I woke up on Wednesday morning at 6:00 am, just when the sky whistled a tune of pink and blue, and pulled on my walking shoes. In an effort to love this place more--this home that doesn't feel quite like home--I am seeking to know its backroads and blooming shrubs. If geography is anything like the human heart, then I need only to press my hand to the ground to feel its perennial beat and trace out its pericardial boundaries with my feet. Then I will love it.
And so I walked, listening closely for the thump thump of this desert topology.
I mapped the northeast section of my neighborhood--the mitral valve--and found pastures hosting white bellied goats, blind horses chewing on flaxen grass, and obdurate copper donkeys.
I mapped the northwest section of my neighborhood--the superior vena cava--and found an old Mormon chapel that looked an awful lot like the beach house where my friend Brent and I swung my barbies from the slivered A frame beams, their tattered blonde hair floating like a gauzy halo beneath their vapid, waxy heads.
I mapped the north north section of my neighborhood--the aorta--and found the Mt. Timpanogos Temple with its milky, eggshell steeples and sea-sand windows. The geography of that particular place thumped out a glassy, beryl string of intimate and mysterious notes.
Tiredness met me, and I walked home, the contours of this neighborhood's heart traced in blue, veiny lines on the back of my eyelids. It feels all around right to know and then love this place a little bit more.