A line of trees emerges from the stony edifice, mediating the nexus of earth and heaven. Indiscernible needles wave freely in the morning breeze, clutching at the sky while their supporting cambial structures hold fast to the ridge line. A constructive tension between elements and textures, light and dark, up and down.
Tiny rivulets of water trickle toward the Colorado River, joining its flow through the high desert, seeking the sea, carving pathways in the earth that shape the landscape for all time…Little things lead to big things. We wander along the way, leaving footprints, flotsam, and jetsam in our wake…we send ripples across the surface of calm waters, echoes into the night, and twisted vortices into the ether…every motion leaving a trace, whether seen or unseen. And with these big motions come little noises, our words stream from our mouths whether connected to our soulful intents or driveling the mindless nonsense of propaganda and slurs…all these little noises drift on the breeze and tell our stories. Stop. Listen. What emanations do we want to leave lingering after we are gone? For what do we wish to be remembered? Little words and acts of kindness or little words and acts of malice? Little things lead to big things.
The paradox of a landscape is that we often can’t understand the landscape because of the overwhelming effect of the details and in turn we can’t comprehend the details due to the overwhelming visual effect of the landscape…but here at Bryce Canyon, a meandering line of hoodoos emerges, defining the contours of earth, drawing us into the details of the landscape…hoodoos, trees, ridges, valleys, dry creek beds, Navajo sandstone, and snow. The textures are articulated in such a way that we can perceive the power of each brushstroke while marveling at the beauty of the painted earthen canvas.
I’ve always yearned for feel of wind in my hair… it is the single sensation of speed that leads, pulls, draws me toward flight and a physical feeling of a connection to the winds that lifts us into the air. As a child, I pursued it…now I dream of it, feeling the wind in my hair as it pounds the other side of the glass…speed, flight, and freedom.
[A Retrospective] Tséyíkʼáán. The fate of stone is to be laid bare by wind and rain, each feature exaggerated by these effects in time. Its essence exposed by advancing light as the dark ragged edges of night draw slowly across its face…Rising from earth into the light, but forever defined by shadow.
Pitch me to the sky and I will forever be a dreamer, filled with the elation that comes from being lifted on the breeze, moving through a world of light and color, touching the heavens without earthly tether. Introduce the dream of flight to a child and they will be forever free. Whether in their dreams or in their reality, a new way of imagining the world evolves and they will see the world differently…imagine floating above a field, flexing and stroking the air as bird on the wing, drifting and circling, moving ever faster…they are weightless, boundless, and free.
As we follow each other along the way, we are bound to fixate, to get stuck in a moment. The details and emotion of that moment filling our view with uncertainty, wonder, or concern and washing out all perception of the true world around us. Is it light or dark, good or bad, worry or elation?…We may not be able to discern without the tempering influence of peripheral vision and an awareness of where our anchors rest. But, surveying the scene, feeling our touchstones, finding our constants, we regain equilibrium and fly into a sky that is full of amazement…a sense of great elation filling the space in between small surprises…everything again flows and we move forward and out of the moment. That is when we realize the joy of filling our windshield with light and beauty and we cast only small glances behind us to inform our course with the lessons of our past.