The photo is courtesy of Pixabay because my iPhone 12 didn’t quite cut it.
Night settles over the desert and the sky draws back like a curtain on opening night.
Stars peer from the wings and then enter from every direction— innumerable, but every one commanding attention.
I lay my head on my daypack no longer needed because . . . well, night . . . light arrives from distances I cannot measure, each point steady, each one burning fiercely but without sound.
Around me, the land falls into a hush that is greater than quiet— stillness.
Stone cools. Air thins. The last traces of what the sun gave rise from the ground and into the sky, probably trying to join in the celestial production.
Lucky.
Here we are in the chaos— for a time— but above, order.
Not scattered, not random, but placed.
Line after line, field after field, a vastness that neither moves toward me nor recedes.
Tightrope walkers, all of them. The theatre? Or a circus? None of my metaphors matter.
Every person stops— and you can understand why
why the eye lingers, why the body quiets, why the heart bends and breaks and mends and unfolds all in one inhale.
The sky doesn't look back. It doesn't need to. There is nothing we can give to it except wonder.
Brilliant, unreachable, unaffected.
And still— it draws.
The ground beneath me, the sky above me, the measure between them—
all set in order, all kept in place, all speaking without voice.
In the keeping of it, in the placing of each light and the distance between them, God gives:
what is set in the heavens and seen,
what fills the eye and commands attention—
and wonder— not as something given,
but as what rises in us at the sight of it,
returning, not to the sky above, but to the One who directs its course.
At the edges of Sunset Crater Volcano National Monument, stone lies where it came to rest.
Dark, porous, each piece holding the memory of heat, each surface fixed in the moment of its becoming.
Across the field— fragments.
Lifted, scattered, set in place by force and the long settling after.
In the slow passage of it— through wind, through cold, through the steadfast work of seasons— a different order solidifies.
Between the stones— vibrant lime green equally brilliant yellow
Pushing through fissures, rooted in spaces of fracture, drawing from elements above and below, rising from where the earth was devastated.
A bird alights on a twisted branch.
And we, who come searching for shape, stumble through the surface, reading the ground for what we imagine, while beneath our steps roots move among the stone, threading through death and life.
On the surface— rock, jagged silent warnings emanating from frozen faces.
Beneath— a rumbling of breath, forced tilling turned to growth, through time's signature shocks of courage.
The land holds both together, dividing nothing, choosing neither.
In the keeping of it, in the settling of what has been cast down and the quiet rising that follows, God gives:
what remains where it has fallen, set in the ground as it came to rest—
and what takes root within the break, drawing life from the opened places—
and healing— not as the return of what was, but as something new set among the fractures, color rising—but more, the story not only of wreckage but of life where the ground came apart.
At the rim of the Grand Canyon, Without widening, announcing, or calling the eye— it gathers.
Close to the ground, armed at every point, it holds what little comes— light taken in, water kept, time pressed inward until it thickens.
In the long discipline of it— through heat, through absence, through the steady refusal of the earth to give— a form is made that does not bend outward.
It keeps its boundary.
And then— at the very places of defense— a breaking open.
Not of the structure, but from within it.
Red, rising at the tips, petals pushing through the same points that once kept distance, softness unfurling precisely where sharpness was required.
The form remains— spine, circle, the careful architecture of survival—
and yet, from that same design, another shape appears.
On the surface— color, sudden, plain to the eye.
Beneath— a long keeping, a measure held without witness, without haste.
The cactus carries both at once, dividing nothing, choosing neither.
And we, drawn to what widens, what opens easily to us, pass by— standing at the edge of what is vast, naming that grandeur, and missing what has taken form among the spines.
In the keeping of it, in the exactness of boundary and the timing of its release, God gives:
what holds its form, what keeps its boundary under pressure, without collapse—
and what opens only where it has been formed to open,
until what has been gathered in silence appears, not everywhere, but precisely—
In many stories, we see a man overcoming great odds by wrestling with the weaknesses anchored inside himself, rather than those he must fight in the world around him.
The age-old story of Man vs. Self.
One of the most memorable tragic heroes in Greek mythology is Sisyphus, the prince whose moral foibles Zeus punishes by dooming him to roll a boulder up a hill eternally, the rock rolling back down each time he manages to muscle it to the top.
The first time I heard this story, I was in seventh grade. We read it aloud in English class through timid and cracking voices. I should have known then that I had a serious bent toward the philosophical. The story captured both my imagination and my emotions to such an extent that I immediately felt what I can now identify as empathy for the main character. I wanted to reach beyond the centuries to help Sisyphus.
Because I couldn’t do that, I settled on trying to prove the story wrong.
This was my way of rectifying the deeds of Zeus and the fate of Sisyphus himself. It was also my way of closing the dissonance I felt as I considered the unfairness of the story. How had we, as a human race, allowed this man’s torment to survive in our books, our minds, our cultural imagination for so long?
Clearly, it was up to me to change the narrative.
Once the bell rang for lunch, I donned my invisible cape and set out on a dangerous adventure. Knowing we weren’t allowed on the soccer field unless we were in PE, I slipped past the lunchroom proctor, ducked under the railings, and made my way down the hill that led to the edge of the field. At the far end, the incline rose steeply enough to pass, in my mind, for a mountainside.
My school was called Foothills Junior High. The name was not decorative. It sat at the base of a mountain in Los Angeles. I knew this was the place to right the wrongs set forth by the Greek gods.
I looked for a rock. I never found one large enough to make the journey feel worthy, but I did find a kickball. Orange, round, just large enough to wedge between my shoulder and neck as I climbed on my hands and knees, pushing it upward with a kind of theatrical conviction that, in retrospect, revealed itself early.
I made it to the top.
My hands were filled with pebbles, my knees ground into denim and dirt. I stood there for a moment, the kickball in my grip, scanning the field beneath the dry California sun. A victory, unmistakable.
And then, unlike Sisyphus, I made a decision.
I would not let the rock roll back down. I would carry it.
Halfway down the hill, I lost my footing.
It happened quickly. Instinct took over. The ball slipped free. I watched it fall.
Disaster.
I tried again.
Three times I made it to the top. Not once did I make it all the way down.
Up the hill. Down the hill. Up again. Down again.
The past returned as the present, and I heard the bell ring for science class.
Maria Popova writes of Sisyphus:
He may be a tragic hero, but he is first and foremost a hero, precisely for this unrelenting faith in the possibility of accomplishing the impossible. His optimistic tenacity renders him the epitome of the creative spirit.
Jack White, in his song Over and Over and Over, gives the story another life:
The Sisyphean dreamer My fibula and femur Hold the weight of the world (Over and over)
The rock ‘n’ roller, the young and older Rolling back to the stroller (Over and over)
One story, carried through different forms, returning again and again.
And then, from Ecclesiastes:
All streams run to the sea, but the sea is not full. To the place where the streams flow, there they flow again.
What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun.
A repetition that feels, at times, unbearable.
Life returns us to the same questions, the same efforts, and the same inclines. We strain, we lose our footing, we begin again. Something in us resists the cycle. Something else learns how to thrive within it.
There is a kind of dignity in that.
Not in escaping the hill, but in meeting it.
Not once, but again.
And again.
So I think of that hillside near the soccer field.
Of the orange ball slipping from my hands.
Of the certainty I had that I could change the ending.
When I was a sophomore in high school, I had an English teacher I admired greatly. She taught me how to properly structure essays and understand the mechanics of writing. One afternoon, I was called into her classroom to work on an essay she had given a failing grade. I was flummoxed by her judgment in the moment and let her know.
“You have to learn how to do it correctly before you can break the rules of writing. Right now, we are learning the right way.”
A couple of years after I graduated, I went back to visit her. We remembered that moment together, and I thanked her for the discipline she forced me into.
While I’m grateful for that lesson, it isn’t what I remember most.
The treasure I carry from her is this:
“Don’t ever justify yourself in writing. Don’t say ‘I think’ this or ‘I believe’ that. Just say what you mean and move on.”
I’ve written that way ever since.
For me, at fifteen, her advice was revolutionary. Girls are raised to be nice, to soften their language, and to defer to more established voices. Truth is often framed as something to be approved before it can be spoken.
I give this advice to every student who comes to me in the writing center or in class, and I feel a special conviction for it when I’m speaking to young women:
Write the truth. Stand behind it. Don’t justify your own thoughts.
At some point, you learn to recognize the difference between a sentence that is reaching outward and one that already says what you mean, in confidence. You can feel it when it settles, when the words hold their weight and don’t need to be subject to equivocation. That is the place to write from. Not as a performance or a plea, but as a statement. Something known, something claimed, something set down with the full understanding that you might change your mind tomorrow or next year, but for today, this is exactly what you meant to say.
The morning sun draws itself in lines across my hand as I lift the shades. Three succulents on the sill squint and awaken.
I fill the kettle with filtered water, set it on the stove, and wait as heat gathers, quietly like the introduction of a song before the singing begins.
I scoop the grounds into the press— piñon nut coffee from New Mexico, dark, resinous, faintly sweet, holding desert sun in its edges.
The water stirs before it speaks. I watch the surface tremble, then rise into a low, certain boil.
At the window, my black cat claims his post. A squirrel meets him there, small hands braced against the glass. They study each other as if to ask, "Oh, just you? Again?"
In the living room, my white cat stretches long across the rug, pressing herself into the day. A small felt cat rests beside her— a careful replica, stitched into stillness.
The kettle calls me back. I pour.
Water meets grounds, and the air deepens— coffee blooms, expands, releases what it has carried.
I stir once, twice, set the lid, and press the timer: four and a half minutes.
I lean into the counter where the sun has already shifted.
Steam lifts from the press, moves through the room beckoning even the walls to wake.
The squirrel disappears. My black cat stays, newly enthralled by a robin hopping through grass.
My white cat settles beside her smaller self. They rest in the same light, one breathing, one not.
The timer sounds. I press the plunger down, slow, steady, feel the quiet resistance give way— a practice in patience amid anticipation.
I pour the coffee. I lift the cup. I take the first sip.
Another morning where God makes morning and succulents and sunlight and cats,
As he leaned down toward the sand, his knees creaked under cotton trousers and then grew quiet again.
Kneeling, he sunk his finger between a million grains to write a message there— first a W and then an H, followed by a Y?
He drew a circle around the word as though the spelling alone lacked power to catch the eye of anyone who might be qualified to enter the quandary with him, for him, take it from his hands, lift the weight, and carry it away.
His hair used to be black— until it was grey— and in the wind that hovered above land, after being cast from the sea, his curls lifted and fell like waves, answering the whims of the moon and gravity.
He placed his hands on top of his thighs and stood, once more facing the mystery of tossing foam, his question scrawled below and below— in the center of himself— doubt churned under a stomach filled with acid and disaster.
Like bricks, a collage of faces, a map filled with places, melancholy traces, unending races erected a wall inside his soul too high to climb, too wide to choose whether left or right might end the mounting fight.
Hiding in plain sight, he felt alone until he was not— she stepped in close from a shadowy distance to share his pool of light, breaking through the clouds, illuminated by the night. The two stood staring, astonished—
“How did you find me?” he asked— she had no certainty to give. “I don’t know,” was all she said— he brought one hand up to his mouth as though to stop the words from coming out. “I needed to be found.”
They stood above the crudely scribbled “Why?” and respected its presence as a minnow respects a shark. However, they refused to bow their heads in reverence for the question and, instead, they walked together hand in hand, and waited for answers to roll in with the tide.
Ask the old ones. Not for stories— for dates, distances, what came first and what followed.
Has anything like this happened before?
A people hearing a voice from the middle of fire and continuing to breathe after the sentence ended.
Fire does one thing well. It finishes what it starts.
Yet there they stood, faces lit from below, listening to licks and flares carry meaning without turning kindling to ash.
Or this—
a nation taken out of another nation, not quietly, but with signs that carved faces and covered the sun, by a hand that did not hide itself, with a kind of persistence that left artifacts in places and on the skeletons that witnessed it.
Ask Egypt, if ruins could answer.
Ask the sea, which briefly agreed to try on the accoutrements of land and then returned to its original fashion.
They were shown these things so they would know— this is how the account records it.
Not suspect. Not wonder.
Know that the voice was not one among many, not a possibility, a debate between equally convincing objections.
Above, below— no second version waits to be discovered later.
This is the claim as it has been carried forward.
So they are told to keep it.
Not out of fear, though fear was present. Not out of habit, though habit will come.
Keep it so that when their children ask what happened in those days, they will not offer a softened account.
Tell them they heard something that should have undone them and did not.
Tell them they walked through what closed behind them.
Iris Lennox 