God Provides In The Dark And The Desert

In the desert all kinds of things are buried and unearthed; dead bodies, gold nuggets, aquifers full of water and whatever one can fit into the back of a pick-up truck. My marriage too, buried, my life unearthed. I was cast out of my house, like Jonah from the whale, escaping with two suitcases of clothes and a credit score that opened the door to an apartment.

Divorce has a way of divesting one of clutter. One is stripped bare. Unadorned like a desert view, snow peaked mountains unobstructed by trees, Milky Way galaxies unobscured by ambient light, air devoid of choking particulates. Except for the dust and sand stirred by the wind, un-tethering everything that isn’t nailed down.

Out prospecting one day (for gold!) my friend Dana saw this behemoth lying in a ravine. I do not know how he hoisted it onto his truck. Real furniture this, cut from some wood that wouldn’t give up its soul. Pulling into my driveway he asks, “Do you need a dresser?”

My friend found a different kind of gold! A practical altar to friendship, God’s faithfulness and a place for my underwear. Straight-forward oak, shiny dark brown shellack, cool and smooth to the touch. Early American, French provincial, I’ve no clue. Stamped with the name of the furniture maker, Angelus in each drawer. Sun and wind only taking their toll on exposed corners.

Little is permanent in the desert. In that first season, the dresser was a beautiful altar to God’s provision. The next season it stayed a strong and secure piece as I moved into my second marriage. One more time on a truck to an expansive home overlooking Joshua Tree.

Howling wind and sand bury most everything in the desert. The stories stay alive. Winter rains and summer monsoons pour water down dry, cracked channels of dirt and sand filling springs and giving life to tree and grass. Gold washes down these channels as well. A prospector hopes to make a find in these dry washes and old streambeds. He may discover other treasures there as well. Like a cast off dresser.  

Wind

                                                Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

Taut, alert, sensing before sight,
Howl in canyon,
Hint of power, the outstretched arm,
Deliverance or destruction?
Raising a ragamuffin or
Pulverizing Pharoah?

Barely whispering, fingers on cheek,
Catching unaware,
In Tornado,
Shattering idols, scattering debris,
Internal life thrown out
Into countless cornfields.

Water leaves you wet,

Spoken words leave invisible marks,

Unseen where you’ve been,

Impossible to grasp,

Feeling your slightest movement,

Blowing unabated.

Parched, arid, baking hot,

Cooling breeze,

Street signs screech and sigh,

Rain clouds on the horizon.

Awaiting birth,

Listen for the whisper.

One Must Have A Mind Of Desert

One must have a mind of desert

To delight in gale and dry heat of day giving way to

Cold brittle nights forcing stars awake from under their blankets

Waking the coyotes who dig for water that

Surfaces for Bighorn sheep and Cottontails,

Water that San Andreas fault and fissures force into springs,

Hot saunas, cool oasis flowing through aeolian dirt that

The permanent shelled turtle thrives in though always sifting,

Like the wind always blowing dust, barely bringing wild rain

Pounding rapidly, soaking soil that can’t grasp precipitate but

Creosote, Cholla and Ocotillo, deep rooted, thick skinned,

Grab hold of moisture and fight to hold tight until Spring

Loosens calloused fingers, rough, brittle, from cracks grow

Fairy Duster and Paintbrush; polychromatic on stark backdrop

They make their stand; dig in for one more season.

---Inspired by the poem, The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens and by prompts on writing poems at https://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/

Burning Bushes, Revival And Rest

Vacation week couldn’t come fast enough. I arrive at this week tired of working.  Tired of people.  Tired of me being tired of people. Tired of all the little things that bug me when they shouldn’t.  But they do. Road-tripping to Utah. Leaving humid beach-cold for dry summer hot. Hoping God would speak. Looking for revival.

No burning bushes. In red rocks, in rushing water, slot-canyons and slick sandstone God’s work is evident. My soul finds rest in nature as always. Replenished joy in desert driving; long talks with the wife. Coming alive through stair-stepping hikes and slow-river walks on slippery rocks upstream. Heat feeling good. Invigorated but not energized for work; for people, for little-foxes that spoil the vines.

Home through arid one-grey-colored desert to attend the sons’ Indian-themed engagement party. To see on my newsfeed that Anthony Bourdain is dead. A post on Facebook tells me cancer took a high-school friend. The miracle of dating; the dire end of depression.

My father had his dark days. He once told me that sunrises motivated him to live. I am fortunate to delight in sunsets (sunrises come too early) and the glories of nature. Laughing with family and friends is a well of the purest water for me. This confluence wets my tongue for more of life.  No burning bush?  Perhaps the fire was there all along.

First Fall Rain

Ninety-three degrees outside, and it's the first Fall rain. That is life in the high desert. Soul restoration, baby! Wild, crazy weather is one of the great plusses of living here.


You can't see anything unless you click to enlarge this one!

Blues and Bluegrass: Enjoying the Desert Part 2

Strawberry blonde hair hanging in ringlets down to the middle of her back. Small Blue polka-dots on a white silk shirt, pleated at the elbows and hips. Ruby red lips, great set of….teeth; attractive but not stunning. More sweet than Siren. The Hotshots have a female vocalist! She belted out some great songs such as Bei Mir Bist Du Shein and Honeysuckle Rose (Well, don't buy sugar, You just have to touch my cup, You're my sugar, And it's oh so sweet when you stir it up…)

The Hotshots sound great! We took the time to hang around at Water Canyon Coffee again today, and stuck around for a listen. Some really talented guys; on clarinet, violin, bass, and drums. Combined with the vocalist, I think it may become my Sunday hangout, much like Mondays with the Kung Pao Chickens.

I was reminded of the only limerick I’ve ever written (that I’m willing to admit):

A man raised on the Brothers Grimm,
Liked his women blonde, blue-eyed and slim,
For such a fair sight,
He would search day and night,
To fulfill his particular whim.

Speaking of music, the Sun Runner’s entire publication was dedicated to music this month. From one of the articles, “Bluegrass Grows in Wonder Valley.”
“Chambers was injured with a broken back in ‘91 and in ’94 decided to go to the Roberto-Venn School of Lutherie in Phoenix, AZ, ‘to learn how to build these things, learn how to cut the wood, learn how to bend the wood, do inlays, make everything myself.” From the same article, “We do not do country. We do western, bluegrass, and gospel………Western music is a working man’s music; it was the cowboy songs on the trail and around the campfire, on a horse ride. There’s no drums, there’s no electric guitars, there’s no stars. In western music, everybody takes a part. It’s shared music. It’s very orchestrated because everything’s got a good melody line that people recognize. You know, when you sing ‘Happy Trails’ at the end of your set, everybody’s singing along with you.”

Till we meet again.