I came across a topless hiker of the grandmotherly sort not once, but twice! A little more nature than I was anticipating, perhaps, but we all have our ways of communing with the universe.
There are no words to describe the clarity I feel when running out in the middle of this vast, uncluttered place.
The beauty of the desert is particular. It is not brazen. It does not press itself upon you. Is is not the voluptous cheerleader with bouncing curls and shiny red lips. It is subtle and sometimes easy to miss, like the plain, spare girl who never got asked to prom but who would have been an amazing date had anyone taken the time to get to know her, franchement.
Sorry, I'm breathing heavily. What were we talking about again?
What I mean to say is the beauty of the desert distills itself upon you by degrees. It is parched yet living, it is stark yet sweet. It is broad and empty--a blank canvas upon which you may unravel the tangled contents of your mind, absorbing your troubles, your salt and moisture, the residue of your soul.
And it is filled with glorious things!
To be clear, only my pretty scarab hails from the desert.
But my greater point is this: what amazing discoveries await the wanderer with a careful eye!
The fuzzy black bee was chanced upon during a run in Utah last week (I wrote about it in my note to Caroline). I rescued his carcass from a swarm of hungry ants, which may technically qualify as tampering with the circle of life but I couldn't bear to see this majestic creature meet with such an ignominious demise.
The mustard yellow bee is named Sir Timothy Hastings and has made a cameo appearance once before on this blog. He was found in northern California long ago and has been treasured lo, these many years. Too treasured by certain tiny hands, in fact, which accounts for his missing wing and the fact he was actually snapped in half at one point until I glued him back together again. No effort is too great for a specimen like Sir Timothy Hastings.
The little honeybee simply expired on my kitchen floor one day and I couldn't bear to dispose of his remains.
Bees are special. I've been stung about a zillion times but I love them anyway...just not so much the yellowjackets, darling.