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I woke up to a cold sweat in Sedona last week, with a name I’d never heard before falling from my lips. Calliope. My quick google search told me that “in Greek Mythology, Calliope is the muse who presides over eloquence and epic poetry; so called from the ecstatic harmony of her voice.” Literally, her name means “beautiful-voiced.” I flew to Arizona impulsively, as a desperate escape from a mythic choke hold on my crooked New York neck. Society can be cruel, and people take breath from others hoping it’ll fill their own. But me, well, I needed to empty my lungs for a bit. And so, I landed in Phoenix ready to burn some dirty old ashes with only myself, my backpack, and my stubborn old shadow. I believe in nature; I believe that the force of scarcity can drain you, yet can also open your eyes to everything beautifully natural and cyclical in being alive. Abundance. My first hike at Devil’s Bridge in Sedona provided a fresh remedy to clear my mind and detox my clouded bones. Crystal quietness. Vibrant red rocks and green trees far away, close together. A clear path of dirt against the sun paving my simple role as a resident on this planet. To explore. To respect. To love, to share. To appreciate. To observe, to learn. Being alone in nature is pure peace. The complexities of society have their obvious purposes, but I do believe there is a way to hold onto the simplicity of humanity by reconnecting ourselves to nature. To be. So, with the power of a precious Greek muse on my lips, I drove through the Arizona hills to an age old canyon. Grand, grand canyon that swallowed my breath and threw it back into my body. A force only accredited by an epically deep canyon that had been sculpted by a river’s tenacious currents. How small am I? I mean truly, we are little little people. Look. I’m a girl who loves her family, loves her home, a girl who loves to sing. Simple, small. And someday the water will cease to flow through me so that it might carry on somewhere else. I heard the Colorado River sings eloquently for those who listen close. I hope what I leave behind will tell a beautiful story. I hope some little lost girl in a rental car and a midwinter slump will feel inspired. By the time I returned to Phoenix, I was ready to sing. And so I hiked Camelback Mountain in silence. Midway up, the incline became sharp angles of falling rock, and I was underprepared. I reached a point in the middle of the steep climb where I was about halfway up, frozen with fear. Stuck. It’s hard to get perspective when you’re alone; Do I keep going, is this climb safe, is it even worth it? I couldn’t shake my conscious voice wondering if people were staring, judging. And yet this awareness alone helped me realize that I could very well die trying to climb a stupid mountain for other people. Then suddenly my mind shut the fuck up and my body took over. I took two baby steps, arms clutching a little metal railing. I turned around, until my feet felt secure in the safety of the clear dirt path; I lifted my face toward the sun. My neck felt the heat of the western air, releasing trauma that had been long lodged at the base of my spine. I have a tendency to look too far ahead with a vision of grandeur and wind up being paralyzed in the middle of a mountain in Arizona. But I’m finding my balance by focusing on the smaller steps. I’m hydrating more frequently. And I know that next time I hike the mountain—and like all things in nature that repeat themselves, I will hike Camelback Mountain again—I won’t do it alone. I hope to enjoy it with someone who has also hiked through the desert with just a camel and a backpack. I hope to enjoy the wide open western view with someone who also hears Calliope’s softly strong voice. Hope is grander than a past life.