My world is a dry, arid place. Not much grows but cactus, ocotillo, and scrub brush. There is a barren place here that is so dry nothing grows. No animals, no plants, no rain....just parched dry soil and relentless winds. The rest of the valley gets rain occasionally, then the air is so fresh and clear. The ocotillo burst into bright orange blooms, and the cactus blossoms spring forth in vibrant fuchsias, yellows, reds, and brilliant snow white. Not long after the rain, the blossoms begin to fade and die, and the ocotillo look like dead sticks reaching into the sky.
I haven't always lived in this valley. I used to live on the side of a mountain. I had a nice home there; nothing fancy but comfortable. Honeysuckle intertwined through the trellis in the yard. Raspberries and strawberries grew in abundance. Roses and lilacs sweetened the air with their perfume. There was a crystal clear river that flowed down the mountain past my home. The water was sweet and cold. 
I was comfortable there, and I loved how close I was to the mountaintop. I could go for walks up there through the thick forest breathing in the balmy air and listening to the squirrels squabble with the jays. There is a beautiful lush, green meadow where wildflowers bloom. Deer bound and play and rabbits wiggle their little noses. There is the brook that becomes the river where the beaver's build dams and the otters play. It is so serene and peaceful. I love it there.
Then, one day as I happily rocked on my front porch, they came. I had forgotten all about them, stuffed in the back of my mind somewhere. But, they came anyway. They stole everything I thought I had. They pulled up my gardens and burned down my house, then threw me off my mountain.
That was how I came to live in this arrid valley. When I first got here, I noticed the wounds. Wounds that were absessed. Wounds that covered my heart and my mind. Wounds that they had caused so long ago. I was frightened by my wounds and ran into the barren place to hide. Eventually, I left the barren place to find some nourishment to sustain me. I tried to go back up the mountain to my home,
but I no longer had the strength to make the climb. I wandered aimlessly in the valley until I found some shelter. I tried to nurse my wounds and gain my strength. I wanted so desperately to go home.
When I felt I had the strength to make it up the mountain, I went to my old home. I sifted through the ashes and dug through the weeds to find nothing left. They had destroyed everything. I came back down to the valley; I had no strength left to climb to the mountaintop and couldn't stay amongst the ashes. I became resigned to the fact that I would probably spend endless days and nights here and decided to build a small shack for myself.
I began to explore my new valley and found others here. I noticed my neighbors had the same kind of wounds that I did. I finally knew I wasn't alone. Some live near my new home and some live far. Others wander into our valley who don't have wounds. They don't stay long. Some are disgusted with our wounds and don't want to be infected.
Others can't stand the pain and are frightened by what they see. Some come and offer help, encouragement and love, but they don't live here with us. In the end, it's just us wounded survivors who stay here waiting for our turn to leave.
Some day, I'll go back up the mountain to build a new home. A home built on truth not lies. A home they won't be able to steal. But I will come back to this valley and spend time with the survivors here. I will encourage and love them with understanding and empathy. I will help them make it back up the mountain too.
