My Desert Solitaire

I recall feeling perplexed as a child in elementary school, or perhaps even younger, whenever we’d learn about the seasons and silly rhymes like “April showers bring May flowers.”  The four traditional seasons and the nursery rhymes with origins in England (or perhaps New England) didn’t match my experience growing up in the Sonoran Desert.  And when a desert was depicted in popular culture, i.e., Snoopy’s desert-dwelling cousin, Spike, from Needles, California, that didn’t feel authentic to me, either.  For a long time, I wanted to flee the desert.  It was too hot, too dry, too boring.  I had a different image in my mind of a beautiful location and a more tolerable climate.  Eventually I made my way to a mountain town and live in a semi-arid climate, a combination of chaparral and juniper-piñon forest, which I love and truly feels like home.

But I do long for the desert and will always be a desert rat.  I’m pretty sure this longing was born mostly when I became a desert backpacker.  I’ve logged many miles in the Grand Canyon, both on corridor and backcountry routes.  I’ve done some backpacking elsewhere in other desert areas, including Aravaipa, the Superstition Mountains, and Paria Canyon.  And while I’ve day-hiked in most of the western states of the US, I don’t think I’ve actually backpacked in a non-desert location.  I’m not sure I’d know how to deal with a soaked tent or gear, or such an abundance of water that I wouldn’t have to depart camp in the morning having calculated precisely how much water I’ll need for the remainder of the day’s miles.

Of the deserts in the American Southwest, the Sonoran is, without question, the lushest, with massive cacti like the saguaro and true trees like mesquite and palo verde.  I used to think the Mojave and Chihuahua were ugly in comparison.  Now, though, I can find a beauty in the starkness of those deserts as well.  We’ve just returned home from a spring break camping trip to Joshua Tree National Park in the higher elevations of the Mojave, which is beautiful in unique ways.  It is striking, though not in the same manners as Death Valley – but its granite boulders, mining ruins, palm oases, and iconic trees are worth contemplating.

One of my favorite books, The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, is set in the middle of the Sahara Desert.  That desert has always seemed mythical and magical to me, in terms of its history, culture, beauty, and immensity, even before I read this book, with stunning sand dunes, shimmering oases, camel caravans, and exotic people.  A favorite line:  Ce qui embellit le désert, c’est qu’il cache un puits quelque part.  (What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere, it hides a well.)  When I read this book with my French students, I remind them that the entire book is an allegory, and so a well or source of water in the desert signifies something quite precious, something life-affirming and valuable.  This quote, to me, signifies the true beauty of the desert.  Of course, Saint-Ex was speaking of more than just the desert; the water source in the desert is one of many motifs throughout the book of something barely visible, which only a unique few can perceive.  The well perhaps represents the rarity of true friendship, of true connection with another individual, which is often ephemeral and rare, and nourishes, just like a spring in the desert. 

The desert requires focus, attention, and an investment of time and respect.  If you glide through or over it in the comfort of your air-conditioned car or airplane, it seems harsh, monotonous, and never-ending.  But if you travel through it on foot, prepared for the obstacles you may encounter, you’ll notice much that otherwise might escape your perception.  It is a quiet place, especially at the height of the day’s heat.  You’ll hear birdsong early or late in the day, coyotes after dusk.  Flowers of every color are on display, some showy and others miniscule.  You’ll see life:  insects, birds, and reptiles, mostly, but also mammals like coyotes or big horn sheep if you linger long enough in the right locations.  You’ll note how the sun, especially at the low angle of dawn or dusk, amplifies the hues of everything, especially exposed rocks, canyon walls, or mountain ranges.  Because of the lack of vegetation, compared to a pine forest, for example, the desert feels immense.  It is easy to feel insignificant there, and that may cause unease at first.  But there is also a comfort in the desert’s immensity and human insignificance.  When hiking in the desert, you reduce your load to the essentials.  The same is true of the burdens carried within:  what holds meaning?  what matters most?  how can I lay down the rest, the nonessentials?  The desert leaves you alone and is indifferent to your plight, allowing the chatter and noise of the world to drop away.  I am grateful for this, as one of its most significant offerings is solitude, which I hold close to my heart, quietly.

Joshua Trees

Wall Street Stamp Mill ruins (gold mining operation)

Chimney near Lost Horse Stamp Mill

Granite and sky near Indian Cove

Yucca with 49 Palms Oasis in distance

49 Palms Oasis with sun flares

Desert Globemallow, Spaeralcea ambigua

The aptly named Yellow Bee Plant, Cleome lutea, with a honeybee, Apis mellifera

Mosaics in the Making

It is no coincidence that last night after learning the awful news from Paris, with a heavy heart, I began to read Terry Tempest Williams’ Finding Beauty in a Broken World.  It is a book about many things and many places, among them, learning the ancient art of mosaics in Italy.  Taking broken shards and creating something that catches and reflects light is something that this world of ours could use more of, definitely. 

I awoke this morning still sad and angry about humanity’s incessant ability to destroy one another, not only in Paris but also in Beirut and Syria, and a myriad of other places I’ve never been that always includes Sandy Hook, too.  But the acts in Paris hit home as deeply as the mass shooting in Tucson several years ago that injured Gabby Giffords and killed many others.  Both Paris and Tucson were home during significant phases of my life.  But my heart was softened this morning by a message posted on Facebook by Frans, my Parisian host father from all those years ago.  While his message acknowledged anger and sadness, he reminded me that now we should look inward and for the Soul to reclaim its liberty.  He ended with a beautiful phrase:  Je suis en devenir – I am in the making, and I realized that we are all in the making, not one of us is yet complete, not a single one of us.

But of course, I was still angry and sad.  I still am.  It takes time to heal.  And often it takes more than time.  For me, I often need time outdoors on my feet – walking, running, hiking – to sort out the thoughts chasing one another around my mind.  I headed for Old Kettle Road, the farthest road from our house in the neighborhood, a journey I’d made while mentally composing my first post for this blog several years back.  Back then, it wrapped around an open meadow, which legend holds, was used as an airstrip in the 1940s.  In the last several years, though, it’s been subdivided and homes in various stages of construction and habitability line its edge.  I came here because it’s a quiet walk, it’s rare to see others, and solitude was what I was hoping to find.  I was mostly alone, however, the natural world held surprises for me.

On my way down the hill, an adult American kestrel flew right in front of me – maybe five feet away – and perched in a nearby tree and showed me its tail feathers.  A raven did a similar maneuver about a mile further down the road, flying close enough that I could feel the movement of air from its wings.  And then, when I turned on Old Kettle, thinking of Paris, there was a coyote, maybe 40 feet beyond, trotting away from me down the road.  And in that moment, the wiliness and adaptability of the coyote seemed very à propos for Paris, a city that is constantly reinventing itself while maintaining its allure and history.  The coyote sensed my presence and stopped, looking back at me over its shoulder.  We regarded one another for a long minute or less, until she lost interest and resumed her silent trot, at the quick, even pace that only belongs to the stealthy.

I spent the afternoon at Watson Woods with Madeleine and several of her friends.  We were volunteering with Prescott Creeks to help eradicate wild teasel (Dipsacus fullonum) from the wetlands there.  It was hard work, using shovels to remove these plants with roots the size of carrots from the mucky, sticky mud.  Teasel is a European species, introduced in the eastern US on purpose, but which has spread throughout the West choking out native grasses and plants.  In some areas the ground was carpeted with teasel and it was difficult to see the progress we were making.  I had to keep reminding myself that every plant we took out was not going to flower and go to seed and give life to thousands of others.  I felt like the Little Prince battling his baobabs on Asteroid B-612.  It was good therapy to attack this plant under the watch of the stately golden cottonwoods, even if our work made a rather small difference to the Watson Woods. 

A few weeks ago, I went with a dear friend to hear Terry Tempest Williams speak.  Williams is a writer, activist, and conservationist, a champion of the American Southwest.  I first encountered her writing through Refuge, her account of her mother’s death from breast cancer, while I was in the midst of my own breast cancer experience.  It also expresses her dismay that, while shepherding her mother toward death, she was also witnessing the destruction of natural habitat due to the Great Salt Lake rising to record levels, a place which had previously given her much solace. Williams does not mince words and yet also writes with a sensitivity that is simultaneously delicate and powerful.  Refuge is so eloquent and potent that at times I had to set it aside, unable to bear the truths about human and ecological suffering that it contains.  I know that Finding Beauty in a Broken World will not be an easy read either, but that it will be worthwhile.

At this talk in October, though, Williams spoke about her work in conservation and how it is that change is enacted.  She and her husband Brooke have found that one tactic that has worked is what they term “uncomfortable dinner parties.”  They’ll host a dinner party, inviting people who have different visions regarding a difficult topic, and after dinner they’ll have a conversation about it.  They might invite ranchers, tribal leaders, developers, environmentalists, and lawmakers to discuss an issue like the Bears Ears, a proposed national monument.  And through these conversations around the dinner table, they’ve been able to make progress through compromise and listening.  Again and again, she returned to conversation as a solution for every issue for which the audience members sought her advice.  It’s such a simple idea, and yet how often do we avoid it?  We avoid it for a simple reason, too:  it’s difficult.

In the midst of our sometimes seemingly endless grief, whether it be due to our own personal suffering or that caused by a global event or something in between, conversation quite possibly could make a big difference.  So I ask you to start one, perhaps even an uncomfortable one with a person you might not ordinarily choose.  Invite someone, especially someone that you perceive as different from you, into a conversation and be sure to take some of that time to breathe and to listen.  We are all in the making.  We are all becoming.  We are all mosaics, trying to make something beautiful from the broken pieces around us.

My Encounter with the Little Prince

Late one afternoon this past week, my daughters and I made a quick trip into town.  We were going to grab a bite for dinner and stop by our favorite shop, the Peregrine BookCompany.  I had been informed that the copies of the book I’ll be giving away for World Book Night 2013 were ready to be picked up.  Ever since the closing of most of our town’s independent bookstores in the post-Amazon market, and then the closing of a large chain bookstore, we’ve been longing for a decent bookstore.  Peregrine somehow fits the collective fantasy of an independent downtown bookstore for our town, and it’s a big deal for this town to agree on something, as we have seemingly divergent populations:  old ranchers and old hippies, teenagers and transplant retirees, horsemen and mountain bikers, free-thinking artists and conservative Christians, and more of course.  And yet somehow, we all seem to agree that Peregrine is a lovely space.

Every time I enter the bookstore, my heart races because I can scarcely believe it is true, that this beautiful bookstore is here, and that I can come anytime I want, to browse and purchase, to sniff the books.  If you have never suffered a bookstore drought in your life, you are extremely lucky.  You just can’t inhale the scent of book on Amazon.

Just moments after we entered the bookstore, Madeleine peeled away to find her favorite chair in the Young Adult section (“It’s so cushy!”).  Arden and I were looking at Rory’s Story Cubes when suddenly we were accosted by a little red-haired boy, maybe three years old, brandishing a book about monsters.

“I want to show you this,” he commanded, plopping on the floor right at our feet.  He acted as if he’d been waiting for us to arrive, or maybe even as if we’d walked in with him.

Two things went through my mind immediately:

1)  The way this boy talked to me, and the self-assuredness with which he behaved, reminded me of another little boy I loved - the Little Prince - who also made somewhat arrogant and self-centered demands of adults.
2)  One of my favorite lines from the Little Prince, “Quand le mystère est trop impressionnant, on n’ose pas désobéir.” (In the face of an over-powering mystery, you don’t dare disobey.)  What if this red-haired boy were my Little Prince, sent here to teach me life’s greatest lessons?  How could I not do as he asked?

And so, I found myself kneeling on the hard wood floor with Arden and this little boy, just yards away from the cash register counter, looking at the monster book.  He separated each page carefully with his tiny hands, flipping it to reveal another new monster on each page.  We laughed at the silly monsters and picked our favorite attributes.

“This one has funny hair.”

“I like his spots.”

“What a scary mouth and claws!”

At one point, though, my knees began to ache and I looked around in search of a parent of this child, but saw none.  I felt a bit perplexed.  This wasn’t why I was here.  I had things to do, places to go.  But this little boy was so insistent, so certain that I was supposed to be there on the floor, pouring over this ridiculous book with him, and I couldn’t break away.  An older woman walked by with a clerk and acknowledged us in such a way that I believed she must be his grandmother, but she said nothing.  Arden smiled at me and made herself more comfortable on the floor, and so we continued to look at the monster book with this red-haired little prince.  From time to time he told me (he didn’t ask) to read a word or two, or ordered me to help him count with him how many eyes certain monsters had.  The grandmotherly woman walked by again, observing us with practiced eyes.

By the time we reached the end, though, a realization hit me.  I was here to pick up my books for World Book Night, and the whole point of this philanthropic event is to share the love of reading person to person.  I'll be giving away Paulo Coehlo's The Alchemist, a fable about following your dream.  In the book, a young shepherd leaves his home and all that he knows in order to pursue his unlikely and fanciful dream.  On his quest he encounters many people who teach him lessons.   I grasped that this little boy was doing exactly that with me.  I had just met a member of my tribe.  In Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince, the title character learns from and teaches the other characters huge lessons about life and love and purpose.  I felt as if I’d been charmed as we stood up and I knew that I’d likely have few encounters like this in my lifetime, that this was somehow an allegory in my real life.  I dusted off my knees and looked at Arden, who was beaming.  She seemed to understand - of course she did - that we were in the presence of something rare. 

 

Our little prince swaggered toward the counter, monster book in hand, and in his self-assured way, announced, “I’m going to check this one out.  It’s really good.” 

I stifled a giggle, as that sounded just like something the Little Prince would say, but I said nothing, knowing that he would not listen to me.  We wandered around the store, re-grouped with Madeleine, asked for and received my box of books.  We didn’t see the boy or the older woman again, but I felt and shared his love of books with my whole being.  And so, with new inspiration and insight, I’ll be giving away The Alchemist on April 23, 2013, to twenty people in my community.  I’m hopeful that they’ll feel that same spark of joy in books that Arden and I shared with the little red-haired boy, and that they’ll find great meaning in the tale of an Andalusian shepherd named Santiago and his quest to follow his dream.