No Rain in Sight

It has been four months since I last heard a crescendo of raindrops on the arid desert soil around my home. I’ve heard a drop here and there for a moment or two. But nothing that wets the ground. 

Mother Nature is getting predictably unpredictable. For some, that means a roar of terror. For us, it is an amplified silence. Even the air smells dry. It is easy to describe all the smells of a humid, wet landscape. Harder to describe dryness—dusty, yes, but there is more to it than that. Maybe I can just tell you what there isn’t. There’s no smell of wet bark or decaying leaves. No dormant grass giving off a hint of spring. 

Last month I planted a peach tree, a fig tree, a pomegranate, and a cumquat. I was told winter is a good time to plant in the desert, especially in time for our January monsoon. But there is no monsoon on the horizon. And my poor little peach tree is completely confused. It’s blooming. It should be dormant but our temperatures have been 15 to 20 degrees above “normal.”

I’m not complaining. I’ve been running around in shorts and tees. I’ve been sitting out on my porch watching the world go by to the sound of 70s love songs. I’m just getting jittery about the coming summer. 

Last night, I was bemoaning the weather to Ryan, and he told me about a wonderful spot in Tucson called Mission Gardens. Ryan's New Year’s resolution is to become an avid desert gardener. He wants our “ranch” to become food-independent. Of course, he wants this to happen before Trump gets sworn in, but we have all agreed to within two years. 

My contribution is to attend a class at Mission Gardens this weekend on healing herbs. Secretly, I want to be medically independent in two years, too. Until then, I’ll wait for the smell of wet earth to fill the air, for that promise of renewal.