Exciting Stuff. Unexciting Presentation.

I've seen a few of these around these days.  These brief and simple updates to let you know what's going on in everyone's lives.  Let's blame summer, shall we?

It's the depressing irony of blogging:  when things actually happen you don't write.  Anyway, I'm going to  list.  I am sorry.

1. I am 25.  I know that's a big number but I'm completely unfazed.  Weird, I know.  23-24 seemed a much bigger jump to me.  I'm not particularly accomplished for a 25 year old but I'm exactly alright with where I'm at.  It's been a while since I was this fine with getting older.

2. I'm going back to school!  I know, about time, right?  Quitting my job and getting heading to university...  Probably.  Stay tuned.

3.  I just got back from a road trip to Alberta.  It's was awesome.  I'm always excited to spend a little bonding time with my brothers.  I'm also learning to rock climb.  'Cause I'm hardcore like that.  And also I have to much money to throw away on gear...  Apparently.  Yeah right.

4.  I'm going to camp!  To counsel.  14-17 year olds.  The easy age group, don't you think?  Out trips and all.  Yup.  101, you are going down!

That's all for now.  In short I am ridiculously excited about life!  I have to go camping now and I will be away sailing next weekend.  I will update you in the future, though.  I might even write properly once in a while.  Cheers!

Wrapped in Fleece

I'm lying on the floor. On the edge of the carpet. Wrapped in fleece. Trying to sleep. Except that I'm really actually looking at the footprints in the dust on the hardwood that blew through the open window. That I'm really listening to "Bookends" without really listening at all. Because acoustic guitar is just part of the background. Because that's just where I'm from.

And I'm writing this down on the space that's my mind. And aware of my breath and the things that unwind. Listening to "Blue Jean Blues" without really listening. Because that's just the way I am.

Needing this place. Some time just to breathe. A break from the best and a place for my dreams. Listening to "Old Love" without really listening. Because that's just where I'm at. Needing to be alone, wrapped in fleece and trying to sleep.

Wishing you were here.

Never Lose

Insinuate that I'm less than you.

I'll hate you.

Call it insecurity and see if I care.
You might be right.

(Eonn)

Judo is a Like

This is not judo,
but you probably don't know that

When I was  seventeen I loved judo.  Basically lived and breathed judo.  I found no better high then a perfect throw or a gold medal and a small town tournament.  I'd get nervous, pumped, determined.  I got in the best shape of my life.

Now I like judo.  I think.  What do I love?  I guess adult life means I don't get passionate about athletic pursuits like I used to.  I almost love dancing.  I know.  From a fighter to a lover.  Tomboy to girl.  I almost love snowboarding.  At least with that you have speed, adrenaline, challenge and a effin' cool image.  I almost love hockey and volleyball.

I'll keep doing judo.  Nothing kicks my butt like a martial arts class.  It's productive, and I like that in a workout.  Best of all, sometimes, I still get the thrill of a perfect throw.

I've learned, for myself, I need commitment.  I learned this through the times I was a complete hypocrite and got badly out of shape (I was mostly out of the country).  I also learned, though, that I'm much happier when I have a physical way to channel my energy.

What I'm saying is this.  Find something to love.  I don't know what it will be.  Maybe you're one of those freaks who gets runner's high.  Maybe you love pilates, rock climbing (this is one I want to do more of), swimming.  Basketball, biking (I do this, but only because it's practical), hiking.  Whoever you are, I'm pretty sure you can find a workout that even you can convince yourself is worth your time.  Parking on the other side of the lot and taking the stairs are good things.  But they shouldn't do more then supplement.

Trust me.  It's worth it to find something you love.

PS, I don't care how good your sex life is.  First off, It probably isn't that great if you're not into any other physical activity.  And it's not gonna make your active lifestyle requirements anyway.  Quit trying to be a smart ass.

Just This

If you read this blog this month there's nothing to indicate that I celebrate Christmas, let alone that it's altogether and absolutely my favourite holiday of the year. 

If you read this blog this month you wouldn't know how proud I am of my Christmas tree.  You wouldn't know the joy I find in Christmas music, the people who smile at you on the street.  A white season, gift wrapping and baking.  Hockey on our outdoor rink, snowboard plans, cards thanking the people in my life for a year of memories.

I savour tradition.  Stockings, paper snowflakes adorning the windows, real ones caught in my hair.  Smiles, Charlie Brown's Christmas, memories.

So, I am sorry.  If you read this blog this month I never shared any of this.  As usual, it's also the busiest part of the year.  Ironic that Christmas day is when I get time to sit and type this to you.  Really all I want to say is something you've heard a million times before.

Merry Christmas!

 

The Middle of Nowhere in the Middle of the Night

Dec. 31st, 2009, 11:30 PM.  I needed change.

11:30 PM and someone said we should climb the lookout.  In the middle of a wildlife reserve.  In the dark.  We were in the middle of this nowhere anyway.  We were tired of flying down an icy hill on over-sized tubes and throwing gasoline on the fire.  I was tired of chocolate Christmas baking and being the oldest in the group.  I was tired of doing doughnuts in empty parking lots and hours spent running in a mild winter out of pure frustration.

twenty five of us piled into four cars and sped down to the empty reserve and a clear starry sky.  We ran down clapboard paths over dead winter marshes and up the four flights of steps to the open top.  We made it, breathless, by midnight.

I screamed at the emptiness and my small town's lights in the distance.  I grabbed my blonde friend and we looked at each other, jaws set.

"Get lost, 2009.  We're so done with you!"

She was going to Calgary.  I was going to Arizona.  I haven't seen her since.  I miss her, but I know her life has gone the way she wanted.

And myself.  I just didn't know.   I'm not my brothers that were hugging me, lifting me, threatening to throw me over the rail.  I'd given up construction long ago.  I was twenty three.  I'd seen the world.

Twenty four of us yelling in the new year.  Crammed in an open look-out tower blindly hugging and looking forward to 2010.  And me.

Abortion, My Thoughts

I'm confused as to why the abortion debate is considered a religious or feminist issue. Either an unborn baby is a life, or it's not. If it is, terminating a pregnancy is wrong by every standard. Abortion is a humanitarian issue.

It's dangerous to draw a line defining when life begins. Is it when a fetus can feel pain? Is it the first time it cries? It's first breath of oxygen? The day it enters the third trimester?

I'm aware that pain is caused every day to women who attempt their own abortions. I'm aware that rape and marital molestation result in countless pregnancies. I would never ever argue that these are anything but tragedies.

It's unfortunate that sex, even uninvited, can result in accidental life. It's unfortunate that birth control fails, or isn't readily available in parts of the world where population control is needed most. It sucks that life sends us challenges, responsibilities and mistakes. And it really hurts to realize that this is passed onto the helpless little lives that result.  We need to work on fixing these issues.

Regardless, hundreds of thousands of abortions exist simply to terminate an inconvenience. And yes, illegal abortions can kill women. Abortion is a possibility and a fact. It's not going away. But here's the thing. If I believe that a fetus is a child. If i believe that the emotional upheavel experienced after a miscarriage or an abortion isn't simply a coincidence. If I believe it's a life, then advocating for the privilege of ending it is a terrible injustice.

I'm not pro life because I'm religious. Certainly not because I'm anti-woman.  I am pro-life because I have an adopted little brother I love into a million pieces.  Because I think that even those without voices need rights.  It's an opinion I'll never apologize for.

I'm pro life because I believe in living.

'Cause That's How We Roll

(C-Money)

Guess what I did?

You didn't guess.

That's okay.  You wouldn't anyway.  I entered a singing contest.

It better be fun.  I managed to convince a couple friends to join me.  One of them has the voice of that's as rich and strong as hot honey.  Hearing her sing puts me to sleep.  I wish I had a recording I could let you hear.

Which means I'm not going to win, but I'll have a good time.  That's o.k.  Who enters competitions with an intent to win, anyway?  I just love music, and my voice has always been my strongest instrument.  I sing without realizing it.

So now I'm hitting up Youtube Karaoke to see what I'm actually capable of.

That's all I wanted to say and only  'cause I think it's cool.  Sorry :)

It Ain't Just an Excuse

(AtlanticLoner)

I like being busy.  The ironic bit is that I'm not good at motivating my free time.  I need to find something that will push me, that I can get involved in.

I like talking about deadlines.  It makes me feel important.  I like having to reference my schedule.  What it comes down to, I think, is that I enjoy being productive.  I thrive of knowing I'm getting things done (and maybe a little bit of stress).  And keeping busy allows me to forget that I'm staying in one place.  I like forgetting stuff sometimes.

But if left to my own devices I'll sleep in 'till ten and stay up to late.  I'll get distracted by Youtube, novels, and my guitar.  When I get frustrated with my wasted time I'll go for a pathetic run and maybe check my mail and pay my bills.

And I hate that.  Procrastination is my worst trait.

I like when writing and a cup of tea is time to unwind instead of it being something I've accomplished.

Yeah, I was a bit of a burnout when I didn't know what I was doing, and it didn't work to go anywhere.  If I don't work, I'll go crazy.  And I know it.

So, I've packed up my schedule.  And it's doing me good.  Do you secretly like being busy?

I Done Got My Schoolin' at Home

(JoySuke)

I was home schooled.

A lot of you already know that, on some level or another, but I want you to tell me your reaction.  What biased did your mind jump to when you read that sentence?  What are your preconceived ideas and judgements?

See, I still don't really seem to get it.  Over the years I've bragged about being a home schooler.  Now it's less relevant to my life (hello adulthood.  You and I are old friends now) and I prefer to think of it as advocating. 

I'm also starting to realize what home schooled actually means.  Or, rather, what people think it means.  And, yes.  I am personally aquainted with some of these stereotypes.  The ten kids, denim jumpers, headcoverings.  Classical piano, Rod and Staff (err, that's a curriculum), and repressed social development. 

But... But, that's not what home schooling was for me.  There were a lot of "normal" experiences that I didn't have.  A good chunk of my sex ed came from magazines and late night talks with my friends.  I never shoplifted gummy candies on my lunch break or smoked cigarrettes under the stairs.  Personally, I don't think missing this out did me much harm.  Most of my "home schooled" friends have grown into functional, responsible, intelligent adults.  The ones with the most trouble are the families I've known that have been extreme (see above paragraph).  Honestly, those kids often go crazy, but do you blame them?

Those of us with a better balance may question our social roles a little earlier and learn to make out in the backseat or a car a little later.  But, in the end, we usually seem to work things out just fine.

Education at home is a concept that has continued to capture my attention.  I have no interest in working in education, but the idea of alternative education fascinates me.  I have little tolerance for anyone closed minded enough to override home school as even a possible beneficial option without any previous experience or reason.

Do I think everyone should be schooled at home?  No.  Not every parent is anywhere near capable of that commitment.  Do I think home school is ideal in every way?  Not even a little bit.  I do, however, think the public system only serves a certain portion of the population very well.  Obviously, it's a one size fits all, and has to be that way.  And that, essentially, is why I continue to support home education.

The potential for a personally tailored education is endless.  So much so that I can see how mistakes could be made, and parents could easily feel overwhelmed.  There is much to take into consideration.  This is also why I'm bothered by such a sweeping generalization of home schoolers.  There is no norm.  I have some of the typical traits, but not many.  Where I'm from almost has a separate culture just for us.  We always walked the line.

I, personally, am thankful for my home tailored education.  There is much I would do different if I went back.  Would hope to do different if I were ever to have children of my own.  And high school should be (and was for me) a personal option.  Proof of academic achievement and a social structure are two aspects of home schooling that must be thought out where there is rarely need in a public school.

Just, please, tell me this.  What do you think when I tell you I'm a home schooler?  Is all this defense necessary?

Autumn Beats Me Up

(Source)

I know it's still the end of summer.  A season for freedom and carelessness and passion.  I know I was jumping from cliffs into beautifully fresh water this weekend.  Around this time we're usually melding into a beautiful Indian summer.  However, this year I've already tasted the crisp tang of fall.

The first emotion autumn brings me is an extreme urge to move on.  Summer's dying and I need to travel, quit my job... leave.  I need to learn, wander, wonder.  Time to work and move on and join autumn sports.  September is a learned habit to pack up, start school, travel, move.

Change.

And then, or at the same time, I start to want to settle down.  Cooling air makes me want fuzzy blankets and someone to share them with.  I want fall colours and cable stitch sweaters to wear with my bluejeans.  I want to make jam from our harvest, collect firewood, hunt and knit burnt orange touques to keep me warm through the winter cold.  I want an acreage and an orchard.  Some dark cool dirt to dig in and a fireplace to come inside to.

Settling in.

Here we can climb wooden ladders with laden canvas totes.  Gala, Honeycrisp, Delicious, Macintosh.  You better believe I can bake a mean pie.  I can milk a cow, make yogurt, cut meat to stock the freezer.  I've pressed juice, made pickles and dug potatoes.  This is where I'm from.

But I have a backpack by my bed.  And a tendency to search airline tickets when I'm supposed to be paying bills.  I have mind-stretching universities in my bookmarks and a tank full of gas that begs me to use it every time I drive to the edge of town.  Rusty Spanish that begs to be stretched out.  Energy to wear out on the ice, the judo mats, the ski hill.

Fall brings out both sides of my excess energy.  Estrogen and testosterone in a mad and endless clash. This fall neither will be much of an option.  I'll need my silly little side projects.  No month long road trips or beer in hostel basements.  No international markets, or no running my own local booth.  I'll be wearing out my fight in a dojo and wondering why I'm settling for middle ground.

Dance Like Summer Will Never End

(Timothy-Sim)

We'll blow the speakers by the end of the night playing last year's dance hits.  Everyone is here, now.  The kid in the fedora wanting to play dj.  There's always one.  The gorgeous indie girl kissing her boyfriend on the bale couch.  It's covered with a denim quilt.  The hipster, the player, the thinker.  Tonight this barn is the place to be.

The big dipper is visible through the door to this loft. I can lean on old silver wood and breathe in the field air. Fill my empty can from the hose or sit in the other room by an overturned washer to gossip with my best friend or chill with the guys.

We'll line dance, slow dance, and do the Macarena. Someone will teach me the Cha Cha and someone else the square step. Mostly we'll just dance and laugh and flirt a little.

It feels a little bit like prom night in skinny jeans and tank-tops. And a little bit like a bush party with a dance floor.  A little bit like the club we're trying to imitate.  A little bit alive and a little bit young. Christmas lights and a strobe light. Tonight we won't complain about the local nightlife. Tonight we've created our own.

You learn to love the summer nights here. The cool breeze on sweaty skin. An outdoors far too big to hold. Racing cars across the flats, evening fires by the lake, long talks and love and travelers to share a glance with. Autumn comes to soon.

---

I apologize for not taking any pictures of my own.  I came nowhere near finding a photo that captured this post properly.

This week I am Mama M's date from over at My Little Life.  Makes her the hottest Mom on my block.  I'm honoured, and a big welcome to all my visitors!

Also, I told you to visit The Spiraling Chronicles and leave a comment.  For my favourite followers in the world you're all pretty disobedient.  You're still the best, but you might want to think about it.

July

(SynSlaughter)

I'm in love with summer thunderstorms.  They fill me with energy, and I'll shout out loud.  I love standing on the deck in the rain.  I love the powerful roll of thunder, or the dance of lightening.  I've been guilty of lying on my tin roof and watching the sky light up around me.

I've realized I don't very often write about what's actually happening in my life.  At least not often and not directly.  July has been brilliant to me.  I've camped like a gypsy in a field of wildflowers with people I love.  I've managed to get in every trip despite having a real job.

I spent a week at a music festival.  I saw bands I've listened to for well over a decade.  I acted a little bit fifteen.  I turned twenty-four.  Oh, did I forget to mention that?  This age jump seems more significant the the ones surrounding it.  I've dealt by ignoring it.  But I think I'm actually pretty at peace with it.  Other then the fact that I'm no closer to being set in life then I was five years ago.

July is never long enough.  I haven't hung out at the river, and I haven't dived into the lake nearly enough.  I haven't harvested a single cherry.

And now I sit and type towards the end of a summer storm.  The sun is coming out again.  It's the end of the July where I turned 24.  It means more to me then New Years.  More reflection, more need for direction.

Fragments of Friendships

They're memories of you. All of you. Sometimes I don't open the drawer for months. Other times I take them out five times in a single day. Pulling these close to my heart, brushing them with my lips. Clenching them in my fists or throwing them back and slamming the drawer.

Random pieces. I like life a little better when I forget they exist.

A homemade necklace. A charm that says “friends.” Yours said “forever,” of course. We were twelve and we knew it. This one is a broken heart. That's not what it meant at the time.

I hold it now and it remember the confusion of torn families I only observed. Whispers over the phone. And you disappearing one week without a goodbye. The strong decision your Mom needed to make. I still see your Dad sometimes. I'm glad you're free, and I trust you grew into a woman that would make your Mom proud. Confirm she made the right decision. I know more, now. Things I wasn't ready to understand when I was twelve. Things you probably weren't either, but had to. I'm sorry. I wish my two letters could've said more then that I missed you.

Where are you now? I don't know. I guess I never will. I searched your name on Facebook, but it's probably not what it was.  I still have that piece of pressed metal that says “friends.” That's what I'll remember you as.

A sand dollar. I was sixteen now, walking with you down an abandoned Mexican beach. I was so proud to call you my best friend. So sure you were cool, you convinced me that athletic teenage girls like us looked good in over sized t-shirts. We would wrestle, and I would win. I believe that you thought it would last forever. I trusted you.

At nineteen we lost touch, but I still have that sand dollar. I wrote letters, e-mails. I poured my heart out and scribbled in my notebook. Life did get in the way. Such different paths, you and I. We share the most important now, but it's not enough.

I'm sorry. I try to hard.

A pair of drumsticks. They say you'll love me forever. I almost believed that, too. Luckily I was jaded enough to question it all.

I know I held you at arms length for longer then you thought possible. But you were my best friend. A misjudgment, but I wish that part could have been true. I cried with you well you held me. I cried when I left. I stuck by you until I couldn't any more. It was too long, yet far too short.  How you could blindly cut me like that, I'll never know.

These drumsticks will never tell.

And you. You haunt my life more then any other with these reminders. We shared our childhood, our struggles and, finally, my home. Others came and went, but you were like my sister. My sister with communication skills that would never match mine. Is that where we went wrong? This crumpled stack of notes, letters, ramblings? This giant paper clip, teddy bear and a heart. How unlike us, then. You and I with our hitch hiking, our first time swearing, our baggy jeans. The times we shunned each other and our mutual respect.

And this last letter. The one where you asked me not to reply. The one I'll never understand.

I'm closing the drawer for now.  I've learned that others will be added, despite my greatest efforts and my learned reservations. I regret that it's still so damn worth it.

(photo source: Barcarola)

It Tastes Like You

It tastes like you.  The rush, the thrill, the novelty.  Pressing it to my lips.  The driftwood behind my back.  That endless lake, the setting sun, our handprints in the sand.

Salt tears and blood.  The tensity and an allergy.  The cold that I'll inhale.  Bruises and your hand at my waist.

Bandanas, denim and soft plaid shirts.  Mine and yours and maybe a mix.  Sweat beading at my neck before I lift my hair.  Leather cuffs and the tang of their metal buckles.

Daisies and a hard dirt trail.  Labatt beer, wild strawberries, foam and that photograph.  Dust.

It tastes like you.  I'll hold my breath and wait for the bitter aftertaste.

My Parents Were Rockers

My parents were rockers, once upon a time.  I can open wrinkled seventies photo albums and find grainy yellow photos.  My Dad with long full blonde hair.  My Mom in her boyfriend's plaid shirts.  Their young love and vintage guitars.

Before I took my first breath I was attending band practice.  Kicking hard and frequently as they cranked their amps and powered out hits that would never make it.  Recorded on retro equipment they bought with construction and waitress wages.  I was a cassette era baby.  Missing the brief 8 track days and the single copy of the Steve Miller Band they played in my Dad's hippi van.

The first recording of my life was my first time home.  My Mom looks young, tired, happy.  I am red, wrinkled and cranky.  My Dad reflectively plays his acoustic guitar on our old eggplant coloured couch.  His little sister makes snide comments about how she's surprised he didn't bring his guitar into the hospital.

This is the world I entered.  K-Rock on the radio, piano stencils on the wall.  They changed as they got older, my parents did.  They started listening to Wes King and Kim Hill through speakers they'd wired up around the house.  But they'd already left a mark.  I remembered Janis Joplin being tossed out the window during a fight on the highway.  I remembered asking why Elton John thought rolling like thunder under the covers should be called the blues.  I didn't know the names, but I knew that Billy Joel was a piano man, and that my Dad had played my Mom down the aisle singing that if the sun refused to shine, he'd still be loving her.

They instilled a love, a need, a craving.  My Mom put me in piano lessons, but it wasn't for me.  Well my home schooled friends strove to reach grade eight theory I saved for albums by DCTalk and Audio Adrenaline to play on the boombox my sister and I got for Christmas.

My little brother takes his cue from us, now.  He develops his own taste for Linkin Park and Grits.  Cranking rap and playing pool with his gangly buddies in a room with piano stencils on the wall.  My Mom calls Seventh Day Slumber screamo and listens to Jennifer Knapp and Norah Jones.

My Dad plays guitar.  The continuing and unvaried sound thread of my life.  His fingers stir the strings creating the sound of security regardless of what he's playing.

Lately I have been resisting the temptation to sign out library books in an attempt to motivate myself to study/excercize/enrich my life in general.  The main result has been that I have picked up my Mom's choice in library book, and have been reading this.

Sharon Astyk is a wife who shares over a decade of education between herself and her husband.  She's also a blogger (http://sharonastyk.com/) although I haven't actually spent much time on her site.  What defines her, as you may already have deduced, is that she's chosen to live much as my parents do.  Part of a family of five, she largely homeschools and raises as much of their own food as she can.  A lifestyle known to it's participants as "self sustainable". 
Now, she is more extreme in many cases.  She makes a valid argument for population control.  My Dad has been known to say that everyone in the world could own and acre of land in Saskatchewan.  Her main purpose of argument stem from peak oil and climate change.  My parents are fond of stating their pet reasons why climate change is a conspiracy theory.  However, for their own purposes they've both been relatively successful in returning to a more sustainable form of living.
Sharon's case is that in the face of impeding disaster we're focusing on trying to find solutions that allow us to maintain our current standards of living, and this will become and impossibility.  Interesting, and the first part is certainly true.  We would prefer to ignore possible demise then actually forfeit some of our current comforts or conveniences.
Is life better because of these things now then, say, 100 years ago?  Most would say yes.  But it could use a little considering.
I don't necessarily agree with Sharon.  I do, however, think that this planet wasn't meant to bear what it currently is.  Because of political or environmental instability I do concur that we will be hard pressed to maintain the level of consumption we currently hold in the developed world.
Now, any steps are better then none.  I am especially a firm believer in reducing and reusing.  I'm thrilled at the move towards local and organic eating.  Many of my favourite clothes come from thrift shops.  I ride my bike when possible, and shower outside in the summer and recycle cereal boxes.  I have the luxury of being able to make these decisions.  More of them need to be made. 
The thought of "returning to the land" is so traditional it's almost novel.  And I grew up immersed, more then most, in this mindset.  Maybe it requires a little more thought.

At night the stars seemed to pierce the entire sky. More then a little upset, I was there without my sister. My now very married cousin was having her ceremony, and I remained halfway around the world. Instead I stayed up nights talking to a dreadlocked Jewish stoner. I chopped pallets for wood and walked into town to buy oatmeal and bread, asking for "shtay kabbalot". Two reciepts. Still the extent of my Hebrew. I walked to the edge of Mtizpe Ramon's canyon-like crater and marvelled as the sun came up. I learned poi from, and made American hashbrowns for, a vegetarian hippi who camped with us.
I would wander outside the palm frond fence and sit on the old car seat.  Paco, who looksed like he should be pulling a sled through the tundra, would bark around my feet.  The landscape almost was tundra-like.  Long rolling stretches of bare land sprinkled with stone.  I rarely wore shoes around the camp. 
It wasn't my first experience with desert.  Arizona, Texas, Mexico roadtrips has left them one of my lesser favourite forms or terrain.  There was something different here.  Maybe it was slowing down that had the calming effect, but I think it was sleeping outside at night.  During the day I laughed at everything.  I wasn't high, but everything was funny.  All I had to worry about was that there was enough wood for the fire and that the bathroom sink was clean enough in case any guests showed up.  At night, wrapped in a thick sweater we would talk.  Myself and Sason and any guests staying.  Memorable characters who's names I can still recall.  Andy, the other Canadian, Mark the British preacher, the lesbian couple.
Sason was my best friend for four weeks.  I can't pronounce his last name, and I have no idea where he is now.  But for that month we talked about everything.  Maybe it's because we knew we'd never see each other again.
A left healed in so many ways I'd been waiting for.  Ready to see the rest of the world.
It was something about the desert.  Something so calming.  Something in that dry barren waste land and the raw elements.  The candle light and that wide open sky.
This concept cemented itself for me over the next month.  Eating Magoobla with Bedouin, a philosophical Phillipino American and an underage Belgian in a stunning Jordan desert.  Long desert walks where we managed not to get lost.  Smoking nargilah before the four of use would fall asleep around the fire, full of sweet Bedouin tea.  Watching the early venus sink towards the horizon.
Camping in the Egyptian white desert.  The Jeep ride out.  Arab drum beats into the dark.  Jumping off the pure white drifts to get captrued in the sunset.  A polite Japanese with infinitely cool hair and a crazy middle aged Swiss lady who was strung-out on something.  She sobered up eventually, but never quite got sane.
I love the desert now.  I'm still a Rocky Mountain girl at heart.  Home is a river, a lake, a field surrounded by white peaks.  But the idea of sleeping on sand beneath a stretched canvas of stars calms my soul like nothing else.