It's the night of the full moon, the July supermoon. We set up our camp on the east side of the mesa, just below the remains of an old cowboy camp and do what we love....wander the mesa. R finds evidence of the cowboy camp with a piece of an old oil lamp. I finger prehistoric potshards and reverently place them back where I found them.
There's something comforting, something continuous about immersing ourselves in the story, the history of the mesa. I come to realize I am also a part of the story of the mesa, part of the huge, beating heart of this place. The land itself pours its mysteries into my bones, my blood, my very being as I walk its glorious earth, our hearts beating together, our breath becoming one.
The mesa is a lover, caressing me with warm winds and sunsets that bring me to my knees.
The mesa is a mentor, teaching me to listen, to wonder, to learn the language of the high desert.
The mesa is my home, the place I always return to, the place my soul resides.
It began when I was watering the lawn. I dropped the hose as the water drops called to me. I found myself crawling in the grass, admiring the beauty of nature, photographing the cool, green world before me. (Yes, the neighbors do think I'm crazy. They're used to it.)