Anza-Borrego, Whistles, and Asking for Help

The Stand, Experimental mobile set

On help

“All I have to do,” said rabbit, “is ask?” 

“And allow,” added bear, “and allow.”

Thoughts while making

Growing up in San Diego, my parents often packed up our dog, my siblings, and I, and headed east.

Away from the ocean.

Away from the people.

Away from the busy streets.

Out of the city.

Into the hills.

Over the mountains.

And down to the desert floor below.

From grassy suburban yards through country chaparral, sugar pines to catclaw and cholla, we’d trade the sound of surf for the quiet beauty of Anza-Borrego.

I’ve returned to this desert many times throughout my life, but that’s not what this story is about.

This is a story about a whistle.

Sometimes red.

Others orange.

A whistle that hung around each of our necks.

The desert is a magical place. And we were encouraged to wander, dig in, pick up, turn over, look around.

We were invited to dream, to imagine, to explore.

And, boy, how I did.

Yet, the desert can be a dangerous place, too. From snakes to scorpions, jumping cactus to rocky slides,

Enter the whistle.

A whistle to blow in case of danger.

Three times. Pause. Repeat.

Wherever you were, blow that whistle and people would come running.

“Where are you?”

“Are you okay?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you need?”

Today, I was picturing how amazing it would be if we all wore whistles; if we could blow one-two-three when we needed help, needed support, needed to know we were okay even when we weren’t.

Today, I was imagining the feeling of being able to one-two-three whenever you were sad or needed someone to listen or wanted to be wrapped up and told how loved you are.

Today, I was thinking how incredible it would be to know that somebody would coming running whenever you blew one-two-three.

How can you blow your whistle today or respond to the call of another?