This desert nourishes.
It sounds like a metaphor, but the truth is, I’ve lost my appetite for food since arriving here. All I hunger for are the sounds of the desert. Which is not to be confused with silence.
People who are raised in the city think it’s quiet in the wilderness, and once they get there they can’t sleep because of all the noise.
As we walked over the red sand stone, imagining the scarring and imprints as snow angels made by God rather than geological imprints~ I remembered something Any Lipkis once thought about out loud~ what if nature has created us to be it’s healer?
Celia asks what if the desert was calling to me not because I needed her/it/him, but because she/he/it needed me? Called because she/he/it needed to be adored, to be admired in awe and and have her magnificence and beauty reflected to her as pure perfection as a new lover does before they meet our shadow…
New stories begging to be told flood in, old stories knock on the door, my hands physically ache when a chance encounter placed me before someone who tells me that stories come to me be told….and on a cold morning walk with my breath clouding before me, I consider how to write my obituary~ will it be written through the lens of a lover and admirer, or someone disastified between the difference between potential and how the life was actually spent?
This land is still. Celia says the locals say people think of Moab as a place where they can eddy out of life. The river rolls gently through town, no crazy rapids requiring complete focus and attention, no epic momentum propelling you forward, it is easy to get off and sit for awhile.