Time and space for transformation appear every day. I am still in process of such a transformation after my move, in October, from Sedona, AZ to Red Lion, PA. I grew up in PA and I told myself the culture was familiar and I really wanted to be closer to my family. I need community. But my time in the stunning beauty of Sedona, where I wrote my book Tapestry, was so transformative and profound that I suppose I should not be surprised at how long it is taking me to find my way into this place. When I walk my greyhound Maggie, we walk on sidewalk instead of gravel road, or roads without sidewalk. Instead of coyotes watching us go by, there are other people walking other dogs. Instead of the incredible red rocks, I walk beside a large field with gently rolling contours. I notice how different the energies of the earth are. I notice how Arizona feels harsh and vivid and new and how Pennsylvania feels old and gentle. I miss the big, clear skies I saw on my walks in the west, and so now I paint them. That feels good. But my walks here are helping me see the loveliness of this landscape with its higher moisture saturation. Pennsylvania skies are allowing me new ways to look at sunrise and sunset and so I have begun painting what I see here as well. Nature wears different clothes here. Birds, trees, smells, sounds are again new to me. As I was on my way to visit a friend last week, I looked at the trees, still without leaves. I was traveling up a hill and as I looked up at the rise I suddenly saw the trees as the wispy tufts of hair that stick up on a balding head and I had to chuckle.
My non-human environment is leading me through this transformation into what is to come. I feel wrapped in the beauty and solidity of it. The safety of it. The promise that there is a pattern and rhythm and universe that supports us despite dislocation and change.