~Lorenz Oken
Earlier this month I took a trip to Pam Springs. In addition to escaping the cold of the Northwest, I looked forward to seeing my friends Gil and Mike, a gay couple who three years ago left Seattle for the warmth of the desert. In 1991 I'd shared a house with Gil, then a 49 year old former priest. Two years later on my 30th birthday he and I cycled along the western coast of Ireland from Limerick through the Connemara National Park and beyond. Gil met Mike several years later. In 2000 they exchanged vows at a commitment ceremony at the University Congregational Church. I attended along with numerous other friends of ours. It was an honor to witness and support them.
When I arrived at Palm Springs International Airport, Gil happily greeted me with a hug. We drove to a local bakery for fresh bread and chocolate chip cookies. He told me the owner of the bakery, a Mormon man, had voted against Prop 8, the 2008 voter's initiative that banned gay marriages from continuing in California.
Later that afternoon we hiked up the mountain that borders their town home. The air was warm, the sky bright. We continued along the mountain ridge until we could look down on the city below. The area surrounding Palm Springs looked like a tinker toyland with miniature houses, streets, and cars. As the wind blew through our hair (mine at least, Gil is bald!) a feeling of serenity overcame me. October and November served up a relentless schedule of rehearsals for holiday concerts with Seattle Mens Chorus, preparations for a monologue performance piece at the Erickson Theatre, and several job interviews I'd hoped would allow me to sever my unending relationship with the unemployment office.
On succeeding days Mike and Gil took me on other desert hikes. One morning we trekked through the Indian Canyons exploring Palm Canyon and its indigenous flora and fauna. The spacious land sat on an Indian reservation, sacred home of the Agua Caliente tribe.
We visited Joshua Tree National Park, a stunning oasis of desert trails and mountain vistas. The quiet of the open space, the jagged rock and cliffs, the plant life organic to the desert. Mike would point out various plant species and examine droppings to determine the animals that earlier crossed our same path.
I'd decided to call them my uncles because I would awake in the morning to generous breakfasts of oatmeal, toast, and eggs. We'd discuss the day's plans with NPR as backdrop, trumpeting the latest news of the international fiscal crisis. Sometimes conversations grew heated when the topic of politics or organized religion arose. Gil, the former priest, has negotiated a middle ground with Mike, who eschews religion as a hypocritical form of moral coercion. Republicans are personae non grata in Mike's universe. Even though both Gil's brothers are evangelical, conservative Christians.
After hiking we'd head for the backyard hot tub and swimming pool shared by the town home community. The hot water jets massaged our weary muscles as we watched the sun settle behind the mountain range. Giant palm trees swayed above my head as I swam the back stroke in the lap pool.
In the evenings we ate home cooked meals with a Mexican flair thanks to Mike's love of spices. When Gil headed to bed, Mike and I bonded over our I-Tunes music collection. One night we just sat reading in the quiet, while the wood crackled in the fireplace.
Learning to let go, that's one lesson I learned while visiting my friends. That's been my challenge the entire year as I journey through life focused on finding meaningful work while pursuing my artistic aspirations and dreams. In 2011 I continued to revise my book, started this blog, acted in a 7 man performance piece, and sang with the chorus. Not to mention my continued culinary inventiveness! The art I made didn't pay the bills but it spoke to my spirit. Engaged, thoughtful, flirtatious, curious, unapologetic, and communal.
The final day of my visit Gil and I drove to a remote canyon, Mecca Hills, one hour south of Palm Springs and bordering the San Andreas Fault. It was the warmest day of my vacation, in the upper 60's. The stone cliffs in their rugged isolation and abrupt topography were stunning. The color, the quiet, reminded me of the desolate setting of the harrowing adventure film "27 Hours" about the hiker who caught his hand between two large rocks and endured the agony of making his way back to civilization with part of his body cut from the rest.
Gil told me how he loved hiking nude in remote parts of the desert. That day we stripped off our clothes and headed into the light filled canyons with our shirt and shorts tucked into a small pack on our waist and nothing but our boots, water bottles, and sunscreened bodies. The magnitude of the rocks, many of them swept away and dislodged from a spring rainstorm, created a cathedral of fallen stone. Like plant life I'd seen on a previous hike near Mt. St. Helens, there'd been growth, destruction, and geological evolution. We strode deeper into a valley of rock with narrow corridors casting shadows and light beaming from above. I felt a spiritual draw to this space of broken down boulders, along with soaring cliffs and stone buttresses like church spires.
Mike and Gil expressed earlier how amidst their hikes the desert had become like church for them. At one point I found a gorgeous enclave, like a stone altar, situated below a corridor of rock. I envisioned Christ on the cross occupying that hallowed space of beauty and starkness. I climbed to it, and as I leaned against the hard backdrop I lifted my arms and took my place on the parapet. I lifted my head and stared into the streaming light pouring through the canyon from above.
That day I too discovered the spirit in those deserts and canyons that my uncles and I spent four days exploring. At Christmas time we all become familiar with the play of light and darkness. We see how the holiday lights bring cheer just as our opening hearts bring greater joy and generosity to the world. And yet we struggle with the disappointments of an imperfect democracy, dogmatic and intolerant religions, and families that may not always measure up to our expectations.
Each year Christmas comes with the hope and light of a newborn infant. Born in a straw manger and surrounded by barnyard animals, strangers visiting from faraway lands, and yes even a few rocks and animal droppings. And above this manger, like the desert at night, stars burst forth everywhere pointing the way to a miracle. Somewhere in the desert sky there is one brighter than the rest. Might that be our star?
Wishing you happy dreams and visions of hope on this Christmas Eve.
