Deserts

I’ve been thinking about deserts a lot lately.

Part of this I know is because we will soon be moving to a country that looks remarkably similar to Tatooine in the Star Wars movies (though I believe those scenes were actually filmed in Tunisia).  There is, however, something else here that has me thinking about deserts in a much larger, much more archetypal sense of the word.

I grew up in a desert.  I have lived in Central Oregon for the overwhelming majority of my life and though this cold, rain-shadow desert that marks the lands of the Columbia Plateau looks very different from what we conventionally think of as “desert,” I know this place has significantly influenced my spiritual geography.  There is a wild, desolate beauty in eastern Oregon that is difficult to describe to someone who has never seen it.  (I attempted this unsuccessfully several times while living abroad in England)

Deserts are places of scarcity, of barrenness.  We often use this term to describe times of difficulty in our spiritual lives.  We equate growth with water and lushness – the kind of landscapes more common on Oregon’s western half than its eastern.  Still, to say nothing grows in the desert or that nothing is produced in our lives when we are stranded in spiritual deserts is incorrect.  It would be more accurate to state that what grows in the desert is all the more precious because of its scarcity.

To survive, desert plants need roots that drive tens (sometimes hundreds) of feet into the soil to tap difficult to reach sources of water.  Fruit produced by desert plants is often guarded by spines and thorns.  Similarly, our growth in these desert seasons is difficult, hard-won, but ultimately of greater value and beauty than the growth that comes during times of abundance.  Only our hardiest attributes can survive these seasons and only then if we have succeeded in driving our roots deep into the ground to an eternal source of life.

I will always respect the place of deserts within my spiritual geography and will welcome the desert sun to strip away everything not of lasting value from my soul.

Going on Adventures

Whenever I take my daughter anywhere, I always ask her if she wants to go on an adventure.  I never say "Let's run an errand."  Or "Do you want to go to the store?"  Instead I say, "Aberly, should we go on an adventure?"  I'm not sure when I started this peculiar habit because, let's face it, going to Target for diapers is not epic and going for a walk around the neighborhood is not in any way a perilous journey.

The more I thought about this peculiar habit the more it puzzled me.  Do I suffer from some need for self-aggrandizement?  Is it not enough to go about the minute tasks of daily life without trying to turn them into quests?  What I came to realize is that, in some small way, I want Aberly to understand that life is an adventure and even the smallest, most mundane steps are important in completing the journey.  Our family is about to embark on a real adventure.  In just a few weeks we will be packing up and moving (literally) to the other side of the world.  It is exciting to think of life in terms of these big adventures, but I realize in looking back that this great adventure was only reached through a series of much smaller adventures -- the hundreds of daily lessons I taught during the five years at Sisters High School, the two years I spent earning my MFA, the thousands of minutes spent caring for Aberly, the nights my mom read out loud to me as a child -- all of these things and more have built on one another, built toward this moment that will truly be an amazing journey.

The last book I read with my senior English class at SHS was The Alchemist.  I was reminded while reading Coelho's work again that we were designed by our creator to want lives that are significant.  Our greatest obligation -- to ourselves and to the world -- is to do our utmost to live out the story that was written for us.  This process is not about reaching that final destination.  I don't believe that there will be a definitive moment on this Earth where we feel completely and entirely satisfied with all that we have ventured forth to achieve.  Rather, I think this journey is fueled by our zeal for the many small steps we take along this path, the hundreds of tiny "adventures" we have on our way toward living the life we were destined for.

So, I will continue to call all of the  activities Aberly and I do together "adventures" because I hope, in some small way, that she will learn to love life fully and pursue it relentlessly.  That perhaps, these small adventures we take together will prepare her to begin her own much greater adventure someday.