God’s country is how my grandfather described it. An arid wasteland is what stands before me now, but the limitless palette of the setting sun does commence one to wondering about the divine. Many here believe in the divine. The Catholics, Protestants, Mormons, and, increasingly, Islamic interpretations vary, but nonetheless they all fail to see the true beauty isn’t in their different collective histories and holy books, but, rather, in the rising and setting of the sun.
The howl of a Coyote piercing the twilight while taking roll call, or the smell of a coming monsoon shower and the life it brings overnight is divine. Feeling the drops of life on your face while your children proceed in their rain dance with unadulterated joy is divine. A place like Arizona where the history of man has no significance in the infinite history of the universe is divine. Frost had it right, as did Emerson, Muir and the countless wilderness vagabonds who search for meaning along endless trails.
I wake in the morning and head out on a run along the banks of Roosevelt Lake and lose myself as I stare at Venus floating as the planetary Aphrodite lulling me toward an inestimable possibility. Skipping over a Javelina carcass and dodging a solitary cactus rib mistaken for a rattler, I contemplate what the cave dwellers on the Tonto Basin thought was divine.
For me it has always been nature. You yearn for what you don’t have, and, in my youth, I had a concrete jungle. However, the truly divine was always a woman. Women are truly divine. Men have gone to war over them, built monuments for them and have created art for eternity speaking to their impossible beauty. We all have one; many some. I am no different.