Little House, Lots Of Joys: My Desert Days

There are mornings when I wake up and already know it’s going to be a down day. My mind feels scattered, and I don’t want to get out of bed. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up moving from the bed to the couch and staying there. I’ve learned not to ask too much of mornings like that. I start with one small thing. I make tea—usually something I blended the night before to bring a little clarity and keep me present. This morning, it was my Morning Awareness blend: one teaspoon hibiscus, one teaspoon tulsi, a small pinch of rose petals, two slices of fresh ginger, a pinch of mint, and a bit of citrus peel, steeped for seven to ten minutes. I step outside and stand there for a while—long enough to feel the air and let the desert sun settle in. That’s enough. I don’t build anything on top of it. I just get my footing before the day starts making noise. By midday, things begin to loosen. My energy drops, and my attention pulls in too many directions at once. Instead of trying to fix it, I sta...

 The best part of my day has quietly become this little morning ritual. I fill the bird feeders, give a drink to the plants that aren’t on irrigation yet, fill the bird bath and then I sit down with my coffee and watch what can only be described as total bird anarchy outside my window. Honestly, it’s better than TV. This is also the time of day when I feel things a little more deeply. I miss the people who aren’t here anymore. I catch myself thinking about my mom, and I like to imagine she’d approve of what I’ve made here. I can almost see her at the patio table—coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other—watching the sun come up behind the mountains like she’s got nowhere else to be. There are some hard things going on right now, and my default setting is to do what I’ve always done—hide. Not in any dramatic way, just that quiet, pull-the-covers-over-your-head kind of hiding. Like being a kid in the dark, convinced something’s lurking under the bed or in the closet. Of course, hidi...

 This little guy is heading home today, after a week with his favorite dog sitter (me). He’s been such a happy, mischievous presence—very much his own personality, and very committed to it. Case in point: his approach to organization. Every six months or so, I deep clean my bookshelves. It’s a whole process—paper towels, a basket of supplies, bookends, labels. Everything comes off the shelves, and I start sorting. What haven’t I read? What still matters? It’s a bit like the Marie Kondo method of tidying , but I’ve adapted it over time. Not just “does this spark joy,” but also: does it serve a purpose? Is it outdated? Does it still fit the life I’m actually living now? I was deep in it—completely focused, asking all the right questions—when I reached for the paper towels. Gone. I grabbed another roll from the kitchen. Then the plastic tags disappeared. That’s when I stopped and looked around. A few things were missing- Books. Pens. A bookend. Plastic tags. And then I saw Hank...

 I’ve known since I was a kid that sleep and I don’t really get along. Growing up in a chaotic house meant I was always looking over my shoulder, and that kind of “high alert” wiring doesn’t just go away. I used to wake up waiting for a storm. Now, I wake up waiting for the light. I’ve traded the survival instinct of my childhood for the steady, quiet pulse of a circadian rhythm. It’s why four hours of sleep feels like enough for me now. I don’t nap, I don’t lounge—I’m just up. A friend introduced me to the idea of circadian rhythm—your body’s natural 24-hour cycle that helps regulate when you feel awake and when you feel tired. It’s guided mostly by light and touches everything: sleep, energy, hormones, mood. It sounds simple on paper. Living it is something else. I’ve come to think of it as a quiet internal pulse, something tied to the sun. When I’m in sync with it, I feel clear and steady. When I’m not, my mood drops and everything feels heavier than it should. I wake ...

  Some mornings arrive heavy When sleep comes in dribs and drabs Before the day even begins I wake up tired… Ready for bed…   This is one of those mornings where I fold myself into the couch, Mindlessly scrolling Sad and overwhelmed   The kitchen is a silent accusation Dishes tetrised in the sink, stacked like unfinished thoughts Trash not taken out Clutter from yesterday’s food prep Sitting where it started.   This is my crash day My burn day.

Blending tea has found its place in my evenings. Every few days, I prepare enough to last a couple of days ahead. Out here, where the dry air quietly pulls the moisture from your body, staying hydrated isn’t optional—it’s essential. Water, tea, fresh juice… it all counts. Last night I put together a gunpowder blend that I enjoy sipping while journaling and sitting still. I’ve been calling it Gunpowder Selah (סֶלָה). There’s a second version too, without caffeine—Selah Quiet. At some point, after everything comes together, it stops tasting like separate parts. It isn’t dull. It just softens into something more settled. Clicked Read More for the blend Just life, Sipped slowly. Gunpowder Selah (סֶלָה) 40 oz / 5 cups Ingredients 5 tsp gunpowder tea 3 tsp osmanthus fragrans 2 tsp globe amaranth 1 tsp dendrobium candidum Small pinch of burdock root Tiny pinch of stevia leaf (optional) Brewing Cold brew (slow) Combine with 40 oz cold water Refrigerate 6–8 hours Strain Flas...

This morning felt quiet in a way I didn’t want to rush past. I took care of the garden, said my prayers, and settled into a comfortable porch chair, watching the sun rise slowly through the mesquites. I found myself sitting instead of reaching for the next thing— my book, my plans for the day, my calendar. Nothing important happened. No big moments, no urgency. Just a few small things I might have missed if I had reached for the next thing. I’m starting to realize how much of life lives there— in the ordinary, in the in-between, in the things we don’t always name. This morning, I noticed a little more of it. Hummingbirds. Phainopepla. Morning doves gathering at the feeders. Lizards proving their maleness with small, determined pushups. Just life, noticed slowly.