After the Storm –3.0 — Darwin, California. Two Days Past Christmas
“When I meet the maker there’s nothing I can hide/She’ll see the guilt and shame I’ve buried down inside/I’ll ask her to forgive me and I’ll see if she can/Because I’m not an innocent man….”
Just the slightest dusting of snow, one or two inches, is plenty enough here in the desert where there has been virtually no precipitation since mid May. It covers the rabbit bush, mesquite, creosote and dusts the spiky fingers of the Joshua trees so that they all sparkle in the morning sunshine. It clearly defines the footprints of the wandering wild burros who are getting desperate for water. My dog friends bolt over the frosty ground flying above the snow like magical reindeer chasing jack rabbits that sprint and weave, zig zagging until they disappear over the near horizon. There is finally a little bit of moisture in the air and the frosty smell of unidentified desert flora, a little acidic, a little acrid, a little kick of life in the dryness.
It is getting close to the end of this year, this 2020, that started out so promising (I said the word “rabbit” out loud three times last New Year’s Eve at 12:01 AM which almost ALWAYS brings good luck) and is ending with the hope that NEXT year (2021) will be so much better, at least ten times better, that it will just be a normal bad year. That’s the hope anyway. I refuse to even imagine that it could be any worse…
My time in Darwin is coming to a neat little end with this snowstorm. Just one more simple project to finish before I am released back out into the world. An outdoor shower for my friend’s hot tub which is fenced in with chicken wire so the burros won’t try to drink it. I had hoped to get some writing done while I was here but mostly it has just been another season of carpentry. That is no one’s fault but my own. I am constantly reminded that it is so so so much easier to build little things out of wood than it is to build stories out of words.
A few days ago my friend and sometimes mentor Barry Lopez died. Now that was a guy who could write. I remember him telling me one time that it was good that I was a carpenter (it was a long time ago I think maybe I was rebuilding his deck) because it was a practical skill that could take me out of my writer’s head and deposit me in the reality of wood and nails. Eventually I got pretty good at wood and nails. I’m afraid I never lived up to the hope he had for me to get good at words.
I am encouraged to go into the new year. I know that there are interesting places and good people for me to meet next year. I’m glad to know that right now I haven’t the slightest idea who they are or where I’ll go. First I’m going home to Eugene. I am sorely tempted to just stay there for a while.
But I’m a travel writer. So surely those feelings (staying home, watching movies, putting my feet up) will pass….
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