It’s been building up. You see it every morning when you open your blinds or curtains. The nagging reminder that you are piss poor at housekeeping eventhough you haven’t been home long enough to do more than eat late night snacks, wash a handful of socks and underwear to get you through the next trip, and sleep. Or kind of sleep, on the couch covered in the tiny puffs you kick with your feet as you drag them across the floor.

Dust. So much dust. Or stars, as my daughter likes to call them while she marvels at the particulates that never seem to settle in the early morning sun rays that stream through the windows. No wonder I can’t keep up.

I’ve come to think of it as star dust. It makes me feel better about ignoring the cleaning. I used to behave like this very star dust. Never settling. Almost too unsettled at times. Life now though, was worth the floating.

Everyone should behave like a little star dust from time to time.

And just about the moment you’re ready to light a match, or move to the North Pole because you’re tired of sweating all night long, the radio and news channels promise rain. But not before June 15. You know, because weather adheres to ol’ Gregory XIII. The year was 1582… they figured it out then. Today, people can’t tell you the sum of 2 plus 3 let alone know that 1/4 of a day adds up over a century and messes with knee-high corn by July. Eventually.

Where was I? Oh yes. Monsoon season.

The worst part of monsoon season is not the flooding. It is not the ash choked creeks and drainages following summer infernos. It is not the closed forest roads preventing smooth-brains from wrecking natural resources. No, the worst part of monsoon season is my front porch.

We have had this dog Ava, for seven and a half years. Some of you have been blessed with her unwavering spirit of assholery.  Her breed-specific antics. The counter surfing. The trash diving. The couch cushion alterations. The midnight bedsheet rearranging. The broken carpus. The near 100 percent quail retrieval.  Gosh is she birdy. But. There is a reason her nickname is longer than her real name. AVALANCHE. 

The nastiest cow elk urine concentrated dirt puddle in the forest would NEVER deter this hound. Nor would the opportunity to smear on a fresh, green bovine patty or roll in a carcass of who knows what. But some freshly wetted grass? She wouldn’t be caught dead in it. So, at night, when it rains, (or all winter during the snow) she relieves herself on the porch. Numbers one and two. Often multiple times.

It is much easier now with a four year old human. But man. When Morgan was crawling or did not understand what this was all about, well, there was a lot of shit to clean up. Daily. That’s the worst part.

Now for the best part.

All that dust and pollen settles. The night skies are incredibly clear. Stars in the high country dark sky territory are visible by the millions.

The earth breathes. Forbes, flowers, and new grasses emerge. Cracks and crevices fill. Desert crustaceans that have been waiting in an egg for years sometimes, hatch and complete an entire lifecycle usually before those pools and puddles dry out. And the amphibians. The deafening croaks, chirps, peeps and barks of the Arizona Tree frogs and Spadefoot Toads emerging to eat, mate, and burrow back in for another year is the wildest phenomenon.

Mule deer and elk antlers grow up to an inch a day. Fawns hit the ground running. Pronghorn bucks start showing up to stake a claim over a herd of does. If you’ve never watched the erratic behavior of pronghorn on the prairie, you’re missing out. It is like a bunch of toddlers let loose at a trampoline park. Running, jumping, sparring, eating, and a whole lot of confused expressions tumbling in all directions with zero pattern.

My favorite “flower”, the paintbrush, peaks it’s orange bracts between the rocks, sage and bunch grass. Castilleja come in all shades of crimson, orange and gold depending on the variety and region you’re in. There are roughly 107 types across our continent, 14 of which are in Arizona.  The prettiest so far that I have seen can be found on the North Kaibab. Castilleja kaibabensis and it’s yellow bracts are to die for and can be found usually in July.

The other flowers to watch out for are the plethora of yellow wild flowers and sunflowers. A great crop of yellow flowers across the forrest equals a great antler year. Don’t always let the lack of winter snow fool you.

Outdoor chores get done in the morning. It’s best to wrap up anything that can’t handle wind by 1 in the afternoon and the rain usually comes as early as 3. Peak afternoon napping season. That’s what monsoon season is.

The yard attracts a ton of migratory birds. The hummingbird feeders are busy all day. Grosbeak, Mourning Dove, Band Tail Pigeons, Pine Siskins, Western Tanagers and more sing and flutter in the trees offering endless entertainment and education for us all.

And the storms! There is something about a monsoon that is like no other. The lightning will make the hair on your whole body stand at attention. The high country thunder is so loud, you feel it in your chest. The walls around you shudder.

And the colors. I cannot get over the colors. We get incredible shows of lightning from the porch. Frequently up here at 7300 feet of elevation, the lightning strikes so close you can smell it.

Sometimes it doesn’t rain where you are sitting. You just watch the storm roll by in the distance.  Such is the nature of a varying landscape with thousands of microclimates. We may be dry while two miles up the road, the driveways wash out.

Instead the skies just stay moody. The last hour of daylight can cast phenomenal colors across the distant hills and skies. Pink, purple, orange, indigo and more. A rainbow or two. A natural painting you don’t see any other time of the year.

That golden hour as the sun is setting and the skies dry up a bit is the perfect time to ramble barefoot across the yard. Throw the ball for the dog. Watch the wildlife emerge for an evening snack. Finish up the back 9 at Elephant Rocks. Slow roll through the woods, sticky gravel clinking the fenders.

And right before dark, the smell hits you. As plants end their transpiration and shift to respire only, the fresh aroma of earth hits your senses. Grounding you if only for a moment, and all is right in the world. This is the good part of a monsoon.

There’s fresh mud that will turn to dust by morning. A little extra to sweep up. This is the real season to start anew. Not January. This is renewal in Arizona.

Now. Off to clean up the porch. I’ll take it. And like everyone else who has been paying attention, I’ll even say, we need it.

Star dust be damned.