Rancho de la Libertad<p>Things went on this way for a few months. A few friends did visit that first fall, but mostly it was just us in isolation, learning slowly how much we did not know but unable to ground ourselves in any way that enabled filling in those gaps. </p><p>We decided to throw a party. Our first event. Things were kind of ready, and we had gutted and made somewhat liveable a 1976 Airstream trailer we got from a family member. This innocuous and silly decision actually ended up being the turning point we needed. Several friends flew in from the East Coast, many of our LA and Bay Area friends drove out, and I recall vividly looking out the window while preparing dinner, watching everyone laughing, playing with the dog, and helping to prepare. Some friends came days in advance to help clean up trash, outline walking paths, make furniture. One made a light installation for us. Another was going to be our DJ. It was a preview of the potential for gathering here. We did so much to prepare, and it was hectic, and then the party was wonderful until a brutal windstorm swept through and ended it early. </p><p>But that evening while everyone was dancing, stargazing, eating, sharing, laughing, I had one of the most intense visions I've ever had in my life. </p><p>Generations of women, mostly of nomadic clans, passed into and out of the land. I witnessed thousands of years of this land's history in moments - but at first I thought I was being shown a different place, because up until the most recent few generations of women, this place did not look like a desert. They showed me my place in this story, and it was twofold: <br>Offer spiritual guidance through shared rites and training others <br>And making the land green again. I saw myself middle aged, and then old, and saw the land progress and trees grow taller between those two stages. </p><p>My partner had a simultaneous visionary experience, and I set out researching, almost convinced there was some metaphor here. But I learned that wasn't the case: this was a grassland, once. Before settlers cut down every last tree to fuel the gold rush, razing the vulnerable vegetation with enormous herds of cattle, and hunting the local ruminants to near extinction. And our valley was hit hard: in a lower elevation than nearby Joshua Tree and with less average precipitation, a higher concentration of mines here sealed the death sentence for nearly everything that lived here. And so that ancient creosote, some 13,000 years old, this living network of unforgetting and unforgiving medicine, took over and held the land when nothing else could. Gone were junipers, oaks, mequites. Gone from this valley were bighorn sheep, tortoises, cottontails. Gone were roadrunners, most of the jackrabbits even. Songbirds failed to stop here on their migratory routes. The cholla didn't make it, even. Nor the ocotillo. Not a saguaro to be found. One after the other sacred beings disappeared. The first summer we spent here there were no birds. Only wind and coyotes and the creosote branches whispered and whined and lamented, waiting for ears to listen to their tale. </p><p><a href="https://climatejustice.social/tags/ClimateChange" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>ClimateChange</span></a> <a href="https://climatejustice.social/tags/Desertification" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>Desertification</span></a> <a href="https://climatejustice.social/tags/WonderValley" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>WonderValley</span></a> <a href="https://climatejustice.social/tags/RanchoDeLaLibertad" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>RanchoDeLaLibertad</span></a></p>