On solitude, entitlement, and learning to stay in the long work.
It rained last night in Picture Rocks.
A downpour, if you believe the sarcasm.
In Indiana, rain is measured in tenths of an inch—.1, .23, maybe a solid .6 on a good day. Here in the desert, it’s a proud .01. Sparse. Reluctant. But it did smell like rain around 3 a.m. when I made my way downstairs, and the puddles on the bed cover of the truck said it happened.
That’s desert rain for you. It never really soaks—it hints. Until monsoon season, when the ground can’t take too much of a good thing and washes over in a rush, flooding out every low spot with water and hubris.
Later that morning, I made my usual trip to Starbucks. Lori was in Indiana for the week. I’d nudged her to go—partly because of the AC repair ordeal, partly because of the slow replies from family had her needing some time with old rhythms. And partly, if I’m honest, because I was tunnel-focused on catching up on projects. We had four weeks left at Casa Saguaro, and I felt the clock ticking.
At Starbucks, I noticed two guys doing what bros do—loud goodbyes, casual back-pats, the choreography of connection. And I realized something: in the four months we’d been here, I hadn’t found my own bro.
Sure, I had text threads and Zoom calls with people who matter. But the face-to-face, spontaneous community—the kind you build over drinks, side comments, and accidental run-ins—wasn’t part of this season. We’d spent this stretch focused on finding our place in the wilderness, making polite conversation in lines, being present for each other and Neko. And maybe that was enough for now.
Still, I hoped Lori would see what I saw in her trip back to Indiana—that our roots there are still real. And that when we return to the desert, maybe we’ll have more bandwidth to look up and build a wider circle. Maybe even find a bro for Chris.
But somewhere beneath that quiet longing, I’ve noticed another, less flattering layer.
Entitlement.
It sneaks in with small demands. Why does this task inconvenience me? Why do I have to jump through hoops for a contract that’s remote? Why do I need a TB test when I’ll never set foot in the building? Why a signed Social Security card when they can verify me with a click? (Which, of course, they can’t, because the website is glitchy and my last physical SS card is probably buried in a high school memory box somewhere.)
The longer I sat with those irritations, the more I recognized them for what they were—not logistical grievances, but posturing. The subtle, creeping belief that I deserve a say in how things should go. That my expertise should exempt me from inconvenience. That I’m somehow above the bureaucratic noise.
It’s not a far leap from there to waving a metaphorical “Karen/Ken” flag, insisting on speaking my mind on things that don’t require my opinion.
That’s the plank. And it’s ugly when you see it.
I’ve spent years framing my work as service. As contribution. But apparently, there are strings attached to my generosity. Conditions to my kindness. I serve… until it gets frustrating. I contribute… until it’s inconvenient. And I love… with a quiet expectation of being acknowledged for it.
Good to know. Better to remember.
There’s no clever wrap-up here.
Just a reminder that the rain isn’t obliged to impress me.
That the bro-goodbyes I watched aren’t an indictment of my solitude.
That bureaucracy isn’t a personal offense.
It’s just life. Slow, repetitive, sometimes ridiculous.
Like a desert drizzle that still smells sweet at 3 a.m.
Like a road crew that builds inch by inch, day by day.
And maybe the real work is to stay in the long game of humility.
One .01 inch at a time.
