one more day up in the canyon

i took these pictures on one of my first trips down to flagstaff when i first got here. i moved here, again, more for this than the canyon. for these mountains. for the desert.

to be honest, i'm pretty unsure about coming home. i hate admitting this. i'm usually so sure about every decision i make. so decisive. and too proud to admit second thoughts - about anything. it feels premature sometimes. like a baby bird pushed from the nest too early. or like a premature baby - not, quite, ready to leave the safety and warmth and peace to emerge into the world. and be, somehow, a normal person.

the first sunday i got here, i went to church. i saw ed williams. i saw his big white beard. i saw his bushy white hair. i saw his smile. his warmth. i saw Him. ed sat next to me in church. we were singing this song - i don't like the rest of the song, but most of it just goes, "your love is extravagant, your friendship is intimate, i feel i'm moving to the rhythm of your grace, your fragrance is intoxicating in a secret place, your love is extravagant." i cried most of the way through this song. and there was something about hearing ed sing next to me, a grown man, in a raspy voice, sing along. and mean it. with his eyes closed. i hoped the song would never end. that was the last time that i've cried.

i don't quite know what to say about leaving. this time has been precious. this time has been the first real peace i've ever known. it's been a life without any obligation - without worry, care, purpose. to the normal world - this time looks really useless and meaningless. the act of waiting, sitting - the practice of stillness usually does appear pointless to the normal world. it's been the longest period of happiness in my life. like an old man singing a love song to Him. slow. simple. quiet. no hurry. nothing particularly wonderful.