Hózhó

In the middle of the desert, a sandstone hut is dug into the earth. You weave through buttes and mesas, past spring blooms carpeting the red earth and dress against the evening chill. Roll out sheepskin, go to sleep in the absolute silence of a land beyond lands, there's no way to keep from platitudes. By morning, the blanket of stars give way to a sunrise beyond the eastern mountains, but you cannot imagine what it might be like to grow up thinking this was the entire reaches of the world. He says he knows where his umbilical cord lays buries, he knows where his soul connects to the earth. You think you haven't a clue where you belong, and you are no longer worried about it. We make our own connections, we make our own hózhó. You cannot go finding yourself in someone else's beauty. 

Cannot steal a home and make it yours.