The day after our tour, we returned to the park to visit the Cholla Garden.
It was otherworldly or, as Stephen described it, ‘an ocean without water.’
Hypnotized, I wandered through the plants. It never occurred to me that such a valley could exist. We read that it was even more amazing at dusk and resolved to come back.
We next drove to an overlook that promised views of the San Andreas fault. On the way, we stopped to admire the fields of Joshua trees.
I felt an affinity with these trees. They are ornate and sad, like many gay people.
The view of the fault line was impressive. We felt small and listened to people talking about where they were from.
But we were more excited by the flowering shrubs and ground cover.
Another coral reef.
I thought about the Joshua trees we had seen outside of the park — the ones adjacent to the highway, in front yards and draped over the corrugated tin roofs of auto shops — and wondered if they were jealous of their brethren inside of the park.
Or maybe it’s the other way around, and those who are inside want to know what it’s like in the larger world, even though they have been informed that it’s terrible.
‘The heart always craves what it cannot have.’ — Joshua Tree
Or maybe the trees are old enough to be satisfied with the inevitable imperfections of life.
As planned, we returned to the Cholla Garden for sunset.
The cactus were glowing.
They seemed happy.
I felt happy, too. Just being near them was enough.
The sun disappeared over the hills and the cactus still glowed.
They exuded tranquility and ease.
They had no idea what was happening in the outside world.
And to be fair, neither did I.
