Point of View

On my computer desktop, I’ve got a folder called “To Be Finished” containing more than a hundred files of ideas I thought I wanted to write about. Some of these are a few thousand words, others a few sentences. Today is Sunday. I’ve spent the day hiking in the Todra Gorge—as beautiful as anything in Arizona—and poking around the city of Tinghir. I am tired, too tired to move more files into that graveyard of a folder. Instead of writing a full piece today, I’m copying and pasting the things I’ve started this week, then abandoned. Thank you.

Five hours of silent driving today. Just as one can wake from a dream and examine it all morning, I spent today pondering last night in the desert. Nothing has formed, I have no lesson or, God forbid, moral to offer, but I’d like to share some of the thoughts that came to me last night and today. They may eventually combine to form a wonderful mental meal, but for now they’re just ingredients sitting on the counter.

After making local arrangements, I’m being driven by 4X4 into the desert with a tent, sleeping bag, food and water. I’ll get dropped off around 7:30, pitch my tent and experience the nighttime alone. In the desert. Until midday tomorrow. If my driver remembers, he’ll pick me up. If not, I’ll waste away slowly, the sun cooking me, evaporating every last bit of moisture, until, after a week or two, I’m just Keith jerky.

Eva and I also talked about the cultural differences among Europe, England, the US and Morocco. She asked what I did for a living. When I told her I work with folks in recovery from drug and alcohol, she got a very inquisitive look in her eye.

I’ve been accurately accused of being a lot of things—a drunk, a junkie, a weirdo, a pompous clown and just plain crazy, to list just a few of the charges. One particular adjective has been universally true, at least since I got into recovery—I am annoyingly optimistic, believing anything that needs to be done CAN be done, given enough focus and effort. The universe always has more solutions than it does problems.

After five hours in the Sahara Desert, or at least Merzouga’s Erg Chebbi dunes, I’ve found what I expected to have been completely wrong. I’m not being self-critical here. I’ve just learned my view of the world is different from normal people’s.

At 10, she moved to Durham when my grandfather was asked to start and be the first president of the Thompson School at UNH. In Durham she made new friends, who were also lifelong, including a girl named Jane Abell. Jane was whip-saw smart and she and Bev were inseparable until Jane left town for boarding school.