Winter Reflections

In our weekly missives, Steve and I often mention the spectacular southeastern Utah sunrises and sunsets. Because of our love for this land, and the stunning mornings and evenings we see on a regular basis, it is difficult to avoid overusing the topic. In an effort to expand our literary boundaries and elude repetitive discourse, we have recently refrained from mentioning these occurrences. Lately, however, the winter light has had an effect on my emotional state; so, try as I might, I just can't help bringing up the topic once again.













A beautiful sunset near Twin Rocks

The December light has been especially exhilarating and comforting this year, but I find there are also subdued pangs of melancholy creeping into my consciousness. As I pull out of the trading post parking lot at 5:00 p.m. each day and head north up Cow Canyon, I am witness to a soft and gentle show of pastel twilight. There is the muted display of bent and separated illumination provided by the setting sun, which causes the countryside to appear different.

Multiple shades of purple add mysterious depth to the rough edged canyons and clefts in the rock. These depths go unnoticed during other seasons of the year. Due to the exaggerated effect of light and shadow, distances have become confusing. The mountains spring straight up from their rugged foundations in warm tones of deep blue, contrasted by black groupings of distant trees and icy white caps of snow. The sky has traces of brilliant blue with patches of darker tones spread across the ever-changing vault. Clouds are finger painted stains of blue white, their underbellies tinged with spatterings of reds and pinks. It seems that this light show finds hidden areas of the earth and sky usually untouched by such events.

I have done much soul searching, and now realize that the reason for my mixed up emotional state is directly related to the children in my life. The early evening and muted colors have worked their way into my psyche, letting loose a flood of emotion. The palate of pinks, blues, purples and whites reminds me of babies and young children.

My children, nieces, nephews and small friends are growing up at an alarming rate. Like the mountain, they rise up from a rough and tumble world to stand straight and tall; reaching toward the upper atmosphere with hopes and dreams that will surely take them far. Too far, I am certain. I do not look forward to the day they walk out the door permanently. I know that I am supposed to be strong and prepared to send my offspring into the world. The problem is that I am enjoying their closeness and exuberance for life. I should be ready to release them to explore those canyons and distant mesas on their own, but I'm not. In this respect I am a foot dragger; I have thrown out an anchor in an attempt to slow the progression.

The shorter daylight hours, crisp coolness of winter on the desert, and the setting sun impress upon me a sense of impending mortality. I am beginning to view myself as one of those twisted, bent, contrary and weather worn cedars that frequent high lonesome places in this southeastern corner of Utah. As a result, I don't like mirrors much anymore, and rarely trouble myself to inspect their reflections. As a matter of fact, my wife has shown her frustration with this situation by chasing me around the house with a spray bottle and brush, attempting to properly comb my hair. She refuses to let me exit the house unkempt, fearing it may reflect badly on her. While I was resting on the couch the other day she misted me with lavender room deodorizer, then quickly apologized. I am fairly certain it was intentional, but she swears she didn't see me and simply was responding to a foul odor she detected. I have also tossed out any and all weight scales. I am no longer interested in what they have to say; they were all broken and measuring inaccurately heavy anyway.

No! The children must stay. I am not ready to see them vanish into the sky world; to fly with the big birds and leave me stranded on the ground like a flightless dodo. I guess I am also worried that when the nest is empty, Laurie will look around, catch sight of what remains and wonder whether she wants to make a clean sweep of things. The situation may get totally out of hand. I am inclined to load my wife and kids into a classic 1969 Shelby Mustang and drive like a wild man toward the setting sun, in an effort to maintain time and space. Psychologists, (accredited and self professed), please refrain from analyzing me. I am not interested in hearing about my shortcomings, and would rather not know the troubling details.

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