The Navajo Village; Reflections on El Paso, Juarez, Many Farms; Sustainability, Windows and Light

I want to write today about sustainability, windows and light.  This didn’t come to me all at once, but slowly, as the sun cut its path from east to west and darkness settled deep across the landscape.

Yesterday, we had a special fundraiser for the Boy Scouts at the Navajo Village and it was bitter-cold, which is unusual for Page, especially this time of year.  The two hogans were warm, oil barrel fireplaces humming in the center of the log-rooms, shafts of rain, sleet and snow filtering down through hole in the roofs at the center of the room, sputtering off the top of stoves in short bursts of steam. 

But outside it was intense--especially after a bitter-wind drove the clouds away and a yellow light cut across the landscape, igniting the rocks behind.  It was uncomfortably beautiful.

Large Hogan after the storm passed



Tony, Everest and Tomas dancing in the cold.



Then night fell hard, quick.  I worried about my flowers and assumed today would be much the same.  So, I was in no hurry to get up and go outside this morning.



When I finally did, I was quite surprised:  warm sunlight, stillness, birds chirping, a perfect spring morning.  As we were going to church, Marci commented, “Why couldn’t it have been like this yesterday?”    That would have been nice, but I know from experience, not near as memorable.  There is something about hardship, especially the elements, that draws us closer to the essentials of creation.  My most memorable moments camping were at the time the most unpleasant--tent whipping violently in the night, vegetables frozen in a solid block of ice at the bottom of the cooler in the morning--these are the moments I relish later, although they were most uncomfortable at the time.

I can’t help but wonder if the same is true with our lives.  Will we look back from eternity and cherish the moments of death, unemployment, spiritual uncertainty most?  Those moments where we were forced to grow?  I think perhaps so.

This brings me back to sustainability.  A few days ago I was looking at other sites.  Most left me empty, which doesn’t say anything negative about them--just something about me.  They provide very practical information on topics such as reusing rain-water or composting.  Both things I want to do.  But most of the sites don’t provide that slow, reflective talk, which loosens the mind and allows unknown treasures to drop.  To me, it is that dialogue with our creator, ourselves and each other that is at the center of sustainability.

I did, however find one sight which approached what I’m looking for.  I’d like to share it, in case you are looking for something similar.  It’s called Backyard Agrarian and is found at http://www.backyardagrarian.com/sustainable-living-blog.html.  What really impressed me was the site’s description of sustainability:

Backyard Agrarian living isn't about any one thing. It's about how all things are connected. It's about going through life day after day, making observations and continuous adjustments. It's a new way. It's about how we feel in times of birth, death, frustration, joy and how we respond and act  and how we see the connections between our human stuff and what's going on around us. This blog isn't about any one topic. It's about day-to-day thoughts on exploring an agrarian-minded world view.

I know that’s what sustainability is to me--what I need to be sustained physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.  Not one thing, but multiple. 

This brings me to windows.  I was rereading Kent Nerburn’s, Small Graces, which is probably my favorite book, when I came across the following passage:

Whenever I’ve had to move from a house, the memory I have carried with me--that has most animated my spirit --is always the memory of the light, and the way it cascaded in through the windows and illuminated the passing moments of the day.

That immediately brought my own flood of memories:  the light igniting the chipped paint on the window seal in my fifth-floor apartment in El Paso, the spread of the international city of Juarez y El Paso del Norte glittering below on both sides of the border.  There was also my window at the budding Cinco Puntos Press (where I worked as an undergraduate student) which overlooked the bridge between Mexico and the United States.  I often stayed late during a very unhappy time in my life because there was something about the stream of shiny metal boxes flowing between the countries that made me feel better. 

Or what about the morning light outside our apartment in Many Farms?--a monolithic sandstone butte glowing on the horizon through lacy curtains, the foreground still in dark, blue shadows, Semi-trucks lit-up in yellow lights at the 7 to 11 station across the paper-littered field. 

Views from our house at Dry Creek, March 19, 2012

These small graces get us by.  I now leave you to your own.