Appalachia

Twenty-nine Palms

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I expected to love the desert.

I was born in Twenty-nine Palms, California which is part of the Joshua Tree National Forest. 

Robert Plant wrote a song titled 29 Palms. 

I feel the heat of your desert heart
(Feel the heat of your desert heart)
Leading me back down the road that leads back to you.

We left that part of California when I was very small.  I have no memory of the place.  We did drive through the Painted Desert on our way back from Hawaii, but it was night and didn’t leave much of an impression.

Thus, I hadn’t seen my birthplace since a year or so after my birth. 

I had the opportunity nine years ago to go there and I did.  I have a photo of me at what was basically the Visitors Center for Twenty-nine Palms.  For some reason, they had a metal sculpture of Cinderella’s pumpkin coach. 

I am not making this up.

I have a photo.

The Cinderella Coach was the highlight.  Well, it tied with the small oasis. 

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Earthing

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Warmth and sun, oh how I need it.  I have slid the cover of the moonroof back on my car.  My commute this morning should be glorious.  The window itself is closed but light will flood the car. 

Oh, how my pineal gland needs the stimulation. Homemade vitamin D coursing through my body.  I will almost be able to hear the birdsong off in the woods as I rumble down the interstate. I will take the exit through the park today to check out the gardens and trees of the rich folk.  I expect daffodils and redbud and pear.  Perhaps the dogwood will be starting. 

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Redbud Winter

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It was so terribly cold.  Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. Dark still.  The early morning sun yanked away.  The early spring taken too. Winter.  Full blown and the calendar reads March 14th.  Not too late for cold and snow, but there had been such hope.

I hope the daffodils survived.  Early and glorious this year.  A field of yellow outside my kitchen window.  I kept meaning to cut some for my office.  Today is the day.  If they are not frostbitten.

Photo by Dulcey Lima on Unsplash

There were hard frost warnings last night.  Which winter does that make this?  It’s too early for Redbud winter though the dogwoods are already blooming. Or are those pear trees? White blossoms on the hillside. 

A soft winter.  A warm winter.  No snow to speak of.  Climate change is upsetting the rhythms of our life.  Wait until it really gets going.

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The Coming Home

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Are you a tourist or a traveler?  Is it a trip or a quest?  A journey or a destination?

These days, I’m a tourist more than a journeyer.  I did my journey early in life.  I was on a quest for years before coming home to myself.  Coming home to my heritage.  Coming home to my genetics.

That sounds kind of sad, but I don’t mean for it to.  A year or so ago, maybe two, I was playing around with some video software and did a digital story about my house.  I often don’t know what I think, until I start writing.  The montage needed a script and so I wrote one.  In the course of writing, I discovered I had reached my destination.  The journey was over.

Now when I leave home, I’m a tourist.  I’m not looking for a place to live or find happiness or fulfillment.  I’m simply out seeing the sights.  Kirk Judd wrote:

I thinks
one reason
I be leavin'
alla time
is 'cause
the comin' home
feel
so good

–Kirk Judd

The comin’ home.  Yes. 

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