Chez Cerise

16 March 2012

A Real Voyage of Discovery

Awake in the tent, I hear the sound of the wind coming down canyon. It’s not a whistle or the proverbial freight-train sound. It’s more like a whoosh that grows and broadens as it hurls itself from the high mountains, through the canyons, down to the floor of Death Valley below us. Instinctively, I brace for it, clenching my jaws and shoulders, squenching my eyes closed to keep out any wayward sand. And then the gust hits, flattening the tent momentarily before it moves on, beyond our insignificant camp. I hear it, wending its way down the massive alluvial fan below us. And then, from the opposite direction, up canyon, I hear the next gust, gearing up for its passage, and I can feel myself tensing again, apprehensive and exhausted, hoping the tent stakes will maintain their bite in the desert soil, hoping that sleep will come.

Four nights in three different locations, and this scenario plays out each time, varying only slightly in duration and intensity. But Death Valley is worth the lack of sleep.

Like the Grand Canyon and Yosemite, Death Valley inspires many inadequate descriptions. It is vast, unforgiving, and incredibly beautiful. There are few trees, and those that would be considered trees in other deserts, like the mesquite, are stubby, desperate-looking bushes here. Everything is exposed, from your inconsequential self to the massive geological features. You cannot come here to hide, but you could certainly become lost.

***

In the Southwest, we have vistas. In other parts of the United States, lookouts and viewpoints certainly exist. But these are usually places where we can peer out through the trees to catch a view of something quite spectacular framed by more trees. But here, especially in Death Valley, nothing obscures the vista.

I love vistas. I love climbing up just for the thrill of seeing what I can see, to get a sense of my bearings and the lay of the land. I love living high upon a hill with a 180° view, watching weather move in, seeing how the light changes each day between sunrise and sunset, observing the stars and the moon. And I’m a pretty well-traveled person, hiking many trails in the Grand Canyon, traversing Haleakala’s Crater, and visiting dozens of national parks throughout the West. I guess that I was beginning to believe I’d seen it all, as they say, supposing that nothing would ever rival the jaw-dropping, tear-inducing scene that was my first impression of Yosemite Valley. I suppose you might say all these vistas were making me jaded. But Dante’s View of Death Valley surprised me. It gave me a shot of the desert as I’d never seen it.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the bright white of the Badwater Salt Flats, a huge playa, or dry lake bed. It’s the lowest point in North America at 282 feet below sea level. And once my eyes have absorbed the void: the whitest-of-whites of the salt flats, I begin to notice the other colors: buff, black, copper, brick red, purple, ash grey to slate grey (and every shade between), oranges, browns, sage green, and Sedona pink. The variety of hues is astonishing. There is no vegetation to obscure any of the rock faces, the sands, the alluvial fans, the badlands, or the mountain ranges stretching far into the distance.

And so for the rest of the trip at least, I attempt not to pre-judge, or to have expectations that are either too low or too high. At more than 5600 feet above the salt flats, the wind whispers to me. This sigh, this undertone contrasts starkly with the undulating gusts of the previous night, but in it, I clearly hear the words of Marcel Proust: The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes. It is a gentle voice, a reminder of the beauty exclusive of, and exclusive to us all, merely awaiting discovery. And that maybe, once all is peeled back, revealing the very essence, maybe then we can recognize what is eternal and what endures. And perhaps then, we can begin to understand why.

[ this moment ]

[ this moment ] - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. (Homage to Soule Mama)

09 March 2012

Marching Towards Gratitude

February is always a difficult month for me. The short days really start to get to me, as I arrive at school before the sun is even yet up, and I trudge down the dark halls to my windowless fluorescent cave of a classroom. The newness of the new year has worn thin. The school year is barely half-over, and it seems interminable for both me and the students.

I can’t quite pin down when I started feeling this way about February. And it’s not like there aren’t things to look forward to in February. Some of my favorite people, including my mom, celebrate their birthdays during this month. And who doesn’t look forward to the crush of chocolate that precedes and follows Valentine’s Day?

It’s not like the winters here in Arizona, even here in the mountains, are harsh enough to warrant a case of cabin fever, even though it’s been especially unseasonably warm this winter. Maybe it harkens back to the days when I was pregnant with Madeleine, who was born in late March. That oh-so-pregnant load was pretty heavy by the end of February. Whatever the reason, flipping that calendar over to March each year is always a small but momentous occasion for me. I suppose I should feel grateful that February is the shortest month of the year. Once March’s face is showing, I start noticing little things, little things that give me hope for the finiteness of winter:

- the sun peeking over the mountains during my morning commute
- the swelling buds on flowering trees
- a daffodil here, and there
- and those moments of sun that stretch a few moments longer each evening.

And while these winter doldrums exist solely in my mind, they do weigh me down. I know, I know, they’re First World Problems. But I’ll keep marching on, seeking out those bright spots along the way.