On Apache Mesa, photo by Camila Motta
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun
Or fester like a sore
And then run?”
Langston Hughes’ poem, “Harlem,” from which these lines are taken, may be best know today for providing the title for Lorraine Hansberry’s 1963 play, A Raisin in the Sun, about a black family’s tragic attempt to move into a white neighborhood. They were blocked as so many were and are still by neighborhood covenants and realtors’ unwillingness. This major social outrage makes my particular dream deferred seem small—but then, as we all know, the issue of our dreams and what happens to them is a major one, particularly for women who often lack the power or the money to push ahead.
In the case of Apache Mesa, my 1300 plus acres on top of an arid mesa near Las Vegas, New Mexico, I did not lack money or power when I put the ranch on the market 18 months ago. Instead I was unable to move through my bitter disappointment that my original dream, dependent on a man, had collapsed. It’s taken me two years to get through that—at least to some degree—and to realize that this remote and stubbornly wild ranch is never going to find a buyer, and to begin to think about how I may transform and use it.
The little old stone house, without electricity, is not very functional, the new barn we built has no horses in it, and the connected apartment is tiny and comfortless. And now both wells have run dry in our prolonged drought so there is not a drop of water. The road up to the mesa is extremely rough and unpassable in wet weather (if we ever get any). And the nearest town is thirty minutes away.
But there are neighbors. I’ve never gotten to know them. One, a woman who danced professionally in New York for years, is a writer who organizes summer conferences for women; I’m curious to know how she does this in a place that offers none of the luxuries most women expect on vacation. And I’m not sure I want to involve myself in more attempts at inspiring other women. It may be that particular well has run dry.
Several dear friends have suggested that I make some improvements so that the barn apartment is minimally comfortable—an armchair, for example, since at the moment there is nowhere to sit. Strictly functional, the apartment provides for eating, going to the bathroom and sleeping, not quite enough for me.
The wild winds that sweep across the mesa make comfort and a degree of coziness important.
And then there’s the issue of being—or trying to be—totally self-sufficient in practical, emotional and spiritual terms. It’s an issue we all face sooner or later, especially single women who live alone. Clearly, not reasonable to expect this of myself for long periods of time but as a dear daughter suggested, “Armloads of books, for a week?”
I think this may be the way I will choose to go. But first, I have to find a way to secure some water.
Water in the desert—both a practical and a symbolic necessity.
More later…
Pip on Apache Mesa, photo by Camila Motta
Sally we moved to NM in 2016. Inside this shallow bag of time we have found disappointment in others sometimes too. We have been stolen from, stood up by all sorts of workers and in some cases directly lied to. We came from hard working history involving the land and several retail businesses in Oklahoma where this sort of think may have occured but we never saw it. Oh for the days of handshake deals and the surety of eye to eye contact sealing promises, contracts, and partnerships. The winsome hoots and curls of wind gushing across our little patch of land south of Santa Fe smites and prickles our plans sometimes. We still find our little place to be soul healing. Bless you and the disappointments heaped upon you. You have compadres you don’t know about as we are all in this pulling together. Hope to run across you one day, I’ll buy you a cold glass of tea……