at the edge of the earth—a cosmic ceremony

Waves of wild desert grass blowing, an ocean in the desert. Fog hovers at the base of trees. The earth is inherently quiet and still. Bird songs in the vastness are barely heard above a breath. The coyotes’ ruckus is short and gives way to silence. The day is coming.

At the edge of the earth, the sun’s light dares us to speak in the middle of its rising. It’s a ceremony of opening our eyes for the millionth time. The day is coming. A simple act of awakening in natural radiance. There’s no turning back. We were born into this daily ritual made of the sun, the moon, and the earth.

The Ortiz Mountains, drenched with light, sit still. The vitex trees are posed with arms out, bare of their purple blossoms. Rabbits hop from their sleeping quarters along to the other side of the path. Last night’s dreams mixed with morning reflections confuse me. The mind chatter will come full into the light of the sun, as will everything else. Chant, sing, write poetry, pray and pray again, have tea or maybe coffee, all is available during the ceremony of the rising day. And as I imagine these things, the neighbor drives by fast in a truck in the middle of the ceremony of the rising sun.

The car’s movement opens my eyes again. A different kind of opening, a different kind of eyes. I see this life can’t be owned. The radiance of the sun is given simply for me to see this truth—once I truly open my eyes. If the glare of the light makes it difficult to see that this life is not ours, then I wait until I can see without blinking, flinching, or resisting the intensity of what is being illuminated. What is to be seen is shown in the ceremony of the rising sun each day. We have nothing to do with this brilliance.

In the desert, the coming of a new day seems to last longer. The silence lingers. I drink Tie Quan Yin tea too fast. I’m thinking of this and that and then this and that again. At times I feel I live where I used to live. Then I live where I’m living. Next I’m just living in hundreds of acres of red and yellow grasses and white-green bushes. I live surrounded by four mountain ranges on four sides, in four directions, that appear to be in a circle. It’s the whole planet in time and space.

Braided sweetgrass I burn with fire honors the cosmic morning ceremony that we are in. The higher the sun, the more varied the blue. Horseflies sample my tea and lick at my skin. The eyes open, morning happens—over and over again.