Sedona

“When the soul is alive to beauty, we begin to see life in a fresh and vital way.” — John O’Donohue

There are places that ask nothing of us but attention. For me, Sedona is one of them.

You don’t have to believe in vortexes to feel how the land leans toward you. The red rocks rise without argument, the light changes its mind by the hour, and something inside quietly rearranges itself. Beauty here is not decorative — it is elemental.

For nearly thirty years, I have been drawn back. I first came with my children when we lived in Phoenix. Later, I returned with my grandchildren, inventing small adventures, watching them scramble over stone older than memory. The land grew roots in me.

This time, I arrived alone. Days of walking, breathing, listening — until my daughter joined me for the weekend with her two children. Solitude first, then family. The rhythm felt right.

I was grateful for my down jacket and Merino wool sweater. Desert does not mean warm. Snow rests on the higher peaks; water turns to ice overnight. And yet, after the recent rains, the moss glows green against the red rock. Fresh grasses make the earth blush even deeper. Contrast is the desert’s favorite language.

There are always small mysteries. On my first day, three coyotes crossed the road ahead of me. Later, as I walked back through the open land, three coyotes crossed my path again. Calm, unhurried, utterly at home.

I am open for messages taught by the land. I found myself wondering — when the wild crosses your path twice, what is it trying to teach me?

A blooming Manzanita plant. The pink and white flowers remind me of little bells.