February 3, 2007
In contrast to my northwest home, the brilliant colors here are not found in the sky. Not in clouds or light or the wedding of the two in sun's daily birth and death...No. But in an impossibly neutral palette of brown, light brown and sage, the colors which do stand out are striking. The turquoise light inside a 4000 year-young glaciar. The white-tipped wing of a passing hawk. The icy, milky blue of a glacial mineral lake. These punctuate mesa, scrub and birds in flight in a way I couldn't anticipate or imagine.
The landscape is confusing--reminding you of a dozen places and nowhere all at once. Feeling both familiar and foreign...Or maybe all land is like that in it's own way, when you give over to its patterns and rhythms.
I find myself feeling as if I've been here eons longer than two weeks. Really, that's it? I can't reconcile the 10 o'clock sunsets, the people in sandals, the freckles coming out on my nose. What season is this anyway? Each day spent more--or maybe less--with myself. And the anticipation of new lives growing on your side and on mine, so far away from each other. I already feel the loss of moments I don't think I should be losing.
But we make our choices, cross our fingers. Pack our boxes and say goodbye. Whether literally or figuratively, the moment and the motion of goodbye comes to each of us in turn.
I always seem to make mine jump their time, though, I feel.