I’m taking a page from Mester and writing a travel log. I’m now in a bus driving across the great state of Michigan, towards East Lansing. I would marvel at the WiFi technology that allows me to add this entry while I cruise down the interstate, but I feel like waxing poetical instead (sans poetry, don’t worry).
I’ve had the chance to live outside of Utah on several occasions, but every time I go to places without mountains I am constantly aware of their absence. Looking across the now red and orange hued sky, something is clearly missing. The trees, in their hubris, presume to occlude the horizon. Don’t they know their place? How they live in a strata perpetually below the granite and limestone? Apparently not.
I don’t know if I’d describe my feeling as agrophobia. It’s not that I have any fear of the expansive horizon. It’s just that something I expect to be there isn’t. It’s like when you go to close the car door, but gravity has pushed it shut for you without you noticing. You reach behind you, perhaps eyes on your destination and a bag full of groceries in one hand, and you push where you thought there was a door only to find nothing, empty space, vacuum. You’re off balance momentarily, not physically, you probably didn’t swing that hard, but what you expected to be there wasn’t. That’s the moment that looking at my vacated horizon reminds me of… I’ll savor it. The common place will surely rush in to steal my discomfort, and I’ll kick my metaphorical door closed as I spend my days with eyes to the ground, eventually forgetting that there was ever anything taller than the trees to be seen when I cast my glance up.