This is me on January 1, 2007, outside my parent's house. Yes, their deciduous tree had not yet lost all its leaves; yes, the bushes are in bloom; and yes, it was actually warm enough to wear shorts.
The strangeness of this scene leads to another lesson that was driven home to me while in Arizona. It is the ability of people to collectively ignore the obvious rhythms and balance of the land.
Now, I'm one of the few people, perhaps, who really doesn't mind lots of rain and clouds. Don't get me wrong, it bears on my psyche like everyone else. But I have a rationale appreciation for it, especially coming from Arizona.
A few years ago this appreciation was crystallized as I spent time around Puget Sound. Several days there were, of course, cloudy. But as I gazed upon the ocean, the waves cresting, the rhythmic movement and the swirls of variegated color, I saw similar patterns in the clouds above. I felt comfort in the clouds as I saw them as an extension of the ocean. It was as though the ocean was giving itself to the land, in the form of clouds. As though the very essence of the ocean was above instead of beside the land. There is a great connection between the ocean and its defining life-giving water and its gift, clouds. To this day, I can look up at the rolling clouds and feel some of the same things I do when gazing upon the mighty ocean.
How does this have anything to do with the arid experience I had in Arizona? Many people who are from Arizona, and almost all who move there, are totally disconnected from the rhythm, cycles, and lessons of the Sonoran Desert. Settlements in deserts have historically been limited in size due to the limits of the environment. There is typically little wood for construction, the land is not as productive as other places, even with water, and there is a natural amount of water that is replenished, but this is rather limited. Phoenix gets an average of 7 inches of rain per year. Yuma gets only about 2 inches. But this matters little, now that we can import wood easily, dig deeper wells, and dam even more rivers. We have air conditioning and fertilizers and rapid importation of food. With trimmed yards, lots of concrete, air conditioned buildings and cars, sprinkler systems, and cookie-cutter neighborhoods, there is a complete disconnect from that delicate balance of the desert. There is no consideration of the drain and lack of water or the imbalance that rapid growth causes.
When I was in the Pacific Northwest, I felt keenly aware of that balance. Life needs water, and the ocean was willing to give it bountifully in the Pacific Northwest. Many look at that as a problem. Yet, historically, the Native Americans living in the Pacific Northwest were among the wealthiest, because of the abundance of nature. Other groups, such as the Hopi of the desert Southwest, have always been limited in number, scratching out a living on the dry, arid mesas of the high desert. But they have been able to survive the harsh environment because they live in harmony with it. There is balance.
Phoenix is a great place to live. There are no blizzards, hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis, tornadoes, etc. The year-long sunshine and warmth is attractive, especially for those with mood disorders and arthritis. But the ability of humanity to cut itself from contact and enmeshment with nature has allowed people to ignorantly offset the balance. I am drawn now to learning more about God's patterns in nature; what He gives through it, and what we are to learn from it. We are created as a part of, and from, the creation itself. I want to start living in more intimate relationship with the incredibly vibrant creation I find myself in. I want to live closer to the land.
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