Rain on the desert...

The desert is my landscape. There is something compellingly beautiful about its starkness--the bare bones emptiness of rock and sand, the picture of red against the sky, the opportunity to become lost. The open landscape speaks to me of longing, solitude, stillness, and the quiet peace found within the self, within the soul. I find comfort in this place of very little rain, where everything that grows is sturdy and rugged and sustainable. You cannot survive or thrive in the desert if you are weak hearted or shallow. Your roots must be deep, your skin thick, your neck long, your back and shoulders wide and strong. You must allow yourself to be shaped and shifted by the wind, find beauty in hot spanse of open sand, listen to the calm in the silence. If you do these things, if you learn patience, then the desert will speak to you: tell you its secrets, give you its gifts.

One of those gifts is a rainstorm moving over its face. Cloud cover moves in on the wind and spreads across the wide spread of sky. The sand on the desert floor grows dark and cool. The wind stills itself into quieter rifts. The barren landscape gives you a view of the storm; you see rain falling in grey blue streaks far off in the distance, you hear the thunder, you smell the musty sweet scent of water touched earth, and all these things happen before you feel the first drop. Then the storm surrounds you.

The best desert rainstorms I have experienced have been in Idaho between Blackfoot and Arco. There is a sixty mile stretch of road between them and not much else. It is quiet there with a view wide and unbroken--perfect for watching storms. I drove the road a couple of weekends ago and had storms both ways. I cannot account for the gifts, but I am grateful. I needed a little water. I needed a little heart.