An Acquired Taste

When I first drove into St. George, viewing my temporary new home, I attempted not to pout and commented, "It's so...bland." Disagreeing with me, Burke replied, "It's an acquired taste." Yeah right. Nothing could compare with my Cache Valley mountains; navy blue with shadows of lavendar and pearly white trimmings of snow in the winter. How could dusty brown and dead grey desert even hope to measure up?

Yet, upon pointing Little Red's resilient head North yesterday afternoon, I felt a twinge of pain as mile upon mile removed me from the Southland. The sun was beaming down in warm brilliant rays that exploded into fire as they touched the crimson sandstone that snakes around the city, sometimes looking like a wall of red hot lava slopping down into the bowl bellow. I stopped at my favorite place to ponder for a few minutes, suddenly in no rush to leave. The St. George Temple grounds have become a place of peace for me and a location I have taken advantage of visiting often over the past month and a half. Something about the pure what edifice standing strong against a blue sky, with an occasional glimpse of the red rock firmly rooted in the background has brought a comfort and attachment to that land that I never anticipated feeling. I no longer felt like I was leaving a barren wasteland, but a desert Zion. It's amazing how our perspective can change in just a few short weeks. I guess some things are an acquired taste after all.