Petrichor Dreaming by Juniper Martineau

Nonfiction

Photo by Raychel Sanner on Unsplash

In the desert, I wait. I scan the skies, read the forecasts, gather up stories from long-timers. Red clay dust kicks up and settles on my boots as I amble down to the silent creek bed, the grass crunching with each step. Will the monsoons come this year, and bring relief? Or will fires black out the sun? My nervous system on high alert, I dream of the smell of rain.

In my most tender, guarded corners, I fear that I’m as parched and cracked as the desert

surrounding me, both of us waiting and wishing, holding ever so still. I try to metabolize my

worry by reading the news, as if knowing more will keep me safe, though it only keeps me

stuck. But when I put down the phone and look to the distance, my heart reflexively swells in

some kind of prayer: for the tiny dry blades and branches, for the birds and the critters, for

those in brittle trailers, for the fire season ahead.

Fifty miles or more from here, storm clouds form. Towers of light and shadow, violent blue to

the west, too-bright white to the south. I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding, smiling as I feel, once again, how small I am, how small we all are. How insignificant that morning’s irritation, my wife rushing to leave for work. And how pointless those hours on social media, searching for a hopeful sign, for an oasis in another kind of desert, one filled with rage and despair, also ready to burn.

Studying the clouds, I remember how, when it rains, the whole world sighs “thank you,” and

then immediately sets about making flowers. I feel my whole-body stiffness let down, soften.

My shoulders settle back, my neck straightens, my arms reach out, involuntarily, in an opening and a surrender. The scent of the desert in the rain transforms me—in the language of growing things, it alters my habit.

Breathing so deeply my belly expands, I sense how stiff I’ve been. Waiting, holding, my fascia

sticky, my eyes dry from scrolling. And then, the rain begins to fall, and I smell it: it is an entire

experience, it captures me wholly. Holy. I step outside and am bathed in juniper, piñon, sage,

and saltbush. A torrent of water races over the land, and then the storm passes, or pauses:

daredevil ravens swoop on the currents, drawing my eyes up, up, past the millennia etched in

the cliffs high above, up to the clouds, still glowering. And I remember: I am a critter too, a tiny little thing, a part of all that surrounds me, just a mote in time.

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Author's Note:

When the world’s crises threaten to push me under, I find respite through my senses. I get out of my head and into my body with gentle, somatic yoga. I listen to music that lifts me up, and I sing along with my whole being, breath and voice becoming incantations and prayers. I create soft spaces, with candles, incense, weighted blankets. But the most powerful balm is being in nature, where I slow down enough to be stunned by its wonders, where I remember that the minerals in my bones were born in the explosions of stars.

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Juniper Martineau has been editing academic texts a long time, but now has some stories of her own to tell. She lives in the high desert, under skies that can make everything stop, even if just for a moment. Her work has been published in Sleet and Punk Noir.

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