1.12.21 :: Death Valley

Today I saw a sky I’d only dreamed of as a child wandering the aisles of the Hilltop grocery store and steak house. There used to be a little Mexican man on a donkey—I presumed he was Mexican due to his sombrero and growing up in a blindly white privileged corner of the East Coast. He was a comic-like mannequin who presided on a shelf above the meat refrigerators. He was all I ever wanted to see when dragged on a trip to the store; I couldn’t wait to bypass the produce and look up. To my little eyes he wasn’t just at our market; he was on a grassy plain with cowboys on the lookout and a cactus I could never touch. I imagined him sitting around a fire (after store hours, of course), cooking up a can of beans, the mountains in shadow behind him and a midnight sky swallowing up the rest of the tableau. Stars would wink with abandon, just as Mrs. Bennett did to poor, confused Kitty. And a chorus of Home on the Range would lull the troop to sleep.

What I’m saying is, my imagination is nothing compared to the real wonder of this place. A bazillion stars gazing down on you, reminding you that hi, hello. They’ve always been here. Have been here for eons and will be long after you’re gone. Just remember to get yourself somewhere dark—really dark—and look up sometimes.

I’ve seen the Milky Way, from a rural Welsh farm to the peak of Cadillac Mountain, and it never ceases to amaze me. But tonight was different.

It was 2:00. My new boots were on. My toenails as yet unharmed. I was going for a walk. I hopped down the hill and crossed the street into a patchwork of thicket bushels and tromped up and down, up and down a narrow sandy path—feeling, I must say, quite pleased with myself. I always feel a bit overly triumphant at every tiny effort I make to sweat. With Mount Whitney at my back, I wondered what on earth could eclipse her at my front until the trail narrowed even further and took me down. Down into the valley of a giant’s board game. Rocks of all size, shape, and color strewn about as though someone had been a sore loser and hurled the pieces to the ground. Some were ancient and crumbling, others had nooks and dimples so big a Great Dane could curl up inside. Among them were gnarled, blackened plants and dried up Bob Ross wigs in green, white, gold. Moira Rose would have had her pick.   

My triumph snuffed itself out with each successive valley. It was all fun and games at the top of the hill, with the view cheering you on. Down in the ditches, there were Whoopi Goldbergs and Cheech Marins silently stalking you, and new boots strangling your aching feet. You left your mace at the house, ding dong, so get a move on. After what seemed two hours but was just over 45 minutes, I made it back to the house, collapsed on a rock, and applauded myself for a 1.66-mile day’s work. Hopped in the tub with a Lush bomb and the latest Lee Min Ho drama and let my heart dance and clench and exhale for an hour.

After I lit a fire and chatted with friends, I looked up and the sky was that midnight blue my little Hilltop friend used to enjoy and I wondered: How did I even get here? Not just this house, this valley, but 37. By all odds I should have died a bunch of times: at the Cliffs of Mohor when ignoring the “danger zone” sign, driving downhill in a blizzard with shitty tires into oncoming traffic, attempting to install a curtain rod over the kitchen sink, only to lose a chunk of hair and my balance and fall spectacularly off the counter onto my back. And, yet, I’m one of the lucky ones. Despite myself, I’m here.

A good reminder to embrace. To absorb. To create. And to recognize all that's come before.