"To begin to understand the gorgeous fever that is consciousness, we must try to understand the senses and what they can tell us about the ravishing world we have the privilege to inhabit."
- Diane Ackerman
I sit here at Navajo Lodge with nine children, one sister, and pine trees for company. The children range from one to eight years old. And the pine trees? They are much older.
Navajo Lodge is our decades old family cabin. It sits on Cedar Mountain near Duck Creek village, equal distances from two national parks, Zion and Bryce Canyon. These parks feel like great uncles in their familiarity, their wordless ways, their seasons of insight.
This mountain has been a mentor, a mother, a mecca for generations of my family. We have visited here since the 1930's. The meadows, the deer, the pink cliffs are practically ours, if only by frequency of visits and bloodline love.
Our cabin is part inheritance, part therapy, and entirely retreat.
Our stars, the ones that accompany us over our campfire and cabin roof, listen. Their light shines, infinite. We do, too, up here.
I left behind my heels, my hot rollers, my hill of vanities.
I have found the stars.
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Post Edit: Emily, over at in the hush of the moon, is hosting the series, Imperfect Prose on Thursdays. Join us!!
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Photo credit: Found Word Art, Lockyer, p. 11, via
















