Out of Arizona

One of these days I may write a novel. Or maybe just a meditation book with photos from our time here and reflections. One of my favorite photos is this one of the rainbow, taken from our backyard. I have photos of sunsets and ground squirrels and monsoon rains. All striking, the beauty of this place. Regardless I'll call it "Out of Arizona." It will begin something like:

"I once lived in a house in the mountains of Arizona, amongst pecan orchards, swirling dragonfly's and flitting hummingbirds.The days were dry, sunny, and sometimes scorching hot. An occasional life-giving rain became a sign of hope in an otherwise parched place"

As my husband and I prepare to drive out of here on Thursday we count our losses: income, home, car (yes, still waiting to see if Volkswagen will fix our Passat), furniture that won't fit in the truck that we had to load ourselves and now, will drive ourselves. We will leave one child here, going to school and living with family friends, until our lives stabilize. It's hard to leave him behind, but we all agree it's the right thing. We will miss the wildlife and the view out our back yard. I'll miss waking up to the sun rising over the mountains, which I can see through the window near my bed.

We head into an unknown future. Hoping for hope.

My dream the other night: I was trying to get to an interview. I walked over precipices and hills, down stairs, and into a crossway that suddenly became flooded with rushing water. To cross over from one side to another I had to surf on this boomerang shaped board. Of course the board tipped as the rushing water hit it and I fell in. I walked out of the water thinking, "I will just have to go to this interview soaking wet and hope for the best."

Rising up from this parched and prickly place I go off baptized in waters that can heal or drown. Only time will tell which it will be for me.