Suppose we were to conduct a survey regarding the appeal of different environments. We’d take one group of people and send them on a hike into a desert. We’d then take another group and send them on a hike into a forest. In fact, we’d send them each out several times, that way they could really get a good feel for it. Then, as empiricism requires, the groups would switch hiking trails.
Who would prefer to hike in a desert compared to hiking in a forest? I have no doubt in my mind that the vast majority would prefer the forest hike.
I ran this thought experiment in my head as I was doing more circles around the Phoenix area, what I refer to as Rockland. While driving around (DoorDashing), I wished to go for a hike, but resented the idea of seeing more rock and cacti – the desert – and especially now that the Burn approaches and the temperatures tilt ever closer to the triple digits. Indeed, this is the first year that I did not renew my annual pass at my local desert mountain. Rocks and cacti, rattlers and – well, there’s not much else. It’s gotten so old.
It’s because of this that I’ve come to realize the importance of green spaces for one’s health and peace of mind. I believe human beings require grass and forests and lush trees – all existing effortlessly in a region that is witness to regular rainfall.
For me, the proof, as they say, is in the pudding. In the past month, I have taken two trips over to my homestate. Per court orders, I’ve been taking trips to California almost every month for the last 4 years. I enjoy it more than ever: at any opportunity I have to lift up the manhole cover, I will.
On the first time, I took my father. He hadn’t been back to California in several months, and was now invited to a baptism. Because his car was unable to make the drive, I took him as a favor.
We shared a room at the “economy motel” in San Dimas – the always shady and somewhat slimy Red Roof Inn. It had been raining over there, and was now drizzling, with gray clouds above. The day we arrived, we took a nearly 2 hour-long walk at Bonelli Park, my longtime walking path.
“The greenery, Kev!” Dad said it half-mockingly, but the enchantment and elation on his face told the truth. It’s easier on the eyes, easier on the skin, and easier in the lungs. Breathe it in, pops.
The next day, I dropped him off in Beaumont, taking three hours to get there – that damn SoCal traffic. In a couple days, I’d pick him back up and we’d drive back to Rockland.
In the afternoon, I went to Bonelli for another long walk. The gray clouds overhead looked like they were about to burst open. I sat down on a green hill and looked over the water. Then closed my eyes and breathed in deep. The air was fresher, and my skin felt the light kiss of the breeze. I noticed my heart beat slower, and the racing thoughts in my head were gone. I felt like the Incredible Hulk turning back into Bruce Banner. I was at peace.
I got back to my motel around 7, spread out on my bed, and went to sleep, something unusual for me at this early hour. I woke up around midnight. It was drizzling outside. Dark, misty, and cold – it was a lovely time to go Door Dashing.
I worked for two hours, all the while my windows stayed down. Oddly, some Arizonans seem to hate rain. Imagine how dumb you have to be to assert your desire to live in a place that has no regular rainfall. They must have an equal distain for grass and flowers, as its only the rain that makes those things possible.
I was in such a great but calm mood that I found myself unperturbed when a car full of young men pulled up next to me at a light with the intention to antagonize. At least one guy was sitting on the lap of another. Two windows rolled down and someone in the back started making jokes. “You have enough gay shit going on in that car,” I say. “You don’t need my activity.”
They sped off. I Dashed on.
Afterwards, back at my hotel, still calm as a green cucumber, I went back to sleep. When I awoke, it was nearly 7. Altogether, I got almost 10 hours of sleep that night.
That never happens.
The Phoenix area, conversely, induces feelings of anger and despair, which I seem to think in turn exacerbates my lifelong struggle with insomnia. “I’m just sick of seeing rocks,” I tell people honestly. Nearly every property has what they call xeriscaping – rock lawns. The name reminds me of Xenomorphs, and is just as hideous. “I miss grass and trees,” I say again. This line usually strikes a chord with people. They’re sympathetic to it.
Searching Google, I come across plenty of studies showing the benefits of green spaces, including one that says that the absence of green spaces can predict mental health issues for children later in life. (I’ll eventually get around to printing out some of these studies and going through them.)
More guilt, as I do have a child, being raised in Rockland. Thus, for my next trip to California, I took my son with me, taking along both of our bikes. When we moved to Arizona, he had yet to learn how to ride a bike. Now that he does, I wanted to take him to some of our old spots. That we would do this weekend.
But first, we went to the beach. SoCal was hot this weekend, some places in the 90’s. Huntington Beach would help cool us down. My son said he hadn’t been here in “at least” a year. It was bustling. Walkers and cyclists and beautiful women filled the boardwalk. The concert had certainly brought out even more people.
Although I’d taken my son to this beach a thousand times, he’d never ridden his bike on the boardwalk. As we rode, I took a video: “I’m home…that’s…perfect.”
Wanting to find some spot slightly less crowded, we stopped at the dog-friendly section. We chained up our bikes and went to the water.
Sigh. Why do we have to go back to Rockland?
Before heading back to the hotel, we lunched on a delicious carne asada burrito, washing it down with a mango smoothie.
On the way back to the car, I made a quiet assertion: “Nobody should ever be denied greenery and flowers.”
The next day, still sunny and warm, I took him to Bonelli. For some reason, the park was closed, as it was experiencing a power outage. It gave us free reign of the place. We rode around the lake, eventually stopping at a couple of our old playgrounds. As he played on the equipment that he grew up on, I laid on the grass. Like me, and his grandfather, my son will always be a Californian. No amount of rocks can bury that fact.
Perhaps the absence of green spaces is why I find Arizonans to be so cranky, generally speaking of course. Hopefully we don’t turn into rockheads.
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Yes we all need green grass and beautiful trees, something you will never see in rock land. Great piece son.