In every of life's arenas,  I find the desolate more appealing than the handsome.

A memory recalls me walking barren land one warm morning when we stayed at Sanctuary on Camelback Mountain.  I felt as though its unswept beauty impaled me.  I feel that same way each time we go to Santa Fe and Doug drives me up Canyon Road and into the wide open spaces.  The angles are soft to my eyes, the monotonous clay colors broken by bright strokes of pigment embody a whispered vigor; the road less traveled optimized.   I recoil thinking I felt this way at Camp as well.

Dusty leather, tooled or scarred one strike at a time, and tumbleweed-like intricate lace are the tactile representation of my deepest spirit.    Interestingly, there are few who know how to properly employ either.  Widely admired, but rarely utilized to their fullest capacity, these fabrics are workhorses, able to both labor and elaborate.

Dirt, brush, bare structure, parched space - these elements meet and speak a language I wholly understand.  One, it seems, many discount.

I do not see the bare as dismal, the unfrequented as cheerless.  Rather it is in the desolate I find my counterpart.