May 13, 2009 ~ By Roxy Whalley ~ Natural Bridges National Monument in Utah.
Arches carved by water.
A stone bridge that spans a time that is hard for humans to comprehend.
How long did it take the water to work its way through these sandstone walls,
to find a tiny crack and splash and lap its way in,
slowly carving, slowly eroding,
slowly washing away one grain of sand… then another.
A pause of days, or months, before rain, or a flash flood brought more water, which would carry away another handful of sand.
For thousands of years, the water slowly worked its way through the solid rock, and in time changed the course of the river.
We humans can build a bridge in days or weeks.
Can we comprehend the eons, the numerous human generations that it took nature to build these bridges.
As I stand beneath the span of stone, it’s solid mass cutting a red ribbon through a blue sky above, I realize that even if we had the time to build a bridge like this, our human efforts would not produce anything nearly so beautiful and spectacular as the Mother of our planet did.
the bears and Yeats would know _ Roethke
I have gone to the river many times,
to the slow waters that curl among their stones
With absolute certainty, to the small voices,
That emerge from the granite’s fissures, whispers
Of the deep pool below the falls, ripples
That pulsate outward, like the blind
Feeling their way through the dark, the first word
Beginning to form, the primal word
Beneath all languages, the utterance of snow,
The silence lurking in the cedars,
The unseen map of the otter’s journey.
Was it a bear that I saw one night
Sliding downhill on a cardboard sled
Toward the county dump? He too belongs
To those older waters, to the bog
Teeming with scents at the base of the mind,
The ice on which one ventures out
Cautiously, one step at a time,
to those lonely rivers that wonder through cornfields
Like drunks, seeking a passage to the sea,
To the bones that litter the prairies of the Dakotas
Where the wind moans, causing the ghosts
Of Sioux ponies to lift their heads.
I know I love best the small
Brooks that come down from alpine meadows
After Winter’s low ebb, wildflowers in bloom
Beside their banks, headwaters of the Colorado
And the Missouri, the trout in them iridescent
As lost jewels. I can sit here for hours
without a thought, watching the water pass by.
A part of me goes out with it.
It might as well be my soul is water.
Already it has gone many miles!
Flowing on into the orchards of the lowlands
Whose pale blossoms drift on the current
Like those that once filled the funeral barge
Of an unknown king.
By Jay Griswold
In Spanish there is a word for which I can’t find a counter word in English. It is the verb vacilar. It does not mean vacillating at all.
If one is vacilando, he is going somewhere but doesn’t greatly care whether or not he gets there, although he has direction.
ie; Let us say we wanted to walk in the streets of Mexico City but not at random. We would choose some article almost certain not to exist there, and then diligently try to find it.
From Travels with Charley…
I am vacilando in my life.
This has been my life.
~ Roxy Whalley ~
This gypsy blood
The longing for new pastures
I wish these toes would stop twiddling
Lay still and be at peace.
Though the body is tired
The soul weary
The toes still tap, tap, tap
They try to escape their comfort zone
Their safe encasement
Their protection from the elements
They tap on the door,
Lets go, lets go they call out loud
Lets go somewhere new, unknown
Lets explore, explore.
Lets face the newness
Defeat the fear
Experience something new
Lets find that place we haven’t found
Lets find the place where I can rest my weary appendages
Where I can snuggle into the softness,
And comfort of home.
It is out there somewhere,
Roxy Whalley – July 2012
(All rights reserved)
Climb up on a hill at sunrise.
Everybody needs perspective once in a while,
and you’ll find it there.
Robb Sagendorph, Author
Photograph by Roxy Whalley – www.TranquilLightPhotography.com/ click on the picture to visit the web page