Waiting For The Moon
In the heart of the night, at the base of Guadalupe Peak, I sit listening to the soft cool wind sweeping up from the desert, heading toward the secret, hidden places high above us on the mountain. Overhead, the canopy of space is filled with stars, as if an invisible hand has thrown diamonds across the night sky and then trained a sharp white spotlight on them from the wings. They sparkle with cold, familiar certainty; the worlds and dimensions among them enlighten and entice me, for I'm sure I've been out there among them before. The moon will be up soon, and when it rises among these glorious stars, I will be watching.
My son sits across from me, outside our tent in the middle of the desert, unperturbed by the beauty that surrounds us; he is absorbed by something he's been designing on his small laptop for weeks, but I think I understand. Sometimes, when our senses are filled to overflowing, it can be overwhelming. Easier to look away for a little while and give the mind time to digest what it has seen, what it is trying to comprehend.
My son and I hiked to the top of Guadalupe Peak this morning- the highest mountain in Texas at 8,749 feet -and he stopped along the trail many times to wonder at the progress we had made, to take pictures of the magnificent canyons and cliffs all around us, and to take a drink and catch his breath. He took in every foot and every second of the experience while it was happening, to the point of risking his footing occasionally for the sake of a breathtaking view and a momentary photo op. This climb was his desire, the summit his goal.
Now, tonight, we're both tired and sore. I look over my shoulder at the silhouette of the ridge that rises forebodingly in front of the mountain and in my mind revisit the climb. I can't help smiling at my son's indomitable spirit, his persistence, making sure we reached the summit. Though I led much of the way, only because I have more experience at this sort of thing than he does, sometimes he moved out front, confident he could manage the terrain and the hazards without guidance and advice from me. Every so often he would lose his footing and rocks would go tumbling down the steep cliff face only a foot or two away, followed by a spike of adrenaline, reminding us that one good slip and down the side we go, tumbling like the rocks.
"You okay?" I would ask.
"I'm here," he would say, just the slightest bit annoyed that I would doubt his ability to recover from a tiny misstep.
"Okay. Just checking."
Then, a quarter mile up the narrow, rock-strewn path, my own foot would slide on top of a loose stone, and in a frightening instant my ankle would roll, throwing me off balance and heading for a spill.
"Careful," he would say, reaching out a hand to steady me from behind, as if I were incapable of recovering from a minor misstep.
An hour later, leg weary, hot, and thirsty, we begin hiking the hot, dry series of switchbacks that criss-cross the stark and dusty bald; striking blue sky above, blinding white boulders all around, a peregrine falcon sails the thermal above us, as if to signal the route for our final ascent to the top. Two hundred yards, he screes, around that jagged outcropping up in front of you.
"Steep dropoff on the right," I warn my son as we slowly make our way up the last of the switchbacks, toward the limestone formation looming against the azure expanse above and beyond the huge rock formation. Make our way carefully around it and we should be home free. "Slow and steady," I remind him. "Keep tight to the left. There's nothing for you to hit for a hundred feet if you go over. Then it's another five hundred feet 'til the next ledge."
"Don't worry, I see." he assures me. He follows my footsteps precisely, but at his own pace, in his own way. I walk on, cautiously, wanting all the while to look back, to grab him by the belt and lead him. I'm a father and a teacher; it's my nature and my instinct to protect the inexperienced from all the bad things that can happen in life. But I can't. And even if I could, it would be wrong. Let him slip and catch himself.
That was this morning and this afternoon. Now the night has come.
My mind wanders for a time, then I blink and shake off my reverie. The Milky Way emerges from behind the crowd of stars and sweeps across the night sky like a wispy frost. So often when I'm stargazing: I see things and people. I see visions of the afterlife. I think I know, then remember that I know nothing at all. I believe perfection is just up ahead, that it lives within the borders of a fanciful place, a dream that came to me many years ago, and returns now and then when I need it most. But will I find it at the top of every mountain? In the middle of every desert? In the stars? In your eyes?
Climbing a mountain is me wanting to be perfect, my son attaining perfection on his own, without me. Life is allowing me to watch him with reverent adulation for just a little while longer before it slowly entices him away, adopting him as its own.
There were moments today when I could do nothing but stare after him as he led me through a dimension only he can see. I watched him scramble his way up the last of the crags and boulders that lead around the promontory and up to the summit. Once he disappeared behind the rocks, I was rich with exhaustion and pride; my spirit buoyed, because I knew that he and I can never be separated: not by time, not by distance, not by space; not even by death.
And so tonight, as I sit waiting for the moon and my son taps away on his computer, I feel a gratifying ache in my muscles and in my heart.
It has been a good day.
Originally published July 18, 2012
