I spent a couple of days scouring Sedona for a place to stay, running out of patience, running out of money, when I stumbled across a Craigslist ad for a casita in Oak Creek Valley. Drove by, took a look, and the view alone damn near made me sign the lease on the spot. The place sat just below a house carved into the rocks, some local legend claiming Elvis used to crash there back when he was filming his TV musicals.
Whatever. I wasn’t looking for ghosts, just a bed.
At $1,100 a month, I took it. The catch? The current tenant wasn’t out for another three weeks. That meant three weeks of being homeless, and hotels were draining my last reserves. The landlord, sensing my situation, offered a spare room in her house for $300. A twin bed, my feet hanging off the edge like some overgrown orphan, but the view made up for it. From that tiny room, I could see Courthouse Butte, Bell Rock, and the Slim Shady cliffs—landscapes I’d end up carving into my own routine, like some spiritual hobo figuring out where to take his next steps.
She gave me my own section of the fridge. I didn’t own a single pan, plate, or cooking utensil, so I stocked it with the only essentials I needed—vodka and red grapefruits.
Every morning, I’d wake up, slice four grapefruits, squeeze them out, and drown the juice in a heavy pour of vodka. Sit on the patio, let the sun burn the edge off my hangover, and sip my breakfast like some monk who took a wrong turn into alcoholism instead of enlightenment. At sunset, same routine. She eventually came up to me and said, “James, you know you can put more in your fridge, right?”
I looked at her. “What more do I need?”
She didn’t have an answer for that. And neither did I.
When I finally moved into the casita, my days took on a rhythm: wake up, drink, sit outside, stare at the view like some bedraggled prophet, then meditate for twenty minutes. Half the time, I’d open my eyes to see a buck standing ten feet away, or a bobcat chasing after quail, or lizards using me as their personal sunbathing rock. It was a good place to be lost.
Somewhere in the middle of this drunken rebirth, I started reading Steve Jobs’ biography. I don’t know why. Maybe I was looking for validation, some connection between his madness and my own. But I’d sit there in my hanging chair, feet propped up, swinging slightly with the breeze, and at some point, I caught myself crying.
Only two people had my number: my old man and my best friend. That was it. The rest of the world didn’t exist.
After a grapefruit-fueled morning, I’d decide my hikes based on birds. Blackbird meant Slim Shady. White bird meant Cathedral Rock. Cathedral was the female vortex, the kind of place where you’d feel something pressing into your soul if you let it. Halfway up, there was a twisted old juniper they called the Grandfather Tree. That was where I sat, where I listened, where I swore I could hear my own grandfather’s voice.
If it was Slim Shady, I’d take the social trail, climb up past the riprap, and find another gnarled juniper, one that reminded me of my grandmother. That tree, twisted and defiant, felt like her—stubborn, strong, watching. I’d sit there, let the heat seep into my skin, listen to the sparrows zipping by, and just be.
One afternoon, I climbed Cathedral alone. Thunderstorms were rolling in, and the monsoons had cleared the trail of tourists. Near the summit, I watched as the storm split into three cells—one to my left, one to my right, and one straight ahead, lightning flashing between them like some cosmic performance just for me.
And then it happened.
I started sobbing. No control. No reason. Just raw, gut-punched emotion pouring out of me like a dam breaking.
I’d spent my whole life wondering what the hell “bliss” meant. Thought it was some bullshit buzzword, something only yoga instructors and self-help junkies used. But standing there, with the storm wrapped around me, the world cracking open, I finally got it.
Bliss wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t peace. It was that rare moment where everything—your failures, your regrets, your past, your fucking soul—stops fighting you. Just for a second. Just long enough to breathe.
I don’t know why I ended up in Sedona. Some inner voice, some desperate need to outrun my past, some whisper that kept telling me I needed to be there. But for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t fighting it.
And that was enough.
