A moment from this morning: Jordan speeding downhill in polka-dot shorts and red shades (the epitome of cool), arms outstretched in greeting or challenge or just pure joy—and there, below, the valley yawning open before us in greeting or challenge or ancient indifference, the road a silver tongue that snakes into the distance.
I don’t take a photo. Mostly because my phone is tucked away, and because in this particular moment I am gripping my handlebars with both hands a little tighter than necessary, trying to summon some semblance of guts to stare down the valley in all its shrubby glory.
There’s another reason I don’t take a photo, one I only parsed out for myself this afternoon: trying to capture any moment here in its entirety feels like an impossible task. (By that definition, I guess one could argue all photos are attempting impossible tasks—an idea I’ve been trying to teach in my workshop—but that’s beside the point.) How to capture the strangeness of it all? Impossible.
So here goes: Nevada is an arid Seuss-scape. By which I mean shrubs and clouds resemble cartoonish heads of hair; crooked, colorful mailboxes stand obediently by the side of the road, no house in sight; the world appears and disappears around the nearest curve in the road…everything is real and surreal, recognizable and alien all at once. I know what clouds, shrubs, rock, and dirt look like, but this particular permutation of them all still has the capacity to surprise me.
Leo and the infinite road
Sometimes. The experience of biking surprises me sometimes, when I remember to pay attention to my surroundings and wonder strikes me full force. Then, inevitably, my mind drifts—caught in the mechanics of staying on pace, in the heat and the rushing current of wind, in the Mormon crickets that infest the road (read to the end). I bike with my blinders on. Until some time later (minutes? hours?), I remember to open myself up to wonder again.
I’m not sure what to do about how quickly I can become desensitized to the newness I encounter every day—not just in the natural landscape, but also in the strangers we meet, the places we teach. In many ways, it’s a defense mechanism: there’s too much newness for me to engage in all of it without exhausting myself. But I’ve been warned that apathy is one of the main dangers on a trip like this, and having traveled and camped in desert territory for the past few days, I think I’m beginning to understand.
Me. In wonder.
I want to hold my wonder as long as I’m able. Like that moment from this morning: me speeding downhill, gripping my handlebars with both hands a little tighter than necessary, laughing into the wind.
Anna
P.S. My Mormon cricket song: Mormon crickets, Mormon crickets / They croak, they fly / When Spokes go by / Mormon crickets, Mormon crickets / Not sad to see you die