Episode 7, Celebrating AZ
Come to a Flagstaff snowstorm where Lisa saw something she would not have thought possible, then back south to Tubac, where Julie got an emotional assist at the lovely hybrid Tubac Cementery.
Mug:Toasted Owl, Flagstaff
from Chief Yellowhorse Lives On
by Lisa Schnebly Heidinger, Copyright 2005
Snow literally recreates the landscape. Rough and jagged no longer apply. Branches lose sharpness, under undulating drapery. Edges become suggestions. Everyday objects are now artwork: a bicycle becomes a soft sculpture; a car is puffy and vague. And when the sun breaks through it’s like living in a giant glittering snow globe.
And what a white! Midday, it makes you squint. Even under clouds it’s almost astringent in its whiteness.
Once in Flagstaff the stars were so bright I actually saw shadows of branches out driving at midnight.
Snow roads are tense, but breathtaking. The flakes swirl up to greet you (one of my favorite holiday songs by Over the Rhine says, “snow in the headlights; confetti in a parade.”)
My father smiles when he goes over a cattle guard, because it’s a sign to him he’s out in rural realms. I beam when I see a snowplow, because it means I’m near a winter storm.
I hope I never grow too aware of all that can go wrong driving in winter weather to make at least one pilgrimage to a snowstorm, where the world is covered and gentle and brilliantly new. Snow is one of nature’s great gifts, especially in Arizona: water in disguise, giving us a new place to live without moving.
Arkade?
by Julie Morrison
Is Struggle a circus barker—
trying
not just our hands—
stepping us right up
to its rigged games?
‘The Daily List’—
like whack-a-mole
without a mallet—
to-do’s popping,
us wanting nothing
but to smack them down—
‘New Normal’ a pinball round
flipping us fast,
letting us drop,
all motion, no destination,
reactions rolling
one to another—
‘Being Social’ Skeeball—
most attempts off target,
expensive effort
for few rewards—
all in a din:
attempts heckled, harassed,
by self-talk jeering,
as awkward silence drones on,
and Struggle sells
another round at the funfair—
or
are we the next Noah,
never the master, though ever in the ring
trying not to be trampled
by a mounting menagerie,
getting the daily done—
steady ballast in a storm of absurdities—
with the response
OK. What next?
Copyright 2025, Julie Morrison, All rights reserved
Comentarios