Anachoresis: A Monastic Summer in the Desert
Tasting miracles in a rythm of patience.
By definition, the word anachoresis means, “The habit of living in holes or crevices as a means of avoiding predators.” Historically, it was used to describe the habit of people hiding in the desert to avoid debts. While philosphical types used the word to describe a retreat to the desert in solitude, or in conscious community, to reflect and write. By removing themselves from society they hoped to contribute something positive to it.
And this is the word that comes to mind as I reflect on this monastic summer in the desert. The days move slowly and rather predictably. It’s not a routine, more like a rhythm that I am savoring. Upon waking, Aaron and I make coffee1, then head out to fawn over the garden. At this point, it only needs us to pick its ripe fruits and veggies.
This spring, as we tucked pinches of seeds into the parched desert soil, we had doubts about whether it would grow at all. I have never tended to any plants other than adoring the ones I walk beside in the canyons. But I have seen cottonwoods bud and leaf out in real-time, so I believe in miracles. However, Aaron has grown produce in the desert before and knows what a gamble it is.
The lackluster monsoon season has not done us any favors, but the soaker hose and timer we installed have. It creates consistency for the plants, conserves water for the river we live beside, and liberates us from being chained to our garden. With each new cucumber or tomato on the vine, we rejoice and mock our previous doubts, “Look, nothing is going to grow here!” Then we gleefully carry our veggie babies to the kitchen to transform it into a breakfast scramble, salad, or sliced snack. Yard-to-table dining!
Most days I take a mid-day 100-degree walk downriver to my writing beach. The water runs warm, thin, and clear this season with no major floods to churn and muddy it up. Fish scuttle past my feet. The smallest dart across the shallows with fins slicing the water surface. The big-ins stay still to keep cool in deeper side pools, where I dunk every river bend or so to do the same. The fish seem less startled by me, and I hope they have come to appreciate the way I draw my feet forward rather than stomp or splash. The only tracks on the muddy shoreline are my own and a family of deer with a fawn. I can be certain of this because the prints remain with no floods to erase them. On each river walk the deer and I add to our mud montage.
I carry my laptop, a journal, and a book or two in my dry bag. A bottle of water and a snack. Nothing else. When I arrive at the shaded sandy beach, I plop down and open up a manuscript I am tending to. Lately, it feels like the garden. Can I grow this story? I haul my draft to the river because this is where I am reminded that I can. Sitting in the sand is often more productive than the writing I do desk-bound, but the magic happens in my head while walking in the river.
The river won’t always be this way. Nor will the story I am writing. A rewrite is looming. On the page, I get to decide when the storms come to flush the scene clean. The course ahead is murky and convoluted. I dread the change. Then I reach into my pack for carrot sticks and hold the evidence of growth.
Last night, Aaron and I harvested our first half dozen tomatoes. The celebration that followed exceeded either of our sentiments about most holidays. We sliced an heirloom to eat with salt, and then blanched the early girls to make a sauce. There was nothing fancy about it––garlic, minced carrot, crushed tomatoes, olive oil, salt, pepper, fresh basil––tossed over pasta. Each bite of the ruby-colored creation sent us into exultations. “We grew this!” This is also to say, that we persisted, we overcame our doubts, and we did not give up. WE HAVE TOMATOES!
It’s hard to get such primal satisfaction in such an over-teched world. I have experienced it locating precious water in the desert after walking full days from the last source. But I have never had quite the same rush in the domestic sphere, or box, like licking homegrown tomato sauce off my plate. There can be immense joy waiting on the other side of uncertainty, especially when we pour love into these pursuits.
The end of this season, writing from home in the desert, is nearing its end. Getting ready requires writing until dark while simultaneously packing for a 10,000-foot differential in elevation on both land and water. The reward is leaving my laptop behind to let the mountains and rivers tell me new stories. Yet, I am feeling sentimental about leaving my river walks and tomatoes behind at their peak.
Cherishing time at home is not something I––a wanderlusting nomad––thought I could ever grow into. Those seeds needed a long time to germinate, and they are still mere seedlings. My life is not rooted yet, and perhaps may never be. As always, I am at the ready to be transplanted by journeys, stories, circumstances, and wonder. I have learned to channel my anxiety and caution about such a free-range life into daily micro celebrations. But the possibility of growing into new ways of being tastes as delicious as our tomato sauce.
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