when I was in college
we took a field trip east of the city about a half hour
away.
our teacher instructed us how to survive on the land,
what we could eat or couldn’t eat
and how to get water in an emergency.

we made our way through cholla, saguaro, mesquite and palo verde.
the terrain was sand and rock.
the sun burned on us,
and we walked a winding trail
around and up the small mountain that we were hiking.

there were maybe 30 of us,
and we arrived at a place where the water came out of
an area in the rocks.
the ground was smooth and piled with large boulders.
our teacher explained to us that this area was used by Native Americans
many many years ago.

I touched the rocks
and ran my hand across the drawings on the stones.
I did not understand any of it.

I have wondered over the years if what I am writing about
is important enough to be drawn for
future generations to see.
and yet, I have realized that this is not why I write.
my writings could be set on fire,
but at least I would have gotten it out of me.

the Native Americans were expressing something important enough
to be drawn on those rock walls.
and even if the Earth opened up and swallowed the whole place
the moments that they lived
and created
would live on
and continue in some way
or another.

when we left
I stared out the bus window at the terrain that sped by.
some of us were there for a grade, and some of us were there because
we didn’t know any better.
what I took with me from this experience
was a lifetime of stories that I didn’t understand,
but it has helped me understand
a bit more about myself
now.