Antelope Passageway

Deep within the Navajo Nation there lies a completely unremarkable desert landscape. Nothing–absolutely nothing–seems any different than any other part of the surrounding desert, and all is quiet. Upon a slight mound is a slight crevasse; again nothing unusual here. And leading up to the small crevasse (which is, after all, just a few feet wide) is a completely normal wash.

But should one walk up the wash they will discover that it leads to a very remarkable slot canyon hidden in the desert–Antelope Canyon. And as the passageway of the slot canyon is breached absolute magic cascades all around you. The colors, texture, patterns and even the form of the canyon’s walls are beyond compare. Depending on the time of the day and year, the colors can range from brown to yellow to orange to red to purple, and often, all these colors, and more, all at once.

Antelope Canyon is a wonderful reminder of the beauty of this world, for that beauty can be found in the most unexpected places at the most unexpected times, if only one looks around them. Take nothing for granted, for you never know what lies just before you; what magic and wonders abound, there for the looking.

Taking Flight

The afternoon was perfectly silent–nothing save the whisper of the wind could be heard in the canyon. Perhaps, if one used their imagination, one might hear the gentle gurgle of water from the Colorado River, or, perhaps that was just wind again. The heat is oppressive, it being summer, and not a creature is stirring.

The afternoon was getting a little long in the tooth, as well. The sun had long ago decided that it was time to head for bed, and although it was not quite dinner time yet, the sun was heading that way. This worked out really well, because the canyon walls, with beautiful mauve shades to begin with, really began to come alive. For colors are largely immune to heat. The canyon continued its utter stillness.

Save for the crow that has decided to move from here to there. The “whoosh” of its wings breaks the silence and just like that the afternoon’s quiet is no more. The crow took off from a large rock outcrop and is headed off in search of prey, or perhaps just a change of view.

After a moment, the sound faded into the distance and silence descended once again.

Ancient Alto

Frío Bonito

The fresh snow accentuates the sheer coldness and isolation of the long abandoned Pueblo, and the canyon is empty as far as the eye can see. The silence is absolute, save for the rustle of the wind and the howl of a single lone coyote off in the distance. Yet, despite the coldness and the emptiness, despite the ravages of time, and despite being in solitude for 1,000 years, Pueblo Bonito is still alive. Very much so.

One can hear the ancient echos amongst its walls and rooms. One can hear the excited voices as old friends are reunited and share a tale. One can hear the laughter of the children as they run, as children always do. One can feel the warmth of the fires, offering heat and companionship. One can hear the ceremony just beginning there in the kiva. You can feel deep, deep inside your soul the power and the energy of this Great House. For despite it being left empty, it really isn’t and it never will be.

Its walls may not all be standing. Not every block is in place. The once immaculate veneer has long been gone and the inner masonry laid bare to time. But Pueblo Bonito, a Great House in Chaco Canyon, New Mexico, still commands the valley in which it sits. It is still the center of the Chacoan World and it is still a magnificent place.

Its people may have long left, but it is far from forgotten. And it remains alive. Very much so.

Hello, Moon

“Hello, Moon,” said the tree. “It’s been a while since you’ve been around.”

“Hello, Tree,” said the Moon. “I’ve been a little bit busy ‘round the other side, you see. I hurried back as soon as I could, of course, and, well, here I am.” The Tree understood, for this particular cycle had been happening for as long as it could remember, and quite probably longer than that. Still, the Tree missed the Moon when it was away and the nights were a lit bit colder, and a lot more lonelier for all that. The sky was just so much more…alive…when the Moon was there.

The two enjoyed the companionable silence for a little while; good friends that they were words were not always needed. The Moon continued the ascent into the sky; Tree leaned a little closer so as not to miss a word, should a word be said. It wasn’t. But neither seemed to mind. Tree continued a slight lean; not so much that passerby would remark, but enough that passerby, if they were so inclined, would notice.

The evening began to pass, all to quickly. “See you again tomorrow, Moon?” Tree whispered into the night. “Of course,” came the gossamer response upon the breeze. And floating back: “Goodnight, Moon.”