Teetering in the Unknown
In search of truth in the Arizona desert
A mere thousand miles away from everyday life in Texas, I found something I didn’t even realize I was searching for in the Arizona desert.
A few years ago, I was facing a kind of personal setback that rearranges your world. I was laid off from my first job out of college and suddenly every aspect of my life started to slip from my grasp. I felt helpless to the winds of fate. I was unsteady. Everything was uncertain. I wasn’t looking for an adventure, I was looking for an escape — any way out from this upside-down reality that I couldn’t control.
So when the opportunity to go on a road trip with a friend popped up, I jumped at it. I packed my bags and set off. It was a last-minute trip, the kind that doesn’t come with expectations or a jam-packed itinerary. I wasn’t chasing beauty or meaning, but I think that’s why I found so much of it. Anthony Bourdain once said, “Travel is about the gorgeous feeling of teetering in the unknown,” and I felt that over and over again.
I was just along for the ride. Had this not been the circumstance, I’m not sure if I would have been so receptive to the experiences. I think teetering in the unknown goes hand in hand with open-mindedness.
People trek to the ends of the Earth, even across the icy seas of Antarctica, chasing that feeling Bourdain described. A visceral reminder of what it means to be alive. Often, we get so caught up chasing wonders in distant places that we overlook what’s within reach. I used to be one of those people. In all honesty, the Grand Canyon was never on my bucket list, but it’s where I felt the most transported.
Standing at its edge, staring at the breathtaking depths carved by wind, water and time, I felt the Earth exhale and I breathed with it. The colors collided like a painter’s palette — rust reds, honeyed golds, shadows in lavender and slate. The canyon didn’t just look ancient — it felt eternal. I was overwhelmed. I was small. And strangely, I felt more complete than I had in a long time.
We often marvel at man-made wonders — soaring monuments and intricately carved statues that speak of history, ambition and human ingenuity. But the Grand Canyon wasn’t built for us. It wasn’t built at all. It exists despite us. Its sheer existence is a defiance of permanence, a reminder that time bends the Earth in ways no architect or engineer could replicate. Nature doesn’t ask for our approval. It doesn’t even notice us.
But it wasn’t just the canyon that left me breathless. The road itself became a meditation. Every stop, a new chapter.
Along the way, I stopped at places that felt like portals to other realms: White Sands, New Mexico, where the world turns quiet and surreal — a sea of glowing hot dunes that transport you to another planet. Black Rock Hot Springs, nestled at the base of a mountain, where I soaked in warm water surrounded by locals and strangers alike, exchanging stories while mountain goats climbed the ridge and the river rushed beside us.
Horseshoe Bend at dawn, where the water carves beneath crimson cliffs looked like a painting. In Arizona, there are only two real colors: the electric blue of the sky and water, and the burning red-orange of the Earth. Antelope Canyon — deep within the Navajo Nation — captures every shade between them.
As we were guided through its curves by Navajo members, they told stories of severe and life-consuming flash floods that occasionally ripped through the tight spaces surrounding us. I was reminded that this land demands both awe and respect.
And then there’s Sedona, a place that hums with energy. Regardless of spiritual beliefs, Sedona makes you feel something deep within your flesh. Crystals, metaphysical shops and architecture seamlessly blend into the landscape; it’s a town that invites curiosity.
There’s an energy there that makes you wonder about the unseen. Tucked into the shopping strip on N. State Route 89A, I stumbled across Sedona Candle Gallery selling hand-carved candles — each one shifting in design once lit, like a hidden message on a living sculpture. One of the artists behind the counter spoke with a reverence for the trade, explaining the long process and training that goes into the craft.
Then there’s the Chapel of the Holy Cross, impossibly integrated into the red rock. A man-made tribute to faith and vision, seamlessly fused into nature’s grandeur. It’s a reminder that humans are always trying to leave their mark, to be remembered. However, in places like this, it’s nature that holds the power, and somehow we’re lucky enough to be a part of it and witness these feats.
Although I wasn’t seeking an awakening, it found me anyway. Something about the stillness of the desert air, the way your eyes adjust to the millions of bright stars in the sky painted across a pitch-black canvas, in the sheer scale of sandstone formations that surround you, you begin to wonder about your place in it all.
There’s something spiritual about Arizona in general. The weight of the air, the pull of the Earth, the way the light and shadows dance across the rocks – it all feels like a conversation with something greater than yourself.
This wasn’t just a road trip. It was a reckoning. A reminder that the Earth doesn’t just hold beauty — it is beauty. That connection and awe can be found not just across continents, but in the landscapes just a drive away. Sometimes what we’re searching for is already waiting on the other side of the horizon.
