Shortly after I first realized I had lost my trail, I stopped dead in my tracks and frantically backtracked through the desert in hopes of regaining it. I wasted much of my reserve in this pointless effort. I cursed and wept in frustration. Eventually, this childish emotional outburst drained me completely. I lost my will and collapsed on the valley floor. The wind rose and immersed me under blowing sand. I laid there for a long while in utter despair.
I don’t know how it happened; I don’t know where it came from. But a rebirth of sorts came about under that carpet of blowing sand. I found myself rising and setting out again in a balance, an equanimity that I had never found before. I was able to reorient myself to my predicament in a more fitting way. I found that I was able to drop my expectations. I could realistically appraise my circumstances, impartially examine my former goals, and jettison those aims that were useless or even potentially lethal out here. And I realized that regardless of whether or not I ever found my trail again, I would have to move on through this wasteland. I was already learning the importance of motion.
Self-containment has become paramount since then. It doesn’t feel like a forced attitude to assume. Immediately after losing my way, I would cling to anything that remotely resembled a trail. I’ll admit it: I was afraid, terribly afraid, and it seemed that my fear attracted every sort of obstacle I could imagine. I was looking for any assurance, grabbing at any fleeting chance for deliverance. I lost time, much time, and wasted far too much energy following game trails that wound down into box canyons only to dead-end against a rock wall. I found myself time and again striding through open sandy areas that quickly metamorphosed into cholla fields that stabbed me and sucked away at my feeble resolve. In so many ways, I paid for my fear, and for my casting-out of hope onto the outer signs of the journey.
Now, I don’t seem to need any external assurances. I could cross a highway out here, and if it did not look to be going my way, I would not hesitate to plunge into the wilds again. Only since I have begun to trust myself to pick out my own way have I made any mileage at all. It is much more demanding this way. I am constantly scouting terrain to choose my route. The energy levels are watched carefully all of the time. I have to be more alert, watch my step, and skirt these bushes. I must be more pragmatic. I must know my capabilities and limitations to the finest degree. But I haven’t run into any cholla fields lately. I haven’t seen the floor of a box canyon in more than three days now. The trail on the horizon looks more distinct now. And fear no longer dogs my steps.
This is the way it is and the way it shall always be. The white sun hanging in an azure sky. Rugged contours of a land that waits around me on all sides beyond understanding. The crunch of boots on desert pavement. The corrosive salinity of sweat on my sunburned face. A lilac-blue atmosphere presenting a distant image just above ground level. Awe-inspiring permanence. Terrifying, yet sweet stillness. These are the images, the sounds, the qualities I confront daily. There is something born when one’s world is pared to these primal realities. The journey becomes more than the sum of the elements. It assumes a quality of depth and fullness that engulfs me and fleshes out the facts of my daily existence into the firm musculature of truths. I suffer, and yet I rejoice.
I understand now how to harmonize distant visions and desert realities. The first law of the desert is motion. To stop is to wither and die. This is no resting place; it never has been, and it never will be. There is only enough here to sustain the journey. And yet I am continually reminded that while I cannot stop, neither can I ignore the demands and conditions of my passage. There is the promise of deliverance, but the vision always shimmers more intensely when I find a deliverance here and now to make the journey more tolerable, even enjoyable at times. “This is the way,” the desert breathes. “You shall move, yet you shall rest. The horizon is never attained by your efforts.” There is nothing to do but to listen and watch oneself be irresistibly drawn into the way.
Now, these truths are not discouraging or fatiguing to live with. For while demands are made, the desert has elicited the qualities that will enable me to maintain this dynamic balance of motion and rest. Nothing is asked that is not made possible. This is the only certainty I have established. Strangely, it is enough now.
It is time to move on again.
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