We go to wilderness places to be restored, to be instructed in the natural economies of fertility and healing, to admire what we cannot make. Sometimes, as we find to our surprise, we go to be chastened or corrected. And we go in order to return with renewed knowledge by which to judge the health of our human economy and our dwelling places.
In great deeds, something abides. On great fields something stays. Forms change and
pass; bodies disappear, but spirits linger, to consecrate ground for the vision-place of souls.
And reverent men and women from afar, and generations that know us not and that we
know not of, heart-drawn to see where and by whom great things were suffered and
done for them, shall come to this deathless field to ponder and dream; And lo!
the shadow of a mighty presence shall wrap them in its bosom,
and the power of the vision pass into their souls.
I spent the afternoon before I gave my first poetry reading drinking wine in an outdoor café in Santa Fe. Although I’d set aside the time as a sort of toast to my two years of grad school, although I instagrammed a glow-y shot of the wine and my manuscript and the robin’s egg sky (#nofilter), I was miserable.