But, It's more than that. I thought, as my mom expressed her hatred towards the "ugly" and "brown" Texas landscape.
"The trees don't change color here like back home. They're not real trees," she said - the home she was referring to being upstate New York.
And she was right... they didn't. She was also right in pointing out that the Texas' landscapes were relatively dull compared to the landscapes in upstate New York. But, while growing older I began to realize with more freedom to explore Texas, that that was the issue: comparing it.
Yes, the hills roll in Texas, but not quite like the hills in New York or the hills coming down from the Atalaya mountain range that roll off the Colorado - New Mexico border. But, again that's the issue... and that's the point.
Who are we to compare the Texas hill country to the foothills of the Atalayas or the Adirondacks? For, we had no say in how it was created. And how it was created is exactly why It's more than that. It's more than the lush colors of Autumn; rather, the perseverance of the land through a harsh Texas summer, where the Earth begins tilting away from the Sun, rewarding the barren land with the long, gloomy Fall showers.
It's about the layers. Yeah, the seemingly blank ridge you stare at as the sweltering South Texas humidity claws at the back of your neck, tests your appreciation for the gift of sight.
Those layers, however, happen to be calling to you. Only if you listen, will you hear the stories embedded within - stories of how Apaches scoured this land in desperation against Spaniards.
Stories of how ancient creatures - snails as big as your face - have slithered up and down these treacherous walls...
Of how an oceanic desert spanned the entire Earth, not a single island separating the vast prehistoric sea.
As you look through the tunnel created by limestone and oaks, greenbriar scraping its thorns across your shoulders, you begin to wonder why you gave this place the satisfaction of your presence. Again, it tests you. It tests your balance as the once-dry rock has become the epitome of an ankle sprain in its slippery, Fall form. It tests your awareness while you look at your toes with every step, and the tunnel shortens to your forehead, unbeknownst to you until making contact with it abruptly.
You begin to picture what this place looked like only weeks ago. The maroon and lime colored leaves spewing with moisture from the springs within the limestone's chest. You can hear it breathing a breath you would've never knew it possessed during Summer days. Because It's more than that.
For every granite face mightily towering over you. For every bend in a river, fast or dry. For every desert spanning as far as the eye, and for every cave in a canyon, old or new; know that there's more to it than the instant pleasure of luscious green. The stories that every inch of those features can tell, is beyond the amount of stories you can even begin to fathom in your lifetime.
It's more than that. It's greater than you. It will outlast you. Especially, It is Beauty.
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