Archives for August 2005

Shadows of the Land

I am leaving home to be with the wild, the wind. I am leaving my comfort for the darkness of the earth and sky. Deep starry nights are singing. The desert is calling. There’s patience in my planning, but the time draws near. No one understands the mysteries of the world, or why the heavens weep. No one really sees the hidden mysteries.

You have to drop the weight that drags you down. There is only one way to dream. The desert is calling. The land is going to tranform. The old way lives in my heart. My spirit is strong. I’ve been a stubborn son of a gun, but I know where the horizon waits.

The old man is coming. He’s coming to give me his hand. Together we’ll find the place where nothing ever sleeps. He’s the ancient river that roars, He’s the old bristlecone; the sun that comes up in the morning.

So friends, tonight I pack my things and journey into the desert. The Red Rocks are glowing below the crimson sky. The ancient wailing winds are whipping accross the eroded landscape. My soul is scattering accross the bottomless mountain ranges of the desert. My heart is in the tower of stars.

The desert calls in those darkest hours, whispering soft. It’s begging my long-lasting hopes. Tonight, I am treading into the wilderness. I cannot be late for the appointment, with the shadows of the land.

Reminding Myself

In those sleeping hills time does not exist. When I’m in isolation, I’m alone within the corners of God’s imagination. Below the shifting sand, I ponder previous worlds wherein mankind went absolutely crazy, and vanished. I think of the wide gaping mouth of the Grand Canyon in Arizona and the many quiet places still remaining in this world of bus and computer. But man is becoming evermore crazy. A mystery is drawing nearer, but remains patient. A thunderstorm brings the roaring rain upon housetops. Thunder reverberates through ancient canyons. Unknown rivers flow down unknown channels. This is the constant vision in my heart. The purpose of life is to let the deep wind sing in the soul and for the land to sing. When the world goes into aweful insanity, may the canyon country preserve me.

As crimson rain falls upon glowing wastelands every monsoon night of August, the after vision of the dusk grows evermore mystical. Painted pictures dance across the rocks beneath the stars. The dead coyote speaks against the hunter. The Bristlecone survives because it depends on the wild desert wind, the bone dry rockface in which it stands, and the stone cold elements which give it splendor. Humans have become to dependant on their inventions, but the rug is being pulled. The canyons are waking up with their gazing shadows.