Breathing

On Friday evening I went with a friend to a ranch. His grandparents own a house there in which they no longer live save for Sundays, so we bought some beers and went there to spend the night.

Anyone who knows me knows I get a little cranky when I leave civilization. My heart is rather locked to heavily populated areas. In going there, knowing I'd be spending the night, I was a bit skeptical. But I can say without a doubt that if, on my death bed, I knew what it would have been like yet never had gone, I would be pretty disappointed in myself.

I've never experienced air so perfect. It was like the mountains were breathing and I could taste their breath, sweet and crisp. Not a single cloud was anywhere in sight, and the temperature went from comfortably warm during the day to long-sleeve cool at night. Rancheros herded their cattle on horses, and women in native clothing peddled their wares out of enormous burlap sacks slung over their shoulders. Most of all it was silent. Nothing but the occasional cricket.

The evening was what got me. I have never in my life seen so many stars. Never. I thought I had, during the occasional cabin trip in northern Minnesota, but it was nothing compared to what I saw on Friday night. The Milky Way was bright and streaked across the whole sky, and from what I could tell, there was nearly no black, only stars. I saw at least a half a dozen shooting stars. I swear I never wanted to look away. My camera wouldn't be able to catch the starlight, so I just stared for as long as I could, almost petrified of the idea of ever forgetting what I saw and how I felt.

For a few moments I caught myself understanding how important it is to be alive. It's worth it just for moments like that, I think.