Hour two of my four hour drive home from central Washington, and I find myself thinking the same thought millions before me have and millions after will repeat to themselves – “There’s a whole lot of nothin’ out here.” 

       I’m glad to say I immediately sense I am not alone in the cab of my rattling box truck, as I soon understand my thoughts of the wilderness are literally backwards.

      “No,” I sense the Other say, “Out here, there is a whole lot of Something.”

      The Other is right, as usual. The Other is always right.
      I heard it said recently that one cannot move forward or grow in life without grieving the loss of what was. I’m experiencing this growth and ensuing loss most acutely these days, personally, professionally and spiritually. It’s frustrating, the feeling of loss, a frustration exacerbated by noise and constant activity. And by traffic. All those false “somethings”. 

      I believe there’s a true Something beneath and between the trappings of the city and suburbia – places I spend the majority of my days. There is Something profound that wafts through the cracks in the pavement and sings a quiet song, tragically drowned by the competing din of all our branding and social media “sharing” and talk radio outraging and our unyielding compulsion to go and do and get, get, GET! 

      Out here in the wilderness surrounding Highway 240, the quiet melody of Something is easier to hear, as long as you’re willing to listen for it. This day, I find the torrid desert air is dense with the song, and I wonder if it’s occasions such as this Christ alluded to when he spoke of rocks crying out. I believe his words now more than ever; the rocks truly do sing, my friends, and their song is glorious.

     Desert plains give way to desert hills, and my truck becomes a mechanical sail against the violent winds – whipping, swirling, snaking about – and the windmill farms remind me that we as humans survive only by the generosity of the elements – Earth, Wind, Water, Sun.  

      We are not the source.

     I am not the source.

     Hours later, I find myself along the mountain pass separating Eastern Washington from Western. A call from work, and I pull over to respond, somewhat irritated by the invasion. After attending to the issue, I take a walk to stretch my aching legs and stumble upon a scene that slows my pulse, stops time. 

      Another was here before me, aware of the melody of all this Something, built a monument in honor of his or her own timeless moment.  

      Left it for me to find. 

     Thank you, whoever you are.