(The Waterpocket Fold, Utah)
I am restless. All of these precious days in the desert I have been driven. Pushing myself to see, often with a vague sense of what I want to find, to discover with my own eyes. Up before sunrise, I find myself resenting a forced rest after sunset, when my thoughts are not distracted by the sight of real canyons, and they find their way down darker ones. Why is it in the night that I become the most troubled…that I wonder if I make too much of dreams, too much of words, too much of love. I mourn the failures I have made, the failures I am still making. Overnight, the skies over this part of Utah became unsettled, matching my mood. At dawn I am standing on top of a sharp monocline, surrounded by 60 million years of geology. A prism of light graces storm clouds dropping elegant veils of virga--a trail of tears in a land of drought. I have sought wild places, isolated and lonely, and yet I expect to be loved. It is a curious dichotomy. Maybe they are meant to be seen alone, to be loved in solitude so that you can put other feelings in perspective. I need moments like this to carry as a mental cache of calmness, to be summoned as last thoughts before sleep.