For Diana Wall, in memoriam
Go out to the desert. Far from anyone’s anywhere. There
are reasons for everything everywhere. If you want answers, look
where you are. The desert: that cold dry valley—that wide opening.
There is never nothing to look at. Never say nothing but dirt.
Say you see tan and more tan until you invent a color wheel
for tan tones. Dust rock stone tan. Ancient glacial residue tan. Tan
like the hide of some furred animal though no four-legged creature
lives in this place. Cold tan. Tan of scree and solitude. A vastness.
Begin to see differences between this patch of tan soil and
that. The human heart’s a super predator—like the mind—hungry
and omnivorous. Rarely docile. Sift and sift until you find
the one solution that solves for nearly everything. See roundworms
writhing through this compaction—like only hope can move. Not at all
small when considered in context. Why imagine one massive God
when magnification reveals so many creators inside
a handful of soil. Maybe we can save the world. But we must see
first the tiny examples. Tiny habitat builders. Tiny
fixers—sequestering carbon, turning that form of harm over
and over until harm might not be a word for carbon
anymore. A trillion quadrillion microscopic lives. Tiny
change makers. Tiny predators. Tiny prey. The work of the heart—
like the work of the mind—is to build a system for survival.
Go out to the dry valley. Then come back and show us what you find—
—
Camille T. Dungy is the author of six books, most recently, Soil: The Story of a Black Mother’s Garden. Her editorial projects include Black Nature: Four Centuries of African American Nature Poetry. A University Distinguished Professor at Colorado State University, Dungy’s honors include the Academy of American Poets Fellowship, a Guggenheim, an American Book Award, an Honorary Doctorate, and fellowships from the NEA.
