The quietest slices keep us whole and hopeful. If we let the snippets slip past without noticing, we are missing the moments, the essence, the connecting tissue, the story of life itself.
If you enjoy my poetry and photography, purchase a copy of A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.
In October 2019, I puttered in my garden as I often do.
I had already begun to assemble tongue-in-cheek and serious stories about life in the Grand Canyon State. But I needed a creative hook to link the essays and my desert fantasies to the wide-open experience of living in Arizona.
Strangely, sagging citrus tree branches provided the stimulus for my book title. While they impeded our sidewalk, identifying the obstacle cleared a path in my brain. Tom stood by as seven words flew from my mouth and tumbled into the arid Arizona air: “I Think I’ll Prune the Lemon Tree.”
***
Nearly four years have passed. In early 2021, I completed and published my book. Folks near and far have told me how much they’ve enjoyed reading it.
Of course, I hope more will discover it and find meaning in the essays, including those I wrote about living in a global community we never imagined–a place I call Coronaville.
This afternoon I found myself in the same space outside my front door, examining the same tree, realizing it needed another haircut. I grabbed the loppers, pulled on my gardening gloves, and pruned only the most problematic branches that hung low.
Sadly, there were a few lemon casualties that fell to the earth looking more like green limes than the fully matured lemons they might have become in December.
Still, I think I did a good thing for Tom and me … and our neighbors and delivery people, who pass daily on the sidewalk of our mid-twentieth-century condo community and go about their lives under the radar.
And the lemon tree? It’s now shapelier than before and has inspired me to write yet another story about the possibilities at play in nature.
Nearly half drained, September–in the valley of fiery light where tiny lizards scurry–cues the hiss of early morning sprinklers.
They spray precious droplets that pool, surround, and saturate parched succulents, palms, and citrus trees.
The latter wonder if the fruits of their labors will prove less luscious when snowbirds return to snatch and gather golden orbs from sagging January branches.
***
To read more of my poetry, purchase A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.
Whenever the opportunity presents itself, I enjoy talking about the discipline of writing. Honestly, it doesn’t happen that often. But when it does, it’s generally in the course of an ordinary day.
For instance, last Friday–on the way out the door of the gym I frequent–I stopped to talk with the manager. He asked me about my latest writing project for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.
“It’s fun,” I told him. But then I went on to explain that creating a full-blown musical libretto is also draining. Such is the case for anything that pushes us beyond our comfort zones.
What does writing a libretto feel like? Well, I’ve never been a clothing designer or tailor. But it’s as if I’m sorting through a world of potential fabrics … selecting the right one … weaving it into a fictionalized story with smart dialogue and an emotional arc … and stitching it to music (which the chorus’ artistic director has selected).
Back near the entrance to the gym, another person joined the conversation. It morphed quickly into a discussion about the motivations and pitfalls of writing. She–a technical writer, who has dreamed about writing a childrens’ book–asked me about my creative commitment and impulses.
That’s when I felt my energy swell as I became creative mentor and cheerleader on the fly. I told her writing is like any discipline–exercise, yoga, boxing, for instance.
I told her I write something nearly every day. That–strangely–after my mother died ten years ago, a new door opened. I decided to take a leap. To write stories that were important to me, not some corporation.
Along the way–I told her–I discovered my true calling as an independent writer. It’s something I’m passionate about, though sometimes the creative process can be lonely.
I told her you have to make it a priority. You have to make the time for it. I told her that the childrens’ book she wanted to write was inside her, waiting to be written.
As I left the gym and walked to my car in the heat of the desert sun, I felt happy … content in the knowledge that I had encouraged one other person to step beyond their creative comfort zone.
***
In this world of raging fires, heat waves, social upheaval, and constant noise produced by snake oil salesmen, I believe the best thing we can do is to put down our phones and turn off our TVs more often.
To take back our lives. To talk with one another face to face–or at least voice to voice. To offer encouragement when opportunities present themselves. To write and read more books and poetry. To make time and room for practices and people who make our hearts sing.
If we do, maybe we can begin to restitch the underlying fabric of our society … one thread at a time.
Monsoon’s hit-or-miss mantra remains while August’s light wanes.
Hilary’s sketchy remnants swirl as Papago’s peephole fades.
Rumbles follow flashes, spawning everything or nothing.
***
To read more of my poetry, purchase A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.
I know. It’s odd for me to write about Christmas in August. Particularly because the temperatures outside in Arizona are oven like.
However, today–like a kid on Christmas morning ready to rip open presents–I jumped out of bed at 6:30 when I heard the thunderclap. I raced to the window, threw up the sash, and pressed my nose against the glass.
I didn’t see Santa or a team of reindeer but witnessed the next best thing. Actual rain drops pounded the sidewalk. They pinged on the top of our metal carport and disappeared into the thirsty mouths of malnourished cacti.
Get this. In addition to forty days of 110-plus temperatures so far in 2023, we hadn’t seen rain in Scottsdale since March 22. (Okay, evidently there was a brief storm here on July 26, but Tom and I missed it. We were in Flagstaff.)
The lack of moisture falling from the sky has led some of us in the Valley of the Sun to refer to the summer of 2023 as the year of the non-soon versus the monsoons that generally produce a few gully washers. Typically, they account for much of our annual rainfall.
Back in the winter wonderland of my creative mind, over the past month I’ve been channeling the holiday season. Why is Christmas creeping into my psyche? Because I’ve been writing about it.
I’ve just completed a draft of another libretto for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus (PHXGMC) 2023 holiday show. This one is titled Thanks for the Memories: A Gay Christmas Carol.
In addition to writing for PHXGMC, I will be standing on stage, performing in the concerts December 16 and 17 at the Herberger Theatre in Phoenix.
It will be a musical mash-up–nostalgic, glitzy, whimsical, and spiritual–embedded in a story of a Scrooge-like character, who is transformed by the power of beautiful music, personal truth and a trusted community.
It will also be the final holiday concert for Marc, our artistic director for more than twenty years, who has decided to move on to pursue other creative endeavors when his contract ends next July.
Tonight, is our first rehearsal for the new concert season. There will be old and new members to greet and new music to hand out.
Of course, it’s just the beginning. But whether I’m concocting a story or singing the first notes of an unfamiliar tune, it is the creative process that has always captured my joy and attention.
Most of all, I am thankful for every magical moment that lies ahead with my friends on stage and off as we create another batch of musical memories.
For the first time in a month in the Phoenix area, the high temperature failed to reach 110 degrees yesterday. (Unrelated, the kids –reluctantly or not–returned to school for a fresh start. Not my kids, but somebody’s kids.)
108 or 109 isn’t exactly pumpkin-spice latte weather, but it represents a clean-and-slightly-cooler slate for all of us Sonoran Desert rats, though the mercury is due to rise again later this week.
Coincidentally, the first day of this new month (not yet spoiled by the trauma of breaking news) is also the major league baseball (MLB) trading deadline.
MLB teams that feel they have a chance to advance to the playoffs and contend for the World Series title are adding players to their slates, who they hope will get them there.
Others (like my beloved St. Louis Cardinals who have bungled their way through the 2023 season and uncharacteristically reside in last place in their division as August begins) have decided to retool.
They have opted to prepare for a 2024 clean slate, by trading players whose contracts are about to expire for up-and-coming pitching talent that might trigger a positive outcome in the future.
Beyond the ball fields, I feel a sense of relief emotionally as we turn the page to August.
July’s heat–plus the grief of saying goodbye to my aunt, supporting my sister from afar as she recovers from surgery, and remembering the loss of my mother on her 100th birthday–has left me reeling like a rag doll cast into the corner.
While I’m healthy and vital, I think the malaise I’m feeling is probably common for those in my age range. It’s the realization that the world I once knew is shrinking and unfamiliar. Or worse yet, evaporating. That includes the people I love and the institutions I once knew.
For instance, I saw in the news that Yellow (a long-standing trucking company) has filed for bankruptcy. 30,000 employees will lose their jobs. I have no special allegiance to Yellow, but they were a client of mine when I was a consultant for Towers Perrin in the 1990s.
In 1995 and 1996, I caught a flight once a week from Chicago (where I lived) to Kansas City (near their headquarters). I met with the company’s human resources management and helped strategize their employee benefits and pay communication.
It wasn’t rocket science, but I felt I was helping people understand the options before them. Anyway, those workers that remain with the company in 2023 will now begin with a clean slate, too … whether they like it or not … as they work to parlay their pink slips into something of value that has nothing to do with Barbie-mania.
Of course, I’m thankful to be done with the traditional workforce. For Tom and me, we are fortunate to pursue our passions–the appreciation and preservation of classic films for him, the exploration of creative writing and poetry for me–on our own terms.
To close out the month of July, we manufactured our own clean slates by traveling to Flagstaff, Arizona, last week for three days and nights.
It helped me to retreat to cooler temperatures (highs in the upper eighties, lows in the upper fifties) to regain my energy.
We stayed at a lovely and contemporary B&B there: the Bespoke Inn Flagstaff.
Samantha, the manager, surprised us with a complimentary bottle of champagne (when she learned we were commemorating my mother’s milestone birthday).
I surprised her with a complimentary copy of my book of poetry as a parting gift.
Tom and I discovered a fabulous cafe in town–Tourist Home–where we did some reading and writing. The proprietors bake and sell phenomenal gluten-free crullers with sprinkles.
To counteract the calories, we also enjoyed hiking Buffalo Park in Flagstaff. It’s positioned on a plateau just a few miles from the base of the San Francisco Peaks.
Walking the path there with my husband helped me regain my creative footing as I attempt to reignite a fictionalized story that continues to rattle through my brain.
I started to write it last year, but then got derailed. It’s about a young gay man struggling to find his way and write his story in the high altitude of northern Arizona.
For now, that’s all I’ll say, but I’m open to any positive creative vibes you choose to send my way.
Two weeks and counting.
I hear you moan and sigh.
You scurry in sunglasses and sandals.
You hide away from July’s heat.
But nothing ruffles my fur.
I pad place to place.
I pause in the shade of cool tile.
I curl and twirl.
I inch closer to appease you.
I take what you leave me.
I move on to the next door.
Don’t worry about me.
I’ll get by.
The sun and stars are my home.
It’s no big deal.
It’s just who I am.
***
To read more of my poetry, look for my latest book, A Path I Might Have Missed, on Amazon.
This is not that June I used to know of lush eastern or midwestern gardens in better neighborhoods or blushing brides posing on the covers of magazines that used to be familiar.
It is an under-the-radar, sun-soaked, almost-summer, alternative universe of early-bird lizards, spiky saguaros, freshly trimmed palms, empty pool chairs, and fiery sunsets.
All of them wait in triple digits for a hint of the season’s first monsoon, an uncertain wet chapter and swirling desert drama that has yet to unfold in a land where the clocks never change.
If you like the above poem and photos, check out my latest book A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.
Remarkably, here in the Valley of the Sun, we have enjoyed a relatively comfortable early June. Seventies in the mornings. Low-to-mid nineties in the afternoons.
I’ve made the most of these breezy bonus days. Walking, hiking, swimming outside to rediscover my energy after a few weeks of long rehearsals and performances on stage indoors with my pals in the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.
Of course, all of us Sonoran Desert rats know the mild temperatures won’t last.
We now brace ourselves, before triple-digit high temperatures arrive later this week and stay like unwelcome houseguests through most of September.
I’m not complaining. The summers here are quiet, beautiful, and hot–gorgeous sunsets, rugged buttes–away from the rush of the world and the traffic generated by snowbirds.
Our sizzling stillness is punctuated in July and August by monsoon storms that boil down from the mountains that surround us.
Now that Tom and I have lived here almost six years, our Midwestern years and associated memories have begun to fade like colorful t-shirts, hanging on a clothesline, bleached by constant exposure to the sun.
This day-in, day-out aging awareness, as we approach our shared 66th birthday in early July, makes me especially thankful that I wrote stories about my Illinois, Missouri, and North Carolina memories when they were fresh in my brain.
I guess you could say I’m between creative projects. I don’t know what I’ll decide to write next, beyond the weekly ramblings that appear here.
There is a fictionalized story I set aside late last year, when I devoted more time to writing dialogue for the chorus and completing my book of poetry.
In my mind, the main character of this yet-to-emerge family drama is living in the mountains near Flagstaff, Arizona–trying to come to terms with a significant loss he has experienced.
The good news is Tom and I have made plans to spend several days in the higher, cooler altitude of that area in late July to commemorate what would have been my mother’s 100th birthday.
Maybe this journey north, several thousand feet over the saguaros and into the ponderosa pines, is exactly what I need to rekindle my next story away from the scorching sunsets of our regular Sonoran life.
Mark Johnson Stories 