We Largely Ignore

The sun is rising again. Even though it doesn’t have to, right? But it is. And sky is immense and beautiful. I have no idea if we miss this world when we die, even though I have channeled the spiritual energy of those who have died for a decade now. I have never asked, nor has anyone else, do you miss the world?

There are so many variations of the color green happening in Vermont right now that it’s hard to register. They all kind of flow together on their hillside. It’s funny how we have these measurements of beauty: skinny, tan, symmetrical. No one ever says I want to be as beautiful as a tree.

I have burst into tears many times looking at the beauty if this world. In a small plane above the Yukon River in Alaska, viewing the Rocky Mountains from a distance, approaching on the long drive into Colorado from Kansas. Riding a chairlift up a mountain on a quiet snowy day. Come to think of it, many of my deepest, most visceral responses to this world have happened looking at mountains. And also art. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t stop myself from crying looking at the Hilma af Klint exhibit at MoMA last week.

Why isn’t the question and there aren’t any answers. We are a part of life, a part of art, a part of old mountains. They live in us and we in them.

Most of my travels in this life have been in the United States. I’ve ventured a little to other countries, but my curiosity is more here than there. Part of me, I think, has always been looking for answers. A kid raised with no grandparents, no roots, is always trying to figure out where they belong.

I feel at home in very specific places: the Adirondacks, Lake Tahoe, and the desert. I like a lot of other places, but those ones are familiar and comforting to me. Perhaps there is another version of me, fractals of my soul energy, alive there now. I have heard many times that we don’t live consecutive lives but concurrent ones. This would explain feeling at home when a place is new or unfamiliar.

I have often thought of the idea of loneliness, but I also wonder why we ever feel lonely in a world filled with trees and rivers and rocks and birds, foxes, flowers. They are, individually, as delightful as any human I’ve ever met, and they never complain about the weather. The way a tree can handle an ice storm and a drought is astonishing to me.

I also admire how a tree never seems to say, I’ve grown enough, I’m going to stop now. Look up when you pass a tree today and you’ll notice the tiniest new growth at the top. They are always reaching toward the light, teaching us important lessons we largely ignore.

Do we miss the world when we’re gone? Do we want to get back as soon as possible?

According to eyewitnesses, my Great Aunt Catherine’s last words when she was dying were It’s so beautiful, it’s so beautiful. It’s hard for me to imagine a place more beautiful than this, but it certainly leaves me curious.

I’ve traveled to San Francisco wanting to see the hills and New Mexico to see what inspired O’Keefe. I’ve gone to Maine to see where lobsters grow and Mississippi to try to make sense of American history. In Kentucky I lived in the horse world and in West Virginia I admired the rolling hills. I wanted to feel the water spraying at Niagara Falls and touch the land where I was born in North Dakota. Why do people care about Oklahoma, I wondered, and so I went to have a look around. I’ve been to the top of tall buildings in New York City and the bottom of deep canyons in Colorado. You can drive really fast in Montana and Wyoming, but you shouldn’t because you’ll miss the subtle beauty of the vast landscape there. Idaho will surprise you with her wide rivers and the Redwoods will stun you into silence every time. This country has enough to entertain and enthrall for many lifetimes.

If whatever comes next elicited those surprised words from my otherwise stoic great aunt, then we all have a lot to look forward to. In the meantime, please don’t go through your day without admiring a tree.

xo, mo