One theme that keeps coming up in our conversations back home is this idea of sitting still and listening. It sounds simple enough when you’re just talking about it, but actually doing it is another story. We recently took a trip out West. We’d been talking for years about going out there and just driving on the open roads—seeing the mountains, the deserts, and just getting a taste of a completely different side of the country that we’re not accustomed to. We wanted to spend a few days in Nevada and then trek over to California by car to sightsee. Coming from our lush, green Florida home, the landscape was unbelievable. While we were in Nevada, we checked out places near Las Vegas like the Valley of Fire, Red Rock Canyon, and a declining Lake Mead. The rocks were vibrantly colored, there were huge mountains and deep canyons, barely any water, and all these plants and animals we had never seen before in this painted desert setting. And permeating all of it—every single sight, the flora, the fauna—was the heat. Now, we’re used to heat, living in Florida. But this heat was on a whole other level. It was blistering, heavy, and completely energy-zapping. It really forced us to pay attention right away to our bodies and our immediate needs, and to think about what was actually required just to stay alive in such a hostile environment. In the canyons of the Mojave, we suddenly had to calculate every little move. Where do we stand? How far are we willing to walk just to get a picture? Is climbing that tall hill really worth it? How long can you stand in the direct sun waiting for the perfect shot? The heat made us appreciate our time because our time out in the open felt so precious. It forced us to focus. It forced us to listen. While we were dealing with that, we saw these desert bighorn sheep grazing right out in the middle of the heat. They looked so completely at home. Our immediate reaction was to think about how tough their lives must be out there. We saw a small family of them grazing among the rocks, totally unbothered. But then, as we watched, we realized that small family was walking over to join another group of 10 to 15 sheep. And then, a little later, we realized that group was meeting up with an even bigger herd waiting for them over the ridge! There were easily over 30 sheep just thriving, going about their normal day. Here we were, holding onto this narrative about their tough, impossible life, while the reality right in front of us was an entire community doing just fine. In our regular routines back home, we rarely listen with that level of clarity. We move through air-conditioned rooms, packed calendars, and constant noise, assuming we understand how everything and everyone around us feels. The desert heat was humbling because it took away the cushion of ease. It forced us to pay attention to our bodies, our limits, and the reality right in front of our eyes instead of the story we wanted to tell about it. Sometimes, it takes a landscape where you cannot hide from the sun to finally slow down, pay attention, and simply see things as they are.
