Litha
cycling around again and again
We’ve passed the summer solstice (Litha) and longest day of the year, meaning we are slowly creeping towards the second half and into the darkness. This is what I love about celebrating the solar holidays - while you can sit in the presence of the holiday, the cycle continues. There’s something to start looking forward to, with a different flavor and different significance than what we just celebrated. I enjoy summer, the light, a feast. But no more and no less than the ending of summer and the beginning of fall. Solar holidays hold both a beginning and an end at the same time. And they happen year after year. Such is life.
Our solstice celebrations started with a 14-person community dinner hosted by Nina Blackbird Japaridze and Rooted in Joshua Tree. The menu was all Georgian food, a family favorite, and we sat around a table discussing music and travel. As the night went on, and dinner guests slowly retreated back to their cars, we stayed at the table in the dark with the dinner hosts. We discussed Joshua Tree 20 years ago. I learned that Joshua Tree, so long ago, was essentially the same one I started coming to even 10 years past while I was in college. Not many restaurants existed, and the ones that were here are now closed and replaced. We heard about the fight against the Dollar General, which I believe was the first corporate retailer in the town (the residents lost the battle). Then we discussed our children, and the future generations coming up in the desert. A full circle moment.
On the solstice itself, I fed Hayes outside in the early morning sunlight and we drew tarot cards. The air had a crispness we hadn’t felt in a while. Or maybe it was just early.
I am consuming so much content these days (listening, reading, scrolling, posting, notifying, texting, watching) that sometimes I can’t remember if what I’m thinking about is something I’ve dreamt or something I watched. I’m one of those people that is reading 3 books at the same time, watching reality TV almost every night, keeping up with newsletters, and texting incessantly. Lights are bright and sounds are loud. I am overly sensitive to my surroundings. I wonder if this is a symptom of how your brain changes postpartum to be more alert. I have reached the point of ocular fatigue and am now finding myself taking breaks from all of my (de)vices to look out the window at our Palo Verde tree. I do this anyway as I spend most of my time on our couch. But the tree is active and potentially more stimulating than digital content.
All of the animals were out to play on the solstice. I watched a bobcat slink across our driveway and pass under the Palo Verde looking for water in the morning. By night, I was spooked by a gopher snake by our trashcans, a reminder that snakes can hide anywhere and a blessing it wasn’t a rattler.
Later in the week we watched our resident roadrunner, Boyfriend, hopping around under the Palo Verde. He leapt up into the lower branches and landed back on the ground with something in his mouth. I ran to get our binoculars and by the time I returned to the couch, he was gone. I had an assumption of what he had caught, but I didn’t want to admit it.
“God damn it,” we say to each other. We knew there was nothing we could do about it, nor should we, but it is heartbreaking nonetheless.
I hurried outside to try to see what he had in his mouth but the bird was long gone. I approached the Palo Verde right where he had jumped from, watched by two black-throated sparrows sitting on our gate. I quickly found their perfect nest and looked inside. No babies remained. As I had morosely expected.
I walk back inside to deliver the news to Matt. I look for the birds each time I see the tree now. I wonder if they’ll return to the nest. Or if another bird will use it as their own. I think about why they built it so close to the ground, why there in the lowest branches. I don’t take this as an omen, I can’t. Not while I have a baby of my own sitting inside as I watch these birds. That’s what the solar holidays remind me. This is part of life we run into again and again. And it can be a gift and a curse to witness it.
The Palo Verde is my tree of life. She was uprooted during our first monsoon season and we thought she died. But she persists, slightly off kilter. Now, brand new growth sprouts from her roots like a conjoined twin. One of her branches fell so low it now props up the rest of the tree like a cane.
We watch the bats circle the tree every summer. If you walk up close, you hear an overwhelming buzz of bees pollinating the flowers. We can see the tiniest hummingbirds perch on the slightest of branches. Coyotes pass through the front yard and nap under her shade. I watch these patterns again and again.
Postpartum can feel incredibly disorienting - I am finally feeling the compounding factors of sleep depravation, breastfeeding and trying to take care of myself all at the same time. The tree is a focal point that my eyes rest on, during this period of my life and in those preceding. She’ll remain as a focal point for years to come, and I’ll always visit her physically or only in my mind.
She is our oldest desert friend. She’s one of the things keeping me rooted right now, despite everything she comes with.
My hair is starting to shed, as expected for around 3 months out from having the baby. I wish that I could collect it and leave it outside, so the birds could use it for their nests. Or that I could string it in the Palo Verde like tinsel and wait for the wind to blow it away. It’s not the biggest gift, but it’s something. So new nests can be built, and so the cycle can continue.1
Love,
Lily
Unfortunately according to the National Audubon Society, human hair is incredibly dangerous for birds to use for nests. It can wrap around wings and legs and cut off circulation (not unlike what they warn you about with babies). And given it retains moisture, it can cause nests to become heavy and unstable if it rains. The more you know.
Your Palo Verde really is magical. It’s no wonder it’s mecca for desert fauna.
The dinner, the bobcat, the family photo 🥹