Wednesday, March 25, 2020
The magic of the desert is how quickly it changes. In an instant, everything is bathed in the most glorious pink, throwing into relief the perfect rock formations, scarred by centuries old landslides now speckled with green. At the base of the canyon panes of gold appear, the sunset revealing windows of houses you never notice in daylight. As the sun hurries away, the golden squares remain, sunlit reflections turning seamlessly to amber bulbs. And now the sky is dusty indigo, a gentle suggestion the hour of sleep is fast approaching. And while the paintbrush sunset was quick and fleeting, the darkness takes a while to arrive.
The mountains begin to settle, no longer reaching up but wrapping around you, making a little more room for the stars about to appear. In an hour or two when you can no longer make out silhouettes of twisted juniper trees and swooping bats catching their evening meal, you look up. And the light of Creation peaks through like so many holes poked in the lid of a jar. And you think perhaps all of Understanding is beyond that lid, shining with a brilliance you can’t yet comprehend. And you take a deep breath and whisper, “Thanks for the preview.”
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Friday, March 27, 2020
Today a different type of change, but one just as sneaking. Not twenty minutes ago I could make out the cliffs and see blue sky with only a singular patch of heavy grey cloud to the north. But the storm is creeping towards me, its pathway made obvious by the ever-moving curtain of mist. A trace amount of flakes appear, like powdered sugar dusting the edge of a plate. And just as suddenly, the cliffs reappear. The storm has come as far south as it pleases and takes a left turn towards the east. Perhaps it will still drop in to wave goodbye on its way out of town.
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Wednesday, April 1, 2020
I forgot stars twinkle.
Perceptibly, I mean. It’s something we all used to know, before light pollution locked it away and only the poets remembered. But they dance and ebb and flow. The stars are not stagnant. They are alive, the same as you and I. Even if the actual body has died and we’re only seeing ghosts of eons passed, finally reaching Earth, they are alive still. Like the voices of the elders, the wisdom of the ages, the truths universally known. As humanity continues to bungle the care of the earth, it is somehow comforting to know behind the smog the stars still dance.
Thursday, April 2, 2020
I am in a kaleidoscopic ecosystem. Purple blossoms on cascading rosemary shimmering with golden bees. Green buds appearing on grey bark, waking up to the spring. Tall blossoms of white and pink suddenly open to the sun, hidden last week beneath rusted earth. The purest white butterflies dance with each other, waltzing on the breeze. An entire sunset of colors on a single prickly pear paddle. Bold yellow blossoms topping the green grey of cactus. And always, the brilliant blue sky. This place is what dreams are made of.
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Saturday April 4, 2020
There’s a predictability to the songbirds. It takes a bit for it to move from your sub consciousness to the forefront of your awareness, but you find yourself tapping out the beat of their call and response. The bird across the street trills on 1 and 2, the bird above you responds with a staccato triplet. They rest for two beats and start again. Maybe it is all coincidence, but I like the idea these two are jazz musicians who paused for a moment to make music with each other. And I’m just the lucky passerby who gets a free show.
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I’ve never noticed so many anthills. They seem strategically placed, like bus terminals or busy subway stations. Two in my front yard alone, another three within a 50-foot radius. Gateways to a vast civilization just underfoot. Rush hour seems to calm down around sunset. I wonder how long their commute is and what they listen to on their way home.
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I never put much stock in vortexes. I thought they were invented by hippies in the 70s and then remodeled into a tourist offering. But I was young then, and my energy stores were nearly full. (You don’t notice you’re wet while you’re in the pool.) Now I experience energy as a recognizable force; I’m often aware of its presence, and almost certainly aware of its absence. Surely there is magic at work here in the mountains, and energy has pooled in places. Returning to the desert and the mountains in all their forms is a homecoming, a remembering of self. It is not just that I recognize the scenery and the smells and the sounds. My energy originated here and as I grew, fell off me like droplets, leaving a trail of the places my spirit had been. And over the years of my absence, those droplets have pooled together again so that when I come back I can take a long, cool drink. The desert and I are opposite poles of a magnet; its dry lands an ironic oasis for my soul.
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Tuesday, April 7, 2020
And some times the moon is so bright you can still make out the striped colors of the mountains and the green of the junipers with their dusty blue berries speckled about. Or maybe you can’t and it’s just your memory projecting colors.
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Wednesday, April 8, 2020
Spring doesn’t last very long in the desert. Already the yellow cactus fruit is wilting and soon will fall to the desert floor. The burst of new green on trees that were bare-limbed mere days ago is already turning to the stoic shades of summer. The liveliness of spring is exponential. It demands your attention and notice. If you keep the blinds shut for even one day, you’ll miss so much.
As Grandpa would say, “There’s a sermon in there some where.”
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Rain in the desert smells like magic. Like childhood and summer and red glowing dust. You can hear it kiss the leaves, wet the dirt, paint the desert. Indigo lightning illuminates the mountains. You hear no thunder. But still, you crawl into your parents’ bed for a lightning party. At first an invention to keep you getting scared, but now an excuse to cuddle in close. The raindrops patter, the thunder rolls, from across the valley straight into your bones.
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