I am in a camper trailer that was, judging by the decor, furnished sometime in the 1980s.
It sits in an enclosed RV park reserved for those 55 and older. Much of the residents are much older than that.
Casa Grande, Arizona.
Holy sacred desert.
Despite my van unexpectedly dying last week, I have managed to still arrive here as planned. My parents, who I do not see much, traded in some of the credit card airline miles that they never use and ta-da, I am here. Magically transported from cold grey Ohio to sunshine and palm trees in a matter of hours.
The time changes always amuses me too. My plane left Cincinnati at 7 am and landed in Chicago just before 7 am. I left Chicago at 8, flew three and a half hours and landed in Phoenix at 9:30. Plane trips will always be weird to me. The day after I arrived, my parents took me to Tortilla Flat, a last vestige of the old west, a stagecoach stop turned tourist trap. It reminded me of how long it used to get here and the dizzying speed of our modern age.
I suppose the nature and experience of time has been on my mind since my arrival. Aided in part by the three books I chose at random for this leg of travels:
"Biography of Silence" by the Spanish monk Pablo d'Ors—a gentle reflection on the practice of meditation.
"Let Your Life Speak" by the Quaker teacher Parker Palmer—a gentle reflection on vocation and listening to your inner self
and "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance"—A purported classic that I have always meant to get around to reading and so far seems to be offering up complimentary and harmonious thoughts to the other two books I am reading.
And they, in turn, offer up harmony for the observations and reflections that come up from walking around the retired.
I came here in part because both of my parents have had big health scares this past year. My mom's heart, my dad's returning cancer. I was worried for them and felt a certain obligation to spend time with them, even if it is often quite triggering to be around them.
But they have really fallen into the rhythms of the community here and have many friends and a much more active life than my own. The excitement they have over the little ins and outs of this insulated world is so much fun to watch.
My dad does a lap around the park every morning and I walk with him as he stops anytime he sees someone else out (every few RVs, it seems) and he tells the same stories in the exact same way to all of them: This is our youngest son. We went out to Tortilla Flats yesterday. Burger wasn't as good as the time before. My my, aren't gas prices high? And then repeats it all again at the next person riding by in a golf cart. Everyone drives a golf cart to get around here. My favorite thing is that my parents "walk" their neighbors dog by riding in their golf cart as the dog walks along side.
Time is strange. I am only 14 years away from being able to live in such a place, but still feel like someone in their twenties. My dad told someone yesterday he still feels like he's 48. The Garth Brooks impersonator we saw last night said he refers to pre-covid as "last year" because time felt like it stopped there for a while. My mom has said several times (since she also repeats the same stories, I think everyone here does) that she was fine with turning 40 but feels very strange now that both of her children are over that landmark.
After finishing this entry, I will take my dad's Jeep out into the desert to look at some ruins and what is left of an ancient irrigation system created by the earliest inhabiters of this land. Long since slaughtered by the ancestors of people who now play golf over their bones.
What adult children back then also rolled their eyes as their elderly parents lamented the ever-changing world? What stories repeated? What small dramas and emotional outbursts and meals? How much music has been played under these stars? The stars themselves burning for longer than our planet has been alive.
It reminds me I am small. But not insignificant. Zoom in or out to change the perspective, but we are still looking at the same thing.
Life. Such a beautiful fragile mystical ever spiraling thing.
May it unfold from us with kindness. May we be bearers of light and warmth through this our ever dark times.
9:59 a.m. - 2022-03-23
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