Mornings in the canyon
I let the delicate fray of my nerves rest.
The descent feels private -
a steep and bumpy trail.
I kick up dust as I scuffle down.
A stray plumeria flower in my hat
–or one day, a hawk feather–
and I am alone in this dry and quiet universe.
Smell is the anchor of the coastal sage scrub.
The land is rich in its dryness, nourishing in a way the desert-dweller knows.
Daily walks through this space become devotional.
The pockets of coolness in the shadows,
and the sea breeze
greeting me on the west-facing
curves, a benediction.
Mindful of poison oak,
I look out for the wild rose hips.
They’ve been ripening in the late summer sun.
Sometimes I parse out the rich ebbs and flows of my internal world here,
and sometimes (today) there’s poetry.
I start with the poem.
It wriggles quickly out of me
like a newborn eager to greet the world,
but then the landscape says “Stop, I’m calling you.
Join me with every sense you have.
Put your awareness here - we are one organism.”
And so I put away my phone,
and the little taps that spin words and build worlds,
and simply be.
These days,
the earth feels like a lover
and I can fall back,
like a swoon,
into its arms.
These days,
old loves feel
like unused trails
being reclaimed by the land.
Like jewelry I once wore
and have since put away.
These days,
I wear my dark hair loose in the sun
and the ends turn
the color of honey.
These days,
I wear a white linen shirt
to protect my skin.
It flutters over my body like a flag:
Surrender.
-Del Mar, CA 2022
