Tag Archives: desert

WIP

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Finding inspiration in the La Sals and the red rock faces that surrounded us.

Work in Progress (WIP) is an accounting term that represents the value of the components of a product or idea in mid-production, items and materials not quite finished but necessary for a product’s completion. In the construction of a home, for example, WIP accounts for the inventory of nails, screws, hinges, drywall, and lumber that eventually become finished rooms. In writing, drafts are the WIP that wait in ‘inventory’ for their time to galvanize into completed essays.

At the end of April, I had four WIP pieces saved on my desktop. I also had had enough with my glitch-ridden computer, which had been operating strangely for some time. I took my laptop to be repaired, hastily transferring my files to a USB drive in the dark hours before my children awoke for school. A technician removed and reinstalled the operating system, thus restoring efficiency to my writing tool of choice. However, when I returned home, I realized that I hadn’t copied the WIP documents. Pre-dawn, pre-caffeine, my mouse bounced between two windows and highlighted the wrong files to transfer. My WIP essays were gone. I stared at my desktop and tried not to cry.

I tell my middle school students that words are just words: they only have the power that we give to them. Following Faulkner, I advise students that they must never hesitate to “kill their darlings,” and should look at their writing instead as a process toward reaching even greater literary heights. Revise, revise, revise! Don’t fall so in love with your words that you lose the ability to write harder, better! Yet, confronted with a loss of my own short-sighted creation – so many hours of drafting and research – what I would have given to see my precious darlings again.

A long-awaited trip to the outskirts of Moab, Utah, with three peers and 21 students wrenched me from the scene of devastation. We could not bring technology with us. It felt almost like a relief to put my computer out of mind for a few days, and focus instead on being a participant rather than an observer.

For the next few days, our group slept in tipis. We hiked, read, sloshed, played, and explored. Four sopping, scrambling teenagers fished me out of class three waves when our raft entirely and epically wiped out. I began to recover small bits of the ideas I’d lost and imagine new ones. The red rocks that surrounded us advised me to be strong. Coyotes yipped nightly salutations, while, by day, lizards suggested idyllic boulders on which to lounge. I wiggled my toes in the ruddy clay creek and the wind roared its approval. Cottonwoods applauded as I played in the sand. The desert revealed a much larger work in progress.

I came home to a blank desktop, opened a new document, and started to write.

© Julia Moris-Hartley, 2015

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Desert Dream

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The drive along Highway 89 from central Utah to Tucson, Arizona, takes about 11 hours, down a corridor between Bryce Canyon and Zion National Park, to the east of the Grand Canyon, and over the Glen Canyon Dam. It traverses breath-taking landscapes and is, on this March day, relatively low stress, owing to light traffic, good visibility, and ample passing lanes. My husband and I have picked up our children, Kai and Rory, early from school. We are teachers and we are on spring break. We drive.

*

On our first day in Tucson, we visit the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum. Kai and Rory quiz me as we drive there. “Is it a museum, Mom?” asks Kai.

I tell him that it is a museum… and it isn’t.

“What? I don’t get it,” says Rory from under the rim of a Hello Kitty fedora.

“You will,” I say. The Desert Museum is a vegetation-rich place where visitors roam maintained paths, spotting birds and animals, and pausing to admire strange and beautiful desert plants. It is a gateway for learning the language of and kindling a connection to a region that bursts with biodiversity, and the best way to understand it is by experiencing it.

We take the kids to the raptor free flight. Falcons, hawks, and owls soar by, inches from our heads. Kai and Rory snap photo after photo. (The museum is also a photographer’s paradise.) The kids rush to acquire a new vocabulary:

saguaro (sah-WAR-oh)

cholla (CHOY-ya)

ocotillo (oh-koh-TEE-yo)

palo verde (pal-oh VER-day)

Rory points to a bright fuchsia wall: bougainvillea. Kai crouches to smell delicate orange orbs that proliferate alongside the prickly pears: desert mallow. We hear a singular chirp, and, after a few moments of searching, find a dusty brown female cardinal in the underbrush. Kai spots an aloe stalk that stands taller than we do and says, “It’s like an alien!” Later, he discovers a cluster of spiny teddy bear cholla: “That looks like an army of renegade muppets from hell!” he shrieks, clearly impressed.

“This is not like the desert I imagined,” says Rory, whose entire stance transmits the sense of buoyancy I’ve felt since we crossed the state line. “I like it.”

I like it too. My husband and I attended graduate school in Tucson, and in those few years formed an abiding love for the desert. We worked our first adult jobs, purchased our first home, and had our first child. Kai is the reason we’ve come back to visit. I want him to know where the story of his life begins.

*

We can’t go home again, but we try anyway. We stand outside the condo where Kai spent his first months. We knock. The tenants have put up brown craft paper as curtains. A gray lizard scuttles by; its throat flares orange. No one answers the door. I photograph Kai, posing outside the front entryway, as he did ten years ago. Though we are disappointed, I can tell Kai’s mind is clicking Tucson into place.

*

In Sabino Canyon, we sway on a flat bench as an aged trolley, groaning and sputtering, carries us into the Santa Catalina mountains, where passengers dismount to explore trails. We begin the downward trek back to the visitor center: 3.7 miles in all. Kai and Rory don’t complain. Tall saguaros surround us. Palo verde trees and mesquites shade a lush carpet of yellow blooms. We hear Sabino Creek trickling by, and stop to cast off our shoes and splash in one of its cold, clear pools.

As I sprawl on a pale, smooth boulder, luxuriating in the rock’s radiant heat, I watch a group of girls playing on the rocks across the pool. They look about Kai’s age. One of the girls, wearing orange shorts and a white tank top, squeals when a male mallard with lustrous, inky plumage alights on the water’s surface. “A duck!” she yells, pointing for her friends. “Look, you guys, it’s a duck!”

She runs to grab a bag of potato chips, then hurries back, stretching over the water’s edge to offer the duck a chip. I call out for Kai and Rory, and splash! The girl’s fallen into the pool, neck deep, mouth in a shocked O. She brings herself to her feet. “That was fun!” she exclaims, and quickly amends herself. “That was awesome!” She dries off and returns to feed the duck the remainder of her chips. Her friends gather around her and giggle, while her mother warns: “Be careful, now!” Within minutes, she dubs herself Girl Who Swims With Ducks.

A second mallard joins the pool and partakes of chips, though they turn up their beaks at nacho-flavored corn chips. The ducks glide along. I leave the scene feeling delighted by a moment of wonder in the desert.

*

I’ve been an ‘other’ for most of my life: immigrant’s daughter, born abroad; minority of Ukrainian descent, presumed Jewish, growing up in the lowest socioeconomic bracket of Coney Island; only child with three half-siblings; non-Mormon working at coffee shop and attending college in predominantly Mormon community; married in grad school; liberal Yankee in a traditional southern family; employee of an international school in a rural setting; interloper in Mormon pioneer country. Even in the classroom, I adopt the role of ‘other’ to provide a more balanced perspective for my students.

In the desert, I am myself. The sand doesn’t differentiate my footsteps from anyone else’s. The saguaro does not hide its spines or conceal the holes burrowed by the creatures it houses. The desert feels as close to home as I can describe on a spiritual level.

*

At dinner on our last night, I order a piece of pie for the four of us to share. An elderly couple who’d been sitting at an adjacent booth joins us in line for payment. “I thought,” says the smiling man, “that I was the only crazy who did that!” He laughs. I laugh, because I have a fondness for forthcoming people.

His twinkly-eyed companion says: “Once, in Kansas, he ordered a piece of pie and eight forks. The waitress looked at us like we’d gone mad, but, really, all we needed was a little taste.”

“Just goes to show…” the man continues. “The more you travel, the more loonies you meet!” He slaps a hand against his thigh, chuckling. His face is ruddy and furrowed with wrinkles. I have the impression he’s lived through a great deal and come out on the optimistic side.

“It’s inevitable,” I add, grinning. I resist a strong urge to adopt them both.

*

Is a little taste enough? Three days in the desert is not enough to visit Bisbee, with its iodine-colored mining “lake” or the Inn at Castle Rock, which is a quirky and delightful experience onto itself. It is not enough to visit the artists of Tubac or drink margaritas across the Nogales border or admire the riotous splendor of Madera Canyon’s avian population. It is not enough time to properly explore the Rillito Wash—not east by the Jewish Community Center or west towards First Avenue—or to meet with old friends and co-workers. It is barely enough time for mimosas at the Blue Willow and eggs and gunpowder at the Cup. But sometimes a little taste is just enough to whet the appetite.

As we pack our bags to leave, Kai fiddles with his shoelaces and sighs. “I don’t want to leave, mom.”

I hug him and try not to cry. “Me neither. But it was a good trip, wasn’t it? Would you like to come back sometime?”

Kai’s smile answers for him.

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© Julia Moris-Hartley, 2015

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