"Revival" is a wish for the earth and for my children, for a new era filled with growth and vitality. These landscapes are drawn from my memories of hiking the ancient terrain of Bryce Canyon in Utah, where I witnessed nature's resilience in the face of time. I visited Bryce Canyon for the first time in the summer of 2016, about eight months pregnant with my second child. My doctor was concerned she wasn't growing as she should, and I was carrying a lot of worry. I went with my one-year-old son, Ansel, and my mother, Cathy. She stayed with him while I set out alone at 4 a.m. to hike the Fairyland Loop Trail — an eight-mile path through irregular rock spires called hoodoos. As I descended thousands of feet to the canyon floor, the silence was profound. It felt otherworldly, as if I had traveled to a mysterious realm bathed in moonlight. Many of the trees stood like skeletal figures, their pale, slender forms stark against the darkness. Towering, sweet-smelling Ponderosa pines lined the narrow passageways between immense rock walls. The trail meandered up and down, following the amphitheater's undulating landscape. With each change in elevation, new trees emerged — Douglas firs, Colorado Pinyon pines, Manzanita shrubs. Higher up, gnarled Bristlecone Pines came into view. Their twisted trunks and knotted roots defied the limestone, clinging fiercely to the arid earth. In the early morning glimmer, I paused beside one particularly contorted tree. I took a deep breath and gazed at it in wonder. At 9,000 feet, it had claimed a rocky, barren cliff as if it were the most welcoming home on earth. In that moment I felt the pulse of life within that tree, and the baby moving in my belly. Each flutter and kick reminded me of the resilience of nature and the boundless potential for renewal. The landscape became something ancient and elemental in my mind, a place where earth and sky converged to create life. Revival became the word that lingered long after I left.