Tucson Is For Polishing The Soul.
For me, anyway. Perhaps not for you. Here, I’m swaddled in incense smoke and soft knowing. I don’t stride through life... I lounge in it, naturally and effortlessly as one does when the Sun slips into the fourth house . (It’s an astrocartography thing. Have you had yours done? You really should.) This is what I call the Sonoran Quiet . I live in the center of the city — yet I wake to the sound of birds tapping out their philosophies on trees, and owls co-authoring dreams before dawn. My dog, the elegant sentinel, knows before I do when the coyotes have crept through the alley on whispering feet. Tucson isn’t for building. It’s for becoming . It’s not a place for spectacle. It’s a sanctuary for the truth of who I am when no one is watching . And really, that’s where the most exquisite transformations happen, isn’t it? A still life from a Sunday. One day... perhaps in my sixties, silver-streaked and sovereign... I’ll return to a city that wants me to be seen. Where my voice carr...
