The Fog of Disconsolation

It was my hip that woke me and spoke of rearranging myself so it could decompress. Rolling over to my belly and propping myself up on my elbows I slid the window open to peer out into the desert sky. I took a deep, slow breath of the slightly moist fragrance of the desert. Desert air is not fragrant in the sense of the tropics, but fragrant in the sense of the desert, a mix of green, dry dirt and manure. I even smell coyote. I can imagine your noses wrinkling at the mention of that but suffice it to say I’m left with words to describe an experience. Try and describe the taste of ripe mango, or a sour patch kid candy. The experience is so much more than speaking of it. The same holds true of one's faith. How to describe the comfort of surrender and the gift of His word and will in one's life? How that type of comfort feels….. The use of words cannot really touch it and a person with an experience is never at the mercy of a person with an argument. So my friends with the crinkled noses, you’ll just have to trust me on the fragrance of the desert air. It is sweet in its own way.

Looking to the east I see no light yet and have only the sweet promise of the sun rising. This in itself is a reassurance we all too often take for granted. I am unable to see the constellation of Scorpio this morning due to an unusual fog bank lying low across the horizon. As I rouse myself to move out of the camper bunk, I move straightaway to the furnace. It has been rather temperamental this year and with this cold dampness, I’m looking forward to the soft whir of the furnace as it blows out that heated air that makes the camper warm and toasty. I click it on and step outside into the cold morning.

There is a northwest wind already blowing which immediately foretells a day with yet again unfavorable wind conditions. Surf check over before the sun rises. Darn this La Nina year! Slipping back inside expecting the warm greeting of a toasty interior but instead find the furnace is stubbornly choosing to sleep today. Hmm, it looks like no heat this morning either. I begin the process of layering my clothes and getting the coffee on.

About this time my husband is jostling about, focused on the furnace and why it won’t do what it is designed to do. It stubbornly refuses to crank up and even the coffee isn’t satisfying. The fog is thick, so thick you can’t see the ocean and hidden inside the hem of that layer of fog are the threads of disconsolation and worry for no reason. It begins slowly, insidiously with the problem of the heater and threads its way to other worries. My dear beloved cat was put to sleep five days after we arrived here in Conejo and no one was able to contact me. Woe. The “what if” train starts to roll. We are chug-a-lugging along and then I remember to fix my eyes on what is unseen rather than what is seen. Time for prayer, but for what? Heat? Not really, but it would be nice, right? I'm going to take the matter into my own hands and build a fire. So I begin positioning the wood in the ring. It’s cold and wet and damp. I’m able to get it to start up a bit and am momentarily a little hopeful but it dissipates into a smoldering, smoky, damp, ugly mess. No crisp, warm and crackling fire this morning.

Meantime, grumbles from the mate who is still attempting to get the furnace going. It just won’t crank up and spark to ignite the propane. He comes around the back of the camper with an assortment of wires. I ask him what the wires are for and he explains he is going to get it to spark and I should prepare myself for a loud explosion. Woe and now panic. He’s serious! I had an inspirational book beside me near the fire. No, not to use as the starter for the fire but for me to use as the starter for my spirit. What with all this stuff going on I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed. I open it randomly to a page that suggests I tell God exactly how I feel. “I can’t be quiet. I am angry and bitter. I have to speak!” So I begin my silent tirade to the Lord, expressing my fears, my discomfort, how I need his help, keep us safe, keep my sons safe. I need to speak to them but how? He can change it all; I give the reins back to him. I need Him! So many worries. I’m about to drown.

I douse the fire with water and give it a few stirs. The smoke mixes with the fog in a cloying cloud. The morning wasn’t pierced with a loud explosion and the heater still sleeps. So we sit in the morning fog watching our breath hanging in the cold, damp air.

 Moments later I look up and see a patch of blue through the gray. The fog slowly begins to lift. As it lifts I spot a friend’s truck on the bluff checking the surf. Robert hops on his bike and rides along the dirt path to the sea looking much like a Mexican peasant. The sky becomes bluer than gray. The sun begins to pour warmth in the morning. The coffee tastes better. My companion returns with the news that our friend has a cell phone with a signal and we can call home today. The rest of this day was blessed and golden and rich. Oh, and by the way, the heater started working too.

The Fire Ring

The Fire Ring

It was on a walk that I came across the fire ring. Long since abandoned and left by some travelers to this area. A small stack of dried wood in one pile and alongside a smaller pile of wood pieces used to get the fire going. It looked incredibly peaceful, a monument to a time where people had gathered under the stars either in solitude or in the company of others. I imagined the evening, the time of coming together and the circumstances.

I walk back to camp which is a good distance from the ocean this year as we wanted to enjoy the feel of the high desert and arroyo. We are perched on a small vista and our view is wonderfully panoramic. The sounds of the ocean are not the dominant force up here but are more the secondary melody of music.  They are the backdrop to the sounds of high desert life. On this vista, voices carry from places undetermined. The sounds of quail, osprey, frigates birds and coyote are mixed in with the wind and sea. It isn’t as damp as being camped right beside the sea. Another plus is the mouse population seems a bit tamer as well.

I fancied in my mind my fire ring and thus this day, since the surf was small, I decided to spend my morning designing my fire ring and collecting wood of various sizes to adorn and use in the evenings. I had no idea what a peaceful experience this would be. Since we are in the desert there are multitudinous boulders ranging in size from pebble-like to boulder size. The colors are many, varying in reds, to purples to slate to brown and black. I chose to create a multi-colored ring showcasing the various rock colors of the desert vista with some choice sea gems sprinkled about it. When I was satisfied with the ring my sweet mate had created a rope sling for me to carry the wood in. I had foraged this rope the day before when we were fishing. I had no idea of its use to me when I dragged it back home to camp but have found that many times the discovery of items or offerings from the sea has proven to be very useful.

I made several trips from the sea to camp. One plastic bag held the smaller chips of wood and the rope sling the larger. I balanced this on either side of the bike I rode. It was the gathering of the wood that was the sweetest, most delicious experience. The absolute simplicity of choosing the wood and using it for something was so satisfying. Just the using of what is around you to create something, like an evening fire is hard to convey in words, at least for me at this point in my self-expression.  I found myself thinking over what I read that morning in Scripture or singing songs of devotion to God. I thought of the people I love and the ones who strongly influenced my life. How God has gathered them up to me to keep my spirit in Him strong. How in this simple act of gathering wood for a fire could my faith grow? I don’t know, maybe because my mind wasn’t filled with all the trappings of a world gone awry. Removed for an hour from the spiraling funnel of a world oblivious to its connection to a Creator.

With the ring completed, the wood gathered I wait for the time when the sun is drawn into the sea. Oh, the sweetness of the evening fire is yet another story to be told one day, perhaps…