Two—Loving the Land

Fall 2008

Within the first few months of my return to the antagonistic environs of my childhood, I found myself fighting against an old but common behavior—the need to rescue and to take care of others. Although I maintained a steadfast commitment to my professional goals and duties, I consistently gave of myself to family causes and concerns that moved me away from the center of my wellness. I knew what I was doing was not healthy for me; and yet, I slipped easily into the old patterns of wanting others to need me and to appreciate me. And when I felt that my expectations for helping others to achieve healthier ways of being were rejected or that my efforts were perceived as controlling, I fell into the old trap of toxic thinking. I started to believe the classic codependent lies—If I just gave more or did more, I eventually could change others for the better; I would finally be well-regarded for my efforts; I would feel more fulfilled. Instead, an angry and sad self started to emerge that had not visited me for years.

One fall afternoon after an extremely tiring weekend, I took a walk in the cookie-cutter complex in which we lived. As I moved past the clean manicured homes, I found myself barely able to put one foot in front of the other. Fatigue clobbered my mind and my body like a heavy wind pushing against trees causing them to bend and to topple. Because of celebratory events over the past couple of days, I committed myself far beyond the parameters of balance and self-care that I was so accustomed to. As I continued to walk, disappointment and exhaustion crippled my stamina. Not far from a man-made lake that was nestled in the core of our housing development, I sat down on a large smooth rock tucked in between a few long green tule and a small stream. As I looked into the clear rippling waters, I saw my reflection, and yet, I didn’t see myself. I had forfeited a long standing practice of wellness for a false sense of needing to be needed, and I had already lost of piece of me. I bent down and swept my hand through the cold stream; I touched my face with the drops still left in my palm. As I felt their coolness drip gently down my warm skin, I closed my eyes and imagined the brisk breezes that cleansed the mountain air at this time of the year. My thoughts drifted back to the first valuable lesson that Nature taught me and how that lesson had transformed entirely my way of being. I grieved its loss and craved its return.

* * *

There are sacrifices that come with living full-time in the mountains. “It isn’t for everyone,” as was often commented by so many of our acquaintances over the years.

“Why do you live so far away from the desert and from work?”

“Why would you drive up that dangerous mountain road every day, twice a day?”

“Why would you live so many miles from everyone and everything? I would never do that.”

It was useless to respond to such unknowing comments. The only convincing that could be done was to invite these foreigners to our place of peace and to let them experience it themselves. But for our family, it was never about the dangers that accompanied the extended windy driveway, or the early morning departures and late evening arrivals back home, or the lifestyle adjustments or hardships that were necessary to live in the pines. Our decision to live in Nature’s picturesque ponderosa was rooted in love; thus, our ensuing investment into the land grew from that inner abundant resource.

Over the years, I came to appreciate the tremendous amount of work it took to maintain the integrity of our property while protecting the mountain dwelling that had been imposed upon its presence. It was a fine balance of respecting the living gifts that framed and formed the landscape surrounding our man-made structure which we intentionally blended into Nature’s canvas of colors and textures. Although our home was perched upon a substantial hillside, a steep stocky hilltop rose up b