Crazy Hearts in Sedona Back
Sedona—man, that place is like a dream, like you’ve wandered off the road into some kind of mirage, but it’s real, all right. The red rocks rise up out of the earth like ancient spirits, and you can feel the energy in the air, like the universe is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. After all the mess with the RV—every bump, every break, every roadblock—we rolled into Sedona, feeling like we’d been dragged through the desert by our own wild ambitions.
A friend of mine, a director with a knack for seeing what’s really going on beneath the surface, told me I needed to see a shaman, to shake off the dust and the worries and get my head right. So, there I was, sitting with this Native American healer, a man who seemed to carry the wisdom of the ages in his eyes. We talked for a while, just two souls sharing a moment in time, and I played him a song—something raw, something real. Then he did a healing on me, and I’ll tell you, it was like the weight of the world lifted off my shoulders. Nothing really matters in the end, he said, and I knew he was right. We left that place with a sense of renewal, like we could take on the world again, no matter how hot it got.
Sedona’s one of those places that doesn’t look real, like it was dreamed up by some Hollywood set designer with a flair for the dramatic. The mountains in the distance, the colors of the sky—they’re almost too perfect. We parked the RV at a Whole Foods—yeah, even out here, Whole Foods is a beacon for the weary traveler—and this guy comes up to us, asking about the RV, about our journey. His name was Jay, and he seemed like the kind of person who just fits into the Sedona vibe, all easygoing and full of stories.
Jay invited us to this small concert up on a lookout, overlooking the town. So we went, and that’s where I met Tyler, a violin virtuoso, the kind of talent that makes you wonder how anyone could ever give up something so pure for the corporate grind. He played up there, with the sun setting over the mountains, and it was like the music became part of the landscape. I felt something deep, something spiritual, like the universe was speaking to me. I swear, I heard my Nanna’s voice in the wind, telling me, “I’m here, darling, just let go.” And I did—I let the tears come, let the moment wash over me. It was profound, a kind of peace I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Just a day or two before, I’d found out that a friend back in Australia had passed away. There was a lot of mystery around it, and I didn’t know how he died. We’d connected over the years through meditation, shared some deep conversations about life and the spirit. So there I was, in this place that felt like a crossroads between worlds, grieving for a friend who left too soon. Somehow, it all made sense in a strange, cosmic way—like this journey through Sedona was meant to help me process the loss.
When we finally got to the Hotel Santa Fe, it felt like a refuge, a sanctuary from the endless challenges of the road. I was so done with the RV, ready to put it on a truck and send it home. The RV wasn’t to blame, not really—it was just a vehicle for the lessons we were learning along the way. But I was tired, so damn tired, and I just wanted to go back to something that felt normal, something safe. We all questioned why we were doing this, why we were pushing ourselves so hard, but deep down, we knew we had to keep going. The journey wasn’t over yet.
Wesley Dean
