The True Land

More of a journal entry than a story...

Because I had lived on the East Coast for all of my twelve years, when my family decided to move to the Mojave Desert in California, I was not quite sure whether I was happy to be leaving the grey skies and humidity, sad to be leaving family and friends, excited to see new things, or nervous about where I would go to school; some part of me yearned for adventure, for a life that was different than what I had previously had, while another part wanted to hide in a closet when it was time to leave.

            When I got out there, and struggled to fit in and make friends, I desperately wanted to return to the life that I had always known – safe and a bit routine. I experienced some major culture shock: the landscape had only faint traces of green, most of the people spoke Spanish, and the lifestyle was as fast-paced as the speed limits. Even the food was different than what I was used to, down-home meals replaced by hot peppers and tortillas. But I slowly began to adjust, and to enjoy the incredible experience that I was living, reveling in the new things that I did, the unique things that I saw, and all the unusual places that I had been. My life had a whole new dimension added onto it; I had done millions of things that I would one day be able to tell my children with pride.

            One night, I slept outside with a friend in the bed of our pick-up truck. After the usual hours of girl talk, she fell asleep, leaving me with my own thoughts. As I lay there at midnight, looking up into an endless velvet canopy of indescribable beauty, generously flecked with glittering stars, I could feel nothing but the beating of my own heart, smell nothing but cool dust, see nothing but sky, and hear nothing but the howl of a nearby coyote. In that moment, I knew that I had found my home, a place so remote and distant from anything I had ever known or dreamed of.

            In the passing months, I felt a connection to the land, my restlessness tamed in the wonder of tall mountains and in the awe of sagebrush. On days when anger would threaten to explode me, or problems would loom bleakly on the horizon, waiting to overwhelm me, I would pull on my running shoes and head out into the desert.

            There, with only the eyes of jackrabbits and ground squirrels to see, I would run for miles, increasing my speed until I could not see the ground beneath my feet, running until my problems were left behind in an insignificant cloud of dust, and my heart no longer ached with unshed tears. Only then would I rub my face dry and look around to see where I had ended up.

            Some days I would watch an ant for hours, scurrying endlessly and never tiring. Other days a hawk would circle idly overhead, or I would examine the prickly spikes of an amusing Joshua Tree. On still other days, brewing clouds would clash together in frustration, and the skies wept with me, blending tears and rain on my face in the expectant, still air.

            There was just something indefinable, but almost tangible about that country. Maybe it was the way you could see something that looked so close, but ride for hours before even came close to touching it. Or maybe it was the way mirages shimmered on the horizon, or the lonesome sound of a tumbleweed scuttling across cracked pavement that stirred me. Maybe it was the way time seemed to stand still until the sun unexpectedly slipped behind the craggy mountains, or maybe it was the way heat would assault your face when you stepped outside, baking all moisture off your skin. But maybe, just maybe, it was the way the land was at peace with itself, always changing, but forever constant and true.

            I have since moved back to the East Coast with my family, but I miss my home; I grew to love the land and the food and the people. Even though I only lived there for three years, the land is engraved in my soul.

            Sometimes I will hear a sound or smell a scent that triggers a memory, and in a flash, I have left the room where my body is, and I am back, seeing a desert that is as real to me as my own existence. And there, if only for an instant, I am home.