Crossing Nebraska

A friend and I were driving from Colorado Springs down to Santa Fe yesterday. The following poem virtually leapt onto the page of my notebook as we skirted the Sangre de Cristo range of the Rocky Mountains. I present it here in pretty much first-draft form.           A Sangre de Cristo Surrender     Dying slowly, and comfortably, must be similar to this... Dying joyfully, and wholeheartedly, must be just a little bit like this...   Like looking out at mountains rooted deep within your heart, and watching clouds billow like the warm breath of a billion prayers offered up to heaven.   Like dancing with so many antelope across an endless field, and sinking like snowmelt deeper and deeper into the earth.   You know me well. You know what words we've had. But good and bad are now so very far away. Everything is like a smile growing wider, and brighter, unti...

When you’ve lived in one place long enough you notice how it changes over time. You see the revitalization of some previously downtrodden neighborhoods even as others slip into decline. You see old farms paved over for the sake of car dealerships and strip malls, and vacated railroad rights-of-way transformed into linear parks or public transportation lines. Progress is like that, isn’t it? Some good things, some not so good things; it’s hard to say in balance where we’re headed (although climate change is a pretty good indicator). One thing is certain right here and now, however, wild places are disappearing and with them something that we don’t even yet know how to value. Every patch of woods that’s cut down in order to build up a subdivision of new homes is a loss of connection to the natural world. Every open space that’s filled up with some new development or other is a loss of spaciousness in our minds. The effect of this so-called “march of progress” has been like a wound...

Gosh, I began this contemplation almost a month ago! It seems like ages. Since that time, however, I’ve been distracted by current events both negative and positive. On one hand, the killings in Aurora , Colorado would seem to represent the very worst that we humans can be. Even as I make that observation, however, I’m tempted to qualify it by noting that the recent drought we’ve been experiencing across the continental United States, and its very likely status as a human-caused climatic event, might be even more representative of the worst that we humans can be. No, the gradual destruction caused by global warming will not be as easily quantified as the loss of life in Aurora (as if even that can be quantified!), but it will certainly be no less real. The Olympics, on the other hand, have the potential to reveal us at our best – not our chest-thumping, blood-doping, win at all cost best, mind you, but our coming together in global goodwill best. I’ve been a fan of the Olympi...

Sweltering summer afternoons such as these inevitably remind me of my childhood – the still air, the unrelenting sun, and the silence only intermittently punctuated by the ratcheting sound of a grasshopper in mid hop, or the unanswered call of a field sparrow, or the sticking sound that automobile tires make as they accelerate down an almost melting asphalt road. “How about we go fossil hunting?” I’d pose the question over the phone to my childhood friend, Charlie, or he to me. “What time?” was the usual response, neither of us needing much in the way of convincing when it came to such suggestions. “After lunch. One o’clock. Under the railroad trestle.” And so we’d meet in the shade of the old wooden bridge and ride our bicycles along the dusty trail to where the new highway cut through the layers of a limestone undergirded hillside. Once there, we’d make our way slowly, almost wordlessly along the fractured strata, carefully overturning the loose rock, becoming more ...