Out Of The Canyon
“He was now in a gray and barren region of saltbush, blackbrush, cactus and little else. There were no trees, not even the scrubbiest of junipers, nothing but the knee-high brush, the dusty desert, the pale glaring stone which made his squinting eyes burn and ache. Even here, however, were signs of animal life: snakes, lizards, birds, the twisting pathway of wild burrows. But no trace of what he was searching for.
What did he really expect to find? A footprint, a message in a log, a scrap of tartan plaid on a thornbrush, a faded picture? A broken body draped on rock, a thin cry for help? He knew that the possibility of any of these things was too small to measure, to make sense. His descent into this inferno was itself an act of insanity. Yet he could not have imagined anything else, any less. He trudged on under the cliff, under the blaze of the soaring sun.” Edward Abbey, Black Sun.
Yes, I’ve been a self loathing, brooding of man of late, willfully allowing myself to drift off into a sea melancholia. It’s horrible and wonderful at the same time, and I’m attracted to it like a drug. Who knows why, but I’ve always been attracted to writers and musicians that suffered from the same affliction: Clare, Keats, Coleridge, Welch and Abbey. Nick Drake, Tom Yorke, Bauhaus, Townes Van Zandt and Gram Parsons. So much beauty is revealed during these periods, especially in the natural world. Something a simple as a chickadee lighting upon a branch is enough to bring tears to your eyes. The beauty of flowers. Of seeing honeybee in flight. The absolute splendor and wondrous nature of life.
As I behold these things, I hear Vivaldi, Concerto in D Major play in my mind. The beauty of it all is almost too much to bear.
I’m okay. I’ve always been this way. Yes, there have been some out of the ordinary things going on, but that has passed.
This morning, Sunday, as I sit and listen to Bach, my mind is on Colorado. I can imagine a tempest of sparkling white snow at Blue Lakes. Elk huddling together in a spruce forest heavily laden with powder. A warm fire in the simple cabin of my dreams, its walls filled with books, music and art. Tables with pictures of the most blessed and wonderful gifts I’ve ever received, my wife and my children. All of them patient, loving and loyal despite my temper, rebellion and satyrmania.
Here in the Delta, I watch through the window as a Whitebreasted nuthatch lands upon the feeder, its distinctive white breast and neck contrast sharply against the brilliant light and dark blue of its back and tail feathers. It looks quickly, takes a seed and makes a hasty escape, for should it dawdle, it could become a morning meal for a keen eyed hawk. A Yellow finch waits its turn in the protective cover of an oak.
It’s life. Beautiful and wondrous. Magical and tenuous. Filled with joy and sadness. It warms your heart and can break it in an instant. Think of Bach, Partita No. 3, Preludio, Bwv 1006.
This afternoon, my brother-in-law, a devout Christian, leaves for the Mayo Clinic hoping for a better diagnosis than what he received two weeks ago. Two weeks ago, he got a death sentence. News that ALS would soon cripple him and rob him of everything that he loved. As my wife and I spoke to him last night, he wondered why god had forsaken him, and why his prayers were not answered. I patiently listened and offered what words of encouragement I could, careful not to let on that I thought he was wasting his time praying. I felt so deeply sorry for someone that had dedicated their life to a lie, only to be crushed by something that was very, very real. Biology and genetics.
It’s troubling to me that people really believe there’s some entity in the heavens that controls life as if we were little more than an ant farm. Marionette puppets on strings, only able to do what the old man wants or allows. That’s there’s some god that decides who lives and who dies, who’s fed and who’s hungry. Who’s wealthy and who’s poor. Life is what we make it, and this, my friends, is it. Our one chance. Consciousness ceases at death.
After that, we die, and our atoms and molecules become nutrients for other forms of life. Our molecules are broken down, the atoms incorporated into new molecules, and those molecules broken down thousands of times over. Over tens and hundreds of millions of years what remains is subject to geological processes. Converted into rock, our lithified bones may be thrust into the air as part of a mountain range. If we’re lucky. Eventually eroded, we wind up on the ocean floor.
I’ve always thought that if humans concentrated on the here and now, the here and now would be so much better.
“Don’t talk to me about other worlds, lost continents or invisible realms. I know where I belong. Heaven is home. Utopia is here. Nirvana is now.” Edward Abbey, Science With A Human Face