The landscape of Mesa Verde is harsh. Gloriously barren, extreme, unending. Trees are tenacious, even after death.
Bald expanses of rock radiate summer’s heat. But the ancient kivas were cool. Those who lived on these cliffs must have known every cave and cranny, every seasonal slant of the sun.
The sky is its own upside-down landscape—rolling cloud hills or bare blue eternity. Looking out from an outcrop I see half earth, half sky.
Spirit can voice an opinion here and anyone can hear it. Silence echoes in the canyons. It is not the absence of sound, but a subtle music of wind and bird calls.
A storm bears down causing the sky to darken while leaving the foreground in an eerie bright light. There is nowhere to hide—no roofed kiva to climb down into, no leafy tree to umbrella me. I must face the pelting rain, surrender to the cleansing. I kneel to accept Mesa Verde’s asceticism—no, to revel in it.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 