Buenos Aires National Wildlife Refuge, AZ

We make our way over to High Gates Road, cutting across this valley of tumbleweed and cactus, of open grasslands under a cobalt sky, and for a moment I see Africa. A vast savanna, dry for the season. Clumps of mesquite instead of bushwillow. Johnson or lovegrass, instead of Elephant or Bermuda.

The altar of Baboquivari stands tall to the west, jutting out high above the surrounding ridges and foothills. I’itoi of the Tohono O'odham watching over us.

The old fences are gone, the old ranch dead, in places only corner braces remain. I glance down to see a scattering of empty water bottles, some large and black – a gallon full – like the one hanging from a tree at camp. A few discarded and broken shoes, the soles turned outward and splitting. Signs of those headed north.

My world was small for so long. “It’s dangerous. It’s so much work. You don’t want that. Be safe. Watch out. Be careful.” – stay home, stay small, stay helpless. For years I believed. For an entire life I believed. I traded authenticity for approval, traded freedom for love - filling the hole of those who need to be needed in the process, or trying anyway.

That’s not love; that’s entrapment.

Love is an open palm, and some holes are impossible to fill.

I rein the horse to the right and soon our path washes out. We cut off-road and follow a point on the eastern ridgeline, weaving through a maze of thorns, deadwood, dry grass, the occasional barrel cactus.

And the wind has found us now, as it always does. I reach to hold my hat in place then remove it and let the breeze cool my crusted mane.

It seems dirt is embedded in me now. Settled into the cracks on my fingers, the rough places worn from use. The rings I wore before this life no longer fit. My hands have thickened. Toughened. Nothing from that life really fits anymore.

But what is here wears better. It wears perfectly in fact. It is the contentment I never had. An over-loved, thick and supple blanket I bury my face within and drape across my shoulders as I rotate and face the fire. Any fire.

It is the coat I’ve come to know as myself.

It is an open palm.

For more info: https://www.fws.gov/refuge/buenos-aires