Where was beauty? Growing up in northern New Jersey, it eluded me. Of course there was Manhattan, canyons glittering at a distance beyond the gossamer span of the George Washington Bridge, but nature?
At least there were the Palisades, fifty miles of basalt embankment on the Jersey side, their name reminiscent of settlers’ forts. A strong vertical against the river, once I learned to see I could find their crystalline form–covered in trees and vines and ferns in summer, cracked by ice and frozen waterfalls in winter. Volcanic in origin, at the edge of where a great glacier stopped, carving bedrock.
Recently a huge chunk crashed off.
I won’t see it–my childhood house sold and gone. But I will always admire in my mind’s eye the beauty I found in a place without mountains, mesas, or much look at the earth’s bones–Palisades.