Tag: Desert Dreams

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On June 2, 2025–as Tom and I returned to Arizona on an American Airlines flight after a blissful five days with family in the Chicago area–I closed my eyes in the semi-comfort of my aisle seat.

I leaned into my husband and said, “It feels good to be heading home.” I was referring to Scottsdale, Arizona. That is where we live … in a kitschy, mid-century condo community. It has been our home now for nearly eight years.

I’m not sure this is the life I dreamed of as a youngster in St. Louis. Or a middle-aged-man in the Chicago suburbs, who earned a good wage, raised two sons, and was fortunate enough to meet a man I would love and one day marry.

Let’s just say it is a warmer, lighter, literary life, which I had hoped for but didn’t imagine I would realize.

***

On June 30, 2017, we had just sold our three-bedroom home in Mount Prospect, Illinois. Handed over the keys to a pleasant couple and their young son.

As Tom and I approached our sixtieth birthday, we were excited about the prospects of creating a new life in the Grand Canyon State. But Illinois still felt like home.

Looking back, I suppose I underestimated the significance of this change … the loss of familiarity even when it wasn’t necessarily positive and growth producing.

If you follow me, you know how difficult our shared sixtieth birthday would be. If not, you should read about our harrowing journey and personal detour in St. Louis. It was great fodder for my third book, An Unobstructed View.

Once we finally arrived in Scottsdale, Arizona, on July 12, 2017, we both needed time to recuperate.

Our two-bedroom condo (which had once been Tom’s grandparents’ home starting in the early 1970s) was comfortable enough … especially after our new air conditioning unit, windows, and exterior doors were installed.

But we decided not to make too many dramatic interior changes right away. That really wasn’t a conscious decision as much as a reasonable one.

Soon we made new friends in our community: through our yoga class in Scottsdale and my chorus connections in Phoenix. With time there were other creative ripples before, during and after Covid.

We each wrote and published books. I wrote three librettos for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus. Tom’s film classes materialized and compounded magically. Spurred by his passion for classic cinema and a library contact from our friend Glenn, that seed has grown into a legitimate, bountiful following.

Somewhere in that mix, we crossed over the tipping point of flux … knowing that we had truly found our new home. Feeling that we had become full-fledged, full-time Arizona residents and advocates.

And now–in June 2025, eight years after we said goodbye to our first home together and spent the past three months painting and remodeling–the interior of our Arizona home is finally a reflection of the color, comfort, and humanity we imagined.

It is–like we are–fully transformed. It is our desert lodge with a decent splash of soft apricot, western warmth, and comfy chairs.

It is our refuge with and without family and friends. It is our nesting place away from triple-digit heat and authoritarian regimes.

It is our home.

Remembering and Refreshing

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When Tom and I landed permanently in our Scottsdale condo, it was an odd year.

Odd in a meteorological sense; when we pulled into our carport, it was 112 degrees outside on July 12.

Odd in a traumatic sense; I had suffered a minor heart attack six days before on our 60th birthday.

Odd in a serendipitous sense; the cardiac trauma happened in St. Louis (where I was born) in the middle of our move.

Odd in a numerical sense; it was 2017.

That year, we did our best to settle into our new life. We focused on the most essential items: buying a new air conditioning unit and creating a new healthcare regimen to rehab my heart and restore some sense of normalcy to our lives.

We were two mid-century guys, doing our best to settle into our mid-century condo, happy to have survived a scary personal experience, grateful for the chance to write a new chapter in a space that had been home to Tom’s grandparents (and, in a more limited sense, his parents) years before.

Sadly, by 2017, they were all gone. Even so, we had an important remnant of their lives to keep us grounded. It was our turn to–slowly–make it our own.

Under more normal circumstances (i.e., not enduring a heart attack in the middle of our move), we might have pushed more aggressively to transform our condo. But surviving together superseded remodeling and refreshing.

With time, I regained my strength. Tom and I both began to breathe more easily. When a little thing called Covid arrived in 2020, it prompted us to rethink our space, because–of course–we had more time to stare at our condo walls.

In 2021– it was odd again — we hired a paint crew to turn both bedrooms green and serene. We replaced the carpeting there. Later that year, we remodeled our bathroom.

Now it’s another odd year: 2025. Odd (as well as disturbing) in more ways than I care to enumerate in this essay. Let’s just say it’s the perfect time to wave goodbye to dingy off-white walls and adorn our living room and sunroom with a splash of two new colors.

With all of that as my preamble, I’m in the mood to tease you a little. Guess which two colors on this palette will appear inside our home beginning next week.

When the work is done (and we have replaced the tired grey/blue carpeting in our living room and sun room, too), I think it will feel like we have finally created the Arizona space Tom and I imagined eight years ago in April.

That’s when we put our suburban Chicago home on the market as the daffodils bloomed on another chilly midwestern day.

That’s when we began to pack up our most important possessions in Illinois for a chance to create a new life of unforeseen friends, books, blogs, stories, movies, and memories in the Valley of the Sun.

Hang On

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In the course of any life–whether you are a woodpecker, hummingbird or a species without wings–sometimes the best you can do is to find nourishment where you can … and just hang on.

On Days Like These

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When I feel frayed

and afraid,

on days like these,

I dig deeper,

look closer,

to find beauty

in the corner

of the room.

Maybe this late bloomer

is a natural sign

that what I believe,

what I value most,

what I love,

what I hope for,

still exists on the edges,

beyond the madness,

even if it appears

later than I wish …

even if I have to search

high and low to find it.

Shadows and Memories

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Our funhouse shadows

lead us on new adventures

that unfold and stretch

in September’s sharp light.

We depart on weightless legs,

newborn colts

weaving and wandering,

ready to gallop

in the golden glow,

transformed with

magical memories

to carry home and savor.

***

I’ll be traveling for the rest of September. While I’m away, purchase my latest book, A Path I Might Have Missed, and enjoy more of my poetry.

I Dream

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I dream and gaze into a Sonoran sky,

where flames no longer lap at my tired tail,

and concrete runs smooth and cool,

and trusting birds fly slow and low,

and spirits rise high above tall trees,

and the constant chase has ended,

and the kitchen door is always open,

and I finally realize I’ve found home.

In Thirteen Feet

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I try to be careful, but I’m not a superstitious swimmer.

Life flows cooler and bluer when I navigate the deep end.

Back and forth in thirteen feet, more washes over and around me.

I have more room to glide, more room to imagine, more room to dream.

May Day

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May casts a quiet spell of desert sensibility.

Brief morning showers spawn feline revelry.

Lonely pomegranates hang ready to ripen.

Roses, hibiscus, and bougainvillea vie nearby.

Shiny lizards adorn loveseats and walkways.

Still waters wait for summer waves to come.

Don’t Ask

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Don’t ask who I am, where I’ve been, or where I’m going. You wouldn’t believe me anyway. All you need to know is that I hide here once in a while.

There is no rhythm to my scheme. Sometimes I sleep under the awning or lurk in the shadows. Or you may think you hear me caterwaul in the night.

Yesterday, I waited for a handout like a circus carnie–under the eaves, then out near the roof’s edge–ready to pounce on an unsuspecting pigeon.

I’ll be gone tomorrow. I just stopped by to remind you that we critters and survivors–often invisible as you go about your day–confound explanation.

In the Gauzy Evening

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In the gauzy evening of our disparate lives, we stand by our loved ones and convictions. We continue to grow strong in spite of our spiky imperfections and ominous shadows on horizons beyond us.

We are not always as close as we appear, but–because we grew from the same earth–we are never too far apart from the history we share as we reach higher toward distinct patches of blue.

At times, we wonder what binds us. But–with a nudge or two–we recite lines from the pages of our youth, we remember trailblazers before us, we whisper today’s dreams and tomorrow’s travels.