Lesson from the Desert

May 30, 2026

The East Coast is my home. Maybe Maryland, specifically, maybe not. But the East Coast is my home.

I long for the overcast skies and the rain. I need to hear waves of wind crashing through the crowns of trees that reach far above the roof of my house. My soul aches for the graceful crepe myrtle's bloom and the merry song of robins in her arms. The East Coast is drenched in color, dressed to the nines for any occasion, and I am welcome to drink until I burst.

I have a pet theory about the desert ("pet" because I do not plan to investigate it any further than my own musing): those who live in the desert and wish to see color must bring it themselves. Buildings are splashed with bright murals and casual dress becomes brighter when the whole landscape is dominated by sand and dirt and rocks. For some the desert seems to be inspiring. It provides the undistracting blank canvas for them to pour their color out in whatever discipline matches the rhythm of their souls. This place allows them to stand out above the shrubs and sand; to retreat into steady quiet; to discover and experiment in the wide-open space beneath the endlessly blue sky.

Now here I find the worst of it all: The desert demands color of me if I wish to see color at all.

On the East Coast all I must do to feel creatively satisfied is stare at the rippling waves of the harbor or watch rain traipse down the chain hanging off of the front porch. The only demand is that I breathe in the peppery smell of my forests and drive my hands into fresh soil. All she asks is that I listen to the clouds whisper their plans, walk barefoot on summertime sidewalks, and witness the changing light. All this art I may disappear into and need only be audience to its great chorus.

That is my excuse - the East Coast asks nothing of me.

For someone historically so drawn to being invisible, disappearing into the landscape of complete beauty following the cycles of change makes for little need to reply. Awe is enough. Witnessing is a final act. This psalm needs no antiphon, certainly not sung by me.

Now I am in the desert. And I am hungry for cycles of change. But there are none to be found except in me. No softening spring, no familiar light or dampening smells, no body of water to become lost in, no songbirds, none at all, except in me. The skies are featureless, starched by the iron of the endless sun, but I know skies with scowls and plans, and they still live in me.

The desert demands color of me, only if I wish to see color at all.

That is the lesson I must take from the desert. It is easier to witness the color of life around and outside of you than it is to mine it in your own soul. I would much rather drink in the freshness of a Mid-Atlantic February than find it in my bones, distill it into language, and pour it out onto paper. But there is a need in the very cells of my being and essence that demands to share and tell and bring others into the witnessing of beauty they might not see themselves. On the East Coast, I could blindly assume that everyone around me could hear the song of the forest and river as clearly as I could and so I felt no need to participate unless truly, deeply moved. At that point, it flowed out with ease, but even still, I needed no audience.

Here in the desert, it is altogether different. If I wish to see color at all, the desert demands color of me. And the color that I can bring to this quiet, neutral landscape comes from the steady work of mining, distilling, pouring, writing, singing everything I ever collected into the bones and tissue of my soul.

The lesson from the desert is this: whether there is color around me or not, I am full of the colors I love and must stand and shout and participate for any occasion as if I alone carried the melody, even if I am hidden in the multitude.