Stacked

I have admired these stone pilings for a long while, but I confess that for the longest time I did not know what they were or what they represented. Last fall, while I was walking along the Boulder Creek Trail in Boulder, Colorado, I noticed that people had stacked these stones in the middle of the creek. I loved the combination of smooth, hard stones licked repeatedly by the rush of cold, rapid water. I tried multiple times during my trip to capture a couple of photos of these rock pilings, but they were placed far in the middle of the creek, the weather was too chilly for me to venture in, and the camera I had at the time didn't have a strong enough zoom to magnify the images as needed. Luckily for me, a rock and cactus garden in the middle of the ASU Tempe campus provided me with this up-and-close photo opportunity today.

So, today, I decided to remedy both my ignorance and my laziness by taking the time to research the meaning behind these stacked stone formations. These are stone cairns, rock formations of ancient Scottish origin, and the sources I found (Wikipedia, for one) stated that these rock pilings might have served a variety of purposes, including memorial and ceremonial functions. Today, their primary purpose seems to be either for decoration, to provide a meditative accent to a garden, or to serve as landmarks on a path, helping to mark a path so that hikers don't stray away from it or to mark a potentially dangerous development in the road ahead.

All paths are fraught with risk. Change, in particular, poses a lot of risk for many, for it leads people to move towards the unfamiliar, to walk in a wholly new direction than where they were headed before, and one never knows where such forks in the road can lead. I think about my past year and realize just how much change I initiated in my life. Just a year ago, I was living back in my hometown of Chicago, considering a move back to Arizona to finally make the West my home, but I kept debating, unsure if I wanted to make the effort of another cross-country move, and feeling disconcerted by the unknown that lay waiting in a direction completely other than the one I had already established. A year later, the change made, and I am making myself at home, the dark shadows of the unfamiliar softening to become the everyday. To be sure, as I try to realize the hopes I had for myself when anticipating my move back, I always have concerns about losing sight of the path, but then I guess this is the value of building a stone cairn: Something visible to mark the path, something to guide you as you continue to move forward.

Grounded

This is how I spend some of my time while waiting for the bus, staring up at the ascent of trees. I find myself mesmerized by the great, crooked fork of their boughs and branches, their leaves dappled with sunlight and shade, their steady reach heavenward. Here, against the harsh, industrial glow of a streetlamp, this organic detail anchors me to the warmth and beauty of the natural world. It renews my sense of peace, and faith, and hope.

Hanukkah Reflection

Electric Hanukkah Menorah, 2012

Yes, I know. Hanukkah is over. But I took this photo showing the electric menorah lit on last night and wanted to share it. Electric menorahs can look pretty festive, with multicolored light bulbs adding variety to the effect. But regular menorahs, displaying lit candles or oil, cast an austere glow to beat back the overwhelming dark. So fitting with our aspirations at this time of year, to find light and have it vanquish the dark, in a season when days give way to long stretches of night.

Eight lights, plus the shamash, for eight nights of Hanukkah. The shamash and one candle are lit on the first night, and then one light is added for each of following days. I find the contrast in effect between the first night of Hanukkah and the last night to be remarkable. On first night, you have two candles flickering against the gloom, but on the final night you have eight lights, plus the shamash, casting a powerful glow to push the shadows back. The message of the image is clear: we need one another, for what we can achieve together in community is far greater than what we can accomplish alone as individuals.

Have a festive holiday season, and may you and those you love enjoy happiness and peace. Happy holidays to all of you. May your days be spent kindling the light and warmth of friendship, and may you strive to spread that light to others, in order to increase the light and banish the dark.

Meditation

Sun after a morning of rain, Pioneer Courthouse Square, Portland, OR

Last fall, when I joined a friend on a trip to Portland, OR, we encountered the kind of cloudiness and rainfall that the Pacific Northwest is known for. So much of our time was spent if not with showers, then with mist and gray overcast. But while I am a fan of sunny weather, these rainy days reminded me of why I love the West so much. When I think of the West, the bulk of my associations come from sunny states, like New Mexico, Arizona, southern California, or Colorado. I imagine sun-bathed fields in the Rocky Mountains featuring dozens of blue columbine flowers in bloom. I imagine the giant magenta blooms of New Mexico cholla beneath an arid blue desert sky, or the bald, parched mountains surrounding Phoenix that look surreal under the sun. To visually enjoy the beauty of the West, the sun is helpful, spotlighting all the highlights. But during and after these rains in Portland, my friend and I were treated to the soft scent of pine, simply due to the sheer abundance of pine trees growing throughout the area. So, while the sun helps to showcase the visual beauty of the West, it is the rain that brings forth its variety of fresh scents. In New Mexico, it was the combination of pine and rain-soaked clay earth; in Phoenix, the scent of hard, wet, desert earth, plus the fresh scent of rosemary bushes that many Phoenicians grow on their lawns. And the scent of rosemary, with their impossibly soft, powder-blue blooms, is, for me, reminiscent of pine. The beauty of interconnection! Things seemingly disparate sometimes expose a level of commonality, when considered in a larger, more embracing view.