Living at Dry Creek so far has not turned out like I planned. My health is unpredictable. Generally, I seem to be getting better, but the pain is still up and down, and doctors don't what causes it. One obnoxiously arrogant ass even told me I was crazy. Anyway, for about a year and half, I've been confined mostly to my yard. Although the creek is just across the road that goes up to Mom's, I seldom see it as it hurts too much to go down the steep slope and back up again; the pain doesn't necessarily come that day, but a day or two after.
So, my plans for a great expanse of gardens has been put on hold. I hope only temporarily, but after a year and half, I may have to start being a little more realistic.
Yet, even from my recliner, I have an amazing view. Seeing deer and wild turkey is a daily thing, and even though I can't get down to see the creek that often, I know it's there. In April, during high water, it's easy to hear it from my front porch. The stars at night are brilliant; there is often the smell of cottonwood and creek bottom. I can, I guess, live with an empty field, if the gardens never get planted in full.
Snow is a profound thing--especially deep, heavy snow. Luckily, my brother Lloyd has stepped in to keep the roads clear and I have been able to simply enjoy its beauty.
Central Utah is changing. During winter inversions, pollution leaks down from the Wasatch Front and smogs up our once pristine skies. As I commute to work each day, I'm not helping the problem. It brings a deep sadness. Environment matters. Our spiritual selves are not separate from our surroundings. I'm not sure why people don't get that. It's not just about Will we obliterate ourselves or kill off the polar bears?--it's also about, "Can you see clearly? Does walking outside make you feel alive inside? Do you feel a profound connection with what's going on around you?" Pollution veils our connection with creation. It is anti-spiritual.
Yet, I count myself lucky. On a whim we can roast marshmallows over an open fire on cold, windy March night (or just about anytime). And oh those night skies!
I'd rather not commute, but if one has to commute, an empty highway is the way to do it. I don't love big, agribusiness, like modern dairy farms, but rural America is where it's at. Out here, where space is big, and noise subtle, there is room for the mind to sit down on an old tree stump next to you and have a conversation. Neighbors may be lacking, but in the absence of heaping humanity, there is the self talking to the self, and in the process a coming to know what really matters.
And occasionally I do get down to that creek that became my friend long ago when Dad purchased this property. It still churns magically clear over stone and will still do so long after I'm gone.
There is the passing of the days, the constant change in light, the handing of day over to night.
There is the change of the seasons--winter melting into spring. The rise of the snow line and the return of green.
There is warm sunlight on an exposed wall--how it feels to stand there, sheltered from the last of the winter wind.
There is the return of water, of light and sky pooled on the ground, or spun like angel's hair in narrow, rocky ravines.
And there is the pasture, open space, dreams.
