the sweetness and the light
there are two important ways in which i relate to place, that is to say, the place where i am living or staying. however else i make sense of somewhere, these two factors play the central role in my interpretation. they are so basic that they happen almost without me knowing, in fact, they are rooted in two of the fundamental pieces of the human experience of the natural world, present in the opening verses of genesis--light and water.
to be specific, i am very attuned to quality of outdoor light. everywhere i go i notice things like how the sun filters through the clouds, the humidity, the pollution, a woods' canopy, or the lack of these things. the color and intensity of light flavors the location, and for that matter, the time of day. my friend matt scheer i think has a similar sensitivity for indoor lighting. here in the big bend, during the day the light is so intense a wash over everything, so indiscriminately bright--a chromatic equalizer--that i cannot relate to it, nor can any other object in the landscape under its mighty gaze. i have to wait until evening or morning. in the morning before the daily bleaching, as the light begins to rise before the sun in the high desert, everything appears in its true, vibrant colors--electric yellows, soft blues, vibrant purples, greens and grey-greens of every hue. the sky above is just bright enough to catch them, but in no way does it claim dominion over them just yet. at sunset, the whole of the desert is caught in the pink-orange flame of the dying sun--like a last power grab by a dying despot.
as for water, my relationship has been transformed yet again, as anyone could guess, this being the desert. usually in my travels i meet rivers and creeks that each have their own faults and virtues. not so much out here. the rio grande (rio bravo) is the only river per se in these parts, and though i spent six days on it through the mesa de anguilla and santa elena canyon in a canoe, i still think i haven't really gotten to know it quite yet. this leaves the only other truly permanent bodies of water in the area--the springs, some large, some tiny, which dot the landscape of the chihuahuan desert. yet again i feel i can't have a normal conversation with them as i could even with a slightly dirty urban creek, say, or a stock tank on someones ranch. no, these springs are better than me. their cottonwoods and willows with familiar (hill country!) understory brush--persimmon, sumac, mountain laurel, redbud, agarita--are an island in the wasteland, i truly understand the word oasis now. the limestone or volcanic walls surrounding the chrystal waters are covered in a fine brocade of emerald mosses and maidenhair fern. beneath the glassy surface of the pools leopard frogs and their tadpoles play. these places are like shrines where i can only come to pay my homage.
i have hated places before. i do not hate the big bend. but it has reminded me of how differently i love other places.
to be specific, i am very attuned to quality of outdoor light. everywhere i go i notice things like how the sun filters through the clouds, the humidity, the pollution, a woods' canopy, or the lack of these things. the color and intensity of light flavors the location, and for that matter, the time of day. my friend matt scheer i think has a similar sensitivity for indoor lighting. here in the big bend, during the day the light is so intense a wash over everything, so indiscriminately bright--a chromatic equalizer--that i cannot relate to it, nor can any other object in the landscape under its mighty gaze. i have to wait until evening or morning. in the morning before the daily bleaching, as the light begins to rise before the sun in the high desert, everything appears in its true, vibrant colors--electric yellows, soft blues, vibrant purples, greens and grey-greens of every hue. the sky above is just bright enough to catch them, but in no way does it claim dominion over them just yet. at sunset, the whole of the desert is caught in the pink-orange flame of the dying sun--like a last power grab by a dying despot.
as for water, my relationship has been transformed yet again, as anyone could guess, this being the desert. usually in my travels i meet rivers and creeks that each have their own faults and virtues. not so much out here. the rio grande (rio bravo) is the only river per se in these parts, and though i spent six days on it through the mesa de anguilla and santa elena canyon in a canoe, i still think i haven't really gotten to know it quite yet. this leaves the only other truly permanent bodies of water in the area--the springs, some large, some tiny, which dot the landscape of the chihuahuan desert. yet again i feel i can't have a normal conversation with them as i could even with a slightly dirty urban creek, say, or a stock tank on someones ranch. no, these springs are better than me. their cottonwoods and willows with familiar (hill country!) understory brush--persimmon, sumac, mountain laurel, redbud, agarita--are an island in the wasteland, i truly understand the word oasis now. the limestone or volcanic walls surrounding the chrystal waters are covered in a fine brocade of emerald mosses and maidenhair fern. beneath the glassy surface of the pools leopard frogs and their tadpoles play. these places are like shrines where i can only come to pay my homage.
i have hated places before. i do not hate the big bend. but it has reminded me of how differently i love other places.