The Surprise of Desolation

"In desolation we expect to find utter emptiness. There should be nothing but the barren end of the world here, but instead I find an inalienable, voracious presence. . . . These years have brought me closer to this living creature, and tonight, I am right up against it, the heat of its body pressing on me. Of course I want to go further. I want to reach into this animal, however many seasons and long treks it will take. I want to see through its eyes."

Writer Craig Childs, sitting naked watching a thunderstorm in a canyon, penned those words near the beginning of his mesmerizing book Soul of Nowhere (Sasquatch Books, 2002). In just 226 pages, Childs writes so eloquently about the desert southwest that the reader is stunned into its trance, just the way the sun can pin one to the barren outcrop of rock on the lip of a canyon, then compel her to jump without the slightest trace of remorse.

I live in the high desert, and I am often so caught in its spell I can hardly articulate it. But I discovered as I read this passage again today that Childs is speaking not just about a capitvating land. He's also speaking about an inner, sometimes brutal force that catapults us through life. All the desert manages to do is unmask it, lay it bare. Then the reckoning comes.

I've written before in this blog about sexual orientation and change, how it affected me and continues to do so. I will borrow Childs' passage above to illustrate that "desolation" I now find myself wrapped in. And rather than the "barren end of the world," I find that "voracious presence" residing in me--the "inalienable" drives God gave me, restored to me, those that refuse to starve, to leave me alone even when all else is right. Not to put too fine a point on it, the paradox is that real change brings real needs. It is specifically the voraciousness of that animal--the one that I, like Childs, long to reach inside of--that is about to drive me mad.

Childs has spent thousands of miles hiking through landscapes so rugged and beautiful that he has, at times, almost given in to the overpowering pull of the desert southwest--and those who spend any amount of time here know what I speak of--to dissolve oneself into the abyss. You can't even call it death, really. It's more a blending, a breakdown of the barriers that separate humans from the landscape, the elements. The effect is cumulative, over time and compounded by silences. And voids that need filling.

All my years have brought me here, too. I am "right up against" my animal, "the heat of its body pressing on me." Of course, I want to go further. But I can't, so I'm ready to yank the wiring job God did for me, and did quite well--not because I disagree with it, but because I need a little relief. Lucky for me, I can't find the main connection.

In the meantime, I'll sit naked on this canyon ledge "however many seasons and long treks it takes," I'll keep seeing this life through my desert animal's eyes, breathe in the sharp ozone, and watch that thunderstorm on the horizon march toward me, too.

Peanuts vs. Money

Everywhere we look, industries are shedding jobs and asking for bailouts, economic numbers foretell doom and gloom, and people are nervous about their futures. There is good reason, yes. The publishing industry is right in the fray tightening its belt, too (to the dismay of those of us who write--now it will be a little bit harder to break into that cask). I'm not happy about it, but I ran across an anecdotal story that helps me keep the whole mess in perspective.

George Washington Carver (1864-1943), the renowned U.S. agricultural researcher and son of black slaves, had the right outlook. He lost his entire life savings--about $70,000--in a bank collapse in Alabama. He hardly skipped a beat when he got the news, saying, "I guess somebody found a use for it. I was not using it, myself."

What strikes me most about Carver's comment is his resourcefulness. He was raised by his master, went on to earn a college degree (not easy in his day) and excelled in agricultural breakthroughs, including a myriad of uses for the peanut. Our lives are forever changed by his curiosity, tenacity, and his ability to see beyond his nose--indeed, beyond the loss of his entire monetary future. Carver knew the intrinsic value of a dollar, and it paled in contrast to the value of an intellect. He saw things rightly.

Think about that as you whip out the peanut butter (not on the recall list) for your next meal, or future meals, if things tighen even further. I hope we all can catch and keep his vision in the weeks and months to come.