I’m going to the ocean tomorrow and the thought of leaving the high desert causes me to feel a small, quiet anguish.  Leaving the high desert, leaving my home canyon, leaving the sounds of the river…the tight yank required to pull my roots up for a moment creates an uncomfortable tension for me.  I go places all the time but for some reason I balk at the idea of loading the car and hitting the highway.  As soon as I’m out the door, the tension will go slack and I’ll know I’m headed to where I’m supposed to be.  But I feel defensive, I don’t want to be distracted by other environments right now.  I’m besotted with the desert, with her textures, with her moods, with her smells and sights.  My writing and my metalwork are all about her at the moment.  I’m afraid to look up from that inspiration and find myself elsewhere, astounded and full of wonder, pulled off in a new direction.  But I must go.

I made a goal of trying to take more trips for the sole purpose of inspiration seeking this year (and all years to come).  To not travel for work — to travel for the heart of my work, for the sake of my work — to travel less for freelance photography and modeling, to travel more just to keep my soul fresh and my eyes wide open, to use my cameras, to take the time to write and paint, to explore and squander my curiosity in broad terrains and exquisite cultures.  To take back the road and choose my own path again.  To meet my friends along the way and to enjoy the delicious lonesomeness of my escapades, too.  To feel my heart brighten at the thought of homecoming.

I have a feverish wanderlust at the moment but it’s at war with my securely planted roots and rhythms.  It’s a conundrum.

But I must go.To my desert, my sagebrush, my river canyon, my muse — Zane Grey said it best:

“The spell of the desert comes back to me, as it always will come.  I see the veils, like purple smoke, in the canõns, and I feel the silence.  And it seems that again I must try to pierce both and to get at the strange wild life of the last American wilderness — wild still, almost, as it ever was.”