The days of Joshua Tree are behind us. I took the smell of creosote with me in a small green bottle. The smell of camp smoke is gone from my hair, but I still smell it in my son's jacket. We never found the Live Oak, but the rabbits found us. I worked pages and Skype sessions with yucca trees and Day-Glo skies outside my window. The Mojave gave us sage and stars, and every rock encountered became stones for our holy road. I don't see everything from where I stand; but what I do see makes me borrow Anne Lamott's three words for prayer over and over: Help, Thanks, Wow.