The Thing About 9,000 Feet
The silence is the thing. And how the day moves with the sun, each hour slowly and slightly different -- but indeed, perceptively different -- from the last.
The space out west is different. The sky takes up two thirds of every view, and the rest is long swaths of land - not the dense micro view of the forested land back east. I love forests too, and the way things are so green and lush and living there, but the winter in Colorado is a magical thing to me. So much space. So much air to breathe. You can see visibly the fact that as long as we are good and smart stewards, things are not as scarce and limited as they feel. There's room for everyone. And room for all of me.
Up in the high places, every sound has a discernible source, and meaning. You don't have a lot to tune out. You don't have to tune out the overstimulation of the low lands and its cities. You can look and listen and feel and breathe long -- don't worry about getting tired. You won't, and if you do, you can sleep a while.
The land can be harsh, and the wind bitter, and everything so dry. The weather is in charge up here. But when you're lucky enough to have what you need, and shelter and heat, there's no safer place for the soul than the high places.
I don't know a lot about this land. I know it's not on the maps, and there is rose quartz in the ground, and if you're lucky you can find water for your well a few hundred feet below. I know Pike's Peak is visible to the north, and it's been a dry year, and the dead-looking vegetation will sprout green soon. I know we have a few human neighbors and a lot of bird and mule deer ones. The cows have open pasture and there are a few horses, and probably coyotes but they're strangely quiet. Otherwise I know very little, and my curiosity about this land, its stories, and its former people looms over me while I hike and run and wander and sleep. I feel like I'm borrowing this place, or rather, it's borrowing me. I feel great affection and thankfulness for this land, which has hosted me at just the time when I needed it most.
To be undistracted.
Understimulated.
Quieted.
Reminded.
Rested.
Calmed.
Inspired.
Breathed.
To be invited to notice and wonder.
To be invited to be simply human.
Every time I have visited Colorado, it's been a turning point for some reason or another. Maybe I've come here to make a decision about a fork in the road, or maybe the fork appeared because I came, I don't know. But in 2015 I came to Colorado and left in love, and in 2016, just married, and today, facing down some inner demons as we prepare to move cross-country to an unknown and unknowable future.
For me, for my life, the silence and the space to be my entire, uninterrupted, and un-scattered self is the God-given gift of the high places. I am a body-mind-soul, in my proper place which involves looking around and up, and down at the earth that supports my weight, and I am free.
The space out west is different. The sky takes up two thirds of every view, and the rest is long swaths of land - not the dense micro view of the forested land back east. I love forests too, and the way things are so green and lush and living there, but the winter in Colorado is a magical thing to me. So much space. So much air to breathe. You can see visibly the fact that as long as we are good and smart stewards, things are not as scarce and limited as they feel. There's room for everyone. And room for all of me.
Up in the high places, every sound has a discernible source, and meaning. You don't have a lot to tune out. You don't have to tune out the overstimulation of the low lands and its cities. You can look and listen and feel and breathe long -- don't worry about getting tired. You won't, and if you do, you can sleep a while.
The land can be harsh, and the wind bitter, and everything so dry. The weather is in charge up here. But when you're lucky enough to have what you need, and shelter and heat, there's no safer place for the soul than the high places.
I don't know a lot about this land. I know it's not on the maps, and there is rose quartz in the ground, and if you're lucky you can find water for your well a few hundred feet below. I know Pike's Peak is visible to the north, and it's been a dry year, and the dead-looking vegetation will sprout green soon. I know we have a few human neighbors and a lot of bird and mule deer ones. The cows have open pasture and there are a few horses, and probably coyotes but they're strangely quiet. Otherwise I know very little, and my curiosity about this land, its stories, and its former people looms over me while I hike and run and wander and sleep. I feel like I'm borrowing this place, or rather, it's borrowing me. I feel great affection and thankfulness for this land, which has hosted me at just the time when I needed it most.
To be undistracted.
Understimulated.
Quieted.
Reminded.
Rested.
Calmed.
Inspired.
Breathed.
To be invited to notice and wonder.
To be invited to be simply human.
Every time I have visited Colorado, it's been a turning point for some reason or another. Maybe I've come here to make a decision about a fork in the road, or maybe the fork appeared because I came, I don't know. But in 2015 I came to Colorado and left in love, and in 2016, just married, and today, facing down some inner demons as we prepare to move cross-country to an unknown and unknowable future.For me, for my life, the silence and the space to be my entire, uninterrupted, and un-scattered self is the God-given gift of the high places. I am a body-mind-soul, in my proper place which involves looking around and up, and down at the earth that supports my weight, and I am free.
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