Sky Valley in anticlimatic

Been thinking about the desert lately, and the trip there.

The place in which I live is like a small valley, tucked away and hidden from the world like a green gem in a potted plant. The rolling hills obfuscate anything at a distance, and the branches of the elm trees hang low and close on every roof and every path. Everything feels very sheltered; very intimate, and partitioned. Privacy can be acquired anywhere. Creeks and brooks bury themselves in the hills and the grass, snaking their way to the great rolling lake that might as well be the blunt wall of the horizon itself. A low, green, beautiful town, hidden in a crack up against the far wall of the world.

I remember the first time I left this place. I remember the vast network of roads stretching towards something larger. I remember the sterile grid of airport terminals; the magnificent grid of city street lights from 20,000 feet; the smell of new airports, new cities. Every stop I made a point to get outside somewhere for fresh air. Sometimes the air was frigid, sometimes warmer. It was like stepping out of the world itself and hovering above it, literally and figuratively, before returning to it somewhere new and unexperienced.

The desert was new. It was long dark when I arrived, and the wind was strong and steady, dry and warm. It smelled like my ancestors, somehow, though they all be from Europe. There is something in the desert that calls to the spirit, I think- perhaps from as far back as the cradle of civilization- Jordan, Israel. Inside every shadow seems to be something you know you’ve seen before, if only you could see it now.

Last updated January 27, 2021