Moab, Utah

I’m in Moab, an incredible piece of work … God’s handiwork, of course, sublime, extravagant, bold and stunningly beautiful, ever changing with the march of the sun across the bluest of skies, and the play of clouds, billowing or wispy, and sometimes threatening, heavy with the treasure of rain in an otherwise dry land, and with plenty of small canyons, meadows, and creeks, all running into the cold and powerful Colorado, places to charm the weariest of travelers and ease away the strain of life.

And the handiwork, too, of people - a cross section of humanity, prospectors and writers, rock climbers and dreamers, hardscrabble, hardworking folks, quick to smile and lean of limb, who love the dessert, or long for an escape - the retired, too, with some spare change, and the tired, as well. Many a dream here. Some didn’t come to pass, with their closed storefronts, and some born anew, with fresh paint and clever names, ever the hope of making a living in a place carved out of the imposing stone, like the tourist attraction, “Hole N" The Rock,” dug and blasted by hand, or carved by a millennia of wind and storm, cold and heat, and always the River rushing to the sea.

My son lives here, and makes it home. A treat to be his dad, and more importantly, to be his friend. He cheers my soul and brightens the remaining days of my journey. My wife, dear wife, is here, too - with 54 years of marriage behind us, we push on with gratitude, looking to the panorama of mountains and sky as a constant reminder that we belong, but for a time, to something utterly good and glorious, and maybe something that transcends even the boundaries of time. But who knows for sure - that decision belongs to the Mountains, those mighty towers of stone and silence inviting our trust and our hope.

Thanks Moab, and thanks to our son!