I was parked at some nameless, piss-stained rest stop outside Las Vegas, staring at the neon glow of the city and wondering what the hell I was doing with my life. Just hours earlier, I had packed up my shit, left behind a Greek woman who actually gave a damn, abandoned the life I had in Bend, Oregon—my kids, my so-called stability—and here I was, heading south to Sedona like some lost pilgrim chasing an invisible God.
I had been there once. Just briefly. And now I was dedicating myself to it. Like it was calling me. Like I was a moth drawn to some cosmic bug zapper.
That little voice in the back of my head—the one that usually whispered bad decisions—was getting louder. It was giving me new instructions now. Say yes to everything. Stay away from women.
Sounded simple enough.
By the time I hit Cottonwood, I was already breaking rule number two. I had barely finished my first beer in some dim-lit dive bar when a young woman locked eyes with me, gave me that I’ve chosen you smile, and invited me to a Full Moon drum circle.
The voice in my head? It said, Say yes.
Next thing I know, I’m following her down a dark trail, holding her hand, watching as she kneels beside a puddle, smears mud onto her forehead, and whispers, “It’s spiritual.”
Of course it is.
A short hike later, we arrive at a clearing with twisted juniper trees and a circle of them—the drummers, the dancers, the vortex-chasers, the cosmic wanderers who smelled of patchouli and old marijuana. The second she steps into the circle, they recognize her. She lets go of my hand and leaps into the middle, arms raised, body swaying like she’s some kind of Woodstock oracle.
I stood there, watching.
Then I walked away.
Because I knew what was coming.
I knew there’d be chanting.
I knew there’d be uninspired white-girl belly dancing.
I knew there’d be some guy named River or Falcon talking about his past life as an Andromedan space warrior.
And I just wasn’t in the goddamn mood.
So I wandered off to the edge of the plateau, sat on the cold rock, and asked myself—why the fuck am I here?
I had left everything behind. Friends. Lovers. A life. All for this? A bunch of strangers banging on goat-skin drums and swaying under the desert moon like it was 1972 and the acid just kicked in?
The drums got louder. The crowd was growing. I glanced over and saw the girl who brought me here, spinning wildly, lost in whatever spell she had cast on herself.
I exhaled hard.
And then I saw it.
The mountains—a jagged silhouette against the sky. And behind them, a massive, glowing moon crawling into view. Bigger than I’d ever seen. Sharper than reality.
And for the first time in a long time…
I smiled.
Not because I understood anything. Not because I suddenly believed in vortexes or energy grids or whatever mystical bullshit they were selling. But because in that moment, something in me relaxed.
For once, I wasn’t chasing money. I wasn’t chasing some impossible dream. I wasn’t drowning in regret. I was just there. Watching the moonrise, feeling the drums in my chest, and knowing, somehow, that I had ended up exactly where I needed to be.
I never saw that girl again. Never hit a drum. Never danced like some shirtless, beaded fool under the Arizona sky.
But I stayed.
For a year.
A full sabbatical in Sedona, chasing female energy from one vortex to another, meditating, detoxing, unlearning all the things I thought mattered.
It didn’t turn me into some enlightened guru. I didn’t start wearing robes or talking about past lives.
But it changed something.
Because sometimes, when you’re lost, the best thing you can do…
Is just say yes.
