Big Sky

Most of you would say I was crazy if I told you the skies in New Mexico were bigger. You'd probably say, "How can the ski be bigger? When everywhere has 180º at the most." It sounds crazy to say, but New Mexico really does have the most sky I've ever seen. (I have my own scientific reasoning for the phenomena, but for arts sake I'll leave that out of this posting). 

I suppose I mention it here because on my last night in New Mexico, tonight, I couldn't help but gaze in awe at the dark heavens above me. On our way back from dinner in town I couldn't help but be sad that this was my last night here in Taos. Whenever driving out here, whether passenger or driver,  you can usually find me sticking my head out the window like a dog sniffing at the breeze. I do it to get a clean view of the landscape, and to smell subtle changes in that the wind and earth produce depending on their mood.  Tonight was no different. On our way home from dinner I stuck my head out and into the cool night breeze, saying good-bye to the land I love so much. Off in the distance electrical storms blasted column straight lightning bolts down and into the ground, creating gigantic shadow puppets out of the goliath Taos mountains.

When we arrived home I just wandered about outside. The air was warm from the energy of the storm, and the stars were shining bright. I bet most of you don't know that there are three constellations that are always out in the Northern hemisphere: the big dipper, the Queen Cassiopeia, and Draco the dragon. And for you Scoprio's, the scorpion is also out in full force tonight. You can even see the milky way. Yes, the galaxy we live in. It's a translucent glow that streaks across the navy dark sky. Of course I never even knew the night sky held such treasures until I moved here. There are some places that also have these skies, Colorado, Montana, Utah, Arizona, parts of New York even. But my night skies have been stripped ever since I've moved to LA. Stolen, and replaced with a light pink haze, as though a great hot breath has fogged the night sky. 

So I stood there. Watching the lightning burst from behind the dark clouds. As I was showing my Mom constellations a white hot shooting star jetting down from the heavens, as sudden as a wild white stallion darting between two patches of forest. It was by far the most stunning shooting star I've seen out here. And of course I made a wish...

Stillness

It's not illegal to post twice in the same day right? Let me check my blogging rule-book.... nope. 

I've recently been getting back into slack-lining. In case you don't know what slack-lining is it's basically tight-rope walking on a piece of tubular webbing drawn between two objects (trees, rocks, trucks, etc...). I started doing it back in college, my senior year to be exact, after being introduced to the balancing act by a rock-climbing friend of mine. After that first time I could stay up for more than two seconds I was hooked. I loved the meditative aspects of it. If your mind wandered just a little you lost balance and fell. You needed to concentrate on your entire being. Your mind had to envelop your body, and your body had to work at one with your mind in order to keep you perched on that thin-line. I also loved the fact  that it was a reality that mirrored the thesis I was working on at the time (A topic for another post perhaps. But in short I argued that our qualitative identity is directly affected by our physical relationship with the world. In other words what we do physically directly affects how we perceive ourselves). 

Anyhow, so I've gotten back into this old hobby of mine. Today I ventured to Runyon Canyon and did some slack-lining after work. After getting in my groove and feeling pretty zen-like I took a fall and noticed a small groundhog popping its head out of its home and snacking on a bit of grass. It was about a foot away from me, and completely unfazed. I stood there, motionless, just watching this small creature eat. I hadn't been to that park, but I was pretty sure that these animals don't just feel comfortable around anyone. I felt I had a stillness about me it sensed, and as a result it was not perturbed. A near-by couple scared the small creature away, and I continued my slack-lining. A few moments a loud couple of college students came into the park to throw  the frisbee and discuss various deep thoughts such as , "Dude Humming birds are cool. They'd be cooler if they did more," or "Top ten ways insects have sex? I'd probably say Dragon Fly, Earthworm, Beetle..."

Needless to say I could tell my meditation was coming to an end. But regardless I decided I'd stay and go a few more rounds. As I walked on the thin red webbing I noticed my furry friend popped his head back out on my left, and to my right, another critter head made itself noticed. It was about this time the two frisbee tossers (and I am using British slag here as a pun) wondered out loud, "Dude, what are all these holes for? I think they must be here on purpose." I smiled to myself. I felt like I shared some animal secret. 

When I was younger, high school/early college, being outside defined my being. It's really a shame I haven't been able to be more active outdoors, but I think I've learned so much from spending time outside, lessons that I've carried with me throughout my life. Being still and watching is definitely one of those lessons. You learn so much from just watching the nature of things. I know this is echoing a large part of my previous post on change, but I think it's an important point to be made. Had my noisy neighbors quieted themselves and observed perhaps they would have noticed the pattern of the holes and realized it was an animal who created them. Or notice the blur-like motion of the hummingbirds wings and appreciate its quickness. 

In life we learn so much by observation. As cavemen we observed nature, and learned from it. It was a grand teacher who taught us how plants grow and where animals create their habitat. As babies we were silent observers, watching and learning from our parents. It's just too bad that as we've learned to speak a lot of us have forgotten how to listen. 

Spring has Sprung

Perhaps the most common phrase I utter to friends, family and strangers out here is, "Whatever you say about LA you can't complain about the weather." Temperatures here seem to vary between perfect, a little cold, and kind of hot. It's always like a temperate summer day back East. That is why it made me so happy today to see the lavender colored blossoms that speckled my route back home this morning. It was nice to see some evidence of spring in the never-ending summer that is Los Angeles. 

I miss the Springs from back East. The smell of honey-suckle in the air, the sun popping it's head out from behind the dark grey winter clouds, the geese flying back in off-centered V's, birds chirping, that first day you can wear a t-shirt again. I think what I like most about the spring and fall seasons back home is the change. The change that reminds you no matter how long and cold the winter may be new growth is on its way. Or when the leaves fall and the autumn chill hangs in the air you know it's time to bring out your sweaters and adapt. I think the season changes remind us of the passing of time, and that change is about the only constant in life. 

Locals here tell me the season changes here are subtle, and days like today remind me of that. One of my favorite memories from LA happened when I was making a side street U-turn and happened upon a small courtyard between two dilapidated red brick buildings. In the middle of the courtyard there was this beautiful pink blossomed tree standing by itself. Something about the juxtaposition of the graffiti covered walls and the colorful flora made such an impression on me. Amongst bustling urban environments there are still reminders of change. And not the high cranes building new apartments or the flux of traffic patterns, that's just human progression. I think it's important we notice the natural changes; the flowers blooming on the side of the road, the curvature of the moon, or the wrinkles in our smile. These are the natural changes that define life.