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| Sky Mesa Journal by Judith Deem Dupree, published by Resource Publications, an imprint of Wipf and Stock |
It began with an invitation to house-sit. A chance to get
away, break loose from the "ordinary," the expected, and, let's be
honest, the grief that had backed up inside. A time to shed some hard soul-grit
that I'd carefully swept into the corners and closets of my life . . . lest
anyone suspect I harbored such detritus. The unseemly and, I always hoped,
unseen.
A proverbial "empty-nester" by now, I was lost. Not
that I mourned for our three young ones all that much or often—they had left comfortably,
in stages, by ages, for school and promising new lives, new livelihood—still
near enough to show up when the dinner menu tugged. My husband was absorbed in
a job that fit, that filled any empty spaces between us. It wasn't him I
couldn't tote into any equation of tomorrow. I had simply lost tomorrow.
And so, yeah, I'd be glad to hang out a while on a funky old
ranch. I grew up in the foothills of Colorado, and bunkhouses were no anomaly. It
would be kind of like back-pedaling to a less mean and more lean time, when inevitable
complications were manageable and I had the stamina to fix whatever I thought needed righting. Yes, I realized
that three months was a long commitment, but she'd agreed to only half of each week
on site. I could see doing that. In fact, I could hardly wait . . . .
Sometimes adventure
simply means a sidestep from despair.
And so I set myself up for a nice little trio of days into
weeks into months. It sounded a tad scary, but shiver-scary, not trauma-scary.
Sometimes unknown is better
than an endless known.
~*~*~*~*~
So I showed up, out there beyond the trappings of our busy
world, where the brazen hills bulge up and down in anonymity. Sky Mesa Ranch: A bit or more down at
the heels, redolent and raw with nature, left behind in a bright new age of
tech. A paradigm and homely parable. I found there, to my surprise, an evolving
link with the history of our lost beginnings—of my lost beginnings and unwieldy endings. And yes, our-my lost belonging, in this risky edge of life we
have all begun to mourn. It was like stepping onto a bridge between Alice's rabbit
hole and Gulliver's infamous Lilliput.
This journal is a strangeling,
an unpremeditated tour into timeless Premises,
both meanings. A book of hours. Time to learn and relearn reflection, to measure
earth's shadows against the unexpected Light. Time to wander and to wonder. To tenderize—to
begin at last to hear, with new-opened ears, the weary heartbeat of a
struggling world.
The Journey is yours too, for the taking. Join me there.
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