This day, less than halfway through my thirty-five mile commute home across this big western valley, some seventy-five miles wide in places, I shut off the radio playing All Things Considered.
I've been doing that lately. Perhaps it's the stress of work, too many hours listening to music, or simply the season, but silence has taken on new meaning.
Especially on this very rural highway that I follow a fourth of the way across a county that is 120 miles wide with a population density of less than two people per square mile.
After a stressful day teaching, the open road, the open valley, and the jagged horizon below a painted sky provide enough speed and space to force tensions clinging to the soul like goat-heads to let go and blow into the almost nothingness.
By the time the ancient volcano Pahvant Butte was out the passenger window, edged by the last sliver of orange-red of the day, my shoulders were loose and my mind vacant of obligation.
The rest of the drive I was all eyeball drawn to that western horizon.
Earlier, on the way to work, I imagined walking all the way across the county to the Nevada border, not by highway, but straight like the crow flies. It was a wonderful journey.
But now there was no movie in my head, no narrative to tell. Just eyes on a jagged horizon. I slowed, turned right onto Cedar Mountain Road. Again I entered the moment and lost track of thought and time.
Before I knew it, the lights of Fillmore danced at the base of the mountains. I realized I should have stopped and taken a picture for the first post of this blog, which I've wanted to start as a means to celebrate more days than not.
But the open horizon was gone. Ahead was Chevron, Texaco, Carl's Jr. and I-15. I followed the road under the freeway into town. I wanted some visual token though. I took a right and headed back towards the golf course and the big elm and cottonwood that follow the creek.
There I found an image. I snapped it. Afterward, I stood out in the cold for a few minutes and took in the great arms of trees against the last light. What more does one want from a day?
When I got home, there was laundry and dishes to do. But there was also eating Thanksgiving dinner left-overs and watching Big Bang Theory with Marci.
I don't want a lot out of life, but I do want to be present.
