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Always Forward
February 2005
 "Always forward," a wise friend recently said to me.
But, this weekend, I went back.
Back to the ranch in Arizona where I grew up. As my son and I drove down the lane to the ranch, the lines between past and present blurred. He is now 8-years-old. I was 8-years-old when we moved to this ranch nearly thirty years ago. Has it really been nearly thirty years? How is that possible?
Spirits of the past appeared as we walked around the headquarters. The spirit of an eight-year-old girl with blonde braids approached us. She wore faded Wranglers and scuffed cowboy boots. A leather belt-buckle peeked out from under her wrinkled, worn t-shirt. Her eyes crinkled when she laughed.
I recognized her immediately and smiled. She had grown fuzzy in my mind over the years. Here she was again, real and strong.
Behind her the empty space under the canopy of mesquite trees came alive again. The hole enveloping the trampoline emerged, as did the round trampoline level with the ground. The girl's brother played with his Tonka trucks while their mother bent over the raised beds of the garden, commenting that the manure this year was too hot and burning the chile plants.
The broken and crumbling corrals where we walked fell away, replaced once again with strong sturdy fresh boards, rough under the hands. The two eight-year-olds scrambled to the top of them and sat looking out over the pasture. "This is the horse pasture, Wyatt," she said. "When I lay awake at night, I can hear them galloping past, their hooves pounding on the ground like thunder."
The girl grabbed Wyatt's hand and they ran to the machine shed. She showed him the cement floor, once alive with boots sliding across sawdust to the sounds of the music of a barn dance, the scents of roasting javalina from the nearby pit wafting and mingling with the sounds of laughter and talk.
At the base of the sheer towering desert bluffs behind the house, again she took Wyatt's hand. "This way, Wyatt! This is my favorite ravine to explore and climb." They ran up the wash toward the base of the bluffs.
I followed and watched from afar. Watched the two of them exploring together, excitedly chattering away about rocks and cactus and sand. Watched them try to figure out how to climb over the pools of water in the narrow canyons. Watched the temptation in their eyes as they picked up big handfuls of mud, eyeing one another mischievously. I watched the girl excitedly show Wyatt how the tiny leaves peel off the stem of a mesquite tree. All of this, she showed Wyatt with the strength of a child at peace with herself and her world.
"Remind me," I'd said to my friend, "Remind me of that strong ranch kid I used to be."
This weekend I found her again.
People say you can never go home again. In a sense this is true. But, the memory of those two eight-year-olds shines bright in my mind. One with short, course brown hair, new to the desert and excited with the new discoveries. The other with long blonde braids, brimming with excitement to share her world.
This weekend taught me the spirits of the past linger among the mesquite, sit astride corral fences, and scramble up desert ravines. They hold out their hands to lead us back to ourselves. These brave, contented 8-year-olds led me home again. They reminded me of peace and strength ...and moving forward.
Always forward.
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