sun would have swept away any vestiges of tiredness, replacing those with gratitude and awe.
tunnel arch offered us an opportunity. and in taking that very opportunity i was reminded of martin luther king jr’s words:
“my place is in the sunlight of opportunity.”
sunlight. opportunity.
“we have before us the glorious opportunity to inject a new dimension of love into the veins of our civilization.”
opportunity. love.
“…we have an opportunity to make america a better nation.”
opportunity. america.
vote for sunlight. vote for awe, for love, for the gloriousness of this sacredly beautiful nation. vote for opportunity.
“have you ever seen anything in your life more wonderful than the way the sun, every evening, relaxed and easy, floats toward the horizon and into the clouds or the hills, or the rumpled sea, and is gone –
and how it slides again out of the blackness, every morning, on the other side of the world…” (mary oliver)
and, in the high desert of moab, i watched as the sun took its rest from day. slowly it sunk down below the mesa in the distance, slowly hiding behind the mountains, slowly the sky echoed that it would be night, that we could now slumber and wake to yet another new day.
and, in the morning, we rose before the sun had graced the top of the east peaks. we stood and watched, waiting for this next new day, another day that would be filled with beauty, with grand landscapes, with awe.
“and have you ever felt for anything such wild love – do you think there is anywhere, in any language, a word billowing enough for the pleasure that fills you, as the sun reaches out, as it warms you as you stand there, empty-handed…”
here, back at home, in our adirondack-chaired backyard, we try to recover from covid. we move slowly, slower than the sun, with far less energy, far less potential at the moment. we review our time out west, looking at pictures, telling stories. we are in a strange fog right now – waiting for the sun of restored health to burn off the woozy.
we sleep, we eat bits of food, we hydrate, we sit outside. we write a bit. we scroll. we, unfortunately, are compelled to watch the news.
and it is as we watch the news of this election – as i think of the people who are supporting the madness of a candidate who has vowed retribution on the american people, i am stunned to my core that i know these people, these maga voters.
i am stunned that under the very sun that has graced each of us with warmth, with life itself, there are supporters who will elect this distorted human being with dreams of fascism in his blank eyes. i cannot imagine he has ever watched the sun rise or the sun set – for, if he has, he has lost the dream of what life itself is, what living together under the sun could be.
“or have you too turned from this world – or have you too gone crazy for power, for things?”
our daughter wrote, “it’s a hidden gem!” and i agree. we were grateful for her encouraging us to adventure here.
one of my favorite places, goblin valley state park in utah was a playground like no other. two artists – with active imaginations – we could have stayed there all day. this place – full of hoodoos and really interesting sandstone/siltstone formations engaged us, made us giggle, invited us to run about in delight, insisted we play.
we were invigorated – even in intense heat and unforgiving sun. even as we were there – even before we had to leave – we talked about coming back, to be with these sprites, enchanting stone babies.
we traveled to many national parks in our nine days all together. though we would hike to take photographs and explore sites a bit, our inclination to hike the narrows at zion remains a wish for another day, trails at bryce remain unseen. the hike right up to delicate arch at arches will have to wait and an attempt at crossing the grand canyon – rim to rim – or even riding down into the canyon didn’t make the cut – this time.
but goblin valley was another story. and the absolute charm of these goblins tugged at us – taunting us and enchanting us.
i sat down on one of these sandstone sculptures, tucked into its graceful shape – mystified by the sheer beauty of the valley. once again, i was but a tiny being, part of a much bigger whole.
this time – this time – i was touching the past, the present and the future…a sandstone deposit from 170 million years ago…this very day…and these magical hoodoos which would prevail long after i am gone.
sometime between 300 and 1300 c.e. there were people in this south central utah area who wanted to tell a story, to preserve it. their narrative – told in petroglyphs – was about their daily living – their families, livestock, wildlife they hunted. it was a narrative of living in community. it is astounding to witness the carved chiseling of so long ago, humbling to imagine living in such a harsh, difficult environment. you can feel a pull from the earth as you stand there – something that binds you to those moments so many centuries before. you gaze at these figures and are struck by the humanness of this history – despite absolutely different living conditions, we all simply wish to tell a narrative of our living.
the petroglyphs we were fortunate to see at capitol reef did not depict fighting. they did not depict division nor hatred. they did not depict power or control struggles. they did not depict what would certainly be pictured as part of petroglyphs were there to be some telling the tale of right now.
in absolute embarrassment about how low this country’s people have sunk – the inability to hold democracy and freedom-of-all-to-live as essentials – the spewing hatred and vitriol – i cannot imagine what story petroglyphs etched into big red rock canyon walls now would tell – later.
covid has given us some free time. in-between moments of feeling absolutely horrendous, we have succumbed to reading articles, scrolling the news. it is utterly disturbing.
i want to scream, “this is not about you!!!” to people caught up in the despicable hate, in the misinformation, the disinformation, the conspiracies. i want to beg people to consider the future of this country’s democracy, the future beyond their own lives, to vote for something hopeful. i want to ask people to just stop, listen, think, consider.
i do not recognize you – you, who are supporting the heinous intentions of the maga-party. i do not recognize you – you, who are turning a blind eye to people in your midst who you claim to care about or even love – as you sign on to extreme changes of freedoms in these un-united states. this is not a difference in policy-embracing; this is a deeply undermined philosophical difference on humanity. i do not recognize your heart, turned so very angry, exclusionary, cold. and, in turn, my heart is broken, seeing this, seeing you – now.
but i know the power of rhetoric, the sheer toxic force of those who lie. i have experienced being the subject of warped narrative, of agenda-riddled powermongers. and in my tiny subset of experience, i have seen people – who i never would have expected – support the lies, push the ugly agenda, fight to win. but it is in their winning that they truly lost. and i believe they know that.
if there were to be petroglyphs or pictographs on red rock canyon walls telling our story – the story of we-the-people of these times – what would we wish them to depict?
it boils down to a pretty basic question.
is it a story of community? or a story of devastating division and hate?
in an understatement of understatements, the words “not bad” on the sticker on the railing at this bryce canyon overlook made me laugh aloud.
for this was grandeur, indeed.
the expansive country in front of us – here at our very first overlook – rainbow point, the highest elevation of the stops.
the national park brochure describes it as poetry in stone and i would agree. it is a dynamic place, ever-changing, engaging beyond the pale. you cannot help your heart soaring, your pulse racing. it is every word and no words.
we were thrilled. to be there. to be there all together. to experience this inspiring place.
the brochure promised mesmerizing. the canyon land did not fall short.
reverse threading 