The Ghost of Tom Joad Knocking at the Door: A Pilgrim's Journey into the CaliforniAmerican Heartland--19. One Standard Moment Looking into Death Valley

One Standard Moment Looking into Death Valley on a Dusty Day, Steve Brown 2022

Sunday, April 10, 2022.  11:03 a.m.

I pull the car onto the shoulder to take a picture part way down the long descent back into Death Valley.  The heat of yesterday is gone after last night's cold front drove it some place farther south, perhaps deep into Mexico.  But, already, simply from the drop in elevation, it is so much warmer than it was in Rhyolite, even on this cold, cold day.

It is not as clear as I would like it to be.  That bitter wind has mucked up the sky.  Yet, it is incredibly beautiful here.  The distance, though distorted by dust, is still impressive.  Big spaces simply blow the mind, and there are few spaces bigger and deeper than Death Valley.  Time seems to stand still and march on forever simultaneously.  I feel that if I could just stand here and gaze forever, I would want for nothing more.

I know that is a lie, of course.   People are built to want.  Dissatisfaction and boredom are in our blood.  Stillness is a terrifying experience even for the quiet ones and those trained as meditators and Zen masters.  We can only handle so much peace, so much light, so much perfection before we go looking for some noise, some distraction, anything that removes us from being fully present.

I'm aware of that and don't fight it.  I just need a moment to take in the small chunks of rock, the medium chunks of rock, and the bigger chunks of rock--all casting shadows according to their size.  I just need to take in the dry narrow stems of the moisture-starved scatting of creosote bushes. I just need to feel that drop in elevation, and see that space, the salt flats north of Furnace Creek shockingly white even in this pastel stone landscape. 

At this point I know I have kidney disease, but I don't know what type, or how severe, so I'm aware this trip could be my only opportunity to take in this space.  We plan on returning this way, so I know I'll see it at least one more time, but after that, perhaps never again.

Moments right now are tremendously precious.  I have never seen the way I see now.  Every moment is a movie.  Nostalgia hangs deep and robust as Spanish moss hanging from big southern trees.  Sadness and joy sing together in unison.  Every hello is also possibly a goodbye.  I feel frail but deeply alive.  I think this must be what war feels like, although I don't really know for sure.

But I also know human nature, so I don't mind getting back in the car and driving on.  There will be music, and caramel rice cakes, Coke Zero, my wife sitting beside me, and at least for today, the road, always the road--the only place I've ever really wanted to be.

We drive on.