The very first time I visited the state of Arizona I was ecstatic. I was young and in love and had rarely left Los Angeles, so the prospect of venturing out of my hyper-reality was amazing to me! And then we actually arrived there. It was the height of summer, and the sun was oppressively hot and sat large in the sky. The heat was relentless. It felt to me as if my very soul was being drained from my body with each drop of sweat the sun teased from my body. The trip was not what I had hoped, or wished, and I left vowing to never return.
Well, the universe has a very bizarre sense of humor, which as an adult I can finally appreciate. And so it happens that one of the most beloved people in my life - who also swore a serious distaste for this western state - has fallen ill and now lives here. So I swallowed my pride, packed my suitcases, and set out on the long drive to Phoenix, the whole time remembering vividly the solemn vow I professed so many years ago.
Universe:1 - Me:0
Driving through the barren Arizona landscape for hours made me appreciate the great expanse of sky, of earth, and made me at the same time uneasy being so far away from the ocean. Maybe it's an Aquarius thing, but I feel so much more at ease knowing there is water in abundance nearby. Be it an ocean, a river, lake... water grounds me and puts my mind at ease. Despite the beauty that can exist there, deserts always seemed a bleak and callous place to me, almost ominous in a way. Phoenix didn't seem all that different. It was immensely quiet. 
There is just something about the great expanse of sky, the penetrating heat, and the lack of trees and familiar landscape that make this state seem so alien and alienating to me. Everything seems so much more unforgiving and coldly stoic. The light there is hard, and there isn't much separating you from it.
I tried hard to find beauty in this place. There were small moments where I saw it and felt it, but I have always had mixed feeling about this town... I guess some places speak to you loudly and clearly, and others are foreign languages your heart can't quite comprehend. Phoenix is one of those cities for me. The occasion for the trip didn't help, though. (It's hard to let your heart fall in love with someplace when it's wrapped up in a ball of unnerving worry and uncertainness.)
The sky is definitely different there, no matter your vantage point. It's vast, grand, clear, and almost humbling. The sunsets seem so dusty and distant. Thats one thing I always notice about a particular place - how the sun sets. Some places you barely notice it and it feels warm and golden, like Los Angeles. Other places it seems like the sun is setting in the palm of your hand and disappears into oblivion with a flash of bright light, or just slips languidly and tantalizingly into the horizon. In Phoenix it seems slow, and somehow still. Like a grainy photograph of a moment captured in time and set to a leaden animated playback. That in itself is something pretty special, but it leaves me feeling like a foreigner in a place I don't understand. Which I think I was.
We managed to find some surprisingly beautiful digs for our stay, however. And it seems that once the sun goes down all things are a bit more equalized. No oppressive heat to slow your movements or blinding sun to give you pause... But instead of the city coming alive at night, there is still such a strong and pervading sense of stillness that I just can't quite get over. Maybe it's the product of being born and raised in Los Angeles - always having access to movement, to activity, to life rushing by at any number of speeds. I don't know. I always enjoyed stillness and quiet, but the kind here was of a different breed entirely.
It almost felt like walking into a ghost town. This hotel was gorgeous, undoubtedly. And the surprise of it distracted me for an evening as I explored the meandering paths that covered the acres of grounds. It was actually breathtakingly beautiful in person and a welcome respite from the bleakness of the other aspects of the trip.
Naturally, I gravitated towards water. It seemed like such an unusual thing in this dry and arid landscape. Like it didn't quite belong and was meant to be somewhere else, but took a wrong turn. And now must reside here, among the rocks and cactus and succulents.
The history of the town was everywhere, which I actually loved. From the monuments erected in unusual places to the decor of our hotel. Strangely enough, it didn't seem as if much had actually changed in the last hundred or so years. Once you step outside of the city walls everything becomes static. Slow growing plants, slow growing communities. For the most part the architecture seems as if it has stood still for decades, relics of a time gone by peppered with the obligatory Starbucks. But the history was beautiful. Old fields where special strains of Egyptian cotton had once grown, where businessmen lived in adobe structures erected in the middle of nowhere. It still felt like the middle of nowhere to me. Maybe thats why people come here. To feel the stillness and let themselves get lost in the middle of nowhere. It feels like a place you could disappear into easily if you wanted to, or even if you didn't.
I did fall in love with the majesty of Arizona though. It feels so overwhelmingly powerful, as if the land itself dictates it's future, not the people who live on it. Which is beautiful. In so many cities and countries across the world we rush in, with grandiose visions about how to alter the landscape to our needs, how to strip it bare and mine it for whatever it may offer. But I don't get that feeling here. There is the distinct feeling that we are just guests in this landscape.
I will be visiting here often now. Perhaps each time I'll find myself feeling less and less like an outsider and end up opening my heart to this place. I want to think that with each new experience here the land will slowly open up like a flower in bloom - one petal at a time, each revealing a distinctly unique and beautiful vision unlike what was there before.
I guess only time will tell.