two-hour friends

Sandy, Utah, 7/18

The desert wind traces its fingertips up my jaw and through my hair, and I relax into its embrace. It whispers, "You were mine once, and I'll have you again."

I lean my head back and respond, "If I stay with you now, I may never leave. Why does that scare me?"

"Because you need this land," a Native American vendor says, her smile a beam of light under the vast monsoon stormclouds. "And the other turquoise necklace matches your eyes better." I prefer this electric blue one, but damnit, she's right. "This land is yours. It will never stop calling to you. See? The green tint makes you glow."

I catch the glow of the sunset in Garrett's impossibly beautiful mansion in the foothills. Pine tree-covered cliffs to the east, a massive desert valley to the west flanked by endless mountain silhouettes, yellow-tinted in the haze of the setting sun. Glimmering, dusty sunrays break through the thunderclouds over the epic valley below. It feels like being in a living dream, the same one I have every night, the same one I've had since before dreams existed, before I existed.

"Feels good to be back home," I say to Garrett like we're friends and not people who met two hours ago. Travel is weird like that.

"Why not stop here then?" he asks.

"I can't afford it while pursuing being a writer."

"Can you balance going back to tech and writing?"

"I... don't think so."

"The desert makes everything simpler. It's quiet and peaceful. I get so much more done here because the distractions are gone. You may be able to juggle both. Put in a big down payment on a house to lower your mortgage, lock in a 5% interest rate, and live your dream."

I look around the room at the five other 2-hour strangers that now feel like friends. One of them, Jared, dares me to come over and cook him Thai food, and even though earlier today I didn't know he existed, I agree wholeheartedly and we set a time for Tuesday, inviting more new friends and making a night out of it.

Windows down on the drive home, smile on my face, as the desert reaches out its hands to caress my face.

"Don't get too close. I don't want to break your heart," I respond.

I run the numbers. Even with a massive down payment, with current interest rates, I still need to earn 6 figs to afford a home here. Looking at those numbers, I realize why I'm scared of the pull my mountains have. It's not about me potentially staying forever, it's the opposite.

I'm scared that if I leave now, I may not return. What if I move somewhere affordable and marry someone who has family there and who will never leave? Or what if I finally make a living as a writer but all real estate in Utah is $1M+ by then?

My fingers trace the rough edges of the green-tinted turquoise necklace from the Native American lady. As she said, I'll never get this place out of my blood. She's also right, in that I might want the electric blue, but the green tint suits me more.

Writing will always be my green tint. My destiny does not lie in a place, it lies on the page. Even if I leave the mountains and never make a penny from my words, if I marry someone who will never leave, and prices in all the mountain states skyrocket, then so be it. I don't think I can juggle both a full-time job and a writing career.

And nothing is more important than giving my writing all I've got.

PS: If you want to know the Utah feels to me, this song sums it up.