silent sounds of the desert

death valley, california - may 2017

During my journey in the desert, I had the comfort of writing. I wrote of activities and sites. I wrote descriptive phrases for photos. I wrote pieces of poetry that express more than pages and pages in my journals.

These words, I think I’ll keep close as they teach me a way to live in awareness and mindfulness. I hope you, too will find some inspiration in the silent sounds of the desert.

chartreuse desert bloom encircled with thorns

I hear the silent sounds of the desert

crickets, a few birds, my breath

it’s a quiet more quiet than switching off everyday sounds

At times I must strain to hear my own heartbeat or eyes blink

listening with intention, I begin to hear a beetle in the sand; shuffling like old feet

a bee’s wings as it pauses for nectar on a cactus blossom

I hear the words of the one who created the zephyr that kicks at the sand; drying my very soul

it is the voice I came to the desert to hear

Listening with intention –

Missy

If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have read, please pass on my blog to a friend, colleague, family member or even random acquaintance

Comments

urban girl in the country

green in concrete For the last lot-of-years I’ve lived in urban areas. I’ve become a city girl with hints of a flower child mixed with hipster nuances…translated I like to wear skinny jeans. This is the total opposite of how I grew up, which was on a farm. My paternal grandparents grew, raised, caught and hunted for everything they ate – radical organic, free-range stuff. On my Mom’s side of the fam tree, there were green grocers and orchard growers. Heck, I was in 4-H raising feeder calves and a small flock of wooly sheep. Gardens, canning, freezing and preserving everything was the ordinary. I carried on the gardening-preserving, saving the spoils piece, until I found myself in fresh veggie-at-a-farmer’s-market heaven! The foreign city I found myself in had a temperate climate where fruit and vegetables could be grown year ‘round, and … it was sold at a giant open air market every week. Yippee! I no longer needed to ...

In full abandon, straining on tiptoes

A scrap of paper tucked in my journal is full of scribbled notes and words, people’s names – really it would appear to be miscellany. One phrase is “in full abandon.” The expression had a reference, but now reading it almost daily, it takes on new significance and worth. a.ban.don: to leave and never return (Merriam-Webster) The word “abandon” conjures negative thinking; abandoned lot, abandoned project, abandoned people. Places and things are left for trash or individuals that have been discarded and tossed aside. This definition certainly leaves one feeling rather desolate and, well … abandoned. On the sunny side of the street, abandon is also yielding without restraint, to give up control. It’s bursting with exuberance. Picture being in full abandon: there’s a child running down a hillside, arms flailing and legs barely able to keep them upright. He is on the verge of tumbling head over heels, but somehow if that happen...

road tripping: french glen and steens mountain

we took a stinkin' lot of dirt roads, but i wouldn't have it any other way The drive wasn’t long by west coast standards, a mere few of hours; which meant there was plenty of leisure (interpreted coffee time) before leaving on another road trip escapade. I can’t begin to tell you how much fun it is to pack a bag, gas up the car and set out to see what can be seen. An interesting thing I’ve discovered on these exploits, is that having lived in Oregon for the majority of my life, I’ve missed “seeing” a lot of things. You know, I think we all get into the habit of going to the same places, which is a good thing, but we forget about the “other” places that are right in our own backyards. Case in point, yesterday afternoon, when my darling man and I went to Tumalo Falls. I’ve been to Skyliner Snow Park, but never gone the few more dirt road miles to see the falls. Holy cow! Is that lame, or what? a sweet little place, no frills, but plenty of yesteryear ...

Isabella Bird Miscellany

Search This Blog