The Desert

I have the day off today. I'm thankful for my work, but how I love time to myself. This morning I'm sitting out on the patio. The light sparkles on the pond out behind the house. It's cool and sunny. A nice breeze is blowing. The rays filtering through the trees dance in a dapple of light and shadow on the bricks of the patio. The temperature here midway between a sun that could turn this whole planet to burning gases in a millisecond and the freezing cold of black space is absolutely perfect not only for life but for delightful, exultant life. I am overwhelmed by beauty this day. Nothing is happening, but everything is happening. All is calm, but all is alive; swaying, flapping, twinkling, whispering.

I once lived in southern California for a number of years. Growing up my learning of deserts through books and movies made me think of that environment as something to avoid; a place of boredom and misery and slow death. I suppose many people never get to a desert because of these kinds of thoughts. But inevitably some folks find themselves in one for one reason or another. Barreling down a straight highway through hours and hours of emptiness rushing by on a hot summer day can indeed make one fearful of the awesome danger of a desert and eager to get through it and out of it. But I'll never forget the first time I found myself standing still in the California desert. When one stops to really be in it, look at it, listen to it, smell it, and feel it, the beauty reveals itself to you. The extreme dryness makes hot and cold seem completely different than elsewhere. The first time you realize the beauty of a desert it is overwhelming. It is so still, so quiet, so subtle, and there is so much of it. The vastness and isolation is incomprehensible. And far from a dead place, it is a canvas of constantly changing color and texture. But it happens in such slow motion that it is only visible to those who will slow down and pay attention.

The desert is beautiful. It may not be the best place to set up housekeeping and you probably wouldn't enjoy living there long term, but what a place to visit! Once it grabs you, you will always want to go back and take in more. The solitude that once seemed onerous can be addicting. That is a bit of a conundrum: you're not made to stay there, but you long for it's beauty. It's like scuba diving in that one is keenly aware that it is an alien environment where you are a short-term guest given a peek but never able to take in more than a taste. Of course we've all seen movies and read books where the haggard man in rags crawls over the sand dunes in search of water, slowly inching toward his death. And in such a perilous circumstance a desert can be cruel and punishing. It's interesting that it is that image that seems to be the default icon for the word “desert.” It's something bad.

So what does this thought have to do with sitting here outside with my laptop on a perfect day with fallen leaves swirling under the table? Sometimes things are harsh. Sometimes I find myself there by sheer happenstance, sometimes I get myself there. It's easy to find something to complain about. Easy to become bitter. And when I'm bitter about one thing, there always seems to be something else close by to be bitter about. Soon all I can see is blackness, frustration, entrapment, and a dead end. But there is always beauty. And if I find a little of it, there is something to be thankful for. That it is there. That I have eyes to see it. Like bitterness, thankfulness breeds on itself. When I'm thankful for a gift, I soon find something else to be thankful for. And then more. And then little details and flourishes and finishing touches that enrichen the experience. One can soon be overwhelmed by the intricacy and fullness. Even when alone on the back side of the desert.

Sitting here today I'm struck with the thought that God can indeed withhold his gifts of blessing for a season. He has his reasons that often make no sense to us stuck here in space and time, unable to comprehend the end of his process. But he does have his reasons. And like a father or a mother or a lover, he wants to give his good gifts to those he loves. When he does, he doesn't just give, he lavishes. A blue jay in the tree must be reading my mind. He just cried out in agreement and swooped into the air. I'd like to do the same.

I just looked up and the skywriter who used to advertise for “Rosie O'Grady's” back when it was still open is now flying his old biplane in the blue to the south of this neighborhood. I've heard he does this when he doesn't have a paying client. The message in the sky? “Jesus Loves U.” Perfectly framed for me in the opening between the trees. The well is deep. Come and drink.