If perfection does indeed exist, I think I may have found it in the little town of Park City, Utah. After a recent visit there I have clearly been smitten…as in dreamy, dewy-eyed in love.

Similar to Salt Lake City, I found Park City to be incredibly clean. No trash that I could see and overall impeccably groomed as to landscaping and vegetation, yet naturally so, not fussy. It was downright tidy. Not a fern out of place and weed free besides.


We stayed at a resort at the base of a mountain, complete with a ski lift taking folks to the top. Even without snow, it ferried visitors to the peak just for the view. The lift was visible from my bedroom and what was once a breathtaking moving image became taken for granted by weeks’ end. Is that what happens to the locals? They get so used to PC’s beauty they miss its majesty over time, becoming immune to its inherent power?

Known for its voracious ski industry as well as the Sundance Film Festival, there’s another quality about the town that may not be so obvious at first blush. It is warm and inviting, festive almost—easily accessible in every sense—dotted with cute little houses as well as over-priced mansions tastefully tucked out of sight.


But the air! It was so clean, saturated with a fresh, pine smell at times, a freshness so palpable it felt physical. I felt drunk on it! My lungs have never been so stimulated, strengthened by its force—even 7,000 feet up! I actually was conscious of valuing my own life energy in a new way.

Everything seemed storybook perfect. Having said that, watching a short film about the Sundance Film Festival in the museum contaminated the little town’s image a bit for me. After all, slapping on all that tinsel and Hollywood goo to promote the place felt incongruous with Park City’s rugged mining history and the mountains the minerals came from.


In contrast, the day after we arrived we wandered around Main Street during a locals and tourist-clotted Silly Sunday event. It was a day-long artsy-craftsy thing showcasing local artists and their wares. Soaps, candles, paintings, sculptures, clothing and quilts in tented stalls were lined up and down Main Street, like little ambassadors drawing one in. A local band played at the entrance, heart-throbbing, toe-tapping  boogie music that quickened the heart.

But the mountains! They struck a chord in me. What is it about their power, their mere presence that conveys life and spurs the spirit. They seem to exist to inform us there’s something greater than mortals, not diminishing us but somehow fulfilling us, spurring humanity to our own heights. Odd, really, their effect on mankind’s psyche, challenging us to our own potential.


While Park City’s mountains were such a physical thing, an altogether different category of existence, somehow they reminded me of the Mormon choir oddly enough. They seemed to be their own hymn to life, suggesting a power greater than ourselves, of any individual being. And while the mountains didn’t bring me to tears like choir singing, they provided a healing function of spirit nonetheless. They soar skyward, tickling the heavens,  and challenge us to do likewise. They invigorate a life force that can’t be denied.

And so it was that the quintessential revitalization I received from our sisters getaway in Utah was profound! While utterly exhausted from the activities by weeks’s end, I was also invigorated by it—a fusion that touched the harmony of rock and the human heart transported by song and laughter.

“This is the season for reconstituted living. look at the smallest kindness and you will see the ingredients Einstein spoke of as comprising life. Love constitutes all things, abides in all things, reveals all things. It is never the catastrophe that does us in. Rather, it is the blind spot through which we view it.” (from Vibrating At The Speed Of Love.)


Behold the tree. I asked the tree, what is God? Tell me. It stood wordless, waving. 

I asked the sunflower, what is God? tell me. It’s stillness leaning in, silent.

I asked the puppy aquiver with energy, what is God? Tell me, its tail wildly screaming joy.

I asked the bluebells, cupped with aplomb, what is God? They simply bloomed.

I asked the worm, what is God? It ignored me, going about its earthmoving business.

To ask what — or even if — God is, strikes me as comical at this stage of my life, seemingly an egoistic exercise, a gambit in intellectual self-gratification, a puffed up cleverness ploy.

What I have come to know is that the question itself is a distraction from celestial-driven observation. We humans insist on definition, the naming of things.

Go to the woods. Go to the ocean. Go to the symphony. These all reflect places, things, nouns. Even the word God implies a thing, something to be named. A noun.

I have come to know God is not a noun. It is a verb. It is Is-ness. It is creation, allness, expression spoken in forms—out of formlessness it arises. 

It (God) is not confined in a book, not even the Bible, the Koran, the Talmud. Rather, It is everywhere, silently expressing itself in a robin’s fleshed out, beating breast, in the golden poppy, in Love’s gaze from mother to child.

It matters not whether we humans believe in It. It has no need of adoration for all that exists is its expression, scaled down like a step down transformer. 

It only requires awareness, reverence for that aspect of itself which spins creation, in one form or another, named or not!

As its offspring, all of life serves as reflection, mirroring back, pulsating, blooming, replenishing ad infinitum. Verbs, all.

Therein lies the peace that passes understanding. It is not only enough, It is all. Whether It is passive or active, It just is.


Rosalie Cushman is the author of three books, numerous essays, magazine articles, and a whole lot of web content for business and industry. She lives in Northern California.

Vibrating At The Speed Of Love