Go to the Wild Places

I love going to new places, and love the getting there. I could fly all day long and gaze out the window like a little kid at her first Christmas.

I forget sometimes what an incredible place this planet is.

These words drifted through my mind as I sat at the window of the plane the other day, listening to native American flute song playing from my Ipod and watching the changing panorama of our flightpath from NJ to California. We flew over mountains, rivers, streams; vast, lonely places with little collections of towns surrounded by miles of earth. Here and there, tiny quilted squares of green irrigated farmland squeezed between fortresses of earth and rock. Some were enormous emerald circles looking like great green eyes staring blindly into the sky.

As we continued, the mountains seemed to proliferate and grow below my little window in the sky. Eventually they were all I could see. And while I watched the incredible panorama unfold and the soft music in my ears, another voice spoke to me, matching the royal glory below.

Go to the wild places,

The music calls.

It still lives in you

Longs in you

Claims your place in the spirit of things.

Hope.

The mountains stood up to each other, circled around behind one another, a few stood free and clear as if there was no where else on earth quite like them. Some seemed lonely, while others embraced All were necklaced with the eternal whiteness of the high snows of July.

And now, red sandstone, rivers sifting through on their way to a distant sea. From my height in the plane, the canyon indentations looked like the quivering lines of an old poet. There were great writhing snakes of parched riverbeds, their waters stolen by human greed and drought. A road ribboned through enormous expanses of mottled peach and brown.

We flew on. The wing of the plane dipped, exposing ocean landscape without the ocean, feathered by fissures while sweeps of vanilla and mauve faded into dove gray.

I looked, not only at the earth, but at the past, the present, and the future, all the while going to my own.

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This entry was posted in California, farmland, flightpath, flying, future, landscape, ocean, riverbed. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Go to the Wild Places

  1. Anonymous says:

    Just finished a book called Skywater by Melinda Worth Popham, set in the southwest. Your writing here brings it to mind…beautiful, as always!K

  2. Bevson says:

    Lovely. Beautifully done. I always get an aisle seat and withdraw into my personal space when I fly. This makes me want a window seat-almost.

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