It is said that life is measured not in the number of breaths you take, but in the number of moments that take your breath away. I have had many breathless moments this week that prove that to be true.

Seeing the grandchildren was wonderful. The oldest grandson, almost twelve, came running to me when he saw me, and embraced me warmly. The younger grandson, came running, but stopped short and declared with a warm smile, “I don’t remember you at all”, and it is no wonder. He was only a year old or so when we last were together.

The teenaged granddaughter was more reserved than her brothers, but was courteous in her affection as she had been taught by her parents. Her acceptance of me would come, but only after careful examination, turning the rock this way and that, seeing if it was truly shiny, or perhaps had a dark side. As our time together progressed, she ignored the flaws and loved the shiny parts. It was a grand reconnect.

In my rush to reconnect with family, I drove fast through some of the most impressive real estate in the world, northern New Mexico, Arizona, and into southern Utah, land of the Navajo. Around every turn of the road, I saw breathtaking sights of nature’s grand artistry. I audibly gasped at the sights I was seeing, but hurried on. I needed to see family, but vowed to return the way I had come.

The return trip was much slower. It was time to reconnect to history, and history, being timeless, will not be rushed. Even motor homes passed me as I travelled and absorbed as much of the vast vistas, the towering mesas, wind and water carved rocks, the thunder storms rising in the distance with lightening dancing in their clouds, and streaks of heavy blue-gray connecting them to the earth, appearing to hold them aloft, but knowing that I would soon be driving through their downpour.

I stopped often, sometimes taking miles long detours along obscure side roads for no other reason than, “I wonder what’s down there?” I found much. This land is sacred to many First Nations people who have occupied it for centuries and other peoples who left it centuries before.

This is the land of the Anasazi, a people who occupied the land thousands of years ago, then left without a clue as to where they went. They left the Pueblos stocked with food and other necessities of life to have when they returned, but they haven’t …yet. The First Nations people who occupy this land now, the Navajo, the Paiute, Zuni, and even the still war-like Apache to the south believe that the Anasazi will yet return. They wait for this return. It is part of their religion, their culture. This is sacred ground, and I tread lightly.

Among the national monuments and places made for tourist, there are signs cautioning against yelling and shouting. They do not ask, they warn. You do not walk alone here. It was my privilege to walk these paths open to the public, with no other living being. I could feel the spirit of those who walked this land so long ago. I was able to connect, or maybe reconnect. Connecting to peoples past is as important as connecting to family present. I came away fulfilled. Mission accomplished, I am reconnected.

David Wilson Atwood is a local writer whose human-interest columns offer a unique perspective. He is the author of Where the Mockingbird Sang, A Novel of the Civil War and I Followed the Wolf, Buck's Story, the prequel/sequel to Where the Mockingbird Sang. He may be contacted, and his other works viewed at: www.starchasers.us, or david@starchasers.us.