Tag Archives: the magic of nature

68 -Found in the Mountains

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Tuesday 06/21

Woke up this morning and went through what has become my typical routine since being in Taos: make a cup of coffee and read something (currently, a book of selected works by Faulkner—it’s marvelous). Afterward, I went for a spectacular run/hike from the house to Miner’s Creek Rd, then Rainbow Lake, then Mason Town, and finished with a taxing hike up Royal and a screaming-fast run down and back to the house. This was all wonderful, but that which made it all the more special was the fifteen minutes spent reclining amongst the rocks overlooking I-70 some thousand-plus feet below.

Hiking up the mountain, heart pounding like a timpani drum, lower calf feeling so stiff that one might imagine it could be broken like a bone, I was harassed much of the way by flies that could not be rid of due to my glacially slow pace I was incapable of increasing. Yet, at the top, having espied a portion of the mountain that formed something like a lounge chair, and seating myself in it, sprawling rather languorously, limbs akimbo, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun-heated rocks as a cool breeze skimmed across my skin, they ceased to bother me, or I ceased to be bothered by them. Instead I looked on in amazement as various different winged beasties made attempts at clambering over an arm or a leg but, tripping over the stumbling blocks of hair, struggled to make much progress.

Lying there, like in a hammock, looking down far below, past the pines and contours of rocks, at the cars and trucks crawling along the interstate, and then to one creature or another on an arm or a leg, and then back to the traffic, I could only think how small and negligible humans are rushing about on their daily, various errands and tasks.

Butterflies frolicking in the wind or sunning themselves on an exposed rocky slab, folding and unfolding wings, sometimes in flight blown off course by a rogue zephyr… chipmunks scrambling and foraging; the colors of lichen (pumpkin orange, and the zillion unspeakable shades of green); tiny purple flowers like magic buttons and baubles; a plant similar to hens and chicks, tiny like a baby’s fist, with yellow blossoms; the shells of old trees bare and weather-beaten lying on their sides like shipwrecks off an unnamed island.

In short, an ocean of peace on which I floated like a reverie, my eyes coursing over everything, projecting a world of fascinating beauty and sublime indifference. Peace! Peace! Peace! And the appreciation of a world that for a short while was untouched by anything save the glance of my eyes alone.

65 -Frisco Morning the Lawn Pondering

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Frisco, CO. Eight a.m.
Lounging on the bench-swing in the lawn. Surrounded by dandelions. The dog, Sugar, being dog-like, sniffing around, investigating the morning scents, then choosing a cozy spot in a warm patch of sunlight on a lush patch of grass to lie down; the prominence of the fast-running river only a stone’s throw from here very nearly the only audible sound, white noise maintaining a backdrop for the bursts of birdsong flushing through the aspens and pines, and the sun filtering through just beginning to stab my eyes with its pointed glare. The slight sound of slightest traffic thin and fringy, and thankfully, easy to ignore.

I just finished drinking an exquisite cup of an Ethiopian Kochere—citric, floral with a bright, lively, happy acidity that dazzles the tongue much like the early morning sun might one’s eyes, or the song of the birds one’s ears. There is no better start to a day than this little ritual of mine.

I’m noticing now how in the shaded parts of the lawn the dandelions are closed up tight, like they might be cold, and so each of them has snugged up his and her sepals tight around their blossoms like I might zip the collar of a warm jacket up tight. I would also be remiss not to mention how much like aristocrats from the sixteenth century they look like, albeit headless ones, with their broad collars peaking out the tops of their shirt and jacket. A particular painting by El Greco which hangs in the Prado in Madrid titled The Nobleman with his Hand on his Chest comes to mind.

In places where broad swaths of sunlight paint the ground these dandelions’ heads are thrown back, petals fully extended like mouths wide open stretched to their limits, swallowing whole all that pours forth from the sky. How strange that I’ve never noticed this phenomena before! How intelligent the world is! Is there anything that looks happier, more full of joy, than a flower opened up completely? It is like a human soul who has become so accepting to everyone and everything, all experience, good or ill, that it matters not what might become of it, that it might be destroyed means nothing, but that it continue in its course, which is always the correct course, and finds satisfaction in that.

A White-crowned Sparrow is flitting about the yard, sounding out its presence from perch to perch like a submarine’s radar keeping time with whatever metronome guides it.