I’ve been catching a lot of (well earned) heat on Facebook for my cocky appreciation of winter in the Southwest. It’s projected to be 70 degrees today, the sun is rising in a lazy stretch through a formation of clouds that closely resemble the edge of the sea, like light coming in waves to the shore of the horizon.
The photo above is a sunset, settling into the bosom of the mountains right outside of Yuma, where we are currently hanging our hats.
If you know anything about me and if you know anything about Yuma, you might think to yourself:
“What the hell is she doing there? That place sucks.”
It does.
And it doesn’t.
If you’ve ever been through Yuma, chances are good you were on your way to San Diego. It’s the kind of place whose billboards boast of clean restrooms and wi-fi truckstops. It’s a point in the middle. A quick stop on the way to Somewhere Else.
The production model of modern agriculture is alive and well in the basins of light on this stretch of the earth, a harsh reality check of The American Way delivered with no remorse. My children, accustomed to seeing calm pepperings of angus stretched across the land, now observe the stench of the black holes known as cattle farms. They notice. And even their young hearts know it’s wrong. You can see it, hear it in their small voices.
“Mama, what’s wrong with those cows?”
“They’re imprisoned by convenience and greed, love.”
You are what you eat.
Though we are surrounded by acres and acres of green (most of the lettuces sold in the West are grown right here), there’s no local market. Food is commodity here, a product, a job, not a means of connection.
The farms here are not organic, which means they use pesticides and fertilizers. There are miles and miles of Monsanto around us. On windy days, I keep the kids inside.
Mexico is close, so close we can hear the roosters rise in the mornings. So close that the air is thick with the smoke of burning fields.
We are not here by choice. We are here by necessity.
And we are grateful.
We adapt, try to understand this place and sort through its reputations. It’s hot and flat and there’s nothing here, compared to the offerings of the cities within reach. But it’s still pretty big – 194,000 residents (for my Montana friends, it reminds me a lot of Billings, except everyone here speaks Spanish and there are a lot more handguns). There’s a definite sense of community, which feels familiar despite the cultural divide, and I’ve observed a fascinating trend amongst old men and their hats.
It’s where we are.
And because we’re here, it becomes good.
Not by our influence, not out of stature or rumblings of pride, but because this is the point on earth where our bodies occupy space.
And that space, whether hot, cold, dry, covered in snow-shimmer or dust, is SACRED.
Always has been. It was true when I lived up North, it’s true here, it would be true if we lived on the Moon. I would take note of the stillness, the outlines of stars, the rising light of the earth on the horizon. Simultaneously, I would be coping silently with the discomfort of oxygen gear and the overwhelming solitude of space.
Here, in this place called Yuma, it happens to be 70 degrees in January and the sun is shining bright. Something I celebrate because right now it’s all I have to hang on to. Everything else is gone.
Do you pity me? Feel flashes of sorrow for our plight?
Don’t.
It’s the kind of grip that comes at the top of the mountain, the home stretch. The one where you find your last reserves and pull yourself up.
The moment of birth.
