To Hike. Per Chance, to Breathe.
I spent the afternoon hiking around the eastern base of Piestewa Peak. It was a wandering hike with no set agenda or goal. I did not have a destination, and I did not come to exercise.
It has been a cloudy day, rare for Phoenix, and to the east there was a foreboding purple wall threatening rain and lightening that kept me from starting anything too ambitious. Fear. Why did I let fear slow me? It never did rain, and I could have taken the summit or circumference trails (or even both) in their entirety had I been just a little bold.
It has been a cloudy day, rare for Phoenix, and to the east there was a foreboding purple wall threatening rain and lightening that kept me from starting anything too ambitious. Fear. Why did I let fear slow me? It never did rain, and I could have taken the summit or circumference trails (or even both) in their entirety had I been just a little bold.
The interplay of the Sun and clouds has been beautiful to watch, the landscape a patchwork of light and dark. I relish in the moments when the clouds part and warm my skin, counterbalancing the steady wind. Windy days like this make the valley a great place to live: all of the beauty plus clean air to breathe. Maybe that is why I came out here… to breathe.
I brought the camera but so far have failed to capture the beauty of either the landscape or the moment. I get so frustrated to see such beauty and not be able to capture it. But now that I think about it, part of what makes landscapes so powerful is their multiple dimensions of sheer size. The mountain I am looking at right now reduces people to the size of ants, and the majestic saguaro to a toothpick.
I have given up on capturing the big picture in its entire splendor, though I will no doubt continue to try. It should also be noted that if a place does look appealing in a picture, I should get my ass over there because it is likely 100x as grand.
This road brought me to another question: Why do I feel the need to capture beauty? Do I fear that it is fleeting and may never return? Does this yearning to capture beauty take something away from the experience of encountering, embracing, and joining it? How much joy do we miss out on in life because we are trying to preserve what little piece we already think we have? Later, my Mom said it best with the Buddhist (I think) saying: "Looking at the moon is not the moon."
The sunset is beginning, and there is so much beauty that I have to pull out my camera, for though it may be impossible to capture such a scene with a camera, it is impossible not to try and take a little piece of it home.
