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 carries and the doors swing open before I knock.

But here...

The world doesn’t knock.

It waits. It waits politely until I decide I’m ready to answer.