At this Moment

Navajo Village--A warm, balmy breeze blows from the south.  Tropical clouds diffuse most of the sun.  If I were to close my eyes, I would picture grass huts, white beaches and turquoise waters.  But there’s no need.  The weathered juniper post of the shade house in the foreground, the Hogan and sand hill in mid-ground, and the hulking monolithic sandstone swell in the background are enough.  And though I am lucky to be here, and have this amazing place to sit and melt into my surroundings, chances are you have your own sacred place at this moment. 

It may be a window seat overlooking the front lawn and the spread of suburbia, kids riding bikes or skateboards down the street. 

Or, it may be your office window--shiny metal boxes flooding through the last play of light and shadow on downtown’s concrete canyons at the end of the work day. 

Or maybe it’s midnight.  Something has gone wrong in the OR.  You’re the unlucky housekeeper called into mop up the mess.  Although there’s more blood than usual, it’s the same old routine.  There’s the CD player on the medical cart.  If you’re lucky, there may even be some Fleetwood Mac or Eagles to play.  The Dance.  Gloves on, you unlock the wheels and move the bed.   A metropolis of red spreads out from the center of the room, a galaxy spiraling out towards the cold edges of existence.  Even here, mopping up what remains of someone’s life, there are patterns to contemplate, meaning to see in dots, blobs and code.  It’s not that you’re heartless; it’s just what good would it do now to do more than witness?

It is not where we are that keeps us from entering the moment.  It’s our useless battles with the mind.  I ruined most of my day obsessing over the fact that neither Marci nor I had noticed there was a posting for an elementary position in my hometown.  I’ve been checking for openings obsessively for months, but not the last couple of weeks.  It posted two weeks ago and closed two days ago. 

Nothing can be done.  There is only the moment.  Marci talks to a couple from Germany outside the female Hogan.  Sunlight ignites her blue blouse and ricochets off the silver of her Concho belt.  There is the distant sound of traffic.  A single bird chirps, and as always, light plays on the sandstone folds of the rock behind.  

 We needed that job, but losing this moment won’t help things.