pamelagmusings

Musings

Pam's Musings

My writing nook at my house in Laramie, WY.

My writing nook at my house in Laramie, WY.

A long time ago or once upon a time, stifled by the desire to get everything right on paper, rendered immobile by my inner and nasty critic, I was encouraged to read Bird By Bird, by Anne Lamott.  I have read it numerous times and often wish I could commit it to memory.  Ah, the perfection that comes from the memorized verse.  Lamott strikes out at the need and desire for perfection.  Instead, she pushes me to embrace the messiness of writing, to muse.  She tells me to let go and not worry about destination or the big picture.  She set before me the creed by which my musings are written, by which my inner wild woman craves to live:  “Don’t look at your feet to see if you are doing it right.  Just dance.”  When I muse, and this is a necessary part of my writing process, I don’t look.  I just write.  I hope you enjoy these musings.  I hope you muse as well.  

Heaven on Earth, November & December

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Years ago, during my first summer in Wyoming, I traveled with friends to Devil’s Tower. It was the first time in my life that I had hiked a vast prairie and the first time in my life that, as darkness surrounded us, I saw no human source of illumination—no car lights, no house lights, no neon-lit signs, no street lamps. We challenged ourselves to refrain from touching our flashlights and slid into our well-insulated sleeping bags.

When I could barely see my arms, a friend called out, “It's time.” Shuffling noises signaled that we were all pulling wool hats down over our ears, donning mittens, snuggling further into our sleeping bags, and settling in to stare, through the night’s chill, at the nothingness above us.

“Don’t turn on your flashlights,” someone called out. “It’ll ruin everything.”

“What,” I thought, “was “everything?” The far horizon had long since shed its hint of day. Nothing existed, not even the few distant trees. Perhaps I no longer existed. I raised my sleeping bag with my legs and could only see it because I believed it there.

And then, one star. A moment later, two. I did not see them appear. They just were. It gave me pause to think that the thickness of dark was not squeezing them into light. That light, those stars had been there all along. As we hiked that day, they had been above us, all around us in the vast blue Western dome called “the big sky.” One by one and then tens by thousands, the stars popped forth from the darkness and blazed. I had never seen anything like this—across the entire sky, stars in wide, foamy clusters, and stars as single burning bulbs that formed the constellations. Years ago, I could only believe the stars existed somewhere in that gray night sky just outside of Washington, D.C.   

There should have been noise on the prairie. There should have been a low rumble from the night and the crackle of the stars’ fire as they shone forth. There was only silence. The day’s wind had ceased, no animals scuttled about, no nocturnal bird called. In our silence, did we even breathe? Perhaps not. You don’t breathe when you are suddenly confronted by grandeur.

And then, a single trail of light flashed across the sky. Then another, and another. Soon, the entire sky was etched with glowing trails, each visible for only a moment, disappearing as quickly as they were drawn. How splendid the show! It went on and on, finally interrupted by a thin line of light far in the eastern sky.

Not long ago, John and I took a trip to Yellowstone. Rain followed us for the first day, and we shivered through the chill of late afternoons and evenings in the Headquarters Campground at Flagg Ranch. Each night, after a meal and a stowing of the day’s equipment, we enthusiastically stole into sleeping bags in our little camper. The campground was low, near a lake. Each night, as I slid the little curtains away from the back window, I could see nothing but condensation on the glass and blackness. I was content. There was, I thought, much more to Yellowstone than the heavens.

Our day trips through the park were a delight. We saw the grandeur of the meadows and the rivers. We could not get our fill of the trees and bushes awash in autumn colors. We were humored by the buffalo herds that nonchalantly stopped traffic. We spied two young black bears and even a fox. Yet, another wonder of God’s creation was waiting for us.

We decided to spend our last night at a campground outside of the park. Falls Campground bore its name from the nearby crashing waterfall. We easily found a camp site which offered a lovely backyard of a wide meadow. After settling in, we hiked the trail high above the falls, shouting and singing to keep any grizzly bears at bay. After an early supper, during which we were entertained by the bold, curious jays, we sat and stared at our backyard meadow, allowing our minds to empty of tensions while the sun’s low rays etched shadows on the distant rock cliffs.

The sun soon vanished, and the air chilled. We retreated to our camper, nestling into our sleeping bags as the heavy darkness settled in. I awoke sometime later, assuming that a bright light was the dawn. I moved the curtain aside and nearly cried out with excitement. Single huge burning bulbs—indeed not twinkling little stars—boldly scattered the heaven’s night sky. I thought I could reach out and touch them. I stared for a long time, thinking I would soon be satisfied and could return to sleep. I tried to keep my eyes closed, but instead I shook my sleeping husband and, pulling the curtain wider, we agreed that we must go to the meadow.

We didn’t tie our shoes, grabbed whatever coats were near, forgot about grizzly bears, and raced into the cold meadow. Huge, solitary stars were everywhere, so bright and seemingly so close. I wondered for a moment if we were still standing on earth.

And then we saw it. At the end of a long trail of blackness, in a wide break of tall pine trees, the enormous Big Dipper, its giant stars nearly blinding, had come to earth and was cradled, as if an offered gift.