Little House, Lots Of Joys: My Desert Days

 I’ve started a garden in my backyard, mostly desert plants. It’s a bit cluttered, a little eclectic, but it has a charm all its own. In the morning, it becomes a quiet refuge—somewhere I can sit, meditate, pray. The birds know it too. They come for the easy meal, for the water that’s always there, and I sit still long enough to feel like I’m part of it. One of my plants is a mistletoe cactus, and it’s a bit of an oddball. When you think “cactus,” you picture heat, dust, something stubbornly holding onto water. This one does the opposite. It comes from a rainforest. Instead of rooting in the ground, it drapes itself over tree branches like it doesn’t need to belong anywhere in particular. The stems are long and thin, almost wiry, falling in loose, tangled strands with a kind of easy, unbothered rhythm. When it blooms, you might miss it if you’re not paying attention. The flowers are small, soft white, tucked along the stems without much fuss. Later, it forms tiny round berri...

For the past ten years, I’ve been drawn toward holistic approaches to healing—incorporating mindfulness and embracing Buddhist philosophy, particularly Vietnamese Buddhism. Along the way, I’ve explored some unconventional paths to support my spiritual, emotional, and physical well-being. A friend and I recently attended a cacao ceremony paired with a sound bath. The first half—the sound bath—did much of the quiet work. Lying in Savasana while listening to the harp and crystal bowls, my body gradually softened and my mind slowed. By the time the cacao was served, I was already at ease—open in a way that felt natural rather than effortful. The facilitator guided us through setting intentions, invoking supportive energies, and blessing the cacao before we drank it slowly and mindfully. What stayed with me most was the simplicity of what followed. The ceremony didn’t become heavy or intense. Instead, it unfolded into quiet conversation, gentle laughter, and an easy sense of connection. I r...

  Last week my friend came through Tucson on her way to her next adventure, and we celebrated her birthday with a sound bath and cacao ceremony. I told her that as much as I’ve loved having my little van, “Beastie,” these past six years, I was also tired of the stress that came with her. When she sat too long, I worried about pack rats chewing things up again or mechanical issues from lack of use. I had started thinking seriously about putting her in storage close to home so I could keep a better eye on things, start the engine and generator regularly, and this will give me enough time to decide what I really wanted to do. So, on Friday, May 1st, I called a storage facility to ask about parking the van there. And honestly, the only way I can describe what happened next is divine intervention. Early Monday morning, I received a phone call from an RV dealership asking if I had ever considered selling my van. My first thought? Scam. But I recognized the dealership’s name, so I called ...

I never learned how to set up a kitchen. I didn’t know where pots and pans should go, or how to organize spices and canned goods. I never had someone take the time to teach me, so I didn’t learn to cook. When I moved into my first home, I felt lost. It became easier to say, “I can’t cook,” than to explain why. Around the age of 63, I decided to learn. I had just upgraded my kitchen, and most of what belonged in it had been sitting in storage—there wasn’t much to begin with. A friend came over, helped me think through the layout, and showed me what I was missing. From there, I took off. Not everything I created was successful, but it was successful enough to keep me going. Working in the kitchen was challenging for me. I misplaced spoons and knives constantly. I would open the fridge to grab something, get distracted, and end up cleaning the fridge instead. So I adapted. I started setting up stations and working from one to the next, finishing a task before moving on. Everything I ...

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...