My brother-in-law went to Mali, his native country, for a visit recently, & upon his return gifted me with a mud cloth, a traditional art of the Bamana people. It was one of the few things I packed to move with me when I left California to start a life in my new house in the desert.
My sister called it "reverse migration" as my husband and I headed East to find a less expensive life, refugees of the current economic crunch (though we didn't go all the way back to Oklahoma, which is where, many years ago, I started out.) Still, as I cruised down the highway, Woody Guthrie echoed in my head, "California is a Garden of Eden, a paradise to live in or to see! But believe it or not, you won't find it so hot, if you ain't got that do-re-mi." I took notice as we passed numerous vehicles on the road piled high with precariously balanced household furnishings, likely retreating from home foreclosures or other hard luck scenarios. Grapes of Wrath come again.
I arrived "home" in a state of shock, tired from a very long drive and swooning from triple digit heat. Greeted by dazzling pink bougainvillea in the yard, we crossed our new threshold & immediately switched on air conditioning. I wondered worriedly just what I'd been thinking...what on earth had possessed us to leave friends & family for this godforsaken place.
The house seemed huge to me, after two decades of urban apartment dwelling. In fact, it's probably the smallest house in the neighborhood, a modest three bedroom, surrounded by two story dwellings. How on earth do people afford to cool those super sized homes, I wondered. And another thing, where are all the people? Not many are seen walking the streets, and why would they? It's hotter than a grease-popping skillet out there.
On our first night here, we were greeted by our next door neighbor, a banker, who offered to answer any questions about the town, recommend a pool service (if we used his, he'd get free service for a month) or to loan us anything we might need "...until your furniture arrives." He saw us drive up in two cars, towing one small U-Haul trailer, assuming that surely we'd have a moving van full of furniture following shortly. Little did he know this was in fact all of our worldly goods. We pulled out the camping chairs and made ourselves comfortable.
Exhausted and overwhelmed, we moved our mattress into the "master" bedroom, and positioned it in the middle of the floor directly under the ceiling fan. With no bedside tables, headboard, or any other furniture, there seemed no need to put the bed against a wall; much more important was strategic placement near the air conditioning vent and fan. I flopped down in the middle of the bed and watched the fan blades spin round and round.
The walls in the bedroom are painted sandy gold, a standard hue I noticed while we were house hunting, to reflect the desert setting. There seemed to be vast expanses of wall surrounding my island bed. I unpacked the mud cloth & hung it on one wall, its colors complimenting perfectly the desert gold. Space, space and more space around me. After tiny apartments, cramped living quarters, & congested cityscapes, the emptiness appealed to me. The emptiness of the walls, the emptiness of the rooms, the empty streets & empty desert landscape outside. The emptiness reflected a deep well in me, a place I'd run from my whole life. I resolved to leave the house as sparsely furnished as possible.
I clearly remembered my first childhood experiences of the desert on a family vacation spent camping our way across the country from Oklahoma to Disneyland, that all-American happily-ever-after fantasy destination. We set up our tent camper at a remote campground off a dirt road, far from all civilization. There were only a couple of other campers that night. The alien landscape, desolate, silent, lonely, became pitch black as night fell. My mom complained to my dad, worrying over the dangers of rattlesnakes and spiders, flat tires, lack of water, potential tragedies to befall us with no help at hand. Whatever might happen, it seemed to me that it could not be worse than what went on in our own home when my parents fought, with knives pulled, fists thrown, hateful words slung like daggers. At least here the bickering was tempered by adventure & the relative sobriety of Dad, the only time all year we would see him in that condition. Vacation was a rare opportunity to live in a fantasy world, travel seemed to make everything all right.
Then the wind picked up. I lay awake inside the tent camper, as the wind beat the canvas. It flapped like a giant flag in the wind, loudly, steadily, throughout the night. The power of the elements filled me with a dreadful awe. As morning approached, the winds gradually receded. The day broke with a still, blinding brightness, no indication of the earth-shaking power that had visited in the night. On our continued car trip the next day, I pulled out my notebook and wrote a poem about that desert night.
Many years later, I spent another night in the desert, at a campground not far from my current home. At that time I was in midst of a loveless marriage. Once again, we two Okies were driving to California in a truck laden with belongings, in search of a better life. We slept in the back of our truck, squeezed in between stereo equipment and art supplies, the totality of our hopes and dreams. We had been on the road for days. The fighting and misery continued unabated. By this time my only escape, like that of my father, came in the form of a bottle of liqu,or (sometimes called "spirits," from the Latin spiritusmeaning breath.) I was a drowning soul, in desperate need of the breath of life.
We arrived late at the nearly vancant campground, located near a mountain considered sacred by the native people. We climbed into the back of our truck, sweltering in the tiny space. I opened a side window for air, awake in the dark, next to my snoring husband. Suddenly, a small rodent leaped through the open window of the camper and sunk it's teeth into my arm. "It's got me! It's got me!" I yelled, flailing my arm about. My husband awoke, "What's wrong with you!" he shouted. I looked at my arm. No rodent, just a burning, tingling sensation. In the empty solitude of sacred ground, the spirit of my anger and negativity materialized, eating me alive.
Reflecting on the past, I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling fan, then across at the mud cloth. Back & forth, back & forth, past & present, like a creaking porch swing or a wave receding, then rolling back in. The only sound was that of fan blades and the air conditioning kicking on. The mud cloth connects me to my family in California. I miss them so much. I miss my nieces; I miss the children I never birthed. In solitude I embrace my sadness, I know I will never really get over it. I've been told that I "should" be happy, that I "should" move on. But feelings are not about what one "should," they just are. The Disneyland culture insists on happily ever after, but nothing is forever. Not happiness, not sadness.
The desert, though, is ancient. It is filled with the ruins of lost cultures. No one knows what became of them, but they were here. It is filled with the remnants of lost oceans, here in a parched land with no water in sight. My new town is named for a mythological bird that rises strong from its ashes. Changes. Shadows. Mirage.
At the bottom of my personal ocean of darkness, I had a dream. In front of the world famous bridge my (then) home, I dug in dirt overlooking the bay. There, I discovered buried treasure: a pure white garment, glowing in the sunlight. Clean. I dream of a kind man named David, who grasps my hand to lead my down a winding stairway to a basement which open on to the ocean. He shows me a band of painted instruments, guitar cases, drum sets, painted in bright colors, with skull faces. When I see this band of Dia de los Muertos figures, I suddenly realize that I will never have children of my own. My heart is breaking, but David is there to let me know that even this I will survive. A dock reaches out into the ocean, lined with black-clad figures facing a roiling ocean. I join them to face the turbulence. When I awake, I realize the dreams foretell my future, though it will still be many years before I come to accept it.
I stare hard at this dream past & refocus upon the mud cloth on my wall. Its colors are deep, rich earth tones: black, rusty brown, ocher, gold, white. The dyes which create these colors come from plants & minerals & clay of the region. Geometric shapes & patterns are symbols secret with meaning passed from generation to generation. The cloth is used in rites of passage, an integral part of life for the people. The patterns are hand made in the most beautiful sense, lines that don't meet exactly, are not perfectly straight, brush strokes that missed a spot here, or bled there. As I study the patterns over time they begin to move & dance for me. The fabric panels become sheets of music, the dots are drum beats, the colors, the fur of wild animals. The music of Africa becomes the reggae of Jamaica, the blues of New Orleans, the hip hop, the movement, the change.
Yes, I did eventually leave my husband. We were a toxic mix. I married & left another one, for much the same reason. I screamed and ranted and finally got clean and sober. I built a life from the muck and mud of my pain & fear & anger. I traded my bottled spirits for a spiritual life of another sort. Like the mythological bird for which my new town is named, I arose from the ashes of my past. I cannot deny my sadness. Why should I? Life is deep as a black hole at times, I can't pretend to know the answers.
I still search for a place to feel at home, to feel connected, like my feet are solidly planted and I'm not about to float away. I think that's why I like to dig in the dirt. I want to hold on. Just like my mom, I search for security. I also search for love, and for meaning. I know I am not the only one. When I gaze at my mud cloth, it reminds me of my brother-in-law who travelled the globe in his personal search. I asked him if he felt at home when he returned to Mali. "Not really," he replied. "It's a strange feeling. It's not really home anymore."
So for me, today, home is here. In the desert. Who knows tomorrow? Still, I search.
