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March 2005
I am in Death Valley with my 15-year-old daughter.
They got the name of this place all wrong. There is no death
here. There are alluvial fans leading to colorful mountain
ranges that expose rocky outcroppings.
There is rugged terrain
where cataclysmic forces push rock layers upward creating
a fascinating wonderland of geological interest. And there
is an oasis of date and cottonwood trees that are fed from
an underground spring. “I think
they should call this place Surprise Valley ,” I said
to my daughter. When visitors come here they are surprised
at how spectacular this place is.”
My original intention was to come to Death Valley with my
cousin, her husband, and van-load of their kids. One week before
our departure, my cousin cancelled. The winds were taken from
my sails, the carpet pulled from under my feet. I was disappointed.
Sometimes life gives us an opportunity disguised as a disappointment.
It is up to us to reframe the experience. Make lemonade out
of lemons. “You need this place to feed you,” my
friend said, “go alone. It will nurture your soul. A
sense of place to fill you.” I felt encouraged by my
friend’s words. It could be a retreat, a pensive time
of reflection and contemplation.
I picked my daughter up from school and told her my plans. “I’ll
go with you,” she said. I felt a rush of emotion overtake
me, “come because you want to, not because your don’t
want your old mom to go alone.” She rolled her eyes and
shook her head in a teenage you-are-so-pathetic way. “I
really want to go. I love Death Valley . Okay?” Okay.
The wide-open space of the desert does something for my spirit.
There is a mystical enchantment that permeates my essence.
I can see and think with greater clarity and vision. I am at
peace.
We take a gradual uphill hike through Golden Canyon . As
we walk, there are times of solitude and times of intimate
conversation. I remind her of when she wore cloth diapers and
would hold her little arms up in the air and ask for up,
up, up. I remember before she began school she would ask
me to tell her what to expect. “Let’s talk about
kindergarden,” she would say to me as a four-year-old,
so eager to begin her life.
We girl-talk. George Clooney or Brad Pitt? Ashton Kutcher
or Orlando Bloom? We jump. We skip. We inspect. I reveal what’s
in my heart more than before. Without the endless, everyday
minutia like doing dishes, folding clothes, or cleaning the
house, she seems more interested in my musings. I am present.
My stories expand from their original telling. She is old
enough now for further revelation, but not enough detail to
scare her away. That’s what therapy is for. “I
should have kept my independence for longer,” I said. “I
never had a chance to know myself before. How can you become
part of a successful relationship without knowing who you really
are?” I ask, not wanting an answer.
I reveal my beliefs. Encourage communication. I want to protect
her from making mistakes in life. I don’t want her to
suffer or have any emotional pain. As we sit along a mesa on
the Funeral Mountains gazing over the badlands, with Zabriskie
Point at our backs, I am filled with gratitude at this tender
moment with my daughter. I realize that the best I can do for
her now is to remain open to life and what it can offer her.
I cannot protect her anymore than my mother could keep me safe
from the experiences I would have.
In this magnificent, ethereal place where they got the name
all wrong, there is a gentle healing. I pause and say a quiet
prayer of gratitude for all the blessings in my life. I ask
her if she’s ready to continue on our journey. She gets
up, shakes the red soil off her rear, and begins walking. “Matt
Damon or Ben Affleck?”
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