Love song to New Mexico (1,000 words)
I cried the first time I left New Mexico.
I was just moving because that was what I'd always done. I was given a choice to stay, but I didn't know how to have a home yet. If people were moving, I thought I should move too. I was 11.
We were stopped at an intersection in the desert outside Santa Fe when I started crying. We hadn't even hit the main highway yet. My sister, my father and I were all sitting in the big bench seat of the Uhaul. I changed my mind and wanted to go back, but it was too late. I watched the light change aross the desert as the sun rose, and I cried. Less than nine months later, I moved back.
I cried the second time I left, too. It was thirteen years later. I'd spent more than a decade creating a home for myself, and had succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. I'd gone completely native. For all that I still craved the ocean, I'd become a desert girl through and through.
My first instinct when the wind blows is to close my eyes and turn my back to it. I expect rain to make everything dirtier, since it just makes the dust stick. I live for the wild abandon of thunderstorms, when the air crackles with electricity and the thunder hits so loud and so close you can hear your windows rattle. I know the weather changes every five minutes, unless it's hot; then it doesn't change for 5 months. I know that in August, and sometimes in July, the skies will open for twenty minutes and the streets will suddenly become raging rivers a foot deep; I know that twenty minutes after that, you won't be able to tell it's rained.
I know that snakes just want to be left alone, and will warn you if you get too close. I know that the moon is fifteen times its normal size when it's against the mountains, and that it turns blood-red in the fall. I know why they're called the Sandias. I know how it feels to sleep under more stars than anyone here has ever seen. I know the difference between shooting stars and fireflies, and have seen both from the warmth of a hot spring on a dark night.
I know the difference between red and green, and can hotly debate the merits of either. I know the name of the city that grows the best green chile in the world, and that nowhere else will do. I know that the best food is served slightly sizzling in a metal plate that you *really* don't want to touch. I know what queso is supposed to taste like.
I know where to go in New Mexico to find rainforest. I know where to go to find enormous waterfalls. I know where to go cliff-jumping, or rock-climbing. I know where to go to pretend you're on an episode of Star Trek. I know the lakes and the rivers. I know the vast expanses of empty land. I know the cities, and the towns, and the groups of shacks that can only charitably be called villages. I know that tumbleweeds bigger than your car will occasionally drift down the street even when you live in the middle of Albuquerque. I know that if you live within ten minutes of the edge of town, you bring your pets in at night. If you don't, chances are good they'll be killed by coyotes or hawks. There is nowhere in New Mexico that is not wild.
I know the desert, and I'm of the desert, and I'll always be. For all that I grew up everywhere, the desert is where I learned how to be myself, and how to be proud of that. The land changes you. The sky changes you. In a place so wide open, it is up to you to keep from being blown away; it is up to you to ground yourself. If you can survive there you can survive anywhere. If you can thrive there, no other place in the world can beat you down.
Driving away the last time, I didn't cry then. I was too full of excitement, full of adventure. I didn't look any further than the road in front of me for the next two days. I took the impossibly straight highway west and didn't look back.
The last week I was there, though, was drenched in tears. Every day was my last "something" - my last karaoke, my last day at work, my last party... my last days living in the desert. I cried at every turn. I cried everytime someone said goodbye to me. At my going away party, I cried all night. I'd worn waterproof eyeliner for just that reason. I tried to touch everyone, check in with every person I'd be leaving. I cried leaving my mother, though I knew she was leaving too. I spent hours just breathing in the air, inhaling the sweet smell of summer in Albuquerque.
I didn't do any of the things I promised I would do before I left. Instead, I committed to memory the little things. The feeling of being soaked to the skin by a sudden monsoon. The feeling of my flesh baking off in 105 degree heat. The feeling of being stung a million times in a sand storm. I embraced it all, and I said goodbye.
I don't cry for New Mexico anymore. I'm a desert girl. We don't waste water.
I don't cry for New Mexico because it's still my home. I don't need to miss it. I don't need to long for it. It's eternal, and both static and constantly changing; it's the desert, and it will always be there, even as the brutal wind carves out new formations of rock and land. It's the desert, and it's my home.
I was just moving because that was what I'd always done. I was given a choice to stay, but I didn't know how to have a home yet. If people were moving, I thought I should move too. I was 11.
We were stopped at an intersection in the desert outside Santa Fe when I started crying. We hadn't even hit the main highway yet. My sister, my father and I were all sitting in the big bench seat of the Uhaul. I changed my mind and wanted to go back, but it was too late. I watched the light change aross the desert as the sun rose, and I cried. Less than nine months later, I moved back.
I cried the second time I left, too. It was thirteen years later. I'd spent more than a decade creating a home for myself, and had succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. I'd gone completely native. For all that I still craved the ocean, I'd become a desert girl through and through.
My first instinct when the wind blows is to close my eyes and turn my back to it. I expect rain to make everything dirtier, since it just makes the dust stick. I live for the wild abandon of thunderstorms, when the air crackles with electricity and the thunder hits so loud and so close you can hear your windows rattle. I know the weather changes every five minutes, unless it's hot; then it doesn't change for 5 months. I know that in August, and sometimes in July, the skies will open for twenty minutes and the streets will suddenly become raging rivers a foot deep; I know that twenty minutes after that, you won't be able to tell it's rained.
I know that snakes just want to be left alone, and will warn you if you get too close. I know that the moon is fifteen times its normal size when it's against the mountains, and that it turns blood-red in the fall. I know why they're called the Sandias. I know how it feels to sleep under more stars than anyone here has ever seen. I know the difference between shooting stars and fireflies, and have seen both from the warmth of a hot spring on a dark night.
I know the difference between red and green, and can hotly debate the merits of either. I know the name of the city that grows the best green chile in the world, and that nowhere else will do. I know that the best food is served slightly sizzling in a metal plate that you *really* don't want to touch. I know what queso is supposed to taste like.
I know where to go in New Mexico to find rainforest. I know where to go to find enormous waterfalls. I know where to go cliff-jumping, or rock-climbing. I know where to go to pretend you're on an episode of Star Trek. I know the lakes and the rivers. I know the vast expanses of empty land. I know the cities, and the towns, and the groups of shacks that can only charitably be called villages. I know that tumbleweeds bigger than your car will occasionally drift down the street even when you live in the middle of Albuquerque. I know that if you live within ten minutes of the edge of town, you bring your pets in at night. If you don't, chances are good they'll be killed by coyotes or hawks. There is nowhere in New Mexico that is not wild.
I know the desert, and I'm of the desert, and I'll always be. For all that I grew up everywhere, the desert is where I learned how to be myself, and how to be proud of that. The land changes you. The sky changes you. In a place so wide open, it is up to you to keep from being blown away; it is up to you to ground yourself. If you can survive there you can survive anywhere. If you can thrive there, no other place in the world can beat you down.
Driving away the last time, I didn't cry then. I was too full of excitement, full of adventure. I didn't look any further than the road in front of me for the next two days. I took the impossibly straight highway west and didn't look back.
The last week I was there, though, was drenched in tears. Every day was my last "something" - my last karaoke, my last day at work, my last party... my last days living in the desert. I cried at every turn. I cried everytime someone said goodbye to me. At my going away party, I cried all night. I'd worn waterproof eyeliner for just that reason. I tried to touch everyone, check in with every person I'd be leaving. I cried leaving my mother, though I knew she was leaving too. I spent hours just breathing in the air, inhaling the sweet smell of summer in Albuquerque.
I didn't do any of the things I promised I would do before I left. Instead, I committed to memory the little things. The feeling of being soaked to the skin by a sudden monsoon. The feeling of my flesh baking off in 105 degree heat. The feeling of being stung a million times in a sand storm. I embraced it all, and I said goodbye.
I don't cry for New Mexico anymore. I'm a desert girl. We don't waste water.
I don't cry for New Mexico because it's still my home. I don't need to miss it. I don't need to long for it. It's eternal, and both static and constantly changing; it's the desert, and it will always be there, even as the brutal wind carves out new formations of rock and land. It's the desert, and it's my home.