The smell of a desert after a rain fills the soul with an
inexpressible, unfathomable hope. I wish
words could give it justice. I only know
of this experience in one desert landscape: Tucson, AZ. Months without a single drop of rain makes
the ground impermeable to the first drops of what Arizonans call the “monsoon
season.” The ground, deprived of water
for so long, cannot accept the love that the heavens bring. Raindrops bounce off the surface of the soil,
like a tennis ball bouncing off the court.
This phenomenon will go on for long minutes, maybe hours, until the
ground can no longer ward off the overwhelming waters of the skies. At some point the soil has to accept the
waters, and eventually with steady persistence, the water of the heavens finds
its way into the soul of the desert.
When I was 22, I moved to Tucson. I first arrived in Tucson directly after one
such monsoon rain. Stepping out of the
airport doors, I was greeted by an oppressive humidity with which I was all too
familiar. Having been acclimated to the
humidity of the Southeastern U.S., it felt like home, and, so understandably I
was quite confused. I had been warned of
the “dry heat” of the desert, the low humidity that makes you drink water like
a fish, and the heat of a sun that makes you believe in the powerful wrath of
God. I was not expecting this. When I arrived in the house, where I was to
live for a year, the Santa Cruz River out back was flowing quickly with waters,
like NC Mountain white water rapids.
There was greenery, there were flowers, and there was life.
The waters and humidity, however, did not last long. Within days I was drying out like a towel
left on the line too long and the river vanished like a ghost into the Southern
horizon. All that was left of the
river’s existence was an indentation on the land and a sandy river bottom that
suggested memories of a river that once flowed freely and vigorously. Most of the year I discovered the riverbed
served many other purposes outside of transporting water from one place of high
elevation to another. It served as a
greenway on which athletes trained. It served as a dog park. It even served as a horse training facility
for one particularly suave black cowboy, who liked to sweet talk the ladies
passing by on the path adjacent to the river.
The riverbed also served as a migrant transport corridor. Border patrol was known from time to time to
fly helicopters over the riverbed in search of migrants crossing the
border. One night on the path by the
riverbed a Border Patrol helicopter slowed over my head to do, what I can only
assume, was a quick profile. However,
the PBR and the jorts must have tipped them off. “Nope just a hipster,” they must have thought
as they continued on their Northern journey along the riverbed. Surely the
riverbed was always lively- both with and without its waters.
The dryness of the Tucson desert births only the greatest
and most tenacious of survivors, many of which have spines. Cacti are prolific and only mesquite trees rival
them on the landscape. Spines are the
‘stuff’ of survivors because they conserve water. Spines are modified leaves designed to reduce
surface area and loss of water through evapotranspiration. Cacti spines, however, also serve as a
reproduction mechanism and a defense against animals, not excluding the most
unassuming of these – humans. The great
saguaro cacti of the Tucson desert are the tamer of her cacti brethren. Jumping cholla cacti are also omnipresent. Although cholla do not actually “jump” per
say, they have readily detachable bits that hitch rides on hikers and other
animals to aid in vegetative propagation.
A painful and proactive flora that loves the company of strangers.
Cacti spines and the desert soil are testaments to the power
of water and the spirits of her offspring – life. Everything about the desert screams paranoia
and distrust. The desert is not too
dissimilar from a distrustful soul that has been tortured by life’s greatest
tragedies. The monsoon season is a large reason why the Sonoran desert of
Tucson is so beautiful and unique. The
quantity of rainfall and its timing define the landscape. It is the reason for the Saguaro cacti and
the mesquite. Without it, the Sonoran
desert is a nameless faceless and empty place.
As if water were love, water gives the Sonoran desert its identity and
fate. It defines its being and its
going.
I find myself at times feeling desert-like. I suppose I feel this now; hence, why I write
today. There are times I feel such a
great sadness about our world that I don’t have the energy to let any love into
my heart. There are times I get angry at
myself. There are times I get angry at
the injustice that life deals those I love.
There are times that I just don’t want to be anything but a hard surface
on which all interaction and emotion bounces.
These are times that I envy the desert soil.
Sometimes I am a desert soil. I think we all have this mode of action- or
inaction rather. It’s as if we shut
down, and I believe it’s as real and human as the human-like stature of a
Saguaro cacti. However, I have come to
realize that lasting too long in this state is also an injustice of a different
kind. The universe put me together just
in this way for some purpose. At the
very least, I serve an ecological niche or else I would not be here. I have purpose. I have soul.
I am. And so, I will be. No. It
is true. My species does not depend on whether I am here or not. But it would be a great waste of energy and the
way this universe put me together to be a nameless desert soil. Although I am not special, I am unique. I am defined by who I am every time I accept
love, every time I accept the waters of this life. If the desert soils of Tucson’s Sonoran
desert were to reject the waters of this coming monsoon season, it would cease
to be a Sonoran desert. I am the love I
receive. We all are.
And so friends, I say, be a desert soil if you have to be,
but just for a moment. Be still, but just
for a short while. For we have love to
give you and life to share. We carry water
for your parched earth. May it be together
that we make the species of our better tomorrow.
