Equinox sunset, Hell’s Backbone, 09/22/2014
Tomorrow, I compete in a paint-out in Utah, where I’ll have about five hours to complete a painting somewhere along Hell’s Backbone Loop. I’ve done this sort of competition before in my hometown; doing it in an unfamiliar place is extra challenging. Earlier this evening, I read an essay called America’s Redrock Wilderness by Terry Tempest Williams. It is an inspiring essay on why wilderness is important for Americans, and it reminds me why painting landscapes is so important for me. Here are some excerpts from that essay:
Wilderness is not a belief. It is a place. And in Utah, we know these places by name: [Here, Williams lists about 100 or more place names in Utah, delicious names like House Range, Goose Creek, The Blues, Harmony Flat, Mary Jane Canyon, Moonshine Draw, and Moon-Eyed Horse Canyon]
What do these places have to say to us as human beings at this point in time? What do they have to say about life during the Cretaceous, Jurassic, and Triassic eras? What do they have to say to us about the erosion and uplift of our souls and imagination?
What voices are being carried inside the canyons by the salamanders, toads, and tree frogs? Or the species of turtles, lizards, and snakes who are also living on the Colorado Plateau?
A rattlesnake coiled and hissing is exposed on the slick-rock.
Think about the hundreds of species of birds and mammals on the plateau: white-throated swifts, violet-green swallows, ravens, coyote, mountain lion, and mule deer. We may see them, we may not. Always, they are watching. Turkey vultures are watching.
And what kind of standing do the hundreds of species of plants have in the desert, especially forty-two threatened species, the sand poppy among them?
There are songs still being sung and stories still being told in the places where people lived thousands of years ago, places that braid the Colorado Plateau together. In so many ways, the Anasazi have never left. Handprints on redrock walls. Anasazi applause.
These wildlands are alive. When one of us says, “Look, there’s nothing out there,” what we are really saying is, “I cannot see.”
The Colorado Plateau is wild. There is still wilderness here, big wilderness. Wilderness holds an original presence giving expression to that which we lack, the losses we long to recover , the absences we seek to fill. Wilderness revives the memory of unity. Through its protection, we can find faith in our humanity.
We have a history in this country of environmental courage, and its roots are found in direct contact with the beauty of the natural world that sustains us. The sacred heart of this continent beats in the unagitated and free landscapes of North America….
… Public lands within the Colorado Plateau possess spiritual values that cannot be measured in economic terms. They dare us to think in geologic terms: Kayenta, Moenavi, Chinle, Shinarump, Toroweep, Coconino, and Supai. We are absorbed into a rich, vibrant narrative of vertical time and horizontal space.
We can learn something from this redrock country as we stand on its edge, looking in. We can learn humility in the face of Creation, reverence in the presence of God, and faith in one another for exercising restraint in the name of what lands should be developed and what lands should be preserved.
This country’s wisdom still resides in its populace, in the pragmatic and generous spirit of everyday citizens who have not forgotten their kinship with nature. They are individuals who will forever hold the standard of the wild high, knowing in their hearts that natural engagement is not an interlude but a daily practice, a commitment each generation must renew in the name of the land. If we listen to our politicians we must ask some serious questions. Who is speaking on the side of time? Deep time. And who is considering the soulful existence of other creatures?
What we have witnessed in the ongoing struggle to protect America’s Redrock Wilderness is that responsive citizenship matters. Individual voices are heard, and when collectively spoken they reverberate on canyon walls. The passion for the wild endures and can lead to social change long after a specific piece of legislation has been forgotten.
The Hopi Elders have told us, it is time for healing. A healing must begin within our communities, within ourselves, regarding our relationship to the Earth, Wild Earth, we are in the process of becoming Earth.
We are not separate.
We belong to a much larger community than we know.
We are here because of love.
ringing
this silence
This silence– –is the bedrock of
our
democracy.
-Terry Tempest Williams
Thanks for reading.
Artist On The Road 