When the deep thaw comes

Phoenix perched on rocks in Estes Park

A view of family from the rocks of the high desert prairie

We were in Colorado when we heard the news, Iran’s threat of retaliation against the agregious crimes of this country’s administration. Maybe here, in the prairie, the world would blow. Even on vacation, there is no escaping the heavy hand of the news.

My love and I looked at each other and came to a mutual decision. We would not waste a moment in fear of what might come. If the world were to end today, let it be while we’re traversing the rocky hills, looking out over the prairie valley while the vultures soar overhead and the meadowlarks sing. No matter when or how things end, I keep making a choice, however unpopular it may be, to tune myself to the news of the day through the eyes of nature. What is blooming? Who is singing? Who is emerging from hibernation? How might I join the chorus of it all?

Fear has its place, it surely does. I felt it walking through an NYC airport teeming with ICE agents, and on our way home, wearing my “Abolish ICE” t-shirt, knowing this sort of thing is becoming cause for detainment, or more. I simply don’t wish to live there in the fear.

. . . . .

Prairie sky

While on the prairie and in the mountains, I felt myself thawing from a long, deep freeze.

It may have been the vast expanse of sky, an oil painting of clouds and streaks of color. It may have been the sense of walking on hallowed ground, each rock a piece of history. Or the sight of prairie dogs, their heads popping up from dirt mounds; standing in fields on their hind legs, surveying the land. It may have been the prickly pears and the baby barrel cacti spread through the grasses, the calls of meadowlarks from fence posts and desert plants, the dinosaur prints in mountain slopes, the string of Rocky Mountain heads along the horizon, the Pine Siskins bobbing on branches, puffed up in song, the burbling ice cold waters. The scent of horses or the reflection of myself and the earth in their eyes. Or the pair of wild turkeys who frequented the farm, obliging us with call and response in our ridiculous attempt at conversation as they’d pass by.

My dearly beloved prairie dogs

Cacti protectors of the prairie

Sacred rocks

Rocky Mountain elk

Horse-eye view

Our beloved and quirky turkey duo

Whatever the case, in a short time, I remembered what it feels like to appreciate being alive. And perhaps just as surprisingly, I felt the twinge of anticipation at the thought of returning home. Not because I wasn’t enjoying vacation, meeting new family, seeing new lands, or the break from the bustle of the city. But because, I realized, I’m beginning to accept Brooklyn as home. In my delight of all things new and wild, I still missed my pigeon flock and squirrel neighbors, our garden, the park, our little life there.

It feels good, I thought, to hold both things — the savoring of vacation and the anticipation of home.

A blessed homecoming sight

When we got home, we were met by the loudness of Manhattan, the belching of cars and buses, the crowded trains and landscape, the usual things. But from above, as the plane circled, I saw the Long Island Sound sparkling in the sun, the Hudson River snaking through, the bridges connecting the boroughs, the tiny dots of brownstones clustered in blocks, and my heart quietly thudded, home.

Somewhere, in the tangle of this urban jungle, is a place I now call home.

We stepped off the train in our neighborhood to a world in bloom: cherry trees and eastern redbuds, dogwoods and fading magnolias, tulips and bleeding hearts, hyacinth and lily of the valley, leaves waving from branches where the week before they were nearly bare. Everything, moving so quickly, I didn’t want to miss another day of it.

And with this swell of life, amidst the insanity of this world, I felt my words also returning home.