I went on a walk yesterday, down streets and sidewalks and a trail that eventually brought me to this scene.
It was beautiful, yes. But it wasn’t the sun-dappled path or the depth of green that made me stand there and wait for the bicycle guy to pedal around the bend so I could snap a photo. Floating across the path were dozens of tiny cottonwood seeds, each held aloft by a little ball of white fuzz. But picture after picture failed to capture even a single one. They were too small, too unassuming.
As a kid, the entire Christmas season lead up to that moment on Christmas morning when I got to open up all my presents. I’d wake up long before the sun had even considered peeking over the horizon, run into my parents’ room, and let them know that it was TIME FOR CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It was a big moment.
There are a lot of Christmas mornings in life of a writer. The day you get that book deal. The day the you receive a starred review. The day your book wins that award. (You know the one I’m talking about.) These moments stand out there on the horizon, beckoning us toward them, and promising so much happiness and fulfillment if we can just get there.
I was supposed to see the Rocky Mountains for the first time yesterday. My train was supposed roll into Rocky Mountain country between 6:45 and 7:30 pm. We were supposed to cross the trestlework bridge, and I was supposed to see those snow-capped peaks reflecting the reds and purples of the setting sun, just like the picture on Amtrak’s website.
When we crossed into Montana from North Dakota at 3:00 pm, I checked the train schedule. We were running three hours late. At sunset, we were still moving through the Montana prairie. We wouldn’t reach the mountains until the middle of the night. And by the time the sun would rise the next morning, the mountains would be far behind us. I was going to miss the Rockies completely.