The Direction of Intention

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I am walking alone in the desert. I am in Saguaro National Park, late on a February day, quiet inside myself, grateful to be away from the noise and pace of my life. I saw a trail, impulsively stopped the car, gauged how much time I had before the sun dipped beneath the mountains, and started walking. No one knows where I am. I have no phone. I feel free.

I’m 15 minutes down the path when I hear the coyotes. Not one, many. Many. They howl, not the kind of howl they might aim at the moon, this is a different sort, the kind that lets me know that I am a possible selection on the dinner menu. They are near, I can hear them but I cannot see them.

How quickly the illusion drops away, this idea that man is on the top of a pyramid. Once, when preparing for my first trip to Alaska, a friend told me, “You will love it there because you are no longer exempt from the food chain.” In this moment, I know that I am no longer exempt so I pick up a large stick, stand very still for a moment, and then carefully, quietly, and with surprising reverence retrace the path back to my car. I do not hurry, I do not run, I don’t know why. My invisible escort is with me most of the way.

Once back in the car I recognize this feeling that I have not felt deeply since I was a child: respect – and not the superficial respect that comes in pop songs or appears on lists of expectations – the kind that is born of veneration. I begin to shake, not from the adrenaline of being escorted to my car by coyotes but the recognition of how rarely I am in relationship with anything real, experiences that are not constructed, values that are not abstractions, problems of any true significance. I wonder if anything in my day-to-day life is real or has any worth beyond the value I assign it. When was the last time I saw beyond the labels or gave myself over to the enormity of the stars?

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