The Rhythm of Rest

I’m surprised to realize that I welcomed beauty today.

I didn’t even realize how much I leaned into the refreshing tranquility it offered until I’d drunk it in for a few hours. I’ve heard other bereaved hearts describe the first time after devastation that their blurry eyes recognized an emerging bloom, but it’s been so long since I took peaceful loveliness for granted that I didn’t notice I was breathing it in.

There is both relief and a new sorrow in the mix of my discovery. Such is the symphony of grief.

Arizona’s belated autumns, as they arrive here in the desert in December, have transformed the full, broad arms of the tranquil ash tree beyond my fenced enclosure into a vibrant painting of golden leaves-in-waiting. Tonight, a winter storm arrives and the remaining, shimmering bangles now clattering together on the tree’s lengthy limbs will surely lie wet and downtrodden on tomorrow’s patio, leaving the ash barren and undressed until February’s spring. We march to the beat of a different drummer here. Our version of Americana only confuses Currier & Ives.

The Sonoran Desert doesn’t care anything about acceptable timetables or the approved behaviors set by social mores though. It does what feels right and distrusts anything which challenges its own inner wisdom. “You be you” is the heartcry of our temperate climate.

Maybe that’s why I love the desert so. We have the same maverick soul.

The sun, so far to the south this time of year, spreads softened rays across an overcast sky, making the golden ash appear more brilliant by contrast. Now and then a weary leaf flutters to the earth, its departure serenaded by a gentle melody played on the wind chimes, and the breeze behind it all whispers past my face as I sit inside my house, taking it all in.

It’s an invitation to learn the rhythm of rest. To drink in this morning’s beauty even as, in truth, it represents another kind of death—another passing season before new life emerges again.

I can only hope the same for me and my own bruised heart.