Escalante River

It's been a hellish, surreal week. Boulder may be quiet, but not this kind of quiet. I can't imagine how life has been for all of you. And I can't possibly add to the beautiful and moving words and tributes of all the friends and family. What a rich, full, bountiful life of experiencing and giving and sharing that John led; to have so many deeply loving, deeply hurting people so affected by his departure.

I made a little animita down at the site this morning: A ironstone piece from Mike and Gary's place as a base; flowers: globemallow, foxglove, indigo-colored penstemmon, scarlet corn poppy, and, of course, some of your yellow roses, Jacqui, all watered from the Escalante River; a horseshoe from the ranch (thanks, Abbe); and the tribute I wrote to John cut from yesterday's Insider. The raw pain of being in that spot, and unwelcome feelings of defiance and anger at the harshness and finality of the event were strangely softened on the trip home. Two soft, luminescent blobs of light evanesced over Thompson Ledge; they looked like sundogs, but weren't encircling the sun. Other people saw it too; some tourists had stopped on the road and were taking photos. The blobs coalesced into an iridescent, wavy band, then slowly dissipated. Along with my negative feelings. Only a sense of calm and peace remained. It was one of those magical and mysterious Boulder moments that I know John and Jacqui have experienced and loved.

If only I could transport a bit of that momentary sense of peace to you all. John would have loved it.