Desert Walk and Winter

Several years ago, in the very early spring, my friend Geoff and I took a walk in the high desert near the Clark Mountains of southern California. Geoff is a paleoarcheoligist, among other things, and had studied the area many times as part of various scientific projects. One of the first and most beautiful surprises we discovered was something he said was a rare find, even there, a bush in full, glorious deep purple-blue bloom. It was indigo. It was and is amazing. As we walked what would appear to most folks as barren desert land, talking and sharing our souls, I discovered something about the desert I have not forgotten. The desert is incredibly beautiful, filled with promise and subtle beauty. What seems stark and lifeless is teeming with often minute and hidden life, often awaiting only a small amount of light or moisture to reveal its promise. What stayed with me powerfully was the sight, seen only when walking and closely present, of a carpet of miniature fairy flowers, pale pink with burgundy edging and center. It was magic.

Winter is the hope-bringer to the desert. Without the occasional rains of winter, there are no magical flowers and amazing sights. There is animal life that can lie dormant for years until there is enough winter rain to bring it to life, disappearing once the heat of summer comes to lie dormant once more until enough winter rain comes again. Yet, even in the driest, harshest desert there is a miracle of small beauty in unexpected places.

It has been a cold, quiet winter so far. Here where the foothills become the High Sierras in northern California, winter is beginning to edge back and loosen its grip. This time of silence and introspection slowly will give way to new life, new hope, new beauty. The iris will start to grow up from the fallow ground, the buds on the fruit trees will begin to swell, promising a bountiful harvest of plums in a few months.

I have been quiet and fallow the last few months. It has been winter in my spirit, still and stark. This has not troubled or concerned me. Over the years I have discovered the hidden beauty of still times when life goes deep with nothing appearing to be growing and blooming. One need not bloom all the time. There are times we must be in the darkness where it is quiet, where our spirits may rest and renew until the winter rains warm into spring showers and encourage new flowering, new sharing. That time is coming. This time is good.