I crouch where the sandstone breaks into shallow shelves the color of old bone, one knee in dust, the other on loose grain that slides downhill with every shift of my weight.
The rock is so warm I imagine an ancient woman setting a kettle here and boiling water for tea.
Emerging from the crevice—
yellow.
I admire the Painter through the painted and wonder at the Breath and the breath it takes to stay, in this place,
alive.
Four open cups lifting from a seam no wider than the edge of my thumb, petals folded back shamelessly in the morning light.
I lean so close I can smell the yellow. Or is that the bone? I've never smelled either so it's hard to say.
My hair falls forward and brushes the soil, one strand catching on a blade of green— I feel like an intruder,
slowly, hooking it behind my ear, then lower my face again— this time with more care— close enough to see grains of pollen caught in the folds, gold dust gathered at the center.
Treasure left out in the open.
A bee was here.
Maybe an hour ago. Maybe it's only been ten seconds.
How long do bees stay gone? Quickly,
I peer below the bloom. Silver leaves spiral outward in every direction, coated in tiny hairs that catch dust, light, and whatever the wind decides to leave behind.
I run one finger along the stem—
green at first, then red, then pale where the shadow begins and sunlight never quite made the turn.
I guess there are things even the sun never sees.
The stem narrows, twists once, then disappears into a seam too thin for my fingernail.
Still— there it goes.
Down through lime, through grit, through powdered shell, through pockets of black soil pressed deep between layers of stone older than language.
Roots no thicker than thread find water that probably does not splash.
I sit back on my heels, dust coating my jeans, my hand still warm from the rock, and watch one yellow cup
tilt upward another fraction toward the sun.
—Iris Lennox literary pen name of Jill Szoo Wilson
I sit on the splintered bench where the trail drops close to the river’s edge, one boot untied, laces dark from morning grass.
The wood pricks through my jeans only when I swing my legs so I have to choose between comfort and carefree— the mosquito zigzagging around my wrist reminds me to slow down.
Below me, water folds over stone, slides around a half-sunken branch, catches for a second on something I cannot see, then keeps moving.
A world within a world within a world. Each with its own beginning, middle, and end.
I rest my elbows on my knees and watch cottonwood seeds land on the surface, play Russian roulette with the current and sometimes lose.
But sometimes they win.
There used to be an island here but now only swimming for fish and food for one crane whose beak was made for moments like this.
Across the bank, a sycamore leans like a dancer— if I tried that move I might hurt myself. But the sycamore— graceful, roots half exposed, holding a wall of mud through another season of rain.
What happens here at night? Does the dancer feel lonely?
I run my thumb along the groove someone carved into the bench years before I found it. There used to be a heart scribbled here. Was it time or circumstance that rubbed it away?
Where do all the lovers go who leave their hearts on benches in trees and in one another's hands?
The river keeps carrying branches, leaves, foam, the occasional flash of silver,
and twenty feet downstream a man in a fishing boat has a pole for an arm, a hat for eyes, and a dream I cannot see—
I stay on the splintered bench swinging my legs watching the sunlight
feeling the shade.
—Iris Lennox literary pen name of Jill Szoo Wilson
Morning lifts from the desert just before noon. I immediately regret each moment I missed— where was I when the sun rose here?
Light moves across basalt, sage, rabbitbrush, the red earth reflects warmth back into the blue.
Sunshine and earth, a love affair.
A strand of hair crosses my mouth and tickles my nose— as I swipe it away, I discover heat-burnished tenderness.
Sunshine, earth, and me— a love affair.
When I first arrived, I heard the crunch of my boots and all I brought with me. Water and ice sloshing against steel.
Also
half-finished conversations. A list. A sentence. A prayer, still wanting to know Him more.
Then the wind rises through the sage
and every branch answers.
Not all at once. Antiphonal. There must be a conductor here somewhere.
One stem, then another, then a hundred more clicking, brushing, rattling in no hurry to finish the song.
I have a feeling the song began at the beginning and will go on forever— it is a gift to hear this movement.
A Common Raven crosses low over the wash,
wings opening like someone who knows me and awaits my approach to the threshold.
Clearly, I am welcome here.
Higher still, a White-throated Swift not to be outdone cuts through the blue so quickly I hear the turn before I find the bird.
At my feet, a bee disappears into yellow rabbitbrush, comes out dusted, and goes right back in.
I'm proud of the bee and respect it enough to be a little scared, too.
Farther out, a Horned Lark drops three clean notes into the open country and flies off again. I'm struck by his boldness in speaking and not waiting— tell the truth, then let the echoes do the work.
Beauty and truth— companions from here to Kingdom come.
Even the grasshopper seems to understand.
Click. Up. Moving on. Trust.
And between all of it—
space.
Wide, sunlit, unoccupied space.
The kind that only exists here and anywhere there is desert. Around the globe but this one is mine, today.
I stand until my thoughts up. Click. Moving on. Standing still—
In a desert embrace between blue sky and sand, A lone cactus flourishes in a thirsty land. Her guardian spines, innocent and wise, Hold fast against winds she bravely defies.
Sandy soil enshrines roots running deep. Silent sentinels giggle while mimicking sleep— Toughened skin above, pulsing with might, Bold rebellion beneath the barbaric sunlight.
White blossoms bloom with delicate grace A coruscating crown in this desolate place. Petals unfold, poetry in hues, Through armored shroud, her beauty renews.
Survivor of drought and weather obscene, The cactus stands, a desert queen. In silence she writes mirage-soaked verses To a curious soul who nearby traverses.
“Dear cactus,” he ventures, “courageous and free, can you whisper your tales only to me?” She smiles coyly—she knows, but won’t tell— Accustomed to hellos, acquainted with farewells.
This was the answer when I asked one of my high school–aged acting students to give me an example of something that is “just one thing.”
“Yep, that’s correct,” I agreed. “Give me another.”
He thought for a moment. “Heaven is good, hell is bad.”
“Yes. Now let’s turn our attention to the horizontal. People, places, and things we can touch and see. Give me an example of something that is just one thing.”
“A car is just a car. A tree is just a tree. This building is just this building. My mom is just my mom.”
I wrinkled my nose when he made the final assertion. A tale as old as time. He stopped and waited for my response.
“Your mom isn’t only your mom. But also, a car isn’t only a car. A tree isn’t only a tree. This building isn’t only a building. Try again.”
A smirk grew across his face. I couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed. Maybe both.
“God is good. The devil is bad.”
I laughed. “That’s right. Why do you think you have to keep going into the spiritual realm to give me examples of things that are just one thing? Angels, demons. God, Satan. Why is that?”
He thought for a moment. “Because even though people go back and forth between those two kingdoms, the kingdoms themselves don’t change. We do, but they don’t.”
It was a good answer.
“When I’m coaching students to play villains,” I said, “one of the first things we talk about is the fact that villains don’t see themselves as villains. They see themselves as heroes.” Michael Shurtleff makes this point in his book Audition when he reminds us that if one thing is present in a scene, the opposite is also present. If Sally hates Peter, she probably also loves Peter. If Simon is grieving Teresa, it’s because he remembers their happiness.
We live in tensions. Between here and there. Then and now. Who we are and who we might be.
Take Walter White in the best series of all time, Breaking Bad. He begins as a high school chemistry teacher. Then comes the diagnosis. The bills. The fear of leaving his family with nothing. He starts cooking meth to provide for them, to secure a future that will outlast him.
And then something shifts.
He discovers he’s good at it. The work begins to fill an empty place inside himself. A need for control, for significance, for power. In one of his most famous lines, Walter White reminisces about his drug-lording days and concludes, “I did it for me. I liked it. I was good at it. And… I was really… I was alive.”
Is Walter White a villain? Or a hero? Both?
What makes him a villain? The drug that harms other people? The lies? The control he begins to exert over others? The blood that clings to the money he brings home?
What makes him a hero? The motivations with which he acted early on? The care his son receives? The fact that he’s working to build a future? The moments when he protects the people he loves?
Ask Walter, and he’ll tell you he’s a hero. Especially when he believes his objective is to provide for his family. That is the story he tells himself.
And still, the bodies pile up around him.
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn writes in The Gulag Archipelago:
“The line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being.”
I turned back to my student.
“Think of your worst moment. A time when you chose to be cruel. Did you allow yourself to realize you were being cruel, or did you try to convince yourself you weren’t that bad?”
He didn’t hesitate. “I justified it. I knew I was wrong, but I made excuses. I compared myself to people who are worse than I am.”
“You chose something dark and still looked for light. What did you do to relieve that tension?”
“I tried not to think about it. Oh! And, I helped more at home. I told people I was volunteering at church. I stayed busy doing good things, so other people didn’t think I was a jerk. I guess I was also trying to switch back into a good person.”
I nodded.
“So you were a villain. And you acted like a hero.”
“Yeah.”
“So you weren’t God or the devil. You were aware of both. And you chose, moment by moment, how to move toward what you wanted while carrying both at once.”
“Yeah.”
The wheels of thought whirred.
Nothing is ever just one thing.
When you’re playing a bad guy, you still have to know what he’s moving toward. Somewhere inside that pursuit, something he recognizes as good is leading him forward.
You might as well befriend the moon— embrace her clouded peekaboos. And music…
Receive the tune— no time to choose— alone in a crowd or no one in view. And a smell…
Wafts past your nose— what was that? Or who?
Perfume on skin or a place that you knew.
Pause.
No need to wonder— you know who that was— and who you are as nostalgia winds the second hand round.
“Time is a straight line,” said he. “It moves consecutively, watches as it goes behind and below, like walking a path that winds into— well— no one knows.”
“No one knows, that’s right,” said she. “Simply put, I do agree. But there’s no line to speak of. Time bends—not like a knee— more like a finger touching its thumb or a rainbow finding its spherical end and answering with a gentle, Come.”
Time returns to the places we’ve been.
One says, “That memory is far.” Another, “The moment is here.”
Yesterday can be set down, but the nows of that day rise from the ground without notice or sound—
to delight or confound— it depends on the seconds into which they were bound.
Moments become recollections. Recollections, seeds with a life of their own.
Promises and hope, gentleness and rage, a touch, a glance, a well-appointed room or a half-written page—
all sown into skin, finding rest in smiles and tears, repose and toil, love and loss, freedom and cost, and the way sunlight lay across the earth at the end or when it all began.
“That was back then,” said he. “That is today,” said she.
The minutes listened.
“There is wisdom in both.”
Time smiled— crouched, quiet— behind an autumn tree, waiting for the final leaf to fall.
It begins with a question as most things do— standing still and not understanding and then, why? Sometimes, how?
Before me— bands of color arranged with conviction, clearly the earth has already decided what each layer means and is in no hurry to explain itself.
The greatest beauty rarely does.
Someone wearing a mud-stained hat and pants that swoosh when he walks has named them. Kaibab Limestone at the rim. Toroweap beneath it. Coconino Sandstone—once dunes, moved grain by grain under a wind that no longer blows.
This was a desert, then a sea, then something in between that does not translate cleanly into a single word.
Mystery mingling with majesty.
I look at the red— Hermit Shale, perhaps— soft once, willing to be shaped, now holding its position like a memory that has settled into fact.
Further down, older still, Vishnu Schist— stone that endured heat, pressure, nothing erased, everything contained and displayed— a record I cannot read, written in a language I have not learned. But I recognize this:
Resilience.
Two billion years, give or take. The number means nothing to me other than "Wow."
The mind attempts a comparison— a human life, a century, a civilization rising and falling somewhere between two lines of rock.
It does not help.
Below it all, the river— still working. Still carrying what it has loosened. Still, rippling with stories that continue.
The Colorado meanders. It does not rush for anyone's benefit, the way an old man has learned to slow down. It cuts because that is what water does when given time and a way through.
I find myself asking questions that have no immediate use.
Who first noticed that this was once sand? Who looked closely enough to see ripple marks held in stone?
Who intuited that knowing this made the view larger and more intimate at the same time?
The tree beside me leans into its own inquiry, roots set in an answer that does not require words.
Its needles move in present tense.
No concern for uplift, erosion, continental drift— that long, slow negotiation between plates.
As for me—
I want to know how something becomes— how pressure instructs what to keep and what to release.
How absence— of water, of time, of witness— enters the record.
Curiosity does not simplify. It accumulates.
Another name. Another era. Another process quietly at work beneath the visible.
And suddenly the canyon is no longer wide.
It is specific.
I stand at the edge with a growing suspicion—
that beauty increases with knowledge,
and that time, unmeasured and indifferent, is not empty distance but the most patient artist I have ever encountered.
The road is empty, so naturally I walk to the center and stand on the line.
Silence but for the tapping of the cooling engine and the sound of waves— or maybe wind— blowing through pine needles.
Yellow lines under my feet— broken, then whole, then broken again, each piece looks like it's racing but I know better: resting.
Ahead, the road lifts.
Not much— just enough to take the next stretch out of view.
Driving, you don't notice how pretty the variation of black, gray, and blue after years of repaving.
You just keep going.
Inside the car you are listening, or talking, or thinking . . . anticipating, over the hill, onto the next stretch already laid out.
Standing here, the journey slows then stops.
Everything here knows one another and all is stable, but the wind and the clouds and the sun and moon and stars— but the road.
Each yellow line serves a purpose to guide to rightly divide . . . but also to watch to remember to enjoy?
It occurs to me in the middle of the road:
Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.
No matter how fast or slow I move, God.
The road is the road.
The adventure— where I go— is up to You.
—Iris Lennox literary pen name of Jill Szoo Wilson
Iris Lennox 