To track the living, dying light.
This is essential to me.
And I'm not sure what it means (I'm not sure what anything important means).
I go outside anyways. For so long, the winter light was bloodless as a corpse. But warmth is returning, a careful rush of sun-blood learning to resuscitate the earth. I am afraid to tell you that there are even the beginnings of buds, which will someday be leaves. I notice them as I point with Sophie, saying, "trees!" I touch one gently, and then turn away quickly, knowing of Utah's many false starts to spring, and afraid to nurture the hope that one day, winter will leave.
If I know one thing, it's that I must be more aware. The earth is our home, and yet I rarely allow it to be seen. Maybe somewhere deep inside me, I know that if the earth were fully seen, it would indict me. Maybe I would trace the changing moods of a tree and stop using plastic entirely. I would start growing my own food. I would stop ordering so many things from Amazon. I don't know, but perhaps it would change me.
We would rather not know, rather not see, how little we are over earth's great surface, how many scars we can leave.
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