It seems that I've lost my sense of narrative. My mind is moving more quickly than my eye these days, and my eye sees a lot of the same scene: my desk, a stack of books, a mess of papers, and then the classroom full of glassy-eyed students. (Okay, not
all of them are glassy-eyed, and for those in the early class, I understand that the gloss of sleep hasn't quite lifted. I can forgive them.) But last week there was an afternoon when the sun came out and lit this corner of the room so that it glowed, and that was nice.
And on Valentine's Day, Ross and I drove through the Cascades, over them, and down the other side to Wenatchee to hear this incredible high school mariachi group,
Mariachi Chula Vista. Yes, mariachi! They were visiting from San Diego, and in fact, the show was a double bill. Wenatchee High School--
Mariachi Huenatchi put on a great show, too. When the lights came up on the kids from Chula Vista, and the violinists put bows to strings, a great cloud of rosin drifted into the air, and the sound, too, was as if the instruments had caught fire.
In our year and half here, we honestly haven't made it into the Cascades much. I was startled, and a bit sad, to realize how foreign this mountain range feels, and how intimidating. The Rockies feel comfortable to me. I feel confident that I can survive in them, and find my way, and even in winter they're bright. But the Cascades are dark, dense, impenetrable, and looming.
I felt small.
In some ways I like feeling small--it keeps things in perspective.
Despite it all, a drive over the Cascades doesn't last long. One can drive through the Rockies for hours and still be in the Rockies, but in less than two hours we emerged from the Cascades. The sky was open and a little brighter. The hillsides were covered with fruit trees feigning death. It is hard to believe that they will wake up soon, and bloom, and bear fruit. But they will!
It seems that I've lost my sense of narrative. My mind is moving more quickly than my eye these days, and my eye sees a lot of the same scene: my desk, a stack of books, a mess of papers, and then the classroom full of glassy-eyed students. (Okay, not all of them are glassy-eyed, and for those in the early class, I understand that the gloss of sleep hasn't quite lifted. I can forgive them.) But last week there was an afternoon when the sun came out and lit this corner of the room so that it glowed, and that was nice.
And on Valentine's Day, Ross and I drove through the Cascades, over them, and down the other side to Wenatchee to hear this incredible high school mariachi group, Mariachi Chula Vista. Yes, mariachi! They were visiting from San Diego, and in fact, the show was a double bill. Wenatchee High School--Mariachi Huenatchi put on a great show, too. When the lights came up on the kids from Chula Vista, and the violinists put bows to strings, a great cloud of rosin drifted into the air, and the sound, too, was as if the instruments had caught fire.
In our year and half here, we honestly haven't made it into the Cascades much. I was startled, and a bit sad, to realize how foreign this mountain range feels, and how intimidating. The Rockies feel comfortable to me. I feel confident that I can survive in them, and find my way, and even in winter they're bright. But the Cascades are dark, dense, impenetrable, and looming.
I felt small.
In some ways I like feeling small--it keeps things in perspective.
Despite it all, a drive over the Cascades doesn't last long. One can drive through the Rockies for hours and still be in the Rockies, but in less than two hours we emerged from the Cascades. The sky was open and a little brighter. The hillsides were covered with fruit trees feigning death. It is hard to believe that they will wake up soon, and bloom, and bear fruit. But they will!
