Tom and I are in California at our little getaway place in the desert. I love coming here. I’m reading Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey, a brilliant journal of Abbey’s time in Arches National Park in Utah. I hike every morning in the desert, and yesterday met a tarantula crossing my path. Now, I have never seen one of these puppies (almost as big as one) in the wild. They look a bit alarming, shading toward the sweet. I waved him on through. I will think twice before sitting down in the desert from now on.
I have my walking stick in case of pumas, so have no fear, I shall finish the last book in my series! (Um, you were waiting to hear that, right?)
The thing about travel is that you are bound to see different things, and to see things differently. You are out of your comfortable routines, a little off balance. These are good things. I become mired in routine–even the exhilarating routine of writing fiction–and my thoughts get stale, my themes repetitive. I am today reminded of the beards of unkempt palm trees, the burning rocks of the desert, the soft fur of spiders.
We have a glass of wine and, opening the back door, listen to coyotes bewail the financial markets.