Losing Myself in the Desert
July 10, 2011 23 Comments
*I think the second half of this post is much stronger than the first half. When I write, I usually start off pretty weak, so why not be honest about that? 🙂
I sit atop a sand dune. I stare out at the desert and I wonder at its bleakness. I try to understand it. I rest my eyes for an hour on one mountain peak. I stare at a cactus. I leer at a clump of vegetation that has crowded around a trickling spring. The desert confuses me. It envelops me. It includes me, so that even as I gaze at that mountain and that cactus and those plants around the spring, I stare into myself. Is that what I love about the desert? That when I look at it I look at myself? Do I gain a heightened sense of the universe peering in at itself through my eyes, and do I see myself as the universe does, as something small, fragile, barely existent, some spark that in a moment will fizzle out? I try to understand the desert, but before long I realize that I’ve embarked on a futile endeavor. I can’t hold this landscape in my mind.
I love the desert because I lose myself in it. My soul, my thoughts, my selfish drives, my everything seeps out into the emptiness that surrounds me. In an enclosed room, let’s say in a prison cell, my self would bump up against the brick walls of the prison. It would try frantically to slip through the bars and escape into a larger space in which it may roam with greater freedom.
In a prison cell I would suffocate in my own company. But the desert disperses me. It turns me into an insubstantial vapor that is now here, now gone. I disappear, and with me my pain and my sadness disappear, too. I’m nothing, and all that remains of me is the lingering residue of a thought, a question, a sigh.
Then the moment slips away. The desert returns me to myself. I remember who I am and what I’m doing here. I leave my perch atop the sand dune and I carry with me the pain, the sadness, the complex mix of emotions that churn inside all of us even in our happiest states. But I leave with something more, a memory of the sigh, of a moment in which I was both everywhere and nowhere, and everything was all right.
This was something I was going to expand on during my trip to Chile, but it’s fine as it is. When I wrote it, I was thinking of Death Valley, where from some points you can see mountains two hundred miles in the distance. And at night, if you park yourself at the southern end of the valley and look north, you’ll see dots of light below the horizon. They stand still. You know they can’t be buildings because the desert is empty. You know they can’t be stars because they lie below the horizon and they don’t twinkle. They don’t flicker like candles suspended in space. They shine steadily. After a moment you see that the dots of light are moving. They rise and fall with the contours of the now invisible mountains that line the valley. They sway right, they sway left, as if unsure where to go. Every right-left motion brings them closer to the valley floor. They sink deeper into the sea of darkness. You hear nothing but the sound of your own breathing. You hold your breath and you hear even that, because there is nothing else, only the mysterious dots winding their way silently through the emptiness.
You realize that the dots are headlights. They light the way for a lone driver, maybe a family. They may be thirty miles away from you, but since nothing stands between you and them, they’re as present as a stranger sitting across from you in a café, sipping her coffee, glancing your way in between sips. Who is she? Who are they? And where is everyone going?
Funny: The first half of this post was about losing yourself in the desert. The second half was about finding yourself, and in some strange way connecting with a distant dot of light that represents a person who will never know you saw her. Alone, in a prison cell, I would see myself everywhere and I think that eventually it would drive me crazy. In the desert, also alone, I would see myself nowhere; the landscape would erase me for a moment, and I would become nobody. But again in the desert, seeing another human being thirty miles away, I would feel my individuality contrasted against the driver of the car. I would come into focus, and so would she, and I would feel some kind of fellowship with someone I’ll never know.