and Leaves

Another morning in the desert, I climb over the tortoise gate to the sandy path and run straight into one of the hard-shelled ancients, steady and still on the path. It does not care for my rush, sunny Sunday mornings are a day of rest for reptiles, like any other. You think you should take note, but where you come from, summers were not for resting, but for reviving, for returning to a life that had done nothing but rest all winter, had done nothing but lie in wait. 

The messages from across the ocean are clear: the first trembling days of summer are here, life is returning to their limbs, their hopeful hearts. It all begins now, and they don't want to miss a minute of it. 

In the 90-degree heat, in the scorching sunlight, in the towering awe of these red rocked mountains, I feel the same. Back at the house, a story waits patiently. You've lit the fire again, everything is buzzing. 

You know this is how it begins.  

Canyon

Early morning, the air is still but the bike paths and sidewalks already busy, everyone trying to get a moment in the sun before it turns into a swelter. You lace your shoes and turn up the canyon, legs aching to burn, lungs longing for the clarity that only comes at the end of a run. It's been decades, and you never tire of this feeling. Have found no drugs to beat the soar of this cleanse. 

The canyon is quiet as you enter, ancient cliffsides towering over you with little shade to offer. Lizards scurry where you run, the odd pedestrian offering a friendly hello but in your mind you are elsewhere. Last night, we climbed to the top of a petrified sand dune to watch the eons unfold beneath us, the awe of a million years like a comforting blanket around us as the sun set. On the page, a little girl discovers the magic of a new world and you think, that's exactly how it is. You feel again that responsibility to bring her into this one, to make something of all of these ideas. 

Remember again who you are
and what you came here to do.  

102

The sun shines, relentless in the summer afternoon, as you trip quickly on bare feet across hot rocks. 102 degrees, this land was not made to be made civilized. Every law of nature lies defeated, it feels the way a note feels when it's off key. The snowbirds moved everything from their other towns here, made it all the same, just warmer, just unbearable. America, did you never stop to think of reason? No, I know the answer is no. 

A little girl waits at the end of the blinking cursor. She is impatient now, she's warmed up to the dance and wants to keep running. You feel the buzz yourself, you want to run right with her.  The others retreat to their rooms, take a break, take a chance to recover from all the rest of life but you are at the edge of the cursor now, you have a leap ahead of you and nothing but the skies beyond, don't you see? You built this life and now it is time to reap the rewards. 

Take my hand. 
We've a long, long way to jump.  

Snow Canyon

Wake at sunrise in the desert, gentle light streaming in through windows you opened late in the night for this exact purpose. In the land of fire, you must greet the world early, must step out before the streets are sizzling and rendered useless. I walk up to the mouth of the canyon, red rocks rising to greet me. On the descent, an endless valley stretches out, unforgiving landscape bent to the will of humans. Manifest destiny as a blanket excuse for dominion, never a thought to to the why of it all. Never a thought to just because you can doesn't mean you should. 

Return to find nothing at your feet but a day of writing. Books and notebooks scattered around you like a bed of leaves, like a place to rest. Ten years ago you started telling a story, and it's time to bring it home, now, time to take the next step. There was a time when I felt hope, and potential, and joy, and I think maybe it's not too late to feel those things again. You know there was a time you wanted to die, but you can't quite remember why, can't quite imagine what that feels like. 

The desert always felt like home, the American West always sounded like a promise. Warm rocks cooling against your body after sunset, as all the stars in the Universe came out to greet you. Towering peaks guiding your way, air big enough to fill your insatiable lungs. It all started here. 

Maybe something new can, too. 

Ivins

Another four-hundred miles disappear under the station wagon's relentless gait, the American Southwest unfolding like a greeting card ahead of you. The red rocks tower around the little townhouse where you pull in, retired neighbors immediately checking in to see if you belong there. It's a hundred and five degrees and you are as happy as you've ever been, even though not a single cupboard hides a coffee maker. 

It's been nine years since you went on the first of these trips. It's been 30 years since you made friends with the strange boy who gave you a Book and changed your life. Your whole life has been a series of puddle jumps around the good word, and at the end of it when they ask what you'll remember you know it's this. One day a boy gave you the word, and it carried you across oceans and through decades. 

One day a boy gave you the word, 
and in turn it gave you the world.  

2,300 miles

The last few miles you fly down a mountainside, each twist as familiar to you as the lines on your skin. 2,300 miles to cross America, and what you'll remember most is how strange the road kill in Missouri. Armadillos and turtles all the way down. In Kentucky you met a friend for a coffee, as though it wasn't the strangest stopover. In Colorado, you drank whiskey with people who flew across the borders just to end up in the same little town as you and the two years you hadn't seen each other no longer existed. The car decides to twist and ache, its alarm ringing out as you walk away from it. You spend countless evenings trying to solve its riddles. 

And then suddenly here you are, back at the drawing board. The desert sun is warm on your skin, the evenings long and inviting. All of summer lies ahead and you have everything to win from its promises. 

You know it's a gift, you see it clear. 

Now is the time to unwrap it. 

Ohio

You leave Brooklyn in a rush, no room for tears, or maybe you've just done this before, the goodbyes become routine. You drive out of the across the Verrazano-Narrows, watching the skyline disappear in the humid haze, cursing New Jersey drivers like it's a treat. You sit in silence, watching the miles disappear behind you, you think you should be talking yourself into answers but your brain is tired. You're happy enough just watching the rolling hills pass by. 

This morning I found two four-leag clovers growing next to each other in the park near the pier. I was only hoping for one, the duo felt like a kind nudge, a little wink. Off you go, you'll be alright. 

I'll be back, and all that. 

This life was meant for living.