Sap oozes from a sweet vanilla pine. Its scent rides the morning current. Nectar of hummingbird plant, (Da’yii t,ii Daa’) still on my tongue and cliff roses fragrance in my senses. We ride the morning roads upon this land of many incredible moods, many fascinating plays of light and the space. It has its own vocabulary. The land of my ancestors once spoke its esoteric language.
Through new sets of eyes, with new enthusiasm, I reset and replay my intense appreciation of its beauty. Besides its obvious landmarks, it is the supporting casts of the magnificent places I enjoy focusing upon. The piñon-studded outcroppings of the Tsegi anticlines, the barren stretches of colors in the Little Colorado depression, the narrow, old bridge on the Perkinsville Road. The sky, a reflection of the land.
Finding new awareness often requires an appreciation of another’s visual experience. This allows me to once again be a visitor for the first time. Witnessing another’s reactions to this experience of northern Arizona with innocence and squealing sensations coupled with a healthy dose of caution to its grandeur and mystery frees me of the familiarity. Through lens free of the fogs of jadedness, I make new discoveries and new patterns on an old tapestry—a Technicolor version of my black and whites. Making new images out of the normal is my job as an artist anyway. Thank you, my beautiful friends for allowing me to tap into this sentiment once again.
The deep, verdant carpet of the distant ponderosa pines climbs the Sacred Mountain. Hesitant in places, relenting to patches of deciduous stands, the hint of this sweetness lingers in and onto the vastness of the open plain to the north and east of the Peaks. The exposed flesh of the Mother we call Earth. These are the hard grounds that harnessed my own deep appreciation and humility of her. From where I sit in my mind, I see my own land again in all its subtlety. I mix new colors on the palette of my mind.
From the exposed red rocks of the Oak Creek region to the wind-sculpted mesas of Monument Valley; from the Little Colorado depression of the Painted Desert onto the alpines of the Escalante; from my lofted studio in downtown Flagstaff to the very ground that holds my umbilical cord, this rings true with the Dineh prayer for a sense of place: “Beauty before me, Beauty behind me, Beauty above and below me. Beauty all around me I walk, Beauty is restored …”
The sweetness of the upper desert is experienced within as well. The Earth always smells delicious after a summer storm. The scent of a coming storm rides the dust particles, even days ahead—a smell of the day’s color, of her light and textures. From the foot of the Sacred Mountain of the West I point my hood ornament in any direction and I find a piece of me again. A place within. In this manner, I am called home again.
If I was not a painter of pictures, I would love to have been a geologist on this land, to give age to the unfathomable and the ageless. If I was a musician, I would give her a melody and blanket her in a song. But the high-country wind does that. If I was a poet, gift her in words to lift us all; a sonnet for her. But Gaa’gii’ (Raven), does that. If I was a dancer, I would move lightly and not step on her toes.
But the dust devils dance to her rhythms; I can only share her surfaces in paintings. The late light does that also. She invites us to walk in beauty, to walk with humility, with respect. Yes, to feel bare feet to Earth again.
To feel and wonder what it used to be: pristine and wild, wild and free of commerce. For how long will I share my sense of place, my home with others before “progress” mars these experiences? This awareness intensifies my own joys and awe at what it is and what will be again.
I see again like the National Park Service ranger I used to be. I love interpreting the moment in a place, the flora and the fauna. The words never wore into tediousness. It only strengthened my own faith.
I hear again my grandmother’s voice: “Walk among all creation with the knowledge that your placement in this design is important. You are no greater than the tiniest ant, nor are you any less than a mighty mountain range. To disturb one part is to affect all.”
I am always eager to visit my own backcountry including the one within my heart; to the fragrance of piñon pine sap and sweet cliff roses. It is sweet indeed. It rekindles the spark within.
May I be recognized from the WhiteShellMountain of the East. May I be greeted in kinship from the TurquoiseMountain of the South. May I be called home in Love from the AbaloneMountain of the West. May I find the most profound peace from and in the Jet Stone Mountain of the North. May I always call this Home. This Map of My Heart.
