Desert time is like a snake eating its own tail. Days fold in on themselves, and the longer the stay, the shorter it feels.

I’m sitting in the March sun, baking down to basics. It’s like making jerky—or maybe Amarone. Trying to get past the hate, fear, cruelty, and gleeful dumbness that swirl around us all these days.

I remember once heading to the desert after finishing up a deadline—first madly packing, then driving, driving, driving on crazy freeways through L.A. and beyond, dodging the trucks and suburban tanks for 650 miles, and arriving in camp up a lonely jeep road. Then lying down on my back with a vast, blank sky above—and hearing absolutely nothing but the roar in my own ears. True silence seemed unnerving. But like a homecoming, too.

“Sol-i-tude.” Even the word sounds peaceful. My four walls are distant hills to the north—east—south—and west. Clouds and sky arch overhead. It’s all open to the imagination.

So what keeps one from floating away?

I’m scribbling some notes when a tiny bee lands on my sleeve. There’s a slight chill this morning, and he or she is in no hurry to leave. I realize I’ve never really looked at one of these guys—at the impossibly delicate, iridescent wings, the compound eyes, the tiny, probing antennae and legs, and the surprising colors and patterns, all shimmering in the low-angle light. It’s extraordinary.

Then there’s a phainopepla questioning the sky. Trickster grackles. A mockingbird or two blowing the changes. Quail calling back and forth, busy in the bushes. Leopard lizards lumbering along on their morning errands. A chuckwalla eating flowers from my hand. (We’re both on a Mediterranean diet; he’s thinking GLP-1s.) It’s nice to have someone to be nice to.

There’s also tailgate tea (see last time). A sunrise shoot. Camp chores and “sharpening the tools.” Charging camera batteries. Writing in the notebook each morning. Reading. Playing guitar or mandolin up some wash on a stool in the shade. Hiking. Lunch. Moving the cooler out of the sun. More reading. Dozing. Watching a breeze bring the ocotillos to life (as shown above). Heading out for an evening shoot. Coming back at dark. Building a campfire. Waking to check the moon and stars. When the vultures start circling, it’s time for a shower.

Really, in winter and spring, there’s just not enough time to do much more if you also want to do nothing.

And maybe call that “nothing” mindfulness…or emptiness…or transparency…? Can I bring the outside inside? Or is it just wind blowing in and out of an empty house, rattling the doors and shutters…? Whatever, the center of things might just as well be here.

So, I’m still sitting. Feeling myself coming back to myself for the first time in a long time. And even if one might sometimes feel less than one without two, the world can step up and fill the void. You’re never really alone…it’s all some form of life…though some of it moves more slowly. I’m listening to the quiet.

What’s the music of the spheres? The droning of flies.

By Scott Atkinson

Talking to Flies

Simple Things

Tailgate Tea