Williams, AZ sunrise.


This past year, my parents both retired from their jobs and moved out to Williams, Arizona to a piece of land they bought awhile back. It’s in the mountains, nearish the Grand Canyon and Flagstaff, and is completely off the grid. 

This Thanksgiving was my first visit since they’ve actually been living there, and one of my favorite things about the place is that my Dad finally has time and space to build and tinker, and the land near the house is clustered with solar panels and sheds and other little things that he has made. 

The first two mornings there, I awoke to one of the most beautiful sunrises I can remember, spilling red and pink and gold over the blackened mountains in the distance. On the third and last day of the trip, I woke up early and armed with a camera and hiking boots, trekked out across the dirt trails and loose lichen covered rocks that dot the landscape. 

Of course it was a cloudless day, and the sun simply rose, with none of the drama or glory of the previous mornings, but something kept me outside in the freezing cold, pacing circles in the icy brown grass. 

Out there it is silent. 

So silent that when the screaming wind disappears in the distance, the only sounds are breathing, walking, the swishing of gloves against a down coat. And so I stopped. And listened to nothing. 

It’s hard for me to slow down. I’m always moving, always thinking, always making. But there’s something to be said for rest, for recharging, for stillness. There’s a clarity in rest that I’ve been missing lately…


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