KENNEWICK — Recently while walking out in our shrub steppe desert, I noticed that at least one species of sage has been trying to bloom tiny yellow blossoms. That was even before the recent rainstorms.
You know how dry it has been all summer, so the tenacity of these remarkable plants is rather impressive. I’m no biologist, but am aware that the only way sage and other desert plants can survive our seven or so annual inches of rain is to put down deep, deep roots.
You can probably guess where I am going with this reflection.
There are many types of dry spells in life — mental, emotional, relational, spiritual, even physical (just ask any athlete or sports team). Respectively, we may describe such droughts as writer’s block, the “blahs,” mere co-existence (rather than marriage), meaninglessness or burnout.
No one is immune from hot parching seasons in life. In fact, our long arid stretches are to be expected — they come with the territory where we have chosen to live, work and play.
The issue isn’t our dry spells, per se. It is how we find ways to survive and thrive, how we cope and find hope when our senses of being, belonging and behaving are not lush and green with vibrant growth.
In two words, the answer as alluded to above is deep roots. Around these parts, most of our refreshing, life-sustaining water comes either from rivers or aquifers. There ain’t much in between.
Good snows each winter make for full reservoirs and full water rights each summer; light snows raise the risk of water rationing.
Deep roots sunk down into that which truly nourishes and sustains, this is a key part of blooming in the deserts of life.
Dryland farmers know exactly how important caring for the soil is for preserving enough moisture for good crops. We are no different.
We are humans, made from humus (earth, dirt), called to be humane in our conduct, needing good humor to ease the bumps along the journey. And we need enough moisture from above and below to bloom, even in the desert.
