To simply say that the past couple of months have been hard is to reduce a wide spectrum of emotions, events, and moments to a four letter word with a somewhat negative or concerning connotation. As I am writing this, I don’t hold onto that meaning. Nobody wants hard, but sometimes easy is not in the range of options that come with the choices and decisions that we get to make. Lingering between the shapes and nuances of the hard for a while now, I have realized that our choices can bring sadness and fulfillment, deprivation and contentment in concurrent waves. We can simultaneously carry two seemingly contradictory truths, and we can be overwhelmed with several feelings that one would say cannot be felt at once. I don’t claim that this is common knowledge, but I do claim it as a personal experience, truly enlightening and utterly exhausting.

To continue functioning within the realm of this paradox and to soothe my persisting exhaustion, I have needed stillness and silence more than ever. I have craved firm and safe ground that pulls me out of my contradictories and draws me into its synchronicities. And such ground I did find, not having to go far, not needing to search for something new.

I have known Sabino Canyon since 2018, the year I moved here. I have never perceived it as anything less than a grandiose segment of the uniquely enchanting Tucson nature. Captivating, intimidating, comforting. I have gone back countless times and I have hiked almost all the trails that are to be hiked there. It has become my place of adventure, my spot for socialization, and the setting of many of my personal stories since I started building my life in this city. 

I don’t know how or when or why this place started offering me what I need because I have decided to not dig through my memory for tangible answers that serve no major purpose. For me, it now suffices to occasionally revisit my journal notes I take on every return, and to embrace the newly weaved harmony between my feelings, my body, and my Canyon. It’s a new state of being that I welcome wholeheartedly.

All the balance.
All the ease.
All the peace.

All of it I owe to the Canyon. 

FEBRUARY

I rarely write poems these days. I don’t know where the urge came from this time. I finish eating my tangerine, pack the peels, and start writing verses that speak to me about stillness, flow, glow. All of the lines are simple and honest, but the part that feels like it does most justice to the moment is this:

How does one capture earthly splendor?
Nothing soothes the senses
as being present,
unfazed by anything
but the overflowing creek.

My senses are finally soothed after days of overload. My nervous system has calmed. My breath has deepened. This moment, here and now, is the highest level of freedom. 

MARCH

It’s almost sunset time. One side of the canyon blocks the palette of burning red, soft pink and mellow orange, colors that harmoniously come to life almost every time the sunset spreads itself through the Tucson sky. The clouds become softer. The human noise – weaker. The only dominant sound comes from the overflowing Sabino Creek. It has been unusually rainy here. Rain in Tucson means renewed life. It means unordinariness, joy, delight. 

The vivacity of the desert pulls me into its majestic yet simple cycle. This is how life works, a cycle made of seasons, each with its own footprint, no less meaningful, no less beautiful. I start to accept the one I’m currently in. 

APRIL

It’s 5:20 p.m. when I pull up at the parking lot of the Visitor Center. There are unusually few cars there, but it doesn’t surprise me as it would otherwise. It’s pouring outside. Where am I going? I should just drive back, curl under a blanket at home, and listen to the rain from the comfort of my bed. Hiking in the desert when it rains is not a good nor a safe idea. I look at my waterproof pants and jacket on the passenger seat, I make a visual plan of where I would go and after a good ten minutes of hesitation, I turn off the car. When would I be able to do this again? I can count the number of times it rains here during the year. I put the pants on, zip up the jacket, place the waterproof cover on my backpack and start walking towards the Canyon.

As soon as I hit the trail, I pause to see what the Canyon has to offer me this time. It’s always something different. Utter silence. Two people walking in the far distance. I hear nothing but the sound of rain on my jacket. The smell of the creosote bush permeates through my nose. It’s a distinct scent that reminds you of the times when you have experienced these rare moments with dear people, some moments long bygone, other moments still alive with the reminder that this is your home now. This scent, this familiarity, this remembrance that you have been part of this before – and you get to be part of it yet again, and again, as long as you keep choosing – overwhelms me with comfort. 

I take the Bluff trail to get to the creek. I can hear the water flowing in almost intimidating power, hitting the rocks, rushing downstream. I walk further down and get closer to the dam. I have never seen the dam this full. I have never seen the dam without people around. I snap a few pictures and continue to stand in awe of how nature creates and recreates its own perfect system, one where the water finds its way, it surrounds the trees, feeds them life, and continues its own path somewhere downhill. 

How does one end up falling in love with the things they once used to dislike? I thought I never liked this, venturing in mountains, being on the trails alone. At another time, I hated the rain. At this time, I learned it was never the rain. 

MAY

What would the past few months have been like had it not been for this? The question pops up in my head not quite out of nowhere, but I immediately dismiss it. I don’t want to think about it. Depriving myself of this haven is not something I would like to grapple with, even within my imagination. And I am tired of thinking. 

The sky gets me out of my head and brings me back to my body. As every human, there are things I take for granted. The Arizona sky has never been one of those. I look up and try to make sense of the shapes the clouds form. A futile effort, I realize as soon as I start doing this. They are rarely contained in sharp shapes at this time of the day. They are loose and flowy. The whole sky looks like an impressionist painting, the clouds – traces of white paint brush dipped in clean water after use. 

It’s unusually quiet. There’s not a single human around. The chirping of the birds is uninterrupted by any other sound, except for the slightly annoying mosquito buzz around my ears. Sabino Creek is almost dry, so the sound of running water has subsided. It’s pretty warm, but not as hot as Tucsonans would expect it to be this time of the year. The breeze moves the heat around, a subtle caress that evokes a feeling of familiarity. Yes, this is what desert summer feels like. 

Things seem different since I sat here last.

And yet, whatever is left and whatever is found is just as beautiful. Beauty has no comparative value in nature. My awe of the Canyon is never less or never more. It’s always uniquely deep and different.

I try to remember how I felt last time I was here. What feelings did I bring with me when I hiked in? What did I take when I hiked out? There is no point in reliving anything. We never see the same place, no matter how many times we return. But do we bring the same person to a place twice? 

The rocks are warmer.
The water is shallower.
The mood is calmer.

The saguaros have their buds ready to pop.
It’s bloom season soon.