It's been weeks since I've "meditated." But at late afternoon it was warm enough at Bowie, Arizona to shed clothes and enjoy.
Years ago, but within recent memory, water flowed from the top of the mountain. It spread over the expanse of north-facing granite, the sheen beckoning me off the Interstate.
Once, when camped outside a locked gate, a BLM ranger stopped and told of a ranch house not far up the way that the Bureau had purchased. A short distance from the house an oak-lined arroyo with small pools sustained a flourishing habitat for birds and who knows what. It was the same water that came from the top.
The surrounding area has been converted to orchards and the water no longer flows off the mountain; sometimes you can see it coming out of the pipes that feed thousands of acres of pecans.
They're, whoever they are, continually planting more.
Practicing the teachings of Margo Anand whose fundamental message includes acceptance of all proclivities, I still see the pruned trees and the sharp-edged boundaries that define the orchards' perimeters as a perversion. Is there an unlimited supply of water? Have they considered how long it'll last? Is capitalistic narcissism the only real perversion?
Transpiration contributes to a ubiquitous haze. 20 years ago the area had clear, blue skies.
Planted in even rows like corn, the pruned limbs reach toward the sky reminiscent of images of genocide. It's in stark contrast to the softness of the oaks, Apache Plume and others in the arroyo, still hanging on, pulling water, I surmise, from the subsurface flow that (maybe?) still makes its way down the mountain.
Subsurface irrigation reduces loss to evaporation
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