I’d like to write about a recent experience, something that still feels strange to put into words. It was a moment of discovery that didn’t fit, like a ripple breaking the surface of a glassy lake. Unusual. Unexpected. And it happened close to home, in the very last place I’d ever expect anything out of the ordinary.
I live in a community where time seems to hold its breath. Neighbors wave as they pass, doors frequently stay unlocked, and small talk is the currency of everyday life. Days drift by quietly, like an unhurried conversation, and the noise of the outside world never quite finds its way in. It feels as if I live on an isolated island in the stormy sea of the modern world. Well, except for the occasional airplane from the nearby airport, reminding me that this isn’t some forgotten corner of the 1950s, even if it sometimes feels that way.
Mingus Mountain rises to the west, looming like a patient old guardian. Cottonwood Ranch, my home, lies nestled at the base of this imposing mountain looking at me all day long. Its foothills stretch out like a giant’s hand, reaching out as if trying to touch me with a gentle calm.
This is where I feel safe, where human life quietly blends with the rhythm of nature. For five years now, I’ve woken to the sound of silence—no engines, no horns, nothing to disturb this peace. Until, one day, something did.
It started like any other day, with clear skies stretching endlessly, promising nothing but warmth and tranquility. The early morning light extended an invitation through my window. Come out and join me! it seemed to whisper as I sipped my hot black tea, feeling the familiar surge of energy that sharpened my focus and brightened my outlook on the day ahead.
I set out for my usual hike behind the house, where the natural habitat beckoned with its beauty. The air was cool and crisp, offering a refreshing start to the day. I love my morning walks, which always bring me into a deep, meditative state—a gentle connection to the world around me—while my thoughts untangle themselves and fade away with the rhythm of my footsteps.
Instead of heading straight into the wilderness, I decided to veer toward the Yavapai College campus, planning to capture the sunrise from a new vantage point. After passing the wine-tasting center, I entered a small, narrow path. It was one of those secluded routes, hardly ever used—hidden, like a secret meant for hikers seeking something beyond the well-worn trails. Normally, I loved that about it.
But that day, the sense of peaceful isolation felt... different. Or was I imagining it? Something was off, though I couldn’t quite place what. The familiar tranquility carried an edge to it. A twinge of unease tightened in my chest. At first, I brushed it off, but as I continued along the path, I scanned the ground, and then I saw it.
Scattered across the trail were small personal items, littered haphazardly like breadcrumbs leading nowhere. A wallet lay half-open, with a driver’s license and credit cards neatly tucked into their slots. A small inhaler sat beside it, its cap missing. Lip gloss, a nasal spray, and a few crumpled dollar bills lay on the ground—familiar, everyday things that seemed out of place in the dirt. There was no explanation.
I froze, my pulse pounding in my ears. I took a slow step forward, then another, the crunch of my hiking shoes on the gravel sounding unnervingly loud. My breath caught in my throat as I crouched down, fingertips brushing the wallet’s worn leather. No one would lose these things here by accident. Not like this. It was as if someone had dumped the contents of a woman’s purse—hurriedly, carelessly—like they had no time.
A chill crawled up my spine, and I swallowed hard. My mouth felt dry, and my gut churned with instinctive dread—a primal alert rising from deep within my brain, urging me to leave. I glanced over my shoulder, half-expecting someone to step out from behind the bushes, but there was only silence.
My mind raced, spinning through possibilities, none of them good. An inner voice whispered not to touch anything. This could be evidence. But concern drowned out the caution. I took out my phone, and documented the scene, snapping photos like I’d seen in movies. I crouched again, reaching for the wallet. Flipping it open, I thumbed through the contents: everything seemed to be there. Nothing was missing, which only made me more unsettling.
I studied the driver’s license: a woman in her mid-thirties, blond hair, bright eyes, with that faint, half-hearted smile people give when told to smile for a photo. She looked... normal. Completely ordinary. But now her belongings were scattered across a secluded path, out of place and abandoned.
I stood up, glancing around as if a woman from the photo might appear at any moment to explain herself. But the path was empty, no one in sight. As my gaze drifted, I noticed something else—a cluster of beer cans, some half-crushed, some standing upright by the bushes. A couple were unopened, as if someone had left them in a rush.
My stomach tightened. What happened here?
For a moment, I just waited, my mind spinning. Should I leave everything as it was and go back for help? What if something had happened to her, what if she was hurt, or worse? My thoughts jostled against each other, some practical, others fueled by fear, until finally, the decision clicked into place. I had to report this. The campus wasn’t far, and I remembered there was a small police office nearby. I picked up the wallet, my fingers tingling with nervous energy, and started walking.
When I reached the campus police office, the door was locked, the office looked deserted. Still, I pressed the doorbell. Nothing. I knocked, hoping someone might hear, but only silence answered.
Thankfully, a list of emergency contact numbers was taped to the door. I quickly called the first number using my phone. After a few rings, a groggy voice finally answered, clearing his throat as he registered my urgency.
"This is Officer D," he said, his voice sharpening. I quickly relayed everything—the path, the scattered items, the wallet. He asked for my name and address.
"Alright. I’m about 25 minutes away. You can wait there, or if you feel more comfortable, head home and I’ll meet you there."
The idea of standing alone in front of an empty office wasn’t attractive to me. I agreed to meet him at my house and started the walk back home.
When I arrived, my wife was already awake, her eyes concerned as I told her what I’d discovered. She listened attentively, her voice steady and calm, which helped settle some of the anxious energy still flowing through me. I sat by the window, watching the road, replaying the scene over in my mind—the scattered belongings, the wallet, that faint smile on the driver’s license.
Twenty-five minutes stretched longer than they should have, but finally, I saw the police car pull up outside. Officer D stepped out, tall and broad-shouldered. His expression was unreadable, practiced. I recounted everything, trying not to leave out any details. The more I spoke, the more his face shifted, tightening with recognition.
When I handed him the wallet with the driver’s license, something flickered across his face.
"I know this woman," he said quietly, hesitantly.
"You do?"
"Yeah," he replied, more confident now. "She works at the college. I’ve seen her around a few times."
I pulled out my phone and showed him the photos I'd taken of the scene. He looked at them carefully and asked me to send them to his phone.
"Don’t worry," he said, his voice measured. "I’ll contact her. I’ll handle it from here."
I nodded, but the way his words were delivered felt... rehearsed. Polished, like something they’re trained to say. He thanked me and turned to leave.
That night, the face from the driver’s license haunted me. No matter how hard I tried to distract myself, her image kept creeping back into my mind. I replayed the scene—her belongings scattered along the road less traveled, the unopened beer cans, and Officer D’s visit. Sleep didn’t come easily. Instead, I lay there, my thoughts spiraling obsessively, searching for a way out of the labyrinth inside my head. When I finally drifted off, my dreams were a jumble of blurred faces leaving me more exhausted than before.
Why did this event stir something so deeply in my mind? I was curious about the intensity of emotions I was experiencing.
"Why did this get under my skin?" I asked Tina, hoping for some clarity. She shrugged, her response practical. "If it were me, I would’ve just thought she got drunk, dropped her stuff, and went home. You’re overthinking it."
Maybe she was right, but I couldn’t just brush it off. It made me question whether I had become a creature of habit, someone in need of predictability, always trying to foresee the future. This tendency is embedded in the human mind, especially in those of us prone to anxiety. We constantly expect familiar things to calm our minds, and when something new, unexpected, or foreign enters our field of vision, it alarms us. It triggers an immediate response in our brains, searching for signs of danger and activating the fight-or-flight response through the sympathetic nervous system—our primal mechanism for survival. This survival instinct is so finely tuned and intense that it creates a state we cannot easily ignore. On top of that, we begin strategizing and planning how to defend ourselves and return to a sense of safety.
Reflecting on this helps me understand myself better, revealing more layers to shed, even though I’ve already released many through healing practices and writing. Every situation reminds me that there are still more things to uncover, release, and integrate.
I decided to take action and shift my state of mind. I remembered the teachings of Sri Preethaji, a oneness spirituality teacher from India, who introduced a simple yet powerful practice to transform an inner state of suffering and emotional anguish into one of calm and peace. I sat cross-legged and began the Serene Mind meditation, a brief three-minute practice. Taking three slow, measured breaths, I focused on my inner state and feelings, labeling them and observing the direction of my thoughts. I visualized a tiny flame between my eyebrows, moving to the center of my brain, illuminating the seat of higher consciousness and awareness. Gradually, everything began to feel lighter and more manageable. The knot of tension that had gripped me loosened, though it didn’t dissolve completely. A sense of unease lingered at the edges, refusing to let go, though it no longer affected me as strongly as it had the previous day.
Gradually, with the ongoing practice of Serene Mind meditation, my inner state shifted from a heightened survival mode to a state of surrender and trust that Officer D would take the appropriate steps to resolve the situation that had disturbed me so deeply. I let go of my need to control the outside environment from a place of anxiety and fear, realizing that the right course of action was to stay open and pray that the woman in the driver’s license photo was already safe and unharmed.
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