“Sign, sign…everywhere a sign…”

“Sign, sign….Everywhere a sign

Blockin' out the scenery, Breakin' my mind

Do this, don't do that!

Can't you read the sign?”

Sometime in my youth, songwriter Les Emerson penned the words to this anthem that became part of the American soundscape in some of our most turbulent years. Against the backdrop of the struggle for civil rights and a search for identity, the sentiments resonated with a generation seeking a kinder, more inclusive world, myself included.

That song has been playing in my head lately as I have become acquainted with trails in my new community in the Sonoran Desert. On one of the trails, older homes with large properties back up to the trail. The homes are mostly set back a significant way from the trail leaving an open desert space between the owners and the trail.

On my first few walks, I noted a radical difference in how these yards greeted the casual walker and various pets utilizing the trail. On a few properties, fences were erected with “No Trespassing” signs and other warnings in keeping with the sentiment expressed in the song decades ago: And the sign said, "Anybody caught trespassin' will be shot on sight.” This did not surprise me, as it was their right as homeowners to protect their property.

What did surprise me, however, were the welcoming signs. The first I encountered was a water station for thirsty dogs. No where could be found any admonition about pets - just a little bench, a water cooler and a bowl. And, of course, a dog friendly hydrant. Next, I encountered a large fenced yard with a “welcome sign” to encourage visitors to wander the property. Spaced tastefully throughout were antiques from our history-old wagons, cooking supplies, and even some funny recreations of tombstones.

But most welcoming of all was a yard containing several artists’ installations. At the entrance to a path leading to a replica of a little casita, a sign stated “rest area,” a welcome respite from the summer sun. Further down the trail on the same property, a little white adobe turret gleamed in the sun, a small plague stationed at a path leading to its structure.

The sign explained how a man grieving the loss of his cousin in Japan had established a non working phone in his garden so he could still have one way conversations with his beloved friend. After the loss of 20,000 people in the tsunami of Japan, his wind garden became a pilgrimage site.

On the plaque, the owner of the installation encouraged walkers to enter and spend time with a lost loved one or simply to just make a “gratitude call”. As I read the sign, I was moved to tears and had to enter. I was overwhelmed when I wandered in to the small structure and saw, on a shelf, a black dial phone connected to no source other than the heart. I wept again. It was a sacred space.

As I walked home from that first encounter, I began to wonder about the nature of signs - those posted along a desert trail and those posted on our spirits. When I encounter pilgrims on the path, am I a “no trespassing” sign assuming the worst and expecting a battle? Am I a welcome sign providing sustenance for the thirsty? Am I actively encouraging the stranger to a space in my life where tears are welcome, grief is shared, and gratitude is expressed?

In truth, though I often fall short, I want to be a “no membership required” kind of person, one for whom there are no prerequisites for being loved openly. I want to freely give water to the thirsty. And I want to turn every encounter as though my heart was stamped with a “Welcome” sign.

I did go back to the gratitude chapel a few weeks later to sit and write and pray and cry. I thought about signs again and remembered that at the end of his song, Emerson, sitting in a church and with no money for the offering, writes a little note for the collection plate. It is a note I have imprinted on my heart for today and everyday.

And I made up my own little sign.

I said, "Thank you, Lord, for thinkin' 'bout me. I'm alive and doin' fine"

Searching for the Elegant Trogon

We are all, I think, searching for something to bring us closer to the heart of hope. As the poet Emily Dickinson once mused, “Hope is a thing with feathers,” capturing in just a few words how elusive hope is and yet how it constantly captures our imagination, lifted just above our grasp by the capricious turnings of a slight breeze. In a sense, we are all addicted to hope, and it is an addiction planted in our very DNA.

It is hope that seemed most elusive these last few years when the world collapsed into itself during the pandemic. Routines were disrupted, relationships severed, and reality itself changed with lightening speed before our very eyes. In the void, depression and suicide rates soared, addictions started, renewed or deepened, and the simple human connections that sustained us in our difficulties were unavailable.

During these times, my soul, parched and hungering for hope, sought the consolation of Deception Pass. Or perhaps, whatever the name of the place, I sought the consolation of the sea. Scanning the horizon of a sea that stretched beyond my ability to grasp, I felt the cool salt air saturate my lungs moistening my breath. Jeans rolled up, walking in the gentle lapping of cold waves, my nerve endings came alive and their rhythm against my skin created a soft melody of joy. Hope lived on the sea, and I wanted to immerse myself in its depths.

In some sense, we are now weaving our way back into a “new normal” which, for me, has also brought a move from the ocean’s consolation to the desert’s subtle comfort. But a search for hope continues, and so my addiction to experiencing nature takes me now to Madera Canyon at sunrise.

I am not alone. A man parks his car next to mine, and I watch as he unfolds what must be his at least 6’5” thin build and begins spraying insect spray.

“I suspect you are running these hills today,” I comment, and he answers in a thick French accent that he has driven for over two hours to run these hills wherever they lead him. When he inquires of my destination, I can only answer as I always do,

“I don’t know.”

As I climb for the first time to an unknown destination, the air is thick with insect songs which almost seem like human voices to me. When a solitary man overtakes me on the trail, I ask him if he ever has trouble distinguishing between insect voices and human ones. He glances at me as though I have lost my mind, “Never…”

Out of breath and with limited water, I turn back down the trail. A couple approaches, their breath labored and slow, and ask with great anticipation,“Is this the Carrie Nation trail? Will this lead us to the bench? We hear we can see the Elegant Trogon there!”

I apologize for the fact that this is my first time on the trail, and my inquiry about the Elegant Trogon leads to an encyclopedia of information about this rare bird that is said to be visiting Madera Canyon at this time of year.

“Birders are coming from everywhere to try and find it. Soon this canyon will be full of them,” they share, and then hurriedly continue their climb.

Filled with this new information, as I head down the trail, I ask each group of hikers,

“Are you looking for the Elegant Trogon?”

“No, we want to lose weight and get in shape,” reply two young men with walking sticks.

In their wake appear two obviously fit for nature elderly men.

“Are you looking for the Elegant Trogon?”

“No…but be sure to get your souvenir backpack and water bottle when you find one,” one comments humorously, and I hear their laughter trailing behind them as they disappear around a corner.

As I find my way back to the car, I think that maybe everyone in this canyon is looking for hope. One finds it in the thoughts that abound on a solitary hike. Another finds it in the sound of blood pumping through veins and the pounding of steps on a rocky high country trail. Some find it in the camaraderie of a shared goal. Others find it in the elusive quest for the sight of a teal feather, a dash of scarlet, and a striped tail.

We are all searching for something whether it be found at the bottom of a bottle or a trail in the highest hills. We are all searching for a moment of grace and a touch of mercy, which spring from the heart of hope. No matter how high we climb or how low we fall, we are all looking for that fragile feather lofted in the breeze of the poet.

Because we are, everyone one of us, hopelessly addicted to hope.

In the scarcity of light…

In the Pacific Northwest, the light is an elusive and secretive lover for most of the year. A leaf laughingly tumbles on Autumn’s grey breeze, and, catching a shaft of light, it comes alive and dances with reckless abandon. A damp fog begins to lift its cold Winter blanket from the shore, and the rays of an arriving sun deliver the anemone clinging to the dark, dank crevice on volcanic stone debris. A momentary sliver appears through thick fern in a soaked Spring and the blossom of a tiny wild rose makes its debut on stage with a “ta-dah” in the fleeting spotlight.

Because of its scarcity most of the year, light is a precious commodity. When it would choose to reveal itself in the debris of the Northwest landscape, my breath would gasp at the glimpse of treasure with all the anticipation of a miner finding a vein of precious metal in a hillside of ordinary stone.

Contemplation of light, because of its scarcity, became a lens through which I viewed my world. Those tiny shafts of light were like tiny grace notes of hope suddenly appearing in a heavy Gustav Mahler symphony. And that search for the secretive Light in the tangled, explosive growth mimicked my own inner landscape.

My early childhood was filled with Stravinsky and Grofe. Sleeping Beauty and the Grand Canyon Suite. Expansive. Passionate. Full of hope, humor, and joy. But “after the fall,” the knife blade in the tender soul, the soundscape shifted to the darker Mahler and the strident Shostakovich. The light disappeared, except for tiny glimpses, and decades in the Northwest only served to highlight and reinforce the hiddenness of its appearance.

No longer.

Now light runs amok in this desert landscape, without shame and without complexity. Each coming dawn it unabashedly announces its arrival, shoving any lingering clouds out of the way. This land is the sun’s dominion, and it is the shadows that hide here awaiting moments of discovery.

Here light is bold and in your face. Here light holds you up to deep examination and declares you beautiful. Here light looks at the knife scar and sings a new song over it, rewriting the symphony with joyful trumpet declaration and swelling strings that move like waves of wild, rushing water in a desert wash.

This land sees the parched rocky soil and pours out rivers of thundering rain. This land explodes in joy in the gift of the monsoon season. This land celebrates every new morn, every fading into night, with a palette of rich colors that defy description.

Some would call this desert a brutal landscape.

But I believe it is a tender one.

The light in the desert speaks the language of love. Loudly and without reservation. The light in the desert is awash with generous grace and fearless hope.

And the light in the desert composes a symphony I hope to hear until my dying breath.