I spent every Saturday morning in front of the television set (and it was a piece of furniture then). Not too close of course, because we still believed, or were told, that we would go blind. Still in pajamas, I sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor. With each cartoon, I leaned forward. Closer. Nearly bent in half. My belly resting on my legs. My head in my hands. Still remaining in the safety zone, but believing I could will the roadrunner just out of reach from the coyote. And I always did.

All the glorious colors of Saturday morning danced in my head and made their way to my feet as we walked (me almost skipping) the Saguaro National Park. Having the luxury of living beyond the “fashion” of camouflage, I was well aware that actually seeing one of the animals they posted would be a stretch. So far I had only seen a woman in full Lycra step out of the shade of the sign posting “beware of the javelinas.” The timing was perfect. I could feel my mother’s wink from heaven and we both began to laugh. It was near the end of the trail, maybe only 20 feet from the car, when I saw it. My finger pointed as if to shout. I could hear the people behind me say, “She’s pointing out something.” Then the people in front of me, saying the same. A roadrunner I whispered, but pointed more loudly. And when it moved, they saw it. My first thought was not to grab my phone, but give thanks that I had remained five feet away from the television set. I hadn’t gone blind! (Those behind me probably sat too close.) I smiled and took the photo. I could hear the beep-beep (or was it meep-meep) in my head.

Sometimes, I think it’s all going too fast. It feels like time’s coyote is right at my heels. But in the glorious moments when I catch myself between decades, one foot on VanDyke Road and one foot in the desert, or even a country away, I can gather it in, and I slow it down, lean in just a little closer, and give thanks for all that is to be seen.