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

Creative Pursuits, 2016 Style

During the months of December and January, I've made a conscious effort to avoid social media in order to focus on pursuits more tangible.  While writing has taken a back burner, I've learned how to do a few new things.  

For the past twenty-six days, I participated in a calligraphy challenge.  I purchased a worksheet set from The Postman's Knock, a calligraphy blog, and set about practicing a letter a day for this particular alphabet.  I used an oblique holder, Japanese sumi ink, and 24 pound paper and was quite pleasantly surprised with how much difference using the right tools can make.  In the past, I'd been frustrated about bleeding ink, especially, and now I can see that I wasn't using the right ink or paper.  I've pretty much used up a pad of practice paper I bought at the local art store.

For Christmas gifts, I was able to make some baskets from cotton rope using the zigzag stitch on my sewing machine.  Really quick and easy.  

At some point in December, I first heard of Japanese-style shibori, a dyeing process similar in some ways to tie-dye and yet also very different.  I purchased a set of 100% cotton napkins and set about creating different designs.  Some used stitching as dye-resist.  Others were folded or wrapped in certain ways, using large PVC pipe, marbles, rubber bands, string, or wood.  Each weekend I prepared a couple napkins for the dyeing process, over the course of the last six weeks or so.  This past weekend we finally had a warm day with little else going on, and so I created a vat of indigo dye and spent the majority of the day dyeing.  It was messy and fun and really fascinating to see the end results.  I have a large tablecloth that I plan on using some of the same techniques to dye at some point in the future.  I also dyed some of the remaining rope baskets that I'd made in December and all the rope that was leftover.

Indigo dyeing has a pretty high wow-factor.  The vat of dye is actually a greenish-yellow.  When white items are submerged and then removed from the dye bath, they are bright green.  Upon oxidation, they turn blue.  You can dye again for a darker blue color once the oxidation has occurred if you desire.

I took some photos along the way, before, during, and after:

 

 

2016 will also be a year spent with our honeybees.  There's a new hive box in the basement waiting for a warm enough day to paint it and I ordered a colony of bees that will arrive sometime in April.  Our current colony is so far holding its own this winter.  If they can survive another month I'll feel pretty confident that they'll make it to summer.  Fingers crossed.

What creative pursuits has 2016 brought to you?

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.

The Spaces in Between

I’m sitting on the beach watching the tide lap in and the sun is slowly sinking beyond the horizon.  A few puffs of cloud strategically frame the setting sun.  My family is playing Frisbee in the sand behind me and I’m thinking of the family of a college friend I’d fallen out of touch with who passed away this morning after a long and difficult struggle.  He spent nine long months hovering in that in-between space that bridges death and life, moving from ICU to less acute care and back again and again.  He was younger than me.

These in-between spaces are where struggle often seems to reside.  I think of this as I watch the waves lay claim to the land and the land wears itself to smaller and smaller particles.  Here, on the edge of the continent and the edge of the sea, I sit on a narrow sliver of land called the Strandway.  I wonder what it might resemble in another generation’s time, how climate change might affect this densely populated and low-lying strip between sea and bay.

Forty or so minutes south, lies Mexico, whose culture and language enriched my childhood and early career teaching English as a Second Language.  That in-between space of borderlands from here and stretching east through Texas, too, has been a place of struggle.  As I learn the stories of refugees fleeing Syria, Iraq, and Afghanistan today, hoping to arrive in Europe or North America, I think of this border here, too.  I think of how the struggle of the refugee is one of bleak hope and abject desperation, the likes of which is even more foreign to me than life underwater or in outer space.  The in-between space occupied by refugees and immigrants, even into the subsequent generation, is one that few of us in America can fathom.  When we talk about immigration, it’s often framed in terms of cost, but how often do we think of what it costs a parent to take a child from the only place they’ve called home, at great peril to all, likely never to return?  And to have such faith in the investment of their own resources into their offspring’s future, even if death is a likely outcome?  I think of this massive flow of refugees from the Middle East and I have no answers and no solutions and I hate how helpless I feel.  At the same time I question how Europe will balance the unanticipated logistics of such a huge human migration. 

It’s hard not to feel a sense of guilt regarding my own good luck to have been born when and where I was.  I ponder these in-between spaces and the one I occupy while on vacation, sandwiched between one grading period and the next.  And yet, in spite of my own good fortune, it’s somehow still easy to get cranky about feeling slightly hungry while playing tourist, or about being less than enthusiastic at how the rest of the family’s interests are not always meshing with my own.  It’s easy, too, to feel annoyed that our little cottage here lies beneath the flight path of the San Diego Airport.  At regular intervals throughout the day and into the night, jets filled with humans whose needs (I remind myself) are just as valid as my own, roar overhead to various destinations.  But I’m trying hard to maintain perspective, which sometimes reaches us in the most mundane of ways.  When we first arrived here at this cottage, we briefly met a guest staying in another part of the building.  When I saw him later, I asked him how he was doing, and his response was, “Better than I deserve.”  And I thought what a fantastic sentiment.  Surely that’s an attitude that I can cultivate, living in this land of plenty with an abundance of good fortune.  Sometimes, though, it’s hard not to want more, to feel like we deserve more, even when we surely have more than we will ever need, even though I often remind myself that gratitude is the key to turning what we have into enough.

These in-between spaces, too, in spite of the struggles that exist in them, are also rich in diversity and life.  What exists in between is unique and often not found elsewhere, in terms of ecosystems like tide pools and also more esoteric thoughts, too.  The clarity that finds us here, gazing out at the ocean, also rarely exists elsewhere.  Once I’ve ventured inland, back beyond the scent of the ocean breeze, where the shushing of the waves no longer calms my noisy thoughts, I return to that chattering state of mind which crowds out any quieting effect the ocean might have had.  The peaceful thoughts fall like the proverbial sand through my fingers.  But the memories remain.  We can reflect on the beauty of the sunset, or good times with old friends, and our gratitude that these things did, in fact, exist.  And perhaps at times those memories, the mind revisiting those in-between spaces, are enough.

Here at the coast, my gaze is drawn out, toward the wide horizon, into that space between here and there.  And after an interval, my eyes still on the horizon, I shift the gaze inward.  There’s a mental inventory of sorts that I calculate every time I take in a vast landscape like the ocean.  The waves rise and fall, advance and retreat, their constancy soothing and calming on a fair day such as this.  And, as if in time to their rhythm, a litany of gratitude answers their cadence:  family, friends, health, freedom, and so much more, and the waves echo the thanks in my thoughts:  this is enough, this is more than enough, more than enough.

Lessons from the Hive, September 2015

For each of the past three school days, I added a pause to the typical after school routine.  Formerly, we'd arrive home and jump right into homework, grading, dinner prep, or whatever the evening required.  But this week, I took a few moments after arriving home to head out into the backyard to watch the bees.  It's a very calming and centering moment, watching the bees leave and arrive, much like watching fish in a tank, really.  The older worker bees leave the hive, taking their funny little bee steps and then suddenly, they take flight without preamble.  Other workers are returning with nectar or water, or my favorite to note, pollen.  Pollen with some other secret bee ingredients is fed to the larvae (beekeepers call this 'bee bread').  The bees returning from foraging with pollen carried in 'buckets,' hairy receptacles found of their hind legs.  Right now the pollen they're bringing in is white, or yellow, or bright orange.  Earlier, it was mostly yellow or purple.

Pollen buckets, aka pollen pants:

It's fascinating to watch a species that works so communally.  Each worker bee, throughout the course of its life, cycles through a series of jobs.  Each of these jobs is for the good of the whole hive and many of the jobs that a bee performs does not actually benefit that individual bee.  And from my human perspective, it seems that the bees perform these tasks without complaint or expectation of reward.  Even when the new bees emerge after pupating, they begin to clean the cell they were just in to prepare it for another egg to be laid by the queen.  These young worker bees, sometimes called house bees, feed the young larvae and help make honey.  They guard the hive, make honeycomb, and help the foragers by removing their pollen and storing it in cells.  They eventually, toward the end of their life cycle, leave the hive to forage for nectar and pollen which will feed the next generation of bees.  The worker bees also act as undertakers, removing any bees that die in the hive.  On Friday afternoon I witnessed this, and even captured on video, two bees pulling a bee carcass out of the entrance and one of the bees flying away with it to dispose of it.

Bring out yer dead!

This sense of absolute devotion to community rarely exists in the human world.  We certainly have our moments of selflessness, our acts of generosity and heroism, but notice that we humans sometimes reward these unusual acts with honors and awards because they are out of the ordinary.  Our sense of individuality trumps our collective best interest more often than not.  If we can learn anything from the bees, perhaps it should be that there are sweet rewards when we can find it in ourselves to work together for the common good without the expectation of what's-in-it-for-me.

A second lesson I’ve learned from the hive is not to neglect wonder.  Two months ago, all I knew about honeybees was that they produce honey.  Ever since we impulsively acquired this hive, I’ve been obsessively reading and learning all I can about them.  I’ve gotten some flak from some people, but to each her own.  I don’t expect anyone else to get as excited about bees as I am.  I don’t get excited about some of the more conventionally acceptable obsessions of our society, like football, television shows, or Disneyland.  But here is what stuns me:  there are incredible worlds within our world, most of which we walk on by and fail to notice.  But new worlds are awakening my senses, and it’s fascinating how much I still have to learn at my age.  Caring about bees has made me look more closely at flowers.  And I look at all kinds of bugs and spiders with interest now.  I’ve been thumbing through Audubon’s wildflower and insect identification guides.  I am learning the naming of things.  I am learning to wonder.