Something you polish with consideration will grow to be a mirror. Something to which you give your self absolutely, vest all of your power and danger all of your vulnerability, will return you to your life annealed, magnified, each unselved and extra deeply your self. It may be a backyard, or a desert, or a hare. It may be, maybe most readily, a spot. “Place and a thoughts could interpenetrate until the character of each is altered,” the Scottish mountaineer and poet Nan Shepherd wrote in her gorgeous love letter to a mountain lengthy earlier than neuroscience discovered the seat of personhood within the hippocampus — the mind’s compass for navigating house. Locations can grow to be a part of us, can imprint themselves on the soul like folks we’ve beloved. As a result of each place is an element of a bigger panorama, a cell within the physique of the world, to fall in love with anyone place — to contact its beckoning magnificence, its vulnerability, its variousness — is to come back to like the world itself extra deeply.

That’s what Ann Zwinger (March 12, 1925–August 30, 2014) invokes in Wind within the Rock (public library) — her breathtaking 1978 account of falling in love with Utah’s rocky canyons, discovering a microcosm of the world of their desolate Martian landscapes threaded with cattle trails, touching each the immediacy of life and the dimensions of time of their elemental majesty.

She writes:

There may be an enchantment in these dry canyons that when roared with water and nonetheless typically do, that absorbed the voices of those that got here earlier than, one thing of large dignity about sandstone beds that inform of a previous lengthy earlier than human respiratory, that bear the patterns of historical winds and water of their crossbeddings.

That enchantment solely comes on the worth of large braveness, for encountering the canyons is not any picturesque tour — Grand Gulch divides the plateau in half, its partitions a menacing vertical drop of fifty ft cascading downward right into a collection of undercut steps practically unimaginable to descend on foot besides with razor warning. However unimaginable is simply what we name the bounds of our braveness and creativeness. One night time after dinner, Zwinger units out to climb the talus slope above her camp, 4 hundred ft straight up into the gloaming sky. When she lastly reaches the highest, topped with a slender pillar of rock, she sits down to write down in her pocket book till the final gentle fades, capturing the second in what might be a prose poem:

The wind is fierce… however one way or the other it’s the correct wind. Up right here it’s becoming that there’s wind, conserving open the slot within the wall, charging by way of, honing the air, taking voices away. The moon sharpens and brightens, bringing Saturn with it, rising in an open quadrant of sky. I take in the power of the earth by way of ft rooted within the rock. If I might elevate my arms excessive sufficient I might garner thunderbolts and grasp them like a bouquet of crackling gentle.

She descends again to camp within the darkness — “a declivity of thoughts and feeling” — and when she seems to be up on the slope the subsequent morning, it appears unimaginable that anybody might climb down in the dead of night. She displays:

Maybe when one scratches the underside of heaven one is granted a particular grace. However the euphoria stays, and I can nonetheless name again that feeling of being astride the world and what it was prefer to be charged with the power of the universe. Maybe one true reward of those canyons is that they grow to be so deeply printed on the psyche that they are often invoked at will, bringing again their specific cost of serene power at any time when wanted.

Again and again, Zwinger discovers what all of us do if we stay with most aliveness — that we fathom our depths solely by pushing in opposition to our limits. She writes:

Once I crawl throughout a foot-wide ledge with nothing beneath, practically nauseated with concern; once I claw up a sandstone wall, plastered in opposition to its abrasive curve; once I heave myself onto the highest rim to see a view of such splendor that marvel washes away all my apprehension about getting again down; once I do what I knew I couldn’t do — then I’ve a style of glory.

Again and again, her cussed braveness is recompensed with one thing past magnificence, past gladness — a rush of pure being:

Once I get up to eternity I’d want it to be similar to this: beneath a venerable cottonwood simply leafing out, daylight sliding down the canyon wall, the tender rustle of dried cottonwood leaves on the bottom, a canyon wren caroling, after which the silence of an April morning.

Eternity, nonetheless, is all the time menaced by entropy — Zwinger finds herself attempting to reconcile the traditional Indian cultures embedded within the canyons with the oil drilling now scarring the face of the mountain with the pockmarks of so-called civilization. She wonders:

Will those that come after me know what it’s prefer to get up in certainly one of these canyons, hear the tentative murmurs and scratchings, really feel the sixth singing sense of quickening heartbeat of hunted and searching, of life that shuttles and scuttles and plods and leaps, leaving tracks to inform who went the place and typically why, and the wind erasing them in order that it is just the cool sand that one ever remembers?

However one does keep in mind, for such locations embed themselves within the marrow of reminiscence, grow to be a part of figuring out ourselves, a map to the terra incognita of who and what we’re. As she prepares to go away the canyons, she displays on what these austere rocks have taught her about being alive:

Darkness comes so softly now. The cliffs appear to retain the final gentle of day as they preserve the warmth of the solar and provides it again at night time. The willows are in silhouette however rose and tan and grey nonetheless glow on the cliffs, silver nonetheless shimmers on the river. Stars seem slowly, solely the brilliant tones, after which galaxies of flights flood this clamshell-horizoned sky.

I don’t assume I’ve ever sat and watched for therefore lengthy, hypnotized with the splendor of this time, this place, this sense of being. It is sufficient to know why I got here right here: to breathe within the solitude and the silence. I merely settle for what I’ve been studying in these canyons, discovering assets I didn’t know I had, stretching, accepting that there are occasions when one has no choices, and I sit right here in peace due to that. I do know that I’ll by no means be content material with out danger and problem and the chance to fail, to know ache, the possibility to check my endurance, unwrap my horizons, know bodily stress and the blinding satisfaction of coming by way of. If the associated fee is nice, the rewards are higher. And I sit right here in peace due to that.

In a sentiment evocative of Willa Cather’s splendid definition of happiness as being “dissolved into one thing full and nice,” Zwinger provides:

After which, in that star-dark lightness, I shake open my sleeping bag and stretch out to observe the celebrities. A parure of ten stars lies in exact alignment in opposition to the eggshell curve of the canyon wall. They stand time nonetheless, in poised perfection, earlier than wheeling on to different appointments.

Within the quiet, the air is singing.