“There are in our existence spots of time, 

That with distinct pre-eminence retain

a renovating virtue…

That penetrates, enables us to mount,

When  high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen”

                         – William Wordsworth

Last spring I went on a road trip with my Mother. The only thing we were sure of was that we had 5 days to get to New Mexico. My grandmother had just finished the third of her book series and was hosting a book launch in Albuquerque. However, a phone call leading up to the trip revealed that both my mother and I were struggling in our day-to-day lives at home, and needed a reason to get up in the morning. The reason we took the trip was because we had been in a funk, and needed a change of scenery. Looking back on it now, my motives for traveling were very personal. Once we were on the road, it didn’t take us long to decide that we were going to stop in Moab, Utah to watch the sunset over Arches National Park (I took the photo above about an hour before sunset). I was noticeably uncomfortable driving through Utah. That is, until we reached Moab. As soon as we entered the park, I felt a overwhelming sense of relief – I had found what I was looking for, a ‘spot of time’. We drove through the arches with the windows down, the scene was sound tracked with under the breath “wows” and sighs. I took some pictures, but once the sun started to set I put away my camera and my phone so to capture the moment as best I could. We went on a small hike and found a perfect spot to sit and watch the sunset. As badly has I wanted to push against Wordsworth’s romanticism  of nature, this moment kept coming to my mind. I’ve tried to put into words what I experienced that evening many times,  and my mother and I still talk about it. Maybe was the feeling of being apart of something so much greater than myself, or maybe it was seeing how vast and beautiful the world is – and how small my life is in comparison. I had brought myself with me on that trip and in that moment I was able to let go of that. It was a spiritual experience that I won’t soon forget.

Nature has a way of inserting itself into our consciousness – I’m not sure why I can remember that scene in Moab more vividly than I can remember important life events like my high school graduation, or birthdays. Something about that scene makes its way to the forefront of my mind when I need it. “Wordsworth urges us to travel through landscapes in order to feel emotions that may benefit our souls. I set out for the desert so as to be made to feel small” (157)  de Botton recognizes the link between ‘sublime’ landscapes and God.  “It is as if these landscapes allowed travelers to experience transcendent feelings that they no longer felt in cities and the cultivated countryside. The landscapes offered them an emotional connection  to a greater power, even as they freed them of the need to subscribe to the more specific and now less plausible claims of biblical texts and organised religions.” (169) I think it is true hat nature humbles our souls, I think it is true that when we are standing near a mountain – we are reminded of our smallness. I also believe that one can feel that same smallness standing in the midst of the city bustle. The difference is that in a city, everyone as something to be doing – a purpose. Next to a mountain, or gazing at the sun setting on vibrant orange structures of nature, the only thing you can do is see, notice, and reflect. That is something you can’t find anywhere else. “Nature was an indispensable corrective to the psychological damage inflicted by life in the city” (Wordsworth, 134)

In these weeks leading up to my trip, I think it is important for me to reflect on these notions. Later on the The Art of Travel de Botton introduces the philosophy of Ruskin, an artist whose value for drawing I found to be refreshing. During the sketching workshop last week, I felt so frustrated by the fact that I was unable to capture the beauty of the trees – and the stark contrast between concrete and forest. After reading this, I realized that my purpose for sketching was motivated by my desire to possess beauty, rather than notice it.  This affected my ability to pay attention to details, and to understand what I was looking at. Ruskin says “My efforts are directed not to making a carpenter an artist, but to making him happier as a carpenter.” So, it is okay that I am not an expert at drawing, it is okay that I am not an expert at seeing – but I believe these ideas are going to greatly impact my ability to make the most of my time in New Orleans, and will challenge me to look deeper and longer and to really notice.