Walking the Lonesome Valley

There is a lonesome quality to Death Valley. The sheer, vast emptiness mile after mile makes me question the existence of cities. Did I just dream them up to feel less lonely? Throngs of people living shoulder to shoulder seem impossible at the moment. Here, every living thing can stretch as much as it likes.

A small ghost town calls attention to the fact that people tried living here and even succeeded for a while. Vestigial cement-like walls remain, bisected with wood planks. Cracks and holes admit light; beckon eyes to peek through; frame wilderness.

The few trees I see have needles that resemble segmented reptile tails, stone-smooth and nothing like the leaves I know. Have I walked into a place between worlds, a mirage? A spiny cactus tethers my drifting mind to reality, its sharp edges reminding my ankles that I live within a human body.

I realize I must go back to the world of people, gas stations and motels. But before I leave, I see four wild burros, sleek and robust. A fluid black line drips from the cropped mane down the shoulder of each beast. White hair encircles soulful eyes and covers inquisitive muzzles. The burros are wandering away, but I sing to them and they stop, turn and stare at me for the next five minutes while I conjure a tune, lyrics, just for the occasion.

I no longer feel lonesome in this valley, for I never truly walk alone.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

Beauty from Adversity

Sometimes I feel old. But walking in the ancient bristlecone pine forest among the oldest living organisms on earth—these trees—makes me feel young. One pine named Methuselah is over 4,700 years old, living more than half its life before Jesus was even born! I ponder what this tree has witnessed…

Approaching the forest, the landscape seems too desolate to harbor any flora. But as I gain elevation in these White Mountains—a high desert range—I am surprised by spheres of golden flowers, puffs of bristly brush and good-sized green conifers.

But there’s nothing quite like the wildly twisted trunks of these anthropomorphic bristlecone pines, flailing their multiple arms upward in pleading gestures. I wonder: Are they praying for us; for rain?

They have made adversity their friend, not living thousands of years despite their harsh conditions, but because of them. They’ve taken advantage of a climate in which few others can survive. Seeing them I ask: How can I approach adversity differently?

These pines are beautiful in a way unlike a perfectly symmetrical tree. I realize I am who I am because of my wounds and scars. Bringing beauty from pain is something that’s taken me a lifetime to learn. Imagine what I could learn in 4,700 years…

All photos © Sondra Sula.

The Bittersweet Baptism of Snow

When snow falls – in gentle, sparkling flakes or driving blizzards – the aftermath is a sweet, pristine world. Where there was once a pile of discarded beer cans and pizza boxes there is now a small rolling hill. A messy square of weeds is now a fluffy duvet. A couch left to rot in the woods is reupholstered in tasteful white. A decrepit shack is now a cozy cabin.

Like a baptism, snow takes everything exactly as it is, dunks it in a pool of white, and voila! Newness, possibility…

But what happens when the snow melts? When the excitement of my fresh beginning has worn off, and I recognize all of the old patterns emerging – the beer cans and weeds? Is the baptism of snow real?

I believe it is. Because the washing clean, the covering over, is actually a transformative process. The debris, the garbage, the abhorrent “thing” was, for a while, perceived as an article of beauty.  When I can see myself as immaculate, brimming with potential, I catch a glimpse of how God sees all of us, baptized in snow.

“Under the Bittersweet” by Sondra Sula

“Three” by Sondra Sula