This Prehistoric Landscape

Moving through the valley of death.  Death Valley to those approaching the end of their lives, or who have been held in its grip, whether on their own internal journey, or a road trip they may have once been on. 

Death Valley, California, a place unlike any other place on earth; a depression in the land, as low as you or I have ever been, surrounded by mountains as high as we would ever hope to be. 

The earth’s own version of the manic depressive experience. 

Miles and miles of wide open space.  

Places some have forsaken,

afraid of their own freedom.

Mountains once moved by the faith of great men, now pass by my windows as I move across the land; as time, even, has passed before the eyes of others traveling these ancient roads well ahead of my arrival. 

Valleys long and promising stretch out beyond the imaginations of we who never took the time to envision them.  Taking time now, however, I am enlivened by their depth, by the enormity of their reach across the years.  I am enlightened by the infinite, immeasurable influence of their presence, and the nobility of their age.

Age that is valued, or so it seems, in all that is natural; all, that is, except for the men and women who have reached beyond the years of the young, years where they have finally come to understand that which would not be seen with youthful eyes; things that some fear knowing much earlier in life, terrified of not remaining young. 

Yes, we revere the age of the earth, but deride the wrinkled old men who may creak when they walk sometimes, or stutter when they talk.  We are afraid to be like them, and would not entertain a trade of the ignorance of our youth for the wisdom of age.

“Life,” some would say, “is a road trip.”

I would say it’s more like preparation for a road trip.

Nevertheless, we are but a moment in time, 

and a grain of sand on this prehistoric landscape.