Transpiration
Taylor Miller
Top row, from left: Kino fig leaf growth; Datura trumpet; Datura trumpet detail
Bottom row, from left: Nopal/prickly pear pad succumbed to drought; Sabr means patience; Monsoon season shortcomings
Bottom row, from left: Nopal/prickly pear pad succumbed to drought; Sabr means patience; Monsoon season shortcomings
These digital photographs were taken in my backyard, in Tucson, Arizona. The Sonoran Desert is an incredibly biodiverse and culturally rich region, and I feel grateful to call it home, especially during this extraordinarily trying time of COVID-19.
I gave birth to my daughter, Nora, on May 23, 2019. While pregnancy and birth blessed us with great health, I – like so many other women – suffered from intense postpartum depression. As a brand-new mother, I felt overwhelmed and lacked the time to process the flurry of emotions…all while simultaneously pressing on with the stress of dissertation research and other responsibilities. It took more than seven months for me to feel “normal” again. And by this, I mean that I was increasingly able to articulate and cope with my feelings and changing body, while navigating the excitement of a beautiful and energetic baby. I enjoyed two months of this new equilibrium and then, in mid-March 2020, the pandemic swept across the world. My dreams of traveling extensively with Nora and exposing her to museums, protests, parties, and all sorts of new sensorial experiences came to a screeching halt. A new kind of depression set in – fast.
Sparing the details of this quarantine rollercoaster – which so many of us are faced with in unique ways – a takeaway is the absolute healing power of my garden. March, April, and May are magical months in the Sonoran Desert; the temperature hitting 70-80 degrees by day and hovering in the high 50s at night. These initial weeks at home were a grounding experience, and I found great relief on our small plot, attuning to the soil’s health when I could not physically connect with the health of extended family and friends. The windows in our humble adobe home, built in 1897, wide open to usher in the breeze and the scent of blossoming creosote bushes. When I first moved to Tucson over 15 years ago, I was determined to sow what had been abundant in my mom’s gardens in Chicago. Alas, humidity-loving vegetables and rainbow-hued annuals are not cut out for the searing desert sun. It took many years and many dead plants to learn to better embrace desert-adapted flora. To an outsider, the landscape here might seem only shades of crisped brown, but each season brings abundance and beauty.
In these recent weeks and months, I’ve leaned harder than ever before into meditating with the low desert ecology. I use digital photography to hone in on the minutiae of the colors, patterns, and rhythms of what’s growing in our small space. I am perennially astounded by the species that flourish, and even flower, in July and August’s wrathful heat. Sheltering-in-place is in many ways discouraging and frustrating. Yet noticing emerging buds on the cacti breeds anticipation and thrill for the coming days: When do you think the next bloom will burst open? I wonder if the hummingbirds will like this one! I am especially drawn to the ephemerality of the datura flowers (jimson weed), which only last a few hours once opened. I’ve spotted them before around my dissertation research site, the ruins of al-Manshiyya in coastal Palestine. Beauty, nature’s perseverance, and tenacity – blooming between occupied lands.
On my personal website, I’ve created a portfolio titled “transpiration” as a space to document time’s passage in our garden. Presently, I continue waiting for monsoons that never came. Now that Nora is twenty months old, we envision our next adventure together as we turn our excitement to the promise of spring’s blooms.
I gave birth to my daughter, Nora, on May 23, 2019. While pregnancy and birth blessed us with great health, I – like so many other women – suffered from intense postpartum depression. As a brand-new mother, I felt overwhelmed and lacked the time to process the flurry of emotions…all while simultaneously pressing on with the stress of dissertation research and other responsibilities. It took more than seven months for me to feel “normal” again. And by this, I mean that I was increasingly able to articulate and cope with my feelings and changing body, while navigating the excitement of a beautiful and energetic baby. I enjoyed two months of this new equilibrium and then, in mid-March 2020, the pandemic swept across the world. My dreams of traveling extensively with Nora and exposing her to museums, protests, parties, and all sorts of new sensorial experiences came to a screeching halt. A new kind of depression set in – fast.
Sparing the details of this quarantine rollercoaster – which so many of us are faced with in unique ways – a takeaway is the absolute healing power of my garden. March, April, and May are magical months in the Sonoran Desert; the temperature hitting 70-80 degrees by day and hovering in the high 50s at night. These initial weeks at home were a grounding experience, and I found great relief on our small plot, attuning to the soil’s health when I could not physically connect with the health of extended family and friends. The windows in our humble adobe home, built in 1897, wide open to usher in the breeze and the scent of blossoming creosote bushes. When I first moved to Tucson over 15 years ago, I was determined to sow what had been abundant in my mom’s gardens in Chicago. Alas, humidity-loving vegetables and rainbow-hued annuals are not cut out for the searing desert sun. It took many years and many dead plants to learn to better embrace desert-adapted flora. To an outsider, the landscape here might seem only shades of crisped brown, but each season brings abundance and beauty.
In these recent weeks and months, I’ve leaned harder than ever before into meditating with the low desert ecology. I use digital photography to hone in on the minutiae of the colors, patterns, and rhythms of what’s growing in our small space. I am perennially astounded by the species that flourish, and even flower, in July and August’s wrathful heat. Sheltering-in-place is in many ways discouraging and frustrating. Yet noticing emerging buds on the cacti breeds anticipation and thrill for the coming days: When do you think the next bloom will burst open? I wonder if the hummingbirds will like this one! I am especially drawn to the ephemerality of the datura flowers (jimson weed), which only last a few hours once opened. I’ve spotted them before around my dissertation research site, the ruins of al-Manshiyya in coastal Palestine. Beauty, nature’s perseverance, and tenacity – blooming between occupied lands.
On my personal website, I’ve created a portfolio titled “transpiration” as a space to document time’s passage in our garden. Presently, I continue waiting for monsoons that never came. Now that Nora is twenty months old, we envision our next adventure together as we turn our excitement to the promise of spring’s blooms.
BIO: Taylor Miller completed her BFA and MA in Art & Visual Culture Education at the University of Arizona. As a PhD candidate, her research interests include the contemporary cultural and political geography of Tel Aviv and Marseille, arts-led gentrification, and the aesthetics of occupation in the urban built environment. Her transdisciplinary projects incorporate photography, poetry & critical architectural and urban theory. To view her work or contact, visit www.taylorkmiller.com.