rain and clouds and mystery in the desert...

It rained in the desert yesterday - a rare and holy time. Today the mountains are nestled in clouds that are slowly fading as the sun takes charge of the day. When it rains in this part of the desert, you can experience it with all your senses - especially its smell. The creosote bush, larrea tridentata or chaparral for the cognoscenti, secretes a coating on its leaves when it rains that helps it retain moisture. When the gentle musky aroma is released,desert dwellers smile and say: "Ah, I can smell the rain." It is one of the small blessings I continue to miss even after all these years. The poet, Ofelia Zepeda of the Tohono O’odham nation, put it like this in "It Is Going to Rain."

Someone said it is going to rain.
I think it is not so.
Because I have not yet felt the earth and the way it holds still
in anticipation.
I think it is not so.
Because I have not yet felt the sky become heavy with moisture of preparation.
I think it is not so.
Because I have not yet felt the winds move with their coolness.
I think it is not so.
Because I have not yet inhaled the sweet, wet dirt the winds bring.
So, there is no truth that it will rain.

Today we will gather up some creosote branches in a plastic bag to hand in our shower at home. Today I will also go searching for some 'Piñon and Mesquite

incense, two other unique scents of the desert that we treasure. Our little house in Massachusetts will soon smell like a lost portion of the Sonoran desert by the time Lent begins. That will help me pray this year - and I need all the help I can get. Another of Ms.Zepeda's poems, "Smoke in Our Hair," puts it like this:

The scent of burning wood holds
the strongest memory.
Mesquite, cedar, piñon, juniper,
all are distinct.
Mesquite is dry desert air and mild winter.
Cedar and piñon are colder places.
Winter air in our hair is pulled away,
and scent of smoke settles in its place.
We walk around the rest of the day
with the aroma resting on our shoulders.
The sweet smell holds the strongest memory.
We stand around the fire.
The sound of the crackle of wood and spark
is ephemeral.
Smoke, like memories, permeates our hair,
our clothing, our layers of skin.
The smoke travels deep
to the seat of memory.
We walk away from the fire;
no matter how far we walk,
we carry this scent with us.
New York City, France, Germany—
we catch the scent of burning wood;
we are brought home.

I love those smells - and her poetry. I love the desert, too for reasons I cannot explain except to say its vast and subtle beauty opens my heart like nothing else. One last poem from Ofelia Zepeda contain these words that evoke for me the sacred mystery of some poetry:

My parents are illiterate in the English language

They speak a language much too civil

for writing.

It is a language useful for pulling memory

from the depths of the earth.

It is a language useful for praying with the

earth and sky.

("Birth Witness")