Some places feel like people.  Sedona, Arizona is one of those places.

I sorted through some of my digital photos the other evening and came across a few from my trip to Sedona. A feeling came rushing back—one I hadn’t thought about in years. I was driving cross-country at the time, on my way to a new life in California, and somehow Sedona felt like the first real sign that I was headed in the right direction. It was almost as if the red rocks knew of my journey and were there to welcome me.

I had seen pictures of Sedona, but seeing those red rocks in person was something else entirely. They were majestic and ancient beyond my comprehension, and there was something about encountering them for the first time that made me feel insignificant, but in a good way. They had been there for millions of years, knowing their place on the earth, yet seemed completely indifferent to all of it. No judgment, no expectations, just steadfast and exposed in all their glory, with every layer and crack a testament to their integrity. I was convinced that buried deep within the iconic sandstone was the key to the universe just waiting to be excavated. During my stay, the rocks became my confessional. I communicated with them telepathically, no need for explanation and no fear of reprisal.  They had kept their silence for millions of years, so there was no reason to believe my secrets wouldn’t be safe.

While I was there, I decided to do a little hiking one afternoon. I was careful not to go too far—just a little way in, really, like dipping your feet into a pool to test the temperature. I was alone and had no intention of turning a peaceful afternoon into a rescue mission.

And then, naturally, I got slightly lost. There was a moment when I realized I wasn’t quite sure how to get back to where I’d started, and the peaceful little hike suddenly wasn’t feeling so peaceful. I was alone, and the enormous red rocks, my new friends, remained steadfastly silent, offering no clue which way I should go. Panic began to creep in. Then, almost out of nowhere, a man appeared. He looked like an aging hippie who had probably arrived in Sedona from Los Angeles sometime in the mid-80’s and never found a reason to leave. As it turned out, he was a transplant from L.A. who now lived there. And thankfully he didn’t give off serial killer vibes.

He could see that I was slightly turned around and took me under his wing, leading me back to the beginning of the trail that led to the parking lot. Along the way, he offered a few nuggets of wisdom for my new life in California, the kind that sound particularly profound when they’re set against a backdrop that looks more like an oil painting than a real place, and grateful to be following someone who knows where he’s going. I don’t remember everything he said but I remember the wonderful feeling of being helped.

Maybe that’s another thing I’ve learned about people. Sometimes you know almost immediately who feels safe. You don’t know their history, their intentions, or what they’re carrying around beneath the surface. You just ease into an instinctive feeling. And sometimes, when you’re lucky, the person who appears in front of you is exactly the person you need.