So many new textures, on a cycling trip in the high desert lands, wide open dry spaces to the west of volcanic mountain passes, so different from the forested, coastal place that I live in.
And an evening walk through a grove of junipers, some centuries old, gave me a little more time to listen closely. The voice of the old junipers, so quiet in the still desert air, enigmatic but open - this is their contradiction. They have nothing to hide, nor do they speak plainly.
Their language is simply their own, contained and elder, looping through the rounded clusters of their berried needles, or pointing gracefully up, the persistent reach of growth no matter how slow (the growth I can perceive, anyway - sinuous roots rose along the sandy path, exposed and smooth, reminding me of their reach, their strength so different from the visible branches.)
The junipers’ sense of movement is stillness - all these curves and curling lines, the flex of centuries, held in this form that is yes very old but not done growing. The languid lines convey this continuity of living - the movement is not trapped or stilled, just slow enough that our time scale sees rest.
And the way each one balances its own form, the space between them granting an integrity to each individual, space enough to be the shape they become.
