We recently purchased this canvas print of Monument Valley, Utah, a destination stop on the last vacation my husband and I took six weeks before my vision became impaired. It is a beautiful piece of art and represents so much. Travel is the last holdout in my healing process; I still struggle with going places when I can’t really see them. I am one of those people who stands at the rim of the Grand Canyon and sees Mt.Rainier majestically rising over Seattle and cries at the beauty before me, gratitude filling every inch of my soul.
This portrait reflects my past but also reminds me that there are new places to explore and old friends to visit again. I don’t see color, except for shades of blue, and the vibrant sky over the buttes shows me that all is not lost. The vastness of this country speaks to how small my troubles are and this enduring landscape is a testament to how brief our time is on this earth.
This addition to my home decor also brings with it sadness over what I have lost, but the fact that it is displayed prominently in a location I pass a hundred times a day is proof of how very far I have come. Monument Valley was not built in a day nor has my healing. It still hurts but not as badly as it once did, allowing room for appreciation and memories of that trip and all the ones that came before.
We stayed at the hotel on the edge of the valley, our balcony providing the view captured in this picture. We set our alarm for the middle of the night so that we could gaze at the unencumbered stars, free of buildings and manmade light. They were the brightest I have ever seen and some of the last I ever would. We set the alarm a second time to watch the sun rise over the other-planetary formations, their shapes revealing themselves to us slowly. Tears rolled down my face, dripping into my coffee cup
My husband and I searched through many options before deciding on this shot and one of the main criteria, besides the brilliant blue sky, was the road in the foreground. While driving our rental small SUV through the valley, we had all four windows down and the moonroof open to take photos from every possible angle. My husband behind the wheel, I snapped away, often standing on my seat to capture images through the hole in the roof. We came upon a hill and in the loose red dirt, my driver gave us some gas to propel us up and forward. The car filled with red dirt through every opening, including my mouth. We laughed so hard I choked, but I didn’t care. Nor did I mind wiping down the entire interior of the vehicle with bathroom wipes once we returned to the hotel parking lot. Or the fact that I saw red for a week every time I blew my nose.
I don’t know what the future holds for me when it comes to this lost love of mine. It’s still hard to imagine being in a setting such as this without the ability to see every detail, every color. I went to Germany last year with my best friend and it was, as expected, disappointing and bittersweet to be there without full visibility as we toured the cities of Luebeck and Hamburg. But that trip was more about going on an adventure with my sister of the traveling pants than it was about the sights. And although I know everything we do with someone else is about the shared experience, sometimes it really is about the destination.
For now I will enjoy this delicious slice of American pie in my dining room and think about what I saw those days in October 2012. And I will consider the possibilities of 2018 and beyond and wonder, if I could only wish upon those stars . .
