Landscape

Who would have thought that Dewey, Arizona would enrich my life? To my friends in San Diego, a move from the blue Pacific, from civilization, was unthinkable. They assumed San Diego was paradise, but for me paradise didn’t matter anymore. I had to see a new landscape. I had to see Arizona.

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In Dewey I found change, and I needed change. The urge to move away from the familiar landscape where I’d taught and divorced and raised children was in my thoughts every moment. I wanted to run away from all that didn’t matter much anymore — a lackluster job, a familiar routine, the furniture of everyday. I ran to stay alive.

On my last days in San Diego classrooms, my Hispanic students understood my need for change and encouraged me to leave. I imagine they knew what it was to trek away from home. They presented me with a poster that read, “Make like a banana and split!” That encouragement softened my sorrows at leaving them. I still miss Pauline and Lillian and see them in memory all these years later.

It's like a rebirth to have to make a home in a new land. As a single woman I had to find my way on new streets, locate new services, endure shocking weather. On one memorable day I set off on a snow-covered street and noticed no other cars on the road as the flakes fell around me. Wouldn’t it dry up in a minute? I barely made it home, and when I did I couldn’t manage the driveway because of snow and ice on the hazardous incline.

The good will of neighbors saved me. They never laughed at me, but they smiled a lot. They were Midwesterners relocated to the Arizona sunshine to play golf and enjoy retirement, while I was a California native who’d never been in snow. This is what I’d wanted, and I met pronghorns, enormous clouds, silence, and people who loved rodeo.

Besides San Diego I’ve lived in Claremont, in Berkeley, and San Gabriel, where I grew up. None of these California towns had snow, but they had colleges, safe streets and even a historic Mission. They had palms and eucalyptus, orange trees and pink bougainvilleas — sweet for growing up, but I needed a new landscape even though I had no idea what living in Arizona really meant. Somehow, a contrasting land offered the bracing air of expansion for me.

Before Dewey I’d moved to Berkeley, where the vibrations were of protest, competition and wild individualism. The first day I arrived I fell over the cane of a blind man, landing flat in the crosswalk. Falling seems to be my way of coping with a confusing setting. I stumble, drop down, and see the view from below — if I’m not injured and need to be carried away. Since that day, I’ve been rescued from falls by friends here in Arizona more than once, lifted and cheered by hearty strength that saves me.

Living as a stranger in a strange land is perilous, inspiring, and scary. From the incidents above you know I don’t do it well. But new landscapes have opened and revitalized my soul. After Dewey I remarried and moved to Prescott, where I found Thumb Butte, a cozy library and the courthouse plaza. The local paper was as new to me as a monsoon.

Kathleen Norris’s experience in the Dakotas, where she chose to go in retreat, is the subject of her memoir Dakota: A Spiritual Geography. She writes, “The region requires that you wrestle with it before it becomes a blessing . . ..” Thinking at first that the landscape was barren, she found there a place that became beautiful in its emptiness, offering solitude and room to grow. That’s my experience too, a place that was at first bewildering became essential.

I’m aware that being forced to move away from a familiar landscape can also be punishing. Some immigrants must choose to walk away from family and home so they can survive. Their migration can break their hearts, and their estrangement can destroy confidence and stability. Their difficult choices are made out of necessity; mine have been out of a need for restoration, and I recognize the privilege in my free choice.

I was a muttering child, a bad sport when new family plans disturbed my day. My mother would confront me with her usual maxim, “Brighten the corner where you are!” I think she knew it annoyed me. I would never use those words today, but I did have to learn to enjoy my new corner of the world — Dewey, a landscape of quiet ranch land and a farm that sold homemade coffee ice cream.