SKY

I've read that in the old days certain nomadic tribes wandering the grassy steppes of central Asia worshiped the sky. Nothing in particular in the sky, like the Sun or Moon, but the sky itself.

I like to think about that, about living freely with feet in crushed grass and mud, and the omnipresent upper half of everyday reality being regarded as worshipful. Think of one's psyche in that atmosphere, there on the horizon-to-horizon plains, the godhead not a theoretical presence in a dubious Heaven, but actually right there, the blue sky, the clouds, the chilly winds sweeping across the grass, and rains, starry nights, snow in the night... all God-stuff, all meaningful and awe-inspiring, all the time, even the circling ravens raining down croaks pregnant with godly meanings.

Also here in the Yucatan as the new year begins you can't miss the sky's poetical, mind-stirring grandness, which grows day by day. For one thing, as the dry season sets in the air is less humid, more crystalline, so light dazzles more than ever. Also, with the advancing dry season, deciduous trees start to shed dried-up, brown, or yellowish, or maybe just dusty-green leaves, letting more light reach the forest floor. Around the hut it's noticeably more airy, a kind of wateriness to the light, plus it's the coolest time of the year. Skin in shadow can be cold, even as skin in glaring sunlight sizzles. It feels good after all those months of heat and humidity. Most days, there's even a friendly breeze. Delicious.

At this season the sky-symphony's key accommodates nortes, or "northers," that majestically spread down from Canada and the US, across the Gulf of Mexico, to here, and sometimes even into Guatemala. Usually as the front passes it just grows cloudy, maybe with a brief shower. On the first and second nights after the passage, our coldest hours are at dawn. This week at the hut it got down to 51°F (11°C). When I asked a Maya worker if he suffered much, he replied "Un poquito," "a little." Sometimes people in the villages pile fireplace embers below their hammocks.

The nortes come about once a week now. Right before they hit, it's warmer and more humid than usual, then it's cloudy and a brisk wind blows old broken tree twigs to the ground, then a cold night follows, and next day there's a dark blue sky with skin-burning sunlight. Now as the days pass, each afternoon more and more summery white cumulus clouds grace the sky, and then the next norte arrives, and then the whole thing starts over again, and again. If over the long haul you're paying attention, drinking it all in, it's a bit hypnotic.

This week it's all been accompanied by nights luminous with moonlight. Right next to the hut's open door with moonlight streaming through, I dream dreams seeming to be meant for some other person, dreams populated with people and things I've never seen before. When I awaken, it feels as if I've been listening to the sky, understanding some, but mostly not.