Beauty in the Desert

Sitting here in my newly organized writing room with a four-month old kitten sharpening its needle claws on my couch, I’m at a loss. Things have been good and honestly I’d rather hide in fiction than write about real life. So, in search of a subject, I rifle through some pictures and open a coke.  Caffeine helps me think.

In the pile of pictures I find a photo of Chris and I sitting around a morning campfire in March of this year. It was an off-roading trip we took with a small group of friends. I remember fearing going back to the desert because the problems Chris had last year with the scenery in some of the areas and the no smoking campground we chose accidentally. He needs those little sticks of calming nicotine. This year however we decided to stay away from the campground where we couldn’t have a fire past ten, make noise, have glass bottles, or smoke. Instead we dry camped in the middle of nowhere. It was a good choice.

It had been a long time since I’d totally escaped the light pollution of town and witnessed the unblemished night sky. Dragging out of bed at three in the morning - after a very long and filthy day wheeling the trails - to witness stars pierce every inch of black paper sky was worth losing a bit of sleep. That early morning was a sight not to be missed, one I won’t soon forget. And we talked.

“At first it looked like this over there at night. So beautiful sometimes.”

Sometimes is the operative word. Only sometimes.

But still between the awful pictures he brought home in his mind Chris has tucked some breathtaking sights to be brought out only when reminded.

“The sun melts against the sand when it sets, waves of heat pushing and pulling it.”

I’ve seen the distortion of the sun against the Pacific Ocean many times. We drive to the beach when the stress is high and watch it paint a silver line across the waves. Beauty is everywhere, even in a war zone.
“The sunsets were red and orange until purple overtook everything and then the stars came into view.”

Even so, I have a difficult time imagining breathtaking views like this entangled in the ugliness of battle.  But when he really sits down and remembers, those images are there nestled between the horrors keeping him from sleeping a full night.

I lay awake with him searching for those images in his mind sometimes hoping he’ll eventually be able to look for them without my direction. I know he’ll never forget, all I wish for is a shift in focus so he can find his way.

Shifting our focus is what we’ve done in the past few weeks. Ever since Chris got a new diagnosis which brought with it the possibility of Chris losing his arm we’ve been living like today is it. Today is when we have to make plans and set things in motion because time might be waning. It’s been difficult to think about but it’s forced us to take a good hard look at how we’ve been dealing with his PTSD and TBI. Staying home, avoiding, never taking chances, making sure he’s never in danger of extra stressors.

But that’s not good enough. Just getting by isn’t good enough. As afraid as I am locking to doors and hunkering down every time there’s stress just isn’t good enough anymore.

Next month is our first anniversary. We’ll be getting down the camping equipment to make sure it’s ready for a couple of days down in the desert. We’re going alone this time with no obligations, no expectations, just three days to ourselves.  Three days to look up at the stars and find our way.