O Frabjous Day

Woke to a nicely cool, slightly damp morning (compared to the past two months in Phoenix!).  Walked to the end of the park to view sunrise over the lettuce fields and found this gentleman walking in the distance.  He reminded me of a French farmer for some reason (must be the hat).

Two fields away a cluster of trees hosted a cacophony of birdsong and everywhere doves cooed.

Morning over the lettuce fields.

Yesterday we drove to Yuma from Dateland and despite a couple of wrong turns, ended up in California quite suddenly, where we found a campground—the McCoy Mobile Home Park in Winterhaven, tucked between lettuce fields near the Colorado River in what is apparently part of Imperial Valley.

I wanted to see the border of Mexico.  In Yuma, Mexico is both south and west.  Here is where the Gila River joins the Colorado River and for a brief spate, the Colorado is the Mexican/United States border.

The famous border fence on the west side of the farm fields. 

But one cannot really get to the western border, except on dirt roads and (my guess is) private property.  From even a slightly elevated vantage point, one can look over into Mexico. In our explorations, we found miles and miles of farm fields.

This is agricultural country, much to my surprise, and the fields were filled with workers picking lettuce.  It was packed in boxes as it was picked and loaded immediately onto semi-trucks.  Fresh.

The fields are unlike Iowa fields, because the crops are all short ones.  Lettuce, cauliflower, arugula, other greens I didn’t recognize from the car window. Everywhere one sees old school buses faded yellow or now-faded white, with porta-Johns on a trailer behind.  These are the agricultural transports.  They make a circuit picking up workers in the morning, and take them home at night.  It is hard, back-breaking work for little pay. 

Ninety percent of the world’s winter lettuce is produced here in the Yuma area.  Workers live locally, or travel here in the season to work, or are bused across the border daily.  

Curious to at least see Mexico, we ended up driving 20 miles south to the border town of San Luis.  There I got pictures of the border and the famous fence.  

The park butts up against the border fence.  Here you see foot traffic crossing into Mexico.

Here you see the border at San Luis, Arizona, adjacent to Friendship Park. 

The border fence extending across the southern edge of Arizona at San Luis. This picture was taken facing west.

Close up of the fence

The street that run parallel to the fence. 

In light of the conflicts of recent years, I think that Friendship Park is ironically named! Although I did not see any open signs of hostility--everyone was friendly, there were no obvious guards, etc.  (Certainly not like my visit to Ecuador, where seriously armed police were everywhere!)


I admit I know very little about migrant workers or border disputes, but I was glad to get even a glimpse today of the work being done and the monumental place the border holds in the consciousness of those who live nearby.

Dateline Dateland: Westward Ho!

We have finally left Phoenix behind, with a few clear clues our last day that we were not to even consider staying there. I will not share them here.

Our neighbors Nick and Ty helped Rick pack everything up.  After Nick went to work at noon, Ty and Crystal wished us off and we left the X Bar B Trailer Ranch around 2.

I was nervous and anxious as usual when setting out, but in a couple of hours we arrived at the Painted Rocks Petroglyph Site west of Gila Bend.  We were planning to spend the night there, where the BLM has established a campground (no services).  I spent the next two hours or so photographing the petroglyphs, while Rick attempted to set up camp. Here are a few:

Alas, our generator would simply not turn on, so we decided to head on down the road.  

We passed a solar farm, acres of solar panels turning to face the sun.  At sunset, they were faced toward the east, waiting for morning.

 

We spent the night in Dateland, Arizona beneath a glittering dazzle of stars and the sounds of the Interstate and the nearby train tracks for company.  I love the trains.  In fact, as I write this, I can see the train passing about a hundred feet in front of us.  

It is 7 am and the sun is just rising, so I am going to go watch the sunrise, offer some tobacco to the spirits and take some pictures.

It is chilly, around 40 degrees. I found a lizard laying, curled but facing east, to the east of his hole.  Waiting.  Waiting for the sun to rise and strike him to life, as he must do every morning.  

I waited for the sunrise along with my chilly reptilian friend.

At last, our waiting was rewarded.

I walked back to our camp site and a beautiful morning.

 

After-thoughts about ranting

I said my rant about being poor was not very spiritual, but perhaps I was wrong.  

I also thought that the ceremony I conducted during the full moon was a way to release my fears and feelings, and that because I was feeling so angry that it had not worked.

Now, I believe I was wrong about that, too.

Inviting the release of these deeply held, powerful, old feelings should never have been thought of as so simply accomplished.  Instead, I now consider that the feelings coming back so strong, so forcefully, so angrily, was the process of release.  You cannot release feelings you hold close and try not to feel.  You first have to feel them.  And that means feeling them fully.  Not feeling them while trying to unwrap them and make them into something zen-like and peaceful.  Not feeling them and apologizing for being angry.  Just FEELING them.  In all their ugly angry glory.  All the resentment, all the hostility, all the frustration, all the sheer fury of being constantly thwarted and suffering over so many decades have to be expressed before they can be released.

So I cried and I yelled and I ranted, then I wrote, then I actually had the NERVE to post it!  And I feel better.  I shared it.  And it was truthful, no matter what anyone else thinks about it. 

I have to admit, though, that I did hold back a bit.  I left out the parts where I contemplated imaginary retribution.  I deleted anything that I thought might attract the attention of any law enforcement agency, or anti-terrorist task force, or risked my being put on the no-fly list.  I may have occasional violent thoughts, but I never act upon them, except maybe to slam a cabinet door—or occasionally thwack an empty metal drum with an axe handle.  But never any harm to human or any other living being. 

One never gets anywhere pretending that you don’t have dark thoughts and powerful feelings.  If you are enraged, then rage.  Just don’t use that rage destructively.  A great deal of my energy to make things happen for positive changes in my life has come from redirected anger.  You can’t just kill something, so you may as well build something.  Anger can be turned into determination.  It can give you the energy to create change. Anger can make you fierce and strong.  Properly embraced, anger can be your friend.  

I was raised to be “nice” as most girls are.  Cinderella, Snow White and Mary Poppins never got angry.  Yet, as I age, I realize how much my anger has given me power, has sustained me when I had no idea how I would go on.  How my anger is simply the shadow-side of my passion—my passion for love, for life, for justice, for the earth, for spirit.  I cannot have the one side without the other.

So my little meltdown earlier was a catharsis, a direct release of years of maybe-not-so-carefully-controlled feelings. Let this be instructive.  We should not fear our feelings, but embrace them, as long as we recognize that feeling negative feelings does not mean we have to inflict injury upon others.  We just need to feel, express in non-harmful ways, and move on.

And thanks for listening.