Doors in the Desert

One New Year’s Eve early in our dating years, my husband and I drove from northern California where we lived, down to Death Valley National Park, a no man’s land just two hours’ drive northwest of Las Vegas. We packed a two-person tent, canned food stuffs, a camping stove, and headed out for a week in the coolest temps that desert region will have all year. Wait a half year and you’re looking at some deathly hot camping.

We hopped onto Interstate 80, wound east through the Sierra Nevada range, turned right at Lake Tahoe, then cruised south down the eastern side of the Sierras. It’s still one of my favorite drives--barren, frigid at night, pitiless clear sky, monumental views on either side of you.

Along the drive there, and certainly once we entered the park, we could feel the natural isolation that is a signature quality of this part of the country. Its solitary nature is as characteristic as its beauty. A camping trip there on the so-called party night of the year seemed incongruent, and at several points along the way I questioned our choice. Shouldn’t we be around people right now?

But as luck would have it, once we arrived at our campground, we were greeted by a giant and wildly animated family reunion which apparently drew from all over the U.S. There was a family tree of campers of all ages fanned out through the same campground we staked our tent in, making all of us de facto camp mates. I’d even say I felt adopted by default, especially since they barely knew we were there, and we blended.

During the day, my husband (eventually-to-be) and I would zip away in our little car to the various areas of the park that we knew and loved, or that we wanted to discover for the first time. We’d hike around, collect rocks, take copious photos, collect more rocks, read, and charcoal sketch the scenery. Our days were full, going from one side of the sunken valley to the other, inspecting all the sights: bluest sky, brownest ground, driest vista. Each day was a living poem of solitude, but the nights—they were a different story.

By evening, we’d return to our tent to cook up some grub, and so would the reunion. Suddenly our tranquil day turned into a bustling night, energized with hollers across the air space, laughing kids chasing each other, and plenty of group chatter. I was amused and enthralled and spied on the scene as much as I wanted. We stayed out of the way; they entertained. It was a simpatico arrangement.

By the time our dinner had been eaten and the ocean of stars enjoyed, we'd be sapped, so we’d retire to our sleeping bags for a little flashlight reading. As soon as we were snug into our bags, the family reunion ringside performances would begin, morphing the daytime poem into a nighttime variety show. I couldn’t ignore it, or not hear it, so I'd lay there and listen to the show blindly. With my head sunk into a pillow of fleece jackets, I'd stare at the stars through the screen at top of our tent and hear the younger family reunion members channel their respective inner entertainers. I heard a Dolly Parton and a Jerry Seinfeld. I heard what sounded like a Mick Jagger, but it could have been an Elvis—let’s just say an amalgam of the two. I heard Johnny Carson, and Celine Dion. David Copperfield even got up there one night, generating a bunch of ooh’s and ahh’s which I think came more from lovingkindness than from being spellbound.

Our camp mates were hilarious or talented or brave, depending. You could detect that some of the skit improvisators were portraying an autobiography of sorts, and it seemed many of them had lived very funny lives thus far, judging by the plot lines of the skits. It was zany stuff. The audience ate it up, and so did I. My husband would have his attention locked onto his book, while I'd quickly surrender mine face down onto my chest. “What superb goofballs,” I sighed one night, lovestruck. My husband murmured, “What’s going on out there?” starting to doze. A couple times I sat up to see what I could through the opening at the top of the tent, but it was better to hear and imagine. I laid back down, smiling in secret with my husband-to-be gently snoring at my side.

How can you combine the majesty of the desert with human whimsey? I found it easy. The former fills your soul while the latter sparks it alive. Each part made the other a better version. Their juxtaposition made the desert more magical and the young players more vibrant.

The slow construction of a person is a beautiful thing, particularly the process of learning through vulnerability. Why not work on such a thing in a harsh environment among supportive folk? That sounds like life in a nutshell. Living is a constant invitation to walk through the door of opportunity with courage. If we look, we can see the invitation everywhere. I saw it in a raw family reunion performance in the desert, hours before the new year opened its great door to the unknown. I heard young people step outside their comfort zone in small increments. It was impossible not to pay attention to it.

My son is home from college now for the winter break, so recently we went to see my cousin’s son play in his high school guitar ensemble concert. It was quite a thing to see. Twenty players sat in a semi-circle, two deep, and like a spread of concert musicians, these young guitarists blended magic through a synchrony of various techniques. I sat in the dark listening. I was not a parent of a performer, but it brought me back to the times when I had been. I saw the parents so proud watching their kids play guitar on stage. The players were serious and focused, probably a bit nervous. A few would pluck two strings repeatedly, creating a pretty rhythm, while another bunch played the melody, a couple played bass, and still others would tap the body of their guitar with their fingertips. It was fantastic.

The students were taking up a terrific opportunity that night to step outside their comfort zone to showcase their skill to others. They won’t know when that will come back to inform, but it will.

So, here we are at the end of another year. There’s nothing different about the last day of the year than any other day, but we use it to assess and gauge how we spent our time. If you live long enough, sometimes you assess more than a single year on New Year’s Eve. You consider periods of time. I think of those kids so long ago in the desert acting out their ideas in front of a receptive family audience. I think about the teens the other night playing guitar for a group of people who cared so much about their development. I think about my kids who are soon to be off in the world, moving into their own lives through a milestone of a door. All these young folks were doing what you do to grow more fully into yourself.

But we do this too, us veteran adults. There hasn’t come a point for me yet that I’ve decided, “Time’s up, Steph. No more of yourself to grow into.” Our brain is like a plant all the way to the end of our days apparently, growing like a tree branch into the outermost edges of our lives. This means we never stop benefitting from a walk through the door of opportunity. How fabulous is that? A door is always there, waiting.

When I was growing up, my big old extended family would put on a talent show during holiday time. ­­Most every person would put together on-the-fly the dumbest and most cackle-worthy performance imaginable. We’d all raid Grandma’s attic where there were unlimited props that could be used in our skits, which sometimes meant squeezing into Grandma’s retired dresses but not zipping up the backs—because she was a tiny one.

Some folks would team up, some would go solo. There were so many iconic performances, I can’t begin to describe. Nobody took themselves seriously. There was complete freedom to expand yourself in front of a group. We weren’t trained performers, but tenderfoots in front of an audience that was old hat. In a word, it was precious. It was then. It is now.

Out of these shows came a character who lives on in our family: Dr. McDoctor. Dr. McD was a figment of my grandfather’s imagination, but he was as real as Johnny Carson’s famous Carnac the Magnificent, which was the inspiration for (or the point of direct rip-off of) McDoctor. My grandfather would drag a flimsy card table into the middle of the room, wrap something around his head (a dish towel?), ceremoniously sit himself down, roll up his sleeves with pomp, then place the sealed envelopes given to him by his “dutiful Assistant” (Grandma) up to his temple to absorb the contents psychically. Each time that he thanked the ‘dutiful Assistant’ for the envelope, she elbowed him in the shoulder, and we’d all laugh, because in real life it was the other way around. The contents of the envelopes proved to be absurd. The skit was absurd. The entire show was absurd. And this was the whole entire point.

I think it doesn’t really matter how we stretch ourselves or what the outcome is. I think what matters is that we try it at all, that we get practice at walking through the door to new possibilities, and that we learn. The metaphorical harsh desert is always there. The doors to new options are always there. The don’t exist at all for our benefit. They’re simply a fact. But we exist, and what we do to grow ourselves is entirely to our benefit, and it turns out, to others’. I like that simpatico. It makes us all camping mates in the great unknown.

All the best to you in the great unknown of the year ahead.