pe·rim·e·ter (noun)

1. The continuous line forming the boundary of a closed geometric figure.

2. An instrument for measuring the extent and characteristics of a person's field of vision.

3. A boundary where I leave off and you begin.

Sometimes it seems the world is in a knot, turning on itself, as if everyone you know has doubled back.

In the spring of ’24, at 53 years of age, I packed up the horse and dogs and headed west along our southern border, camping and riding some of the most remote and inhospitable lands – alone – from the Big Bend in Texas to the PCT in California.

There is something intimate to be found in the remote, and while our country seems as divided as our border, what I found there instead was completion. I found that I am capable.

That I am not the narrative of another but rather a story waiting to be written. That we all are.

The horse taught me to think for myself, the desert taught me tenacity, and somewhere along the way the land began a part of me.

I didn’t know what to expect. The wall didn’t bother me much at that time. Yet now it comes to my home. Now another tries to define me, label me, dominate without regard for right or wrong, and that is a different story.

Who are we as men and women to dictate? To name another? A canyon. An animal. A place in the natural world? We are the only living being which does so. Is it for navigation? Possibly. But I think it stretches beyond.

We name inanimate objects. Boats. Cars. Mountains. Mostly women’s names. We claim them as our own. We objectify them, blame them. It only serves to reduce the threat for those so easily threatened. We live by the twisty-turny narrative of another.

Where I live, it is a badge of honor to be called a local. A badge coveted by many yet earned by few. And those who earn it deserve it, for the desert is not easy. The lighting strikes of monsoon storms, the power outages, the dry winters, which no number of blinking eyes can discard, the three digit summers, the windy season which moves buildings. The solitude and isolation.

On average, I take out two rattlesnakes a season. The last, a green Mojave, almost stepped on. The hospital is far away. The antivenom even further.

This wall has turned us against each other. This is not love, not in the Corinthians’ way which requires a certain patience, a human element, a touch to be treasured and not withdrawn at the slightest glance. This is an entirely different travesty we are bringing to bear.

Bullying is not okay: by the government or the people. Do not let politics divide you, for that is what they want. Do not let them lock you in their penthouse, their tower – go back to your plow instead.

Go back to your heart. Get out of your head.

I didn’t think my heart could break any more. Apparently it can.

Visit www.nobigbendwall.org to see the facts and find out how you can help.