Rabbitbrush

Near the banks of a silty river in the Utah desert I pitch my tarp over a winter-gray rabbitbrush because it lives in the only flat spot around. But now as the wind pulses downcanyon following the set sun, the old flowers scrape on the inside of the shelter. At home, I deadhead the Jupiter’s beard, the peonies, and the roses. There must be something to it, I hope, because I may have to deadhead this chamisa too so I can get some sleep.

Upon further inspection under the alien glow of my headlamp, I can see that the plant is about to leaf out. Tiny green pushes from dead-looking gray stalks. If I didn’t care, I’d break each stalk anyway. But I care about everything. I care about everything.

I care about everything so deeply that sometimes when I’m among the humans I share the world with I think I’m the only one. For a moment I cycle from self-righteousness to aloneness to a sneaking suspicion that I’m missing something. I wonder if the maniacal driver in the giant truck that’s barrelling down on me is better adjusted to the dissonance of having to care about what’s always slipping away. But I miss my chance to wonder if he wonders what a better world would look like because I urgently have to exit and the wall of cars beside me stubbornly refuses to acknowledge my turn signal.

Questions unanswered, I’m now in the desert with the same dilemmas and new players. The rabbitbrush, the wind, and I are in a face-off. I need to decide if we’re on the same page. It could be a long night, I think. I wonder who will make a move.

It is me. Not 5 minutes later I encircle the rabbitbrush in an adjustable strap and crank it until I have pulled the branches into a tidy bundle and away from the shelter wall.

I carefully deadhead the tops, last year’s yellow flowers, just above the point where the golden dead transitions to the silver that houses the green new life. I sit back and listen as the wind softly pushes the fabric. I hear nothing.

I do this because I care about everything. I can smell the rabbitbrush on my fingers. I have always loved the bitter resinous sweetness. I love how rabbitbrush lines all the roads that take me to all my homes.