Have you ever seen a scorpion or eaten a lobster? Then you’ll understand why I go into gales of laughter when I read how Alberto Rios connects them in his poem, “Desert Bestiary Sonnet, One”: “Scorpions are lobsters sent west by the witness protection program.” Rios makes other remarkable comparisons, too, between the tarantula and playing the piano, the gila monster and beaded purses, the horny toad and Queen Elizabeth’s crown.

Dave Denny and I read this poem in a kind of “call and response” on the opening night of our recent retreat in Patagonia. We also read George Ella Lyon’s “Our Mother Who Art in the Kitchen” (the Universe), “The Patience of Ordinary Things” by Pat Schneider about chairs, teacups, and the generosity of windows, and “Wildflowers” by Maya Stein who speaks not about the flowers in our meadows but the flowers that come out of our own mouths when we “tell aloud the thing that broke inside.”

Next day, our smaller group pulled our chairs into a circle, which invited deep intimacy and vulnerability. We were in an empty echoey hall, which Dave and I transformed into a desert landscape with rocks and skulls, saguaro sculptures, and colorful rugs and blankets. Then each participant made a personal offering on the altar we created: lupine seeds from a beloved mother who had just died, a medicine bag of stones from favorite places in New Mexico, an icon which brought consolation when a brother committed suicide. See what I mean about intimacy and vulnerability?

I talked about what I’ve learned from the wounds and scars I see in the saguaros I visit in the desert around Tucson. Dave read more poetry that moved from the hominess of Pablo Neruda’s socks to the power of St. John of the Cross’ Dark Night by way of Anna Kamienska’s bird finding the human condition poignant and “funny.” Everyone’s sharing came from the heart. Richard Rohr came as a simple participant. Gary Nabhan cooked us luscious Moroccan food. Rita Cantu sang her heart out about loving the dry land. On the last morning we offered tepary beans to Mother Earth and an old grandmother cottonwood tree and prayed a Navajo Beauty Chant and Gary’s “Canticle for All Creatures in a Time of Climate Change.”

Paul said, “The weekend was an incredible gift that lingers. The container and contents melded together in a contemplative flame.” Nancy said, “Each moment [was] another opportunity to share grief and celebrate how pain can give birth to resilience and community…. [in] an intimate exploration of the spiritual desert not just through words but through the active circle of listeners holding space.” Gary was glad to see the way Dave and I “mixed moving poetry and prayer with mirth and everyday ways of living.” Rita thanked us for our “spaciousness and delight,” the quiet, the time outdoors, and the way everyone on the retreat created “a chamber in which the energy was more than a sum of our individual parts.”

In my forty-plus years of what French philosopher Jacques Maritain called “putting contemplation on the roads of the world,” this retreat ranks up there in my top ten significant experiences. I am so grateful to each person and hold each one in my heart and my prayer.

India Aubrey took the photos: the first of Tessa and Richard Rohr from the Center for Action and Contemplation, who came as a participant, and the second of retreatants with the colorful altar we created.