Growing up in the desert of Arizona
my entire life, I’ve never understood why anyone would have wanted to move
there in the first place. What on earth
were the first settlers thinking? There isn’t any shade or much water to be
found, the temperatures can reach soaring heights equaled only by the Sahara
desert and all the plants and animals are either pokey or poisonous. Some of the cacti will even shoot needles at
you if you get too close to them. In
short, it isn’t really an environment that screams, “this looks like a nice
inviting spot to spend the rest of my life. I think I’ll settle down and live
here forever.” Yet people stayed. Why? I can recall one occasion when we had
family from the east coast come out and visit us for a while in Arizona; as we
drove them around the state there was such a look of awe and wonder in their
eyes as they took in the landscape around them.
I remember having to stop and wait at every new form of cacti we
stumbled upon so they could take a photo.
I didn’t get it; but I do now.
My husband and I have lived most of
our lives in Arizona and have recently relocated to the east coast, and to say
I’ve been experiencing culture shock would be an egregious understatement. More overwhelming than any other emotion, has
been the intense feeling of claustrophobia I’ve experienced since moving
here. While I am not typically bothered
by small confined spaces, there is an unease about not being able to see into
the distant horizon, like I am used to, and a gloom to the vastly more numerous
rainy days. The food is different, the
music, the people, the sounds, the smells all slightly off from normal – like
stepping into an alternate reality.
Then, two weeks ago I had the opportunity to go home.
The moment the plane touched down
in Phoenix, I could feel myself begin to breathe again. It was as if I’d been
holding my breath since arriving in Virginia and only now that I could see into
the distant horizon and watch the sun setting into the mountains could I again
be at ease. My whole body relaxed and
felt at peace. It’s true what they say
about not knowing how much you love home until you’ve left it.
On my final day in Arizona, I took
some time to drive out into the middle of the desert. I parked the car I had borrowed from my
mother on the side of the road and set out walking. I hadn’t really prepared for the adventure
and was acting on mere impulse really so my clothes were more fashion chic than
desert appropriate, I had no water, no map, no compass, no hat, not even
sunglasses. All I knew, is that this was
something I needed to do right in that moment.
So I took off my scarf, wrapped it around my head and wandered off into
the desert looking like a misplaced actor from a Christmas nativity scene. As I wandered, it finally struck me why all
these people from all around the world are so mesmerized by this place. Because even in these harsh conditions, when
all odds are against them, these plants and flowers somehow find a way to
survive, grow, and blossom. They
persevere through the harsh sun, the strong winds, the monsoons, and
interminable droughts, and they remain through it all, steadfast and
flowering. The beauty of that thought
struck a chord in me so deep it was as if my entire being was resonating in the
same vibrations as the desert around me. The next day, I boarded my plane, flew
home, and didn’t really know what to make of the experience I had while alone
in the desert. While I knew it was profound, I hadn’t yet been able to fully
process the experience.
Once home, an idea suddenly popped
into my brain. That idea was the expression of the experience I had while in
Arizona combined with the experimenting I had done in environmental art this
semester. In this way, my brain had connected this authentic experience with a
means and medium for expression naturally, without force or planning or brain
storming sessions. It had simply come
forth, not as a product, but as a byproduct of an experience.
It is from this series of events
that I again found myself wandering, this time around Virginia with a pair of
gloves, a trowel and collection of baby cacti.
I realized the thing that had most impacted me about my experience in
Arizona was the concept of resiliency.
Of all the plants and animals in the desert, cacti exemplify this
quality like no other plant on earth, through everything they remain standing
tall and proud, they flower and bloom and this is a part of me. This is who I am and where I come from. It
shows me that no matter where I live, no matter the harsh conditions or
difficult the environment I have the strength to stand strong, to grow, thrive
and blossom. I think this is a strong
message for all of us, and something each one of us needs to hear at times. In honor of that, I decided to bring a little
bit of Arizona to Virginia by driving around and doing a little guerilla
gardening by planting baby cacti as a symbol of hope and resilience and as a
visual representation of the transplant I myself had taken from Arizona to
Virginia. In a sense, I was literally
“putting down roots.”
Each day for three weeks, I went
out once a day and planted another cactus, and at each planting I would stop
and spend a moment to commemorate and honor the cactus by either creating some
small piece of environmental art with the surrounding environment, or observing
a moment of silence in respect. After
doing so, I would take a moment to photograph each and every cactus I
planted. It is in this way I planted 21
cacti in and around the Petersburg, Virginia area.
The thing I loved most about this
project was how naturally it evolved. It
wasn’t forced or prodded out of me, it simply can into being through trusting
my instincts. The experience of planting
each of the cacti in and of itself was empowering in a way that I didn’t
expect. With each one I found myself
growing more confident not only in my project, but in my personal life as
well. I hope that at least a few of
these cacti will be able to serve through the years as a simple of hope for
survival, endurance and resilience to all those who happen to pass by.
