Dirt Life
The air here is rambunctious. This neighborhood is named for the the three small peaks that jut from the flat sage scrub plain like a gathering of purulent pimples or a man's triple nipples: Tres Orejos, three ears in Spanish. I imagine that the air has a desperate need to be heard and the ears here are such good listeners that the wind feels as if it can finally open up, finally be apprehended for the first time in a long while among the chaos of the human world, and now it won't shut up.
Sometimes the wind whispers, like this morning, while I sit outside in my red Adirondack chair, drinking coffee and writing in the early morning shade of the east side of my camper trailer. But sometimes the air roars, tossing over patio furniture and carrying trash across the mesa. Yet even that is nothing compared to the wind's full wrath when it picks up mounds of dirt and flings it across the neighborhood like a child might kick dirt in your eye during a tantrum. The dust disperses in enormous clouds, traverses the flat land carrying debris and biting sand in its teeth casting a haze over distant mountains like a filter blinding us from the outside world.
I know that personifying wind is for poets but I can't help and wonder what caused the mercurial air to create such a fuss. The wind speaks. It sings through leaves and flapping flags and tinkling chimes. It moans through mountain peaks and canyons. It whispers through pages of my notebook, through window screens and fence posts. Believing the wind is trying to tell us something is anthropocentric, of course. Obviously it exists despite us. But, still, I wonder, what does it say? If I were to take out my Google translator and type in "wind," what would be the results?
Breathe.
Breathe deeply.
Sing.
Sing loud.
Speak up.
Speak strong.
I was once told by an acupuncturist when my child was still very young that I had weak chi and should stay out of the wind. I agreed with her. The wind seemed to steal my energy the way someone yelling unkindness at me might, or someone chattering endlessly without inquiry does. So because of those years of weak chi when I stayed out of the wind, I appreciate the wind all the more now. I take my evening walk in the hollering wind throwing dirt in my face and I feel tough as a demoness, impossible to weaken or blow over. I feel my energy maintain its stamina and I know my chi is strong.
At home, I wipe the dirt from my skin. Everything I own is now covered in a layer of this sandy clay. My wardrobe looks more grey than black. The dog is covered in the desert she rolls in all day. The furniture, carpets and purple concrete floors all layered with earthen dust. You'd think it would bother me but actually, I embrace it. The dirt is a symbol of my freedom from small worries, my ability to relax and surrender to nature. I don't think of it as dirt so much as sand. Like beach sand, it is a symbol of my time outdoors. The miles and miles of infinite sage is my ocean.
Even mopping up the dirt brings some joy, perhaps because I love to care for my new home. I love that we are the first to live in it and that it belongs wholly to us and not a bank. I love that we breathe life into it even as the wind blows the desert dirt as if to say, "Oh, I didn't even see you there," or "I was here first," or "You can make a home here, but never forget who truly lives here."