Journeys in the Desert

Journeys in the Desert: The Intersection of the Hero’s Journey and the Creative Process

As I stand in the heart of the desert, surrounded by endless stretches of sand and an unforgiving sun, Joseph Campbell’s words on the hero’s journey echo in my mind. The heat presses against my skin, the sand shifts beneath my feet, and the wind whispers its ancient secrets. I am a lone figure in this vast, indifferent landscape, yet strangely, I feel connected—to something greater, something timeless.

The hero’s journey, as Campbell described, is not a singular event but a recurring cycle—a way of being. It is the universal narrative of transformation: the hero steps into the unknown, faces trials and challenges, and returns transformed, bearing newfound wisdom. The desert, with its stark beauty and relentless conditions, is a perfect metaphor for this journey. It is a place of testing, where one must face their fears, endure hardship, and emerge with a deeper understanding of themselves and the world.

This same spirit of adventure, struggle, and transformation is at the heart of the creative process. Whether a painter venturing into unfamiliar forms and colors, a musician experimenting with uncharted rhythms, or a writer chasing elusive ideas, creation demands the same fearlessness as the hero’s journey. The artist must step into uncertainty, confront doubt and resistance, and wrestle with raw material—whether paint, sound, or words—until something meaningful emerges.

The beauty of both the hero’s journey and the creative process lies in their endless return. Every step into the “desert”— literal or metaphorical—presents a new opportunity for growth and discovery. Each time we venture forth, we are tested. And each time we returned, we changed.

The Desert’s Horizon: A Symbol of Life’s Enduring Challenges

The Hebrew word for desert, midbar (מדבר), shares its root with speak and pestilence. The latter, a disease that afflicts cattle, was also the fifth plague in the Book of Exodus. This shared origin suggests an intrinsic link between the desert and catastrophe—both unforgiving forces that demand endurance. After all, the desert is a battleground for survival—searing heat by day, bitter cold by night, scarce water, and the lurking presence of rattlesnakes and coyotes.

Yet, beyond its physical threats, the true challenge of the desert lies in its silence, emptiness, and monotony. It is a space where time slows, where the vastness confronts you, and where resilience—both physical and emotional—is tested. In this way, the desert becomes a metaphor for life’s most formidable trials—those moments of doubt, struggle, and isolation that shape the journey of self-discovery.

When confronted with adversity, whether fleeting or seemingly endless, the desert’s horizon plays tricks on the mind—it looks as if it is always retreating, as if the goal is always just beyond reach. It is easy to feel lost. I have known both physical deserts and spiritual deserts, and I have learned that beauty can emerge from both. Without loss and failure, how can there be growth?

I was born in a small town in the Negev Desert, and for me, the desert is more than just a place of vast solitude. It is also a symbol of roots, belonging, and grounding. Where others see desolation, I have always found serenity and creative inspiration. It is a landscape that humbles, challenges, and ultimately transforms.

From Ginzberg to Gev: A Story of Identity and Legacy

A young man in beige shorts, a white t-shirt, and a small backpack pause to marvel at the effortless acrobatics of an ibex as it scales the rim of a steep canyon wall. The ibex, a majestic wild mountain goat with elongated, twisted antlers, moves with an elegance that defies the harsh, arid landscape of the Judean Desert. Watching them navigate the cliffs—living life on the edge—is like witnessing a circus act choreographed by nature. That young man was me, on one of my many solo hikes through the desert.

I set out at first light, knowing I needed to reach the Dead Sea shoreline by late afternoon to catch a ride back to Jerusalem. As I descended into the gorge, I scanned the rock formations, hoping to find a small pool of water left behind by the recent rains. The moment of removing my shoes, shedding my clothes, and diving into an icy cistern after hours of hiking in the desert is one of pure exhilaration—a reward that makes every blister and sunburn worth it.

The Negev and Judean Deserts are etched with wadis—steep, rocky gorges carved by ancient floods. The Arabic word wadi captures their dry, unforgiving nature, yet they hold hidden pockets of water, especially after storms. In Hebrew, these pools are called gev. The contrast between the desert’s barren, sun-scorched vastness and the sudden, shocking relief of diving into a cold, hidden gev is not unlike climbing to a mountain peak—the struggle makes the reward transcendent. Water and desert may seem like opposites, yet they shape one another, just as our experiences continually shape us.

In Israel, changing one’s name to a Hebrew equivalent is more than just a personal choice—it is an ideological act. It is a way of shedding the past, discarding diaspora identity, and embracing a new, national one. This practice predates the State of Israel and was actively encouraged, even directed, by the Israeli military. So, when my brother and I turned eighteen and entered military service, we decided to Hebraicize our family name. Ginzberg became Gev.

Now, after 35 years of living in the United States, I find myself questioning that decision. Would I have kept my original name if I had known what I know now?

With Ginzberg, I would have avoided the endless spelling corrections, the blank stares, the mispronunciations. Beyond convenience, I now realize the significance of the name I left behind. To share a name with Ruth Bader Ginsburg—a towering figure of justice and resilience—would have been an honor.

But names are more than just words. They carry stories, legacies, and histories—some we are born into, others we choose. Changing my name at eighteen was a decision laden with psychological layers, many of which I continue to uncover to this day.

Perhaps, like the ever-changing desert landscape shaped by wind and water, our identities are never truly fixed. They shift, erode, rebuild. And there is always something new to discover in that space between who we were, who we became, and who we are still becoming.

The Art of Desert Navigation

The desert is an unforgiving place to navigate—its landscape shifts with the wind, erasing footprints within hours and offering few clear markers to guide the way. Yet, for centuries, the Bedouins of the Middle East and North Africa have traversed these lands with remarkable precision, as if guided by an innate sixth sense. Their knowledge extends beyond direction and mapping; it is a deeply ingrained understanding of the land, the sky, and the forces that shape them.

Before the days of GPS, Bedouins relied on permanent landmarks—mountains, massive rock formations, ruins, and long-standing oases—to orient themselves. But in a landscape of shifting dunes, where the familiar can vanish overnight, they also depended on more subtle cues. The sun and stars became their compass, and the wind their silent guide.

During the day, the sun’s movement provided both direction and time. Rising in the east and setting in the west, it cast shadows that always pointed in the opposite direction. These shadows were longest at sunrise and sunset, growing shorter as midday approached—a simple yet effective way to gauge time. The wind, too, left its imprint on the landscape. It shaped the dunes, which, in turn, provided valuable directional clues. Dunes form at 90-degree angles to prevailing winds, meaning that if the usual wind comes from the east, the dunes will run north to south—another marker for those who know how to read the land.

For thousands of years, the North Star (Polaris) has been a trusted guide, particularly in the Northern Hemisphere. Contrary to popular belief, it is not the brightest star in the sky. Instead, Bedouins and seasoned night navigators used alternative methods to locate it. One of the most reliable techniques involves the Big Dipper constellation: by visually tracing a straight line through the two stars at the end of the Big Dipper’s cup (Merak and Dubhe) and extending it five times the distance between them, one’s eye will land on Polaris—an accurate marker of true north. Fortunately, the desert sky is typically clear, making celestial navigation possible even on moonless nights.

Navigating at night is more than just a survival skill—it is a tactical necessity, particularly in military special operations. During my service with the Israeli paratroopers in the late 1970s, the desert was our playground. Night operations offered camouflage, invisibility, and the element of surprise, but they also introduced a unique kind of friction—one that could turn even the simplest tasks into complex challenges. Sound carried differently in the silence, amplifying the smallest movement into a deafening crack. Orientation became a test of memory and instinct, where the ability to move swiftly and unseen was the difference between success and failure.

In the desert, navigation is not just about finding a way from point A to point B—it is about understanding the language of the land, the sky, and the unseen forces that shape them. For those who master it, the desert is not an empty void but a living map, written in wind and stars.

Lost in the Silence: Navigating Alone at Night in the Negev Desert

When you navigate alone at night, especially in the desert, the silence is so immense that you can hear your own thoughts—sometimes too clearly. The challenge is not just physical but mental: to stay present, to fight the creeping doubts, and to keep asking yourself, Am I on the right path? Where is the next landmark I memorized from the aerial maps?

Lone night navigation is as much an exercise in self-confidence as it is in orientation. Once doubt creeps in, getting lost is only a step away. This is why the military trains its future commanders through solo night navigation—forcing them to make critical, instantaneous decisions with nothing but memory and instinct to guide them. The idea is simple: if you can navigate alone at night, you can do it in daylight. If you can guide yourself, you can lead a platoon.

One particular night navigation experience stands out—a night that tested me in ways I hadn’t expected. It was 1979, and my platoon had been assigned a lone night navigation exercise in the Negev Desert, near the Big Crater.

We each set off from the starting point at ten-minute intervals around 9 PM, with a mission: cover 70 kilometers (43 miles) and reach the endpoint by 7 AM the following morning. I had prepared diligently, memorizing the map, counting my steps to gauge distance, and making sure my gear was silent and secure. I felt confident. Ready.

But nothing truly prepares you for the desert at night.

Typically, a full moon makes night navigation almost surreal—its light so bright that it casts shadows, painting the desert in sharp contrasts. But that night? Pitch-black. Disorienting. Silent except for the occasional gust of wind.

This was the kind of night we had trained for. The kind of night when you cross a border unnoticed, snatch the “good guy,” and disappear before dawn, before being noticed. Yet, truth to be told, despite our best efforts to remain undetected, the damm dogs always seemed to know—and bark endlessly into the void.

I set out with sharp focus, quickly locating my first few checkpoints. My step count was precise, my concentration unshakable. But at some point, I drifted. Maybe my mind wandered to my girlfriend and her topography—I can’t quite remember. But I lost my step count.

And suddenly, I was lost.

Complete darkness. No bearings. No map. No flashlight. Just silence and the unsettling awareness that I had no idea where I was.

I had two choices: panic or problem-solve.

Then I looked up.

There was Polaris—the North Star, a fixed point in a world that had suddenly lost all sense of direction. I knew that walking west for an hour or two would lead me to a road. So I walked.

Eventually, the road emerged, and soon after, a bus. I flagged it down and climbed aboard, only to find a few of my teammates already inside, looking equally relieved and equally embarrassed.

Needless to say, our debriefing was not a pleasant one.

It took many years to sit down and write about that night—the shame of not completing the mission stuck with me. Even now, when I meet my platoon brothers, this story never fails to make us laugh hysterically—but I wasn’t laughing at the time.

Yet, with time, I see it differently.

Yes, I got lost. But I found my way out. And that, I realize now, is the real test.

Getting lost is inevitable—whether in the desert, in life, or in ourselves. What matters is how we navigate back.

Instead of dwelling on failure, I choose to focus on gratitude. I made it to safety. I learned. I adapted. And in the end, that is what survival—and leadership—is really about.

The Secrets of the Sands: My Encounters with the Bedouin Culture

One of my earliest desert associations is with the Bedouins, the nomadic tribes of the Middle Eastern deserts. Their way of life—rooted in resilience, adaptability, and deep knowledge of the land—has fascinated me for as long as I can remember. Yet, despite my many encounters, I’ve only ever met Bedouin men, never women, as their society is deeply patriarchal and conservative.

Traditionally, Bedouins raised camels, goats, and cattle, constantly searching for water and grazing land. Camel nomads roam vast territories across the Sahara, Syrian, and Arabian deserts, while sheep and goat herders have stayed closer to the cultivated lands of Jordan, Israel, Syria, and Iraq. Meanwhile, cattle nomads are primarily found in South Arabia and Sudan. Throughout history, Bedouins have been both protectors and raiders, guiding trade caravans while, at other times, ambushing them.

But the Bedouin lifestyle is changing. Less rain, fewer grazing lands, and the pull of modernity drive younger generations to seek education and jobs in cities. The desert, once their sole domain, is becoming just one chapter in their evolving story.

My first close encounter with the Bedouin came during my military service. Every morning at dawn, our patrol unit would set out along the border fence, scanning for anything suspicious. We were armed with M-16 rifles, lightweight vests, and—most crucially—the guidance of the Bedouin tracker, known in Hebrew as the gashash.

The gashash, typically a Bedouin fighter in the Israel Defense Forces (IDF), is an expert in reading terrain—a skill honed over generations. He can look at the ground and immediately tell if someone crossed the fence, when they did, if they were limping, carrying weight, or even if they tried to cover their tracks. He can spot an improvised explosive device (IED) just by noticing an out-of-place rock.

It’s remarkable how a whole world is revealed in a single footprint and how it can save lives.

The Hebrew word gashash originates from the verb “to grope”—to search for a path by feeling, with one’s hands in the absence of sight, typically in darkness or when blind. Interestingly, in modern usage, the word “grope” carries strong sexual and political connotations, but its original meaning reflects the deliberate, careful searching of the tracker. Language shapes thought, and I often wonder how many other words have drifted so far from their roots.

Terrorists and smugglers have devised countless tactics to conceal their tracks—tying sponges or sheepskin to their shoes or, more commonly, dragging branches behind them to erase footprints. But nothing gets past the gashash.

One story that still amazes me happened on the Egyptian border, a major infiltrator route. A Bedouin tracker spotted footprints and immediately knew they belonged to a terrorist, not a Bedouin smuggler. How?

The shoe size was too large—bigger than the typical Bedouin man’s.

The path was wrong—instead of moving through valleys, the intruder climbed hilltops, searching for lights in villages—a classic sign of someone unfamiliar with the terrain.

Within an hour, a large-scale military operation was underway, and the terrorist was in custody.

I once asked a Bedouin tracker, “What’s your secret? What do you see that I don’t?”

He smiled and said, “There is no secret—only experience. When I was six, my mother would send me to bring food to my older brother, who left early to herd the goats. To find him, I had to look for fresh footprints. Life in the desert teaches you to pay attention.”

Even today, with satellites and high-tech surveillance, there is no substitute for a Bedouin’s eyes and instincts.

My other close encounter with the Bedouin came during my time as a medic, escorting travel groups through the Sinai Desert on hiking and camel-riding expeditions. The highlight of these trips was visiting the Greek Orthodox Saint Catherine Monastery, tucked deep into the mountains at the foot of Mt. Sinai.

For centuries, the Bedouins have stood guard over this monastery, and in return, the monks provide them with food and essential supplies. It’s a rare symbiotic relationship—a blending of Christian monks and Muslim tribesmen—built not on faith but on mutual survival in the harshest of landscapes.

On one trip, I was alone with a Bedouin man and two camels, sitting around a small fire under the vast desert sky, the warmth spreading through our bones.

I couldn’t help but be struck by the man sitting across from me – his skin was a deep, leathery brown, a testament to years of sun and wind. His mannerisms were nothing short of dignified and reserved. There was a hint of mystery about him, a sort of enigma that was intriguing and challenging to decipher. Yet, despite his guarded exterior, he was nothing but hospitable, making us feel right at home. His Hebrew was better than my Arabic, but not by much. We did not talk much, yet I felt a sense of ease in his company.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a handful of flour, mixing it with water and salt to form a simple dough. He flattened it into a large, round disc, letting it rest. After a while, he raked away the hot coals and placed the dough directly on the hot sand, covering it again with coals.

Minutes later, he pulled the bread from the fire, brushed off the sand, and broke it in half. We dipped each bite into a can of tomato sauce—nothing fancy, yet it remains one of the best meals I’ve ever had.

Even now, decades later, I clearly remember that night. The warmth of the fire, the silence of the desert, and the quiet presence of a man whose ancestors had walked these lands for centuries. A reminder that even in the most barren landscapes, there is knowledge, connection, and life waiting to be discovered.

Discovering the Dreamlike Surrealism of Salvador Dalí Desert

More than any other landscape, the desert stretches its horizon unbroken, a vast and uninterrupted expanse free from the clutter of civilization. Its seemingly monochromatic palette—muted ochres, sun-bleached beiges, and quiet, endless grays—reveals unexpected depth to those who take the time to look. The desert demands stillness, and in that stillness, it transforms from barren to boundless.

The Salvador Dalí Desert (Desierto Salvador Dalí) is one of those places that feel more imagined than real. Nestled in the high Andes mountains of Bolivia, it is lonely, surreal, and dreamlike—as if it belongs more to the realm of hallucination than geography. Dalí himself never painted this particular desert, yet its stark landscapes and bizarre rock formations feel like a living canvas of his surrealist vision.

As I stepped out of the car to explore, the thin Andean air pressed against my chest, and for a fleeting moment, I wondered if I was hallucinating. Was it the altitude, or was it the landscape itself that made everything feel slightly unhinged? I peeked over my shoulder, half-expecting to see melting clocks or airborne cats. Was it surrealism or oxygen deprivation? I didn’t know. But Dalí was on my mind, his dreamlike, nonsensical images often set against vast, minimalistic backdrops—much like the world unfolding before me.

What makes this desert truly unique is that it is one of the few named after an artist—a reversal of the usual pattern. Typically, it is the artist who is drawn to the desert, seeking inspiration in its emptiness. The Dalí Desert is a reminder that emptiness itself is not void—it is a possibility, an invitation for creation.

In Search of Identity: A Journey Through the Desert of “The English Patient”

The desert is more than just a place—it is a state of mind, a space to step beyond the boundaries of mainstream society and explore something deeper. It is both a refuge and a reckoning, where identities blur, and the past dissolves into sand.

Few stories capture the existential nature of the desert better than The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje, one of my favorite novels, later adapted into a visually stunning film starring Ralph Fiennes and the exquisitely sensual Kristin Scott Thomas. Much of the story unfolds in the Gilf Kebir, a vast, remote plateau in North Africa, where the protagonist, László Almásy, finds both his greatest love and his ultimate exile.

Almásy, a Hungarian explorer and mapmaker, rejects the notion of belonging to a single nation. He despises the idea of ownership, claiming no country owns him—he is an “international bastard.” As he navigates the desert, he asks, “Who was the enemy? Who were the allies?” To him, nation-states are arbitrary constructs that, rather than defining us, deform us.

In the desert, borders dissolve. He falls in love with its shifting impermanence, just as he falls in love with Katharine, the wife of his expedition partner. Both love and land resist possession, yet both shape him irrevocably. “I came to hate nations,” Almásy confesses. To him, identity—like the desert—is fluid, never held in place, always moving like cloth carried by the wind.

Yet, the irony is inescapable: despite his rejection of labels and nations, Almásy cannot escape identity. He is hunted as a war criminal, not for political allegiance but because of a desperate choice—to guide German forces through the desert in a futile attempt to save his dying lover. In the end, even his burned and unrecognizable body cannot conceal who he truly is.

Perhaps this is the desert’s greatest paradox: it erases and reveals in equal measure. It strips away the excess—whether of identity, allegiance, or memory—yet what remains is undeniably, inescapably, who we are at our core.

Both the Salvador Dalí Desert and Gilf Kebir invite us to reconsider what we think we know—about art, about identity, about the self. They challenge us to let go, to surrender, and to see beyond the visible. And perhaps that is why I keep returning to the desert—to lose myself, and in the process, find something unexpected.

Georgia O’Keeffe’s Ghost Ranch: A Journey into the Colors of the Desert

I’ve often wondered why so many artists trade the city’s chaos for the desert’s solitude. The reasons are as varied as the artists themselves—health concerns, fractured relationships, disillusionment with the fast-paced, commercial art world—or perhaps an unshakable longing for space, silence, and time. In the desert, time stretches differently. The horizon is horizontal, not vertical, offering a sense of openness, vastness, and freedom. Everything moves slower here. There is more time to think—an essential ingredient in the creative process.

Georgia O’Keeffe found her artistic sanctuary in the high desert of New Mexico, a place as bold and unyielding as her work. Her paintings adorned my living room walls for years, their colors and forms seeping into my subconscious long before I truly understood their significance. She was a trailblazer, interpreting natural forms in a way that was ahead of her time and an independent force who refused to conform to expectations. She lived alone in the desert, embracing its harshness, its beauty, and its silence. She would drive wherever her spirit took her, confessing, “I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life, and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing that I wanted to do.”

Her defiance extended beyond her life choices, shaping how the world viewed her art.

As someone deeply fascinated by art and its interpretation, I once typed “Georgia O’Keeffe flowers” into a search engine, expecting to see her iconic floral canvases. Instead, I was met with a flood of articles linking her paintings to female genitalia. At first, I was intrigued—was this association justified? Was it an intentional theme in her work?

The answer, it turns out, is no.

This Freudian interpretation was imposed by male art critics, not by O’Keeffe herself. At the time, there were no female art critics, and the predominantly male art establishment framed her work through their own lens—one that often reduced female artists to symbols of sexuality rather than creators of meaning. O’Keeffe rejected this interpretation outright, frustrated that the depth of her work was being flattened into a one-dimensional metaphor.

She was not naive—she understood the power of public perception, but she refused to let it define her. Her paintings were about color, shape, and emotion—not anatomy.

And yet, when a male artist paints flowers, no one assumes he is painting vaginas.

The way we assign meaning to art says more about us than the work itself.

A few years ago, I visited Ghost Ranch in Abiquiú, just an hour north of Santa Fe, where O’Keeffe spent much of her life. The desert here is different. It isn’t the bleached-beige emptiness that many imagine when they think of deserts. Instead, the landscape is rich with deep, rust-colored sandstone cliffs, green brushstrokes of sage and juniper, and a sky so blue it looks surreal.

I remember standing there, taking it all in, understanding—perhaps for the first time—why she stayed.

The landscape itself was alive, but in a way that didn’t demand attention. It simply existed, waiting to be noticed.

This setting became the heart of her work. Unlike traditional landscapes filled with human activity, O’Keeffe’s paintings are devoid of people. They are quiet, introspective, and deeply personal—a reflection of the woman herself.

She once said, “I found that I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn’t say in any other way, things that I had no words for.”

Standing in her desert, surrounded by her colors, I understood exactly what she meant.

Minimalism Meets the Desert: The Legacy of Donald Judd in Marfa

The desert and minimalist art share a deep, almost inevitable connection; no artist embodies this relationship better than Donald Judd. Disillusioned by the New York City art scene—its rigid structures, gallery politics, and relentless commercialization—Judd longed for space. Space to create, think, and strip things down to their essence.

He first saw Marfa, Texas, in 1946 while traveling as an army engineer. Back then, it was little more than a quiet, dust-filled town with abandoned German POW barracks. But Judd saw something others didn’t—potential. Over the years, he transformed it into what is now one of the world’s most unexpected contemporary art meccas.

I visited Marfa in 2015 at the tail end of a two-week road trip across Texas. The trip was partly about exploration but also about understanding: Is Texas a state of mind or just another state?

Driving into Marfa, I was struck by its stark, dreamlike quality. Dirt roads and sparse buildings stretched into the horizon, interrupted by bold murals and open street art. It was quiet—but not empty.

With the support of the DIA Foundation, Judd turned an old Army base into an art sanctuary, installing his signature metal boxes alongside Dan Flavin’s ethereal light installations. The result was something extraordinary: art that didn’t just exist in a space—it became part of it.

Judd’s minimalist sculptures and installations were not meant to be displayed in sterile, white-walled galleries. He believed that art should exist within the environment, in dialogue with it, shaped by light, time, and space.

One of his most iconic works in Marfa is a hundred gleaming silver aluminum boxes, each precisely 41 by 51 by 72 inches, arranged in perfect rows inside two artillery sheds. At first glance, they seem identical. But as you move, the changing light transforms them, revealing subtle differences—shadows bending, edges sharpening, reflections shifting.

Their edges are crisp as a knife, their surfaces almost hypnotic in their precision. They are not just objects but experiences—meditations on form, repetition, and the poetry of simplicity.

Minimalism is often misunderstood as emptiness. But in Judd’s hands, it was fullness—a celebration of clarity, of removing the unnecessary to reveal the profound.

Donald Judd’s revolutionary embrace of industrial fabrication resonated deeply with me. His choice to trust factories and machines to execute his vision challenged the idea that art must always be crafted by the artist’s own hand.

As I began working with glass, plexiglass, and aluminum sheets, I saw the same potential Judd had—the power of precision, the beauty in material, the elegance of restraint. Inspired by his example, I sought out factories to cut plexiglass to exact specifications and print on aluminum sheets with the precision no human hand could match.

Judd showed me that art isn’t about how it’s made—it’s about the idea, the execution, and the experience it creates.

Standing in Marfa, surrounded by his work, I didn’t just admire his vision—I understood it.

See: Art Trip: Marfa

The Beauty of Emptiness: A Look into Agnes Martin’s Paintings

At first glance, Agnes Martin’s paintings appear nearly blank, their soft washes of color barely distinguishable. But step closer, and the subtle grids emerge—precisely drawn vertical and horizontal lines, whispering their presence across thinly painted, monochromatic surfaces.

Some interpret her work as a reflection of the vast, sweeping landscapes of the American Southwest, but Martin herself had a different perspective. Her paintings were not about the external world but “what is known forever in the mind.”

I’ve seen her paintings countless times in public collections across the U.S., and they always stop me in my tracks. Their silence demands attention. Their emptiness is not passive—it confronts you, like a deafening silence or an unspoken truth.

Agnes Martin lived on the edge of the world, in the remote town of Cuba, New Mexico—a rugged, desolate place where the horizon seems endless. A place where one can escape, detach, or disappear.

Little is spoken about the schizophrenia that haunted her—the voices only she could hear, the visions and sensations that pulled her away from people, from intimacy, from the world itself. Perhaps it was no surprise that she chose to live in solitude, where she could control the noise, where she could exist above it all.

She once said, “I believe in living above the line. Above the line is happiness and love, you know. Below the line is all sadness and destruction, and unhappiness. And I don’t go down below the line for anything.”

Her paintings feel like a manifestation of that philosophy—serene, meditative, untouched by chaos. They are neither here nor there. They simply exist.

One story about her creative process fascinates me. She would sit for hours in her studio, waiting—not painting, just waiting—until a single word came to her. “Agony.” “Happiness.” “Love.” That one word would send her rushing to the canvas, painting with quiet urgency, translating that feeling into grids, color fields, infinite spaces.

She once said, “Art is the concrete representation of our most subtle feelings.”

Another story I hold close is about a rose she once held in her hand. Showing it to a young girl, she asked, “Is the flower beautiful?”

“Yes,” the girl answered.

Martin then hid the rose behind her back and asked again, “Is the flower still beautiful?”

“Yes,” the girl replied.

“You see,” Martin said, “beauty is all in your mind.”

Her paintings function the same way—they are not about what is visible but about what they evoke inside you.

As I think about Martin’s ability to capture stillness and silence, I reflect on my relationship with art—how it has been a refuge, a meditation, a tether to clarity at different points in my life.

During the long, disorienting days of the COVID lockdown, I turned to a new series of paintings—colorful stripes, simple and repetitive, with a rhythm that felt almost like breathing. The process became my way of staying present, of grounding myself when fear and uncertainty threatened to pull me under.

Some days, creating feels effortless, like a dance, flowing without resistance. Other days, it’s a lifeline, a desperate grip on sanity, an attempt to hold chaos at bay with brushstrokes and color.

I wonder if Agnes felt the same way.

Her paintings are a paradox—so controlled yet filled with emotion. So empty, yet overwhelming. So quiet, yet full of unspeakable depth.

Perhaps that is why they always make me stop, stand still, and listen.

More about Agnes Martin.

Discovering the Silver Desert: The Power of 5Rhythms Dance

Gabrielle Roth, the creator of 5Rhythms dance and the master teacher of all my dance teachers, once said:

“I want to take you to a place of pure magic… It’s the place athletes call the ‘zone,’ Buddhists call ‘satori,’ and ravers call ‘trance.’ I call it the Silver Desert. It’s a place of pure light that holds the dark within it. It’s a place of pure rhythm.”

As a 5Rhythms dancer, I’ve often wondered why Gabrielle chose the name “Silver Desert.” The combination seemed unlikely, even contradictory. Silver evokes brightness, fluidity, something ethereal and luminous, while desert speaks of vastness, silence, and an unforgiving stillness. But as I danced deeper into the practice, the connection became clear.

The desert, with its endless horizons and quiet solitude, mirrors the inner landscape of the soul. It strips away distractions, leaving only what truly matters. In the desert, there is nothing to hold onto, nothing to hide behind—just you and the elements. The same is true in 5Rhythms dance.

There is no choreography, no audience to impress, no steps to perfect—just movement, presence, and raw self-expression. The music becomes a call inward, guiding us to move from an authentic place where mind and body dissolve into rhythm.

Much like the desert offers space for reflection and revelation, 5Rhythms creates a container for self-discovery. In both, there is a moment when stillness turns into movement, emptiness transforms into freedom, and silence pulses with something deeper than words.

The Silver Desert is not a place but a state of being. Silver represents illumination, the inner light that flickers within us. Desert represents emptiness, the stillness we must embrace to find that light.

To dance is to seek, to surrender, to listen—to let the rhythm shake loose the mind and reveal something more honest beneath.

I dance to remember who I am.

I dance to dissolve the noise of the world.

I dance to find myself in the Silver Desert.

The Quest for God in the Wilderness: Visiting Buddhist and Christian Monasteries

As I wander the world, I’ve had the privilege of visiting monasteries hidden away in some of the earth’s most remote and unforgiving landscapes—perched on the cliffs of the Judaean and Sinai deserts, or nestled within the towering folds of the Himalayas. These solitary enclaves of faith have left a lasting impression on me, stirring a mixture of thoughts, admiration, and introspection.

Why do so many monasteries find their refuge in the wilderness? What is it about the desert, the mountain, the isolation that draws seekers of God?

A Road Trip Adventure: Journey to Remote Monasteries in Northern India.

The first image that comes to mind when I think of the desert is one of raw, untamed beauty—a vast, silent expanse where everything unnecessary falls away. And yet, amidst this emptiness and solitude, monasteries thrive. They are cut off from the world yet somehow feel like the center of it—a universe within themselves. They stand defiant, enduring, a quiet monument to something beyond the reach of time and reason.

And isn’t that what glory is?

Standing before these monasteries, I feel an overwhelming sense of reverence. The monks who call these places home—whether in Buddhist robes or Christian habits—live by austere codes of chastity, obedience, and silence, surrendering to a discipline most of us can barely fathom. Their existence is a testament to devotion, an unflinching commitment to the divine in all its unfathomable mystery.

Yet, I am also humbled by the cost of such a commitment. What does it take to give oneself so completely to the pursuit of transcendence? The idea inspires admiration and fear in equal measure—awe at the strength of their spiritual discipline, yet a lingering question of how much of oneself must be surrendered in the process. Does the pursuit of God require disappearing from the world entirely?

These monasteries are more than stone and mortar—they are a sensory experience, a confrontation with the power of human longing. They remind me that silence is not emptiness, that solitude is not loneliness, and that seeking is its own kind of prayer.

And though I do not live in a monastery, though I have not taken vows, I still feel the call to find my own quiet corner—a space where I, too, can step away from the noise, stand still, and listen.

Perhaps that is what the wilderness offers us all: a reminder to seek, to reflect, and to connect with something greater than ourselves.

Embracing the Fullness of Life: The Significance of Passover

Reflecting on the story of the Israelites’ journey through the desert, I can’t help but see it as a spiritual mirror of our own paths—a narrative of transformation, trust, and the long road to freedom.

After their miraculous release from slavery in Egypt, God did not lead them directly to the Promised Land. Instead, He guided them into the wilderness, where they wandered for forty years—a journey filled with trials, uncertainty, and profound moments of revelation.

Why the desert? Why not a swift and direct path to liberation?

The desert strips away distractions—it forces reliance, faith, and inner strength. The Israelites faced hunger, thirst, and danger, yet through these trials, they learned to trust in divine provision, to surrender their fears, and to prepare their hearts for something greater.

This is why Passover holds such deep significance for me—it is not just a story of escaping oppression but a reminder of the inner journey from bondage to freedom. And not just freedom from external chains but also from the ones we place on ourselves—fear, doubt, hesitation. Passover is a call to break free from whatever enslaves us and embrace life in all its fullness.

The Desert as a Place of Divine Encounters

It’s no coincidence that the desert plays such a central role in the Bible. Abraham, Moses, Elijah, Isaiah, and Jesus all wandered into the wilderness—not to escape, but to seek, to listen, to encounter something greater than themselves.

There’s something about the desert’s vast emptiness that forces clarity. In Hebrew, the word for “speak” (מדבר, medaber) shares its root with “desert” (מדבר, midbar)—a poetic suggestion that God’s voice is best heard in stillness.

And perhaps that is why Mount Sinai—the very place where God presented the Ten Commandments—was deep in the desert. Here, in a place of silence and solitude, God’s covenant with His people was forged—not in the bustling streets of Egypt or the promised abundance of Canaan, but in the barren, windswept wilderness.

The desert is not just a place of isolation—it is a place of reflection, renewal, and revelation. It reminds us that sometimes, we must step away from the noise to truly hear the voice of the divine.

For me, Passover is not just a holiday but an invitation to examine where I am on my journey.

What fears still hold me captive?

Where am I resisting the wilderness rather than embracing the lessons it offers?

What would it mean to truly step into freedom—not just in movement, but in mind and spirit?

Like the Israelites, we are all on our way to the Promised Land, but first, we must pass through the desert, learning to trust, to listen, and to let go of the burdens we no longer need.

The Whisper of Grace: Navigating the Sandstorms of Faith and Emotions

I once heard a sermon where the speaker said, “God’s voice is not as eloquent as His silence.”

At first, it seemed like a contradiction—how can silence be more profound than words? But over time, I began to understand. Faith is often not about hearing but about listening. It is not about knowing but about trusting.

Walking with faith sometimes feels like being caught in a desert sandstorm—everything disappears, direction is lost, and uncertainty takes over. You think you’re moving forward, but in reality, you’re walking in circles. There is no clarity, no horizon—just an endless swirl of doubt and confusion.

In moments like these, the best thing to do is to lay low, wait, and trust that the storm will pass. And it always does.

The same is true of emotions. Even the most uncomfortable, overwhelming feelings—grief, anger, fear, or even an anxiety attack—are temporary; they will not last forever. But patience is hard. Sitting with discomfort, doing nothing, simply waiting—it all goes against my nature. Yet, like a muscle, patience must be trained, tested, and strengthened over time.

I have found that when I pause, breathe, and simply be, I can hear the quiet whispers of grace. In the stillness, something shifts. The storm calms, the sand settles, and clarity begins to return.

And then, something even more profound emerges: the realization that the storm was never outside of me—it was within. It was my own uncertainty, my own struggle, my own resistance.

But if the storm is within, so is the calm.

The desert does not punish—it teaches. Every storm is an invitation—to look deeper, to sit with discomfort, to explore the story behind the story.

And so, I remind myself:

Lay low. Listen. Let it pass.

Because on the other side of the storm, there is always a clearer view, a deeper understanding, and a better version of myself waiting to emerge.

Lessons from a road less traveled in Death Valley.

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