One thing I noticed on this year’s pilgrimage to the Colorado wildflowers was that there are places that have been found by the masses, and places that haven’t. That goes for mosquitoes as much as yuppies.
On this lonesome ponderosa-clad mesa, mountains rolled like green waves around us, rippling out in every direction. Thunder commenced cracking at midnight, and lightning strobed as it must have done on the very night of creation.
We crowded together on the bottom bunk, counting seconds between flashes of light and its answering sound. There is a fruitfulness to silence and the unspoken. I love quiet, unfilled places. I can’t help but notice that in the long absence I took from writing online, a book was born, emerging out of rich, internal soil.
The internet is a little like Colorado. Some parts of it are really noisy. That is probably where my publisher prefers me to be, but I am choosing this backcountry blog as my online home. It is the space where I own (to whatever extent that means on the internet) my own thoughts and images, and where I am unconcerned about likes and followers. I’m not done telling the story I first started spinning a decade ago when I first started writing Old Recipe for a New World, and I want to do it here, away from the crowds.
We are home now. Fruit hangs heavy on the trees. The last weeks of summer stretch hot and welcome before us. I’ll be here, waiting for the next storm. How I love the hour after a good monsoon–the rain soaked desert, the dissipating ozone from lightning strikes that leave fertile ground in their wake.