Today is Wednesday, very overcast. It would be gloomy if the mountains were not covered with snow that seems to reflect what little light filters through the clouds. The mountains are majestic in their black and white with a wisp of haze at the tops. Maybe it's actually snowing up there. We've had precious little this winter. I'm not normally a snow person but it just has not seemed like winter without snow. And, such unusually warm temperatures, 40s the middle of February? I wish I could say I've escaped being cold but I'm always cold, no matter how harsh or mild the winter is. I'm just not a lover of winter. I need to be like the birds, here in the warm summer and somewhere south for the winter.
I'd like to hibernate in the red-rock country where time is locked in sandstone and you can hear the whispers of the ancients. Sandstone speaks, if I sit quietly and listen with my whole body. The sound is very low and more a feeling than audible sound but it is so, so unmistakable when it comes. It is the sound of time moving through the universe. It is the sound of the future that will outlast all present life. It is a sound of permanence that grounds me and gives me faith in the past, present and future. I feel I'm on sacred ground when I walk in red-rock country. It is the land dinosaurs walked. It is a land of contrasts—drought and flash flood live together in a balance as old as time. Red-rock country is not just a place. It is a state of mind, a place of comfort, a place of refuge and healing.
