The window looks out over a thicket of woods, right where the yard drops off steeply into an impenetrable tangle of trees and brush.  If you lie in this room and you close your eyes, it is the crashing of waves, and the croaking of frogs and the rustling of leaves that lull you to sleep.  This bed, ancient iron with flecked paint and sagging mattress, cradled me the night my truth began to travel home to me.  There is peace living in the walls of this space.  Peace and simplicity, whispering a reminder of how much I have, and how little I need.

The desert, she is a difficult mistress.  We’ve had ten years to build a relationship, she and I, and it’s a tenuous bond at best.  You see, my soul belongs to the ocean, to the pounding surf and salt air, and so I’m always a little out of place amongst cactus and tumbleweed.  But yet, there are certain moments where she captivates me, where her beauty intrigues and inspires, where I see myself in her.  Because, you see, there are days when finding flowers in the desert reminds you that beauty is not always soft, and that it does not preclude strength, and that you can adapt and thrive and be exquisite in places where such things cannot be taken for granted.