An adobe fireplace is warming me on this chilly morning as I sit in my room, smelling burning mesquite wood, hearing the crackling embers, and staring sleepy-eyed at the brown adobe walls, the dark, carved wooden doors, and photos of Native Americans in ceremonial clothing. Quietly swinging open the doors to my balcony, I wrap a colorful Native American blanket over my cold shoulders as the brisk air slams my formerly cozy face.
As I sit with my hot, steaming coffee, distant purple mountains are barely visible through the clouds, yet a brilliant peek of reddish orange slips through a gap and suddenly splashes rays across the vast landscape. Perhaps those distant blue mountain peaks were small islands standing out in the sea. The waves rock the boat, and it could stay at sea for weeks, or capsize, or maybe it will be pushed to a beach at one of the islands or the mainland.
If that boat somehow managed to stay on the water for millions of years, today it would be sitting on the ocean floor, which is now a desert. The only movement would be the blowing tumbleweeds around it. I realized these images that came to mind represent momentary stages of our life, just as there have been stages for this land. An ocean can be vast, yet we drift on top of it, wondering what direction to take, not understanding the opportunity surrounding us. Though the effort of rowing in a vast sea would seem endless and pointless, especially against the moving surf, it is motion and direction that matter.
The sun is beating ruthlessly down on us, there is no shade, no water, yet we continue to sit in the boat out of fear of what might happen if we step out.
We know instinctively that if we sit there too long we will die of exposure, yet we sit, in hopes someone will come along and rescue us — when the mere act of stepping out of the boat could save us.
