A Good Distance

I was able to spend last week in the Palm Springs area of California on account of the kindness of some good friends. It was my third visit to Palm Springs, and I was eager to return—not because of the art galleries or the mid-century modern architecture or the golf courses, but because of the desert. I came to learn from the desert. The nine cities of the Coachella Valley (of which Palm Springs is one) are surrounded by the Colorado Desert. Just to the north of Palm Springs is one of my favorite places on earth, Joshua Tree National Park—an area slightly larger than the state of Rhode Island that straddles the Colorado Desert and the higher and cooler Mojave Desert.

The iconic images associated with Joshua Tree National Park are the eponymous Joshua trees (Yucca brevifolia) and the rock formations that have made the park so popular with rock climbers. But I was interested in learning how to live better from the adaptations the plants and trees of the Park have made to the harsh desert conditions. After my last visit I wrote about the ocotillo—a plant that supports leaves only when there’s enough moisture in the soil. When the water dries up, the leaves will fall and the plant will rely on the chlorophyll inside its stems (which look like dry sticks) to photosynthesize. This process can happen four or five times a year depending on the amount of rainfall. But the resilient ocotillo never fails to put on a show in the spring, supporting a brilliant red bloom at the end of each stem. Those who develop resilience in the desert never stint on celebrating when it’s time for a party.

But on this visit the creosote bush, Larrea tridentata, was my teacher. Creosote bush (also known as greasewood) is one of the dominant plant species in the Colorado and Mojave deserts, and is so prevalent that it is easily ignored. My attention was drawn to the creosote bush because (like the ocotillo) it leafs out in response to rainfall. It rained almost every day the week I was in California, and as a result I watched the desert turn green before my eyes.

The creosote bush has adapted to desert life in several remarkable ways. For example, to conserve water it only “breathes” in the morning. All plants breathe in carbon dioxide through stomata on the underside of their leaves, but in doing so they lose moisture. The creosote bush only opens its stomata in the mornings when the humidity in the air is relatively high and loss of water is the lowest. It is during this time that the creosote bush engages in photosynthesis, shutting down the process as the temperature rises later in the day.

But the trait of the creosote bush that captured my attention was the remarkably even spacing of plants, with each bush offset a good distance from other plants of its own kind. There is some evidence that the roots of the creosote bush secrete alleopathic chemicals (like a herbicide) that inhibit the growth of other creosote bush seedlings—even though a wide range of other plant species shelter under the creosote bush. This encourages an open community structure that is reflective of the limited availability in the desert of the scarcest of resources, water. The drier the desert, the greater the distance the shrubs seem to maintain from one another. In fact, in Mexico the creosote bush is known as gobernadora, or “governess”, for its ability to guarantee its water supply by inhibiting the growth of competing plants.

Discovering good distance in relationships begins with the realization that space and boundaries are not luxuries.

There is such a thing as a good distance in human relationships as well. As children develop into adults, parents need to recognize when care becomes smothering, and couples must negotiate a balance between togetherness and individuality. It’s a faulty and even dangerous concept to think of your partner as your “better half” or “other half”; each partner in the relationship should strive to be a whole, healthy individual who can make their own positive contributions to the marriage. Space, says Wendy Allen (a California psychotherapist) , “encourages the solid, cohesive sense of self in each person.” I spent the week in California alone—with Judy’s encouragement (my first vacation without her in 38 years of marriage)—but I needed space to think through who I am after leaving a job that has been virtually synonymous with my identity for the last 12 years.

Negotiating time together and apart can be tricky business, as is making room for shared and individual interests. But discovering good distance in relationships begins with the realization that space and boundaries are not luxuries. Physical and emotional space are basic human needs. And that’s where the desert and its inhabitants are such great teachers. In his best-selling book, Desert Solitaire, American author and conservationist Edward Abbey wrote:

… it seems to me that the strangeness and wonder of existence are emphasized here, in the desert, by the comparative sparsity of the flora and fauna: life not crowded upon life as in other places but scattered abroad in sparseness and simplicity, with a generous gift of space for each herb and bush and tree, each stem of grass, so that the living organism stands out bold and brave and vivid against the lifeless sand and barren rock. The extreme clarity of the desert light is equaled by the extreme individualism of desert life-forms. Love flowers best in openness and freedom.

Though we may be crowded together in our cities and communities, may we be granted desert vision to see each individual with bold and brave and vivid clarity against the backdrop of concrete and glass, and so give one another the “generous gift of space”. “Love flowers best in openness and freedom.”

Unless otherwise noted, all photos and text © 2019 Edwin Wilson.