On over-romanticizing (who, me?)

finding the balance of desert appreciation vs. appropriation

I felt the need to discuss the topic of over-romanticizing the desert and the lifestyle of moving from city to the rural early into my newsletters because it’s something I think about a lot. I think about those in Joshua Tree who are watching it transform. The ones that didn’t come to seek, to create art, to make a claim about “how the desert changes them.” The ones who are just here. Go to the elementary school. Shop at the Stater Bros. Prep for the high seasons year over year. Watch as new folks come in and start claiming it as their own eden. Because I see myself as someone who sought out the desert as well as someone who is just here. One whom has an address, but one who doesn’t own its history. So with all that in mind, what does it mean to move somewhere and become part of the community in a real way?

These thoughts accumulated even more so when 1) yesterday, I said that I’m thankful that we get to live in the best place in the world and my sister scoffed, and 2) I read this NYT article about the desert “changing someone’s life.”

Anna said “wait, really?” which was followed by me saying “please keep your commentary on my gratitude to yourself?” But overall I think it was totally valid. I think it’s nice to have excitement about where you live, but at the same time, it wasn’t actually about the place. The root of what I was getting at was being thankful we were able to make the choice to live somewhere we both love and appreciate as much as we do. And that concept goes along nicely with the article I linked, because I don’t think a place changes your life. I think you do it yourself. You make that choice, and with that, comes responsibility for understanding what you are assimilating into.

This is interesting to write about given my first newsletter mentioned how important place is to me. I’ve been a lot of places that I think, at a surface level, “changed my life.” But it wasn’t the place that did that. It was the fact that I chose to put myself in those places, and that was the start to the transformation. It was the decision to go there in the first place that was more telling and transformative than where I actually was or what I was explicitly doing there. Unless what I was doing there learning and attempting to understand, with respect, about the place I was in. And I wasn’t claiming the culture for what it was as my own, or mocking it, but partaking as a shepherd in a sense. A conduit, not the original and never would be the original. And never acting in harm of others.

Where was I going with this? I just got lost on a tangent about social media that I’m still including at the end of this. Oh yes, appreciating versus appropriating the desert lifestyle. This is particularly present when you live in a destination city where appropriation of the desert happens a lot. What is the difference between me and a weekend visitor partaking in the same activities in the desert? What is performing the act of living in this place versus being in the community? And in all of these uses of appropriation, I’m defining it as not seeing the desert for what it really is - the entire picture. Joshua Tree isn’t a bohemian retreat, it’s a place where people live (even when it’s easy to get caught up in beauty). Joshua Tree isn’t the wild west, it is a functioning society where people support each other and look out for the greater good of the place and the land. And I think the difference between the appreciation and the appropriation is of course the intention behind it.

This specific discussion is more of a personal reminder for me than a greater conversation on what transplant desert communities are up to. I can’t make too many claims about others’ intentions or motives to move here, but I do know there is a duty to respect where ideas and practices come from, especially when I live somewhere with strong sacred roots. When it comes to the high desert itself, it’s not only respect for the indigenous communities but also the folks who live here and might not even have the option to live elsewhere. Understanding the structure of communities, what’s come before me and how to respect the resources. I think about this a lot when I think back to the conversation about AirBnBs with Glen in Pioneertown and how Matt and I value volunteering and finding ways to interact with the community directly. This is one of the best ways I’ve found to feel much more connected to this place and give respect.

I was on the hunt for a picture I took in Amsterdam and ended up finding a Van Gogh quote that actually fits in so perfectly with this edition:

”I know how much I still have to learn myself, but all the same I’m beginning to see light ahead of me and one way or another, by practicing on my own, by learning anything I can use from others, I’ll continue to paint with passion.”

And then here’s the photo I was thinking of, pulled from my old blog:

Pertaining to the quote, I want to put emphasis on learning from others, but not necessarily what I can use from others. That feels transactional. I also see “painting with passion” as “living with passion.” Pertaining to the photo, I do not associate with the “we live here” speak, yet, but I do see the conflict between visitors chasing the desert aesthetic and those whom live it. But I want to give this topic grace, because there’s so much to learn from both those that live in the desert (for example, we ran into a woman at Home Depot who gave us wisdom on growing a snow cactus as she’s cultivated things in the desert her whole life) and also those who have taken a similar journey as us and relocated to the desert from a major city. The experiences are different and both valid.

All of this is reminiscent of the Dutch concept of “doe normaal” and the proverb “steek je kop niet boven het maaiveld uit” which essentially means to not stand out or you’ll get cut off. Tall poppy syndrome. I’ve always really appreciated this concept because it is 1) wildly not American, and 2) emphasizes the subtle. While it is usually more reserved for intercultural relations, I think of it as a good concept for how I like to start in a new community. Start subtle, listen, watch for how the environment operates with you as an addition, not as the center. I feel an overwhelming comfort with the desert from spending time here before, but it isn’t my home. Relating more to the desert will be a long transition and one of learning. It’s not about being in the place and making the place everything that I personally want it to be, or even eventually feeling as though I come from this place. As Van Gogh says, it’s the viewing of a light and continuing to live with curiosity.

Love during this week of reflection and appreciation,
Lily

Native American Heritage Day is the 25th and in Joshua Tree we honor the unceded land of the Serrano and also the Cahuilla and Chemehuevi people.

My side note/tangent: social media and the pandemic have played an interesting role in over-romanticizing sense of place and I think the content I’ve seen over the past couple of years has been changing a lot - but I’ll speak for myself in this case (what I posted and what I witnessed as a consumer). Instagram pre-pandemic was hardcore in the wanderlust and overhyped travel lifestyle bucket and I was playing a game of Carmen San Diego with anyone I followed. I personally posted plenty of content that was solely focused on where I was and even less about what I was doing there - pictures of landscapes, sunsets, flirting with the subtle announcement that I wasn’t living my typical day to day… I was somewhere better. During the pandemic however, I opened my posting to the mundane - I loved posting from my home and formed much more authentic and natural connections with my community commenting on whatever book I was reading or silly personal moments. I think my generation is now swinging back to the prior days of the emphasis of glamorizing place and getting back out into the world. Albeit a lot of content is travel related to weddings in my feed at least. The last photo I posted on Instagram was from Hawaii in 2021, over a year ago. Smiling on the beach. Telling my followers I was taking a break from Instagram but apparently via a final claim that I had been somewhere luxurious. I look back at my little smirking face and I remember that time in my life where I was definitely seeking, and searching, and playing with my relationship to social media when it felt de facto to me. What? Not being on instagram? How could she? And the break of not going on the app at all lasted for a couple months until I was swept back into it. Now, it’s less posting about where I am and more watching the dumbest reels that bring me endless laughter. Authentically me! But overall my desire to share where we are has diminished. I kind of like the privacy of it all.