What does that mean? When I have the time? I have just as much time in my day as any other person does. There are 24 hours, eight of which are spent sleeping (I hope), eight of which are spent working (they hope), leaving another eight to do what I want. Yes, many of my days are full. I volunteer. My dog volunteers. I have friends I have lunch or dinner with. I go for walks. I go to Weight Watcher meetings. Yes, I am busy. However, I do have time on my hands. I realized, again, this weekend that I was wasting some of that time doing inconsequential things. (I confess that facebook has become a drug that I find hard to break away from -- not saying that all my interactions on facebook are inconsequential, quite the contrary. That said, I am hereby making a pledge to myself to not respond to everything and to avoid the urge to scroll all the way down every time I log on. I am not sure I am ready, yet, to swear off checking my wall every couple of hours or so.)
So. In the interest of doing what interests me, I am stepping into a blog. I do not have any idea how consistent or profound my entries will be, but I am pretty sure I will find enjoyment in expressing myself to my friends.
All that prelude leads me to share something I found among my mother's papers this weekend. I wrote this during my first summer in Tucson and Momma loved it enough that she saved it in an envelope of important papers.
"August 27, 2004
I have set myself a task this night. As I sat on my balcony watching the storm brewing at sunset I knew I had to find a way to paint a picture of it. Since I have two left hands when it comes to drawing, sketching, or painting I must rely on creating a picture for you with words.
How to string them together so as to depict a summer storm in the desert is daunting.
To merely tell you that as the sun slipped below the horizon the sky was tinted with layers of popsicle colors does not come close to what I want you to see. Imagine, first, the skyline. From my perspective on the second floor, I see trees -- more trees than you would expect to see in the Sonoran Desert. Admittedly, I am in Tucson where people have been cultivating shade for a couple of hundred years. Mesquites. Palo Verdes. Palms. Eucalyptus. All combining to give depth and contour to the evening sky.
Now. See the mountains in the distance. Rugged, exciting, awe inspiring, and somehow comforting as they loom in every direction. No matter where you are in Tucson you are likely to see a mountain in the distance, in any given direction. These mountains, particularly the very close Santa Catalinas to the north and the Tucsons in the west, provide a striking backdrop for the colors of sunset as they meet with the drama of the storm.
Soft corals, bright oranges and reds are layered along the western horizon, creating a sharp contrast for the most perfect of turquoises, soft blues, and deep azure. Azure is a word I don't use often, however, it seems to be the only way to describe this vividly brilliant of blues glimpsed between the gray-black storm clouds. Dotted with the tiny diamond light of emerging stars, it is breathtaking.
And, then, witness the encroaching storm. We've all see the photographs. We've all experienced thunder and lightning. But, only those in the desert are favored with a spectacle that truly does defy description. As you recall a postcard or a full color spread in National Geographic try to feel the intensity and the excitement. Experience the static and that infinitesimal moment of still preceding the shattering of all calm.
I had thought my years in Tennessee had jaded me to the wonders of a thunderstorm. The desert surprises me at every turn, no less so than during a monsoon at sunset."
So. A moment in time. I am glad I took the time to record and share it with my mother. I love that she thought enough of this little piece to save it for another moment when I would stumble upon it and remember that life is all about time and how we observe it, how we make use of it, and how we must always cherish it.
