Six weeks overdue on my monthly post, I tried this past week to write about other topics that have been on my mind lately - the one year anniversary of our move to Mariposa, or maybe my desire to see Yosemite Valley from a different perspective by exploring the legends that inspired the Native American names of its iconic landmarks. Each of these essays faltered due to the complex nature of human interpretation. I view my beloved new hometown through my own lens and do not wish to imply this as the truth for anyone else. A similar lesson applies, it turns out, for the history of Native Americans in this area. During my research, I learned that two different tribes claim the valley as their historic home. The park currently interprets one tribe's perspective, while the other feels slighted and fears their ancestors will fade into undocumented history.
I could not begin to untangle the complicated and often subjective truth of this dispute, so I decided to go back to the basics. Yesterday, I closed my eyes and scanned through the much loved photographs I hold in my heart as a reminder to never stop paying attention. Those images which resonated most involved both liquid and light, whose basic properties are taught in most science classrooms, usually as a stepping stone to more advanced theories and discoveries. And yet the delicate and ephemeral truths they reveal remind us of the beauty that can always be found in this world of often painful subjectivity.
What do I know to be true? That I unconsciously hold my breath when I stumble upon a perfect sphere of water clinging precariously to the surface of a petal. I pour over flowers drenched in newly fallen rain for those droplets that capture an inverted version of the world in miniature, the magic of light passing through a curved surface. I marvel at the jewel-like brilliance of resinous sap as it imperceptibly drips down the contours of a pine cone. I believe there are few things in this world more beautiful than dew drops suspended in a net of cobwebs.
I scan the sky for arcs of color against billowing mounds of dark cumulus after a rainstorm. In the morning and evening I scout out iridescent sun dogs in the crystalline drops of water that form wispy cirrus clouds. This temporary separation of light into its bands of distinct color reminds me that there are yet more wavelengths I don't see. I cannot even fathom what it would be like to see the world from the ultraviolet view of a bee or the infrared glow of a python.
This spring in Yosemite Valley, I experienced the occasional miracle of rounding a bend in the trail on a clear blue day to see a rainbow emerge out of a waterfall's mist. One was so close I could almost reach out and touch it, but it always stayed one step ahead of me. I walked among the tall trees through this spray of moisture with the scent of bay laurel and incense cedar hanging in the cool morning air. Thousands of years of memory may be lost or misinterpreted in this place, but liquid and light always reveal their truth.
