This is what the living do

The phrase, “This is what the living do,” looped over and over in my mind as we walked up the trail toward Ranger Canyon, not far from Bluff.
We’d done a little exploring among the sandstone bluffs in November on previous trips, and we’d been amazed by their beauty.
However, on this expedition I was feeling stressed because I hadn’t started thinking about Christmas yet.
That morning, I’d awakened with tension in my jaws and between my shoulder blades as the reality of the season struck me, and now, in rhythm with my feet and arms, the phrase, “this is what the living do,” echoed through my brain. Not that I was feeling gloomy—just anxious about getting everything done.
It might have been different for Marie Howe, author of the poem, “What the Living Do.”
Her brother Johnny had died shortly before she wrote the letter-poem to him. In it, she enumerates her challenges—a plugged sink with “crusty” dishes piling up, a furnace she doesn’t know how to turn down or off, coffee spilling on her sleeve and hand, a bag of groceries splitting open as it hits the ground, and the winter sky “a deep, headstrong blue.”
The winter sky over our heads was cloaked by wispy clouds. I wanted to enjoy every moment of the Christmas season, even those times that felt challenging or tension filled, and as we walked, I pondered the word “enjoy,” meaning to bring joy in — into, inside – our minds and hearts.
Despite the shopping and decorating that needed to be done at home, I determined to take joy in our day, anticipating a landscape that would be as stunning as the hike we’d taken two weeks earlier up Outlaw Canyon.
That day, since it was before Thanksgiving, I wasn’t worried about Christmas. We followed a shallow streambed, full of cottonwoods, cockleburs, and cheatgrass.
Along the canyon walls, water seeped into alcoves, creating hanging gardens with the plants mostly dried or dormant, but some still a vivid green.
Ted pointed out the black streaks where water oozed through the porous sandstone.
After we hiked to the end of that short San Juan River tributary, pushing our way through a tangle of trees and bushes, we ate our lunch on fallen sandstone slabs to the sound of water dripping from a huge alcove above us.
“If there is magic on this planet,” Loren Eiseley once said, “it is contained in water.” Certainly, the music of the drops, and the abundant plant life seemed magical.
I caught a drop on my finger and stuck it into my mouth, a taste that was gritty and sweet.
“We should fill our water bottles,” my hubby said, but we let the idea go since it would be a slow process.
After lunch, Ted led the way up a steep path to the top of Tank Mesa. The path proved to be an old stock trail with the road dynamited through sandstone, and names, initials, symbols, and dates chiseled into the rocks, including Dean Butt and Burt Redd with 1911 being the earliest date we spotted.
Later, we found from Steve Allen’s Book, Utah’s Canyon Country Place Names, it was called the Outlaw Trail with a date documented as early as 1886, so cows and cowboys weren’t the only ones using it.
Once on top, we scanned the area with Bluff looking like a tiny hamlet in the distance. Then, we headed back to the Jeep and home.
Intrigued by the beautiful bluffs and evidence of rich prehistoric and historic cultures, we drove back to the area on December 2, this time hiking up Ranger Canyon.
It was cold. I wore gloves, a down vest, and a jacket with the hood pulled over my ears to ward off the chilly air. The sun was a white blur behind the clouds.
“This is what the living do,” cycled through my brain as we walked. Somehow, the phrase, like a mantra, kept me focused on the present rather than worrying about the myriad of tasks that needed to be done.
We explored the canyon complex and muscled up steep slopes, our lungs laboring in the ascents. Along the way, we spotted rudimentary steps carved into the rock leading to a domed cave where ancient people once ate and chatted and loved, a climb neither of us wanted to attempt.
When the sky began to clear and the sun emerged, I unzipped my coat, and even the mantra left my mind as we walked among the imposing cliffs.
I watched Ted — with little Kenidee at his side — his head tipped back, looking up at petroglyphs inscribed on the cliff walls, and the magic of the moment, not merely of water and hanging gardens, swept over me, nearly overwhelming me with love.
Marie Howe writes in her poem, “We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when... I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep ...that I’m speechless: I am living....”
Later, in the next week or so, we would purchase gifts, decorate the house — at least on the inside — plan activities for little ones, attend parties, and make trips to see family and old friends, all with joy, a deep cherishing, because that’s what the living do.