This morning started in Denver at our novitiate. It is the Feast of the Presentation of the Lord, from The Gospel of Luke 2:22-40. Jesus is presented in the temple and the prophets Anna and Simeon recognize him as the Messiah.
It was a glorious sunrise that morning over Denver, and at morning prayer we sang the Canticle of Jeremiah, Luke 1:68-79:
Out of God's deepest mercy
A dawn will come from on high
I felt God's deep mercy, a sunrise happening in me each day, driving all of the shadows away from the corners of my soul where I didn't even see them. God is presented to us every moment of every day yet I often loose sight of that. But not on this trip. As I ride along, I ride along with God, reveling in the miracle of each moment. Jesus was presented to me over and over again this day, and for once, I noticed it all. I was like Simeon, drawn by the Spirit, waiting for this moment, yet still overwhelmed by the miracles unfolding before me.
I figured, "Why go running in the city, when I am going up to the high country?" I headed out of Denver and found a beautiful pass at about 10,000 feet, and though there was a lot of snow the sun had warmed it up to about 50 degrees F. At 10,000 feet, one doesn't have to run very fast to get out of breath, but the mountains, the cedar, the sage and the sun propelled me down the road and back. There are times when I thank God I can run.
I traveled all day and followed the San Luis valley down from the top. It empties out into a broad plain of farms and ranches and swamps. I lingered in this field, talking to one of the cows who came over to chat and marveling at how fast the Jackrabbits run. Behind the ranch are the Sangre de Cristo mountains glowing in the setting sun.
The San Luis valley was supposed to get down to -5 degrees F, so I pressed on over another pass looking for warmer, lower climes. I didn't find them, but I did find a beautiful spot to spend the night with the coyotes. They sang me to sleep and woke me up in the morning. I guess they were used to having the area to themselves.
Here is my campsite in the morning. Since the coyotes were so kind to sing me their song, I thought I would I sing them one of mine. At my feet is my Hills Brothers can of ice turning to coffee by the coaxing of a camp stove. As I was singing I was distracted mid-stanza by the sun's spectacular arrival through the pines. God, everywhere I looked.
As I passed a little valley, I noticed a mist drifting over the snow. Figuring it could only be a spirit or a hot spring, I decided to investigate. It turned out to be both.
After a mile walk upstream, I found the source shrouded in mist against the dazzling snow and sun. All over the valley delicate ice crystals decorated the plants, as if Jack Frost had decided to make his definitive masterpiece here where no one would see it except those led by a pixie. My pixie was sitting on my shoulder amazed as I was at the beauty of the scene. God, I, the pixie and the spirit of the mist celebrated the morning together with the cold bright snow, the clear blue sky, the flowing hot water, the attentive piñon pines, and the occasional crow flying over. It was quite the party.