Day Twenty-Two

When we were driving through Sedona, Arizona, we were surrounded by the most beautiful pieces of red rock supernatural architecture. We talked about how we can't even take photos of it because the awe and wonder of it all can only really be experienced in person: between the I and it, soaking through all of the senses, pouring into places untouched by anything ever found in a photograph.

Admittedly, I was nervous about going ATVing. I have never driven a motorcycle, only ridden on the back of them. I knew I wanted to drive my own ATV though, not just ride on the back of Andrew's, so I stuck my chin out and surged forward.

When I first hopped onto my own little red ATV and started driving, I held the throttle down with tentative fingers. But it only took me a few minutes before I started to relax a bit and get into it. I got into a groove where I'd watch the earth move just ahead of my vehicle, and I'd sway and bend and lean with each bump and turn and before long, my eyes took on that half-closed catatonic state where even though I was flying and being tossed around a bit, I was soothed by the hypnotic rhythm of earth meeting movement. Ground meeting life. Stability meeting dynamite, merging at a place too sacred to capture, like trying to radar the speed of sound.

I remember being in that state and knowing that I needed to force myself to look up at the views, at my surroundings, because before too long I'd be back at the truck and the ride would be over. I remember making a conscious effort to soak up moments like those when my kids were babies. I knew from what people told me that their baby years would fly by and so I would stare at them and even say out loud to myself, "remember this moment, Suzy... capture it like a photo but with all of your senses." That's what I did while ATVing too. I need to do that more with life.

I do that with Andrew. I look at him and try to memorize the curve of his earlobe, the way that his cheekbone feels under my lips when I grab his face and kiss him hard. The way he looks down and then up at me with those sparkly eyes, how I can see the little boy in him, the boy that his mom memorized once too.

I want to look up more, and soak up the view. Our lives are full of those moments if we want to see them. We just have to look up.