...And Our Dads
In this episode you get to ride a section of reservation land with a surprise avian guest, then go to the South Rim for a very specific sliver of El Tovar.
Mug: el Tovar
Ed Abbey from Yellow Horse
by Lisa Schnebly Heidinger
Abbey never aspired to be put on a pedestal; he was much more comfortable down in the dust and grit and dirt and guano of the desert floor, where he found the poetry and majesty of life. Reading about him, one gets a sense of a flawed, contradictory, emotionally careless man, both inspired and blatantly human. People do not idolize Abbey because he was perfect, but because he reminds them of themselves: passionate but practically powerless. Abbey’s real call was to seize the smattering of power each person can scratch together and do something freeing and creative with it, not because you have earned the proper credentials, but because you don’t need them.
All rights reserved by author.
I Heart Owls
“The heart is a lonely hunter…”
Lyrics to a song whose title is the phrase, taken from a book of the same title by Carson McCullers
I Heart Owls
by Julie Morrison
Is it me, or the heart, Love questions,
so misunderstood my mascot
is a bloody-organ-turned-cartoon
stretched across t-shirt fronts?
As though a heart—thumping muscle—
ever loved anything except the freedom
to do as it’s designed to do?
Love considers this as he watches people
birdwatching on a riverbank, cooing
as a peregrine spirals and jays squawk,
neither flier, in Love’s view,
gentle as they’ve been fairy-taled to be.
Nor is the heart, Love thinks,
to heart is more to owl:
swallow, then disgorge life,
beat as little as possible, then soar,
strength coming from smart use,
with no inclination for handling—
certainly none to be held—
and, both, arguably, doing their best work
in the dark.
Love questions, if to heart IS to owl,
do people see me wilder?
Nothing to be tamed—but let loose
to hunt existence by physicality and instinct—
do they need me to survive?
Love puzzles,
or are we—Heart and Owl and Me—all
lonely hunters[1]—sustained by healthy,
ecosystems—increasingly endangered
by sad—illegal— traffic
between the desperate and the dependent?
“Whoooo?” an owl interrupts,
soaring to its perch in a high pine
before turning its back to settle into sleep.
“Good question,” Love replies. “Who
would ever want a logo version of any of us?”
“The Heart is A Lonely Hunter” – title of a novel by Carson McCullers
Like the human heart, owls get pictured
as adorable beings we’d like to pet,
hold when we’re unsure,
as though both muscle and night bird
carry something for us:
the heart, the held but unexpressed,
the hunter, a facility with darkness,
when, in fact, neither are or can be cuddly,
requiring freedom to do as they’re designed:
beat as little as possible—
heart in its cavity, owl against the air—
because strength comes from conservation,
not outlay. Neither organ nor owl
is made to share.
And yet we carton them as cute, sweet—
these bloody savages
swallowing, disgorging life—
what can it mean to heart anything
except
How we get “cute” from these primal predators
hunting
both suspending motion as long as possible
beat against
with little to no handling,
primarily because they are not
as depicted,
I wonder if it’s illegal to own owls
for similar fundamental reasons
we outlaw human organ trade:
taken outside their home environment,
they need care not just anyone can give.
as lonely hunters
wholeness we can neither carry
nor defend
a wholeness to hold something for us
when, in fact, both muscle and hunter
function better with little to no handling,
and neither
and
they require exquisite care.
Copyright 2025 Julie Morrison All rights reserved.
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