What We Take Into the Desert
A tale of two trips, and a mind (mine) that is far too comfortable living in the noise.
For our honeymoon, my husband and I spent six weeks touring the Colorado Plateau, living out of an old plumbing van we'd received as a wedding present. This was just before the internet went mainstream. We used paper guide books and maps to find our way around, word of mouth for local directions and recommendations, and a pay phone with calling card in the rare event we needed to speak to anyone long-distance.
This summer I've got a family obligation in Portland, other side of the continent from me. My graduating high school senior asked if she and I couldn't drive there and back, slowly, camping out of our truck and stopping at some of the great sights along the way. Also, she said, we should get a data plan.
Oh, and should she bring a tripod? Because Mom might get tired of snapping endless pics for Instagram?
Roger that.
There was a moment three weeks into our honeymoon when we were able to answer the question, "How long do you need to get away before you have really, truly, shaken off the noise and commotion of your day-to-day life?"
It was right at the twenty-one day mark that we realized we were no longer hearing the voices, the literal voices, of the people who filled our lives back home. Our heads no longer echoed with the clatter of our usual responsibilities and daily activities. Our minds were finally clear, finally focused fully on what was in front of us, there in the desert.
We weren't Christian back then, but looking at it now, I wonder: Did Jesus spend the first half of his forty days in the wilderness clearing his mind of all the preoccupations of his ordinary life as a son, neighbor, and carpenter?
My daughter didn't ask for a retreat, she asked for a trip. When she shares her life with others online, it comes from a place of genuine joy and comradery. It is good. But I'm a little bit sorry for her that, if she and I do indeed bring the whole world with us in our pockets into the desert, that she'll never get that moment of waking up one morning with nothing but the sky and the rocks and the wind.
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