Walking in the Desert

There are times I feel as though I walk alone in a desert.

The horizon stretches endlessly, yet I am in no hurry.

Each step feels deliberate, peaceful —

as though the earth itself is breathing beneath my feet.

I don’t feel the heat of the sun’s rays,

or the burn of the sand.

Somehow, even in the dryness, there is gentleness.

My feet move lightly across the ground,

and my heart, though alone, feels warm.

It isn’t the kind of warmth that comes from the sun —

it’s the warmth of being.

A still joy, quiet but steady,

as if God Himself walks beside me, unseen.

The desert is not empty.

It holds a silence that listens.

It holds light that doesn’t glare but glows softly,

teaching me that solitude is not loneliness.

It’s a place where love grows without needing water,

where peace breathes through stillness,

and where awareness becomes prayer.

I walk and feel joy —

not because of what I see,

but because of what I sense:

the presence that lives in every grain of sand,

in every breath I take,

in the space between steps.

The desert, I realize, is not a place I walk through.

It is a place within me that has finally learned to rest.