The way I consumed this book and, equally, was consumed by it is something I will hold dear for the rest of my life.

Her prose is so delicate, yet when combined with the intensity of the political navigations and conversations about the wilderness, it perfectly encapsulates what it feels like to be held by the desert.

It is both raw and vulnerable, spiritual and brimming with truth. This book feels highly pertinent, especially considering the decades of past threats to the wild that are now filtering through current events.

Through her words, I feel closer to myself, my art, and my connection to the desert. I wholeheartedly recommend that everyone indulges in reclaiming their erotic connection to the land and lives a life with the responsibility to steward the land respectfully.

This is a perfect book. The feeling it left me with is similar to that of "Braiding Sweetgrass," but this one feels even closer to home, perhaps because it relates to the Colorado Plateau, my upbringing in the desert, and the act of writing itself.

It's truly a remarkable literary work that has touched my soul and will, I'm sure, have a profound impact on many others.

Many of my current and recent paintings are adorned with flowing red lines of varying widths. My artist friend, Kirsten, is constantly inquisitive, repeatedly asking me what all this red truly means. I frequently respond with a simple word: "Passion!" But deep down, I am aware that it implies so much more.

This book serves as a profound meditation on the desert in Utah and the wilderness. It is not merely a study of the natural landscapes but also an in-depth exploration of the color red. Through this exploration, I am not only learning but also being compelled to discover what the color red signifies to me within the context of my paintings and my life.

Red has always held a special allure for me. It is a color that evokes strong emotions, ranging from love and desire to anger and danger. In my paintings, the red lines seem to dance and flow, as if they have a life of their own. They add a sense of energy and dynamism to the otherwise static canvas.

As I delve deeper into the meaning of red, I am beginning to understand that it represents much more than just a color. It is a symbol of my inner self, a reflection of my deepest passions and desires. It is a way for me to express myself and connect with the world around me.

This is mainly a rather unvaried compilation of stories regarding the significance to Williams of the redrock region in southern Utah, and the reasons why it should be conserved and safeguarded. The writing pertains to her spiritual sentiments towards this land, yet there isn't really a great deal about what the rocks and the landscape itself convey. Reflecting her faith, she learns from this country "humility in the face of Creation, reverence in the presence of God." In the words of Brigham Young, this country reveals, as she quotes, the "'stupendous works of God of nature.'" That's one perspective, but is Williams sensing the land or God? Another way to view it is that the colors, scents, contrasts, and the sun exist independently. The vastness of space and time, the tiny niches of life, the beauty and grandeur of emptiness are independent of (external) spirit or God. Regarding humility and reverence, this country can speak for itself.

In her "Ode to Slowness," Williams describes her transition from Salt Lake City to the red rock country. "Although we have left the city," she writes, "it has taken my body months to slow down, to recover a rhythm in my heart that moves my body first and my mind second." This is an excellent chapter - in terms of feel, insight, and writing. She states that "we want more" [so] "We wanted less." The reader can sense her reevaluation of time and the awakening of senses. More than any other part of the book, this transports the reader to a place where time and space nearly come to a halt.

**A Review of "Red: Passion and Patience in the Desert"**

A lovely, transformative book about a lovely, transformative place.

"Red: Passion and Patience in the Desert" by Terry Tempest Williams was my constant companion on a recent road trip to some of America's most stunning national parks. We visited Arches, Canyonlands, Capitol Reef, and Zion, but unfortunately, time didn't permit a stop at Bryce Canyon. It was an incredible journey to these breathtaking wild areas, and the book was the perfect match. I had initially planned to reread "Desert Solitaire" by Abbey but was deterred by the emerging critical research on his racist and sexist views. Williams, on the other hand, has an abundance of love and respect for the wild, quiet places, especially the desert landscapes of Utah. She is a far more lyrical writer, and her style beautifully suits the haunting beauty of the desert.

As a poet, Williams brings a powerful and effective approach to her writing about the desert's transformative power and the need to protect these beautiful places from development and the harmful effects of resource-extraction industries. She combines personal experiences, stories, poems, selections from other authors, and even media coverage to present a comprehensive view of the red-rock wilderness, the people and animals that inhabit it, and the encroaching threats. She also offers a broader perspective on why wilderness and solitude are so crucial.

It was extremely satisfying to relax in a hotel bed, my legs tired from hiking the Fisher Towers trail, sipping a beer and reading about Williams' observations and inspirations while she hiked the same trail. However, two aspects prevented the book from receiving a five-star rating. Firstly, its age. Published in 2001, the book's warnings about a pro-industry conservative administration under then-Interior Secretary James Watt seem somewhat outdated in the context of the current environmental crisis in 2020. Of course, this is not the author's fault, but it does make her hopeful outlook on the future seem a bit hollow. Williams could not have predicted that environmental regulation under the current administration would be so much worse than what she described.

The second criticism is more nuanced. The conservation ethic that Williams and many other conservationists advocate is rooted in the privilege of wealth. The ability to find solitude in America's most beautiful wild places requires a level of privilege that many, if not most, people do not have. In her case, moving to the desert and getting to know the place so intimately is not only impractical for most people but would also be disastrous for the wild places if everyone did it. As we witnessed on "free park day" in Zion National Park, the era of having quiet, contemplative time alone in these beautiful places is long gone. There were thousands of visitors lined up, and hundreds waiting for each shuttle bus, even during the pandemic when international visitors were absent. While the number of visitors decreased somewhat as the week went on, finding a place to sit alone and quietly reflect on the desert's transformative effects was simply impossible.

The desire to experience nature is what threatens nature. The challenge of conservation is that the experiences we value, such as awe, peace, serenity, and stillness, come at a high cost: more people in the parks. There are simply too many of us interested in a wilderness experience for the wilderness to survive in the long term, at least as Williams knows it. The author attempts, admirably, to cultivate an appreciation for nature based on eroticism (distinct from sexuality). But even this requires sharing space with the places we cherish. I can't help but think that a more appropriate appreciation of nature requires developing an inner appreciation for the existence of wilderness, not just the experience of being in it, and certainly not the selfie-driven desire to merely document our brief presence.

This is, of course, a challenge, but as our population continues to grow, anything less than this will replace the potential of a meaningful experience in the wild with simply joining a line of other visitors to take a selfie at a famous place. Williams writes, "When we are in our urban skin, what we know is largely translated through television, radio, billboards, newspapers, magazines, and the Internet, fast-paced conversations we catch on the run. We maneuver our way through a maze of shimmering surfaces, concrete, glass, and asphalt. Speed is our adaptation to an abstract life." My experience in Arches and Zion is that even the desert can't quiet people enough to make them leave that pace behind. The only thing that changed for the crowds was the setting. At first, we were a bit annoyed, but upon deeper reflection, we made peace with it. Why shouldn't people want to see and experience these amazing places, even if only briefly and from a moving car? Thinking that they exist for a select few to have a spiritual moment only creates aggravation and conflict.

I left the park believing that what we should really focus on is cultivating an appreciation of quiet contemplation, of the magic of life, at all times. This, hopefully, will drive us to cherish and more thoughtfully sustain all of the environments we live in, including the wilderness. It may be easier to do this in the wilderness, but we must be able to access this peace and quiet, this thoughtful life, regardless of our surroundings. Perhaps with just an occasional visit to the "real" thing. Looking at the chaos of 2020, my hopes are not overly high. But reading authors like Williams reminds me that there is a better way, one that doesn't exist only in Utah, national parks, or the wilderness. It exists within each of us.

I read this on an early morning plane to Utah. Williams's REFUGE, which is an absolute masterpiece, was largely responsible for taking me to Utah in the first place.

However, this collection was disappointing. Much of the writing seemed rushed, and nothing much sank in for me. The titular essay about discerning variation in color was interesting, and of course I support her intentions. But I can't say that anything from this book has really lingered with me a week after reading it.

Perhaps I should blame reading it on a dark plane at five in the morning after a night of sleeplessness? Maybe the circumstances weren't ideal for truly absorbing the content. Or perhaps the book simply didn't have the same impact as REFUGE. It's hard to say for sure. But one thing is certain: this collection didn't live up to my expectations.

I had high hopes for it, especially after being so impressed with REFUGE. But unfortunately, it fell short. I'll still look forward to reading more of Williams's work in the future, hoping that she'll once again produce something that truly moves me.

Some lines that I particularly liked:

"Desert Mothers, all of us, pregnant with possibilities, in the service of life, domestic and wild. It is our freedom to choose how we wish to live, labor, and sacrifice in the name of love. We are like the fertile ground in the desert, filled with the potential for growth and transformation. Whether in the domestic sphere or in the wild, we have the power to shape our lives according to our beliefs and values."

"Perhaps the difference between repetition and boredom lies in our willingness to believe in surprise, the subtle shifts of form that loom large in a trained and patient eye. Repetition can become a source of boredom if we do not approach it with an open mind and a sense of curiosity. However, if we are willing to look for the unexpected, we may discover that repetition can also lead to new insights and understandings."

"Perhaps an index to misery is when we no longer perceive beauty - that which stirs the heart - or have lost a willingness to embrace change. Beauty has the power to move us, to inspire us, and to give us hope. When we lose our ability to see beauty, we may become trapped in a world of dullness and despair. Similarly, when we resist change, we may miss out on the opportunities for growth and renewal that it brings."

"But I believe our desire to share is more potent and trustworthy than our desire to be alone. Human beings are social creatures, and we thrive on connection and interaction with others. Sharing our experiences, our thoughts, and our feelings with others can bring us a sense of fulfillment and purpose. While there are times when we may need to be alone to reflect and recharge, our need for connection ultimately outweighs our need for solitude."

I find myself in a situation where I am allowing myself not to complete this task.

It gives the impression of being overly wrought and pretentious, as if there have been numerous missed opportunities to persuade those who are not already inclined towards environmentalism to care and take action.

There is a sense of dissatisfaction and a feeling that more could have been done to engage and motivate a wider audience.

Perhaps with a different approach or more effective communication strategies, it would have been possible to make a stronger impact and encourage greater participation in environmental causes.

However, as it stands, I am left with a sense of regret and a recognition that there is still much work to be done in order to reach those who may not yet be fully committed to environmental protection.

It is important to continue to find ways to bridge the gap and inspire others to take responsibility for the planet we all share.

This book was published in 2001.

At that time, the GW Bush administration was making great efforts to open up the wilderness areas in Utah and neighboring states to the exploitation of oil, gas, and mineral companies. They did this by reversing the protections that the Clinton administration had established.

In “Red,” Williams details the events and the political battle. Most importantly, she explains why having small islands of protected land here and there is crucial. It helps prevent natural species of all kinds, including plants, animals, and insects, from losing their healthy diversity.

Williams not only delves into the politics but also uses both ancient and current stories to bring to life the places she is discussing. Her writing is so beautiful that it transports you to these magnificent desert spaces and reveals their abundance in an almost tangible way.

Now, twenty years later, this book has unfortunately become relevant once again. The same battles are being fought to safeguard these wild places from unrestricted exploitation and destruction. On the conservation side, we should be the stewards of these lands, preserving what remains of our wilderness for future generations.

Wilderness is a place that has always held a special allure for me.

It is a realm untouched by the hands of man, a place where nature reigns supreme.

The vast expanses of forests, the majestic mountains, and the pristine lakes all combine to create a landscape of breathtaking beauty.

When I am in the wilderness, I feel a sense of peace and tranquility that is hard to find elsewhere.

The sounds of the birds chirping, the rustling of the leaves in the wind, and the gentle lapping of the water on the shore all work together to create a symphony of nature.

Wilderness also offers a chance for adventure and exploration.

There are hidden trails to discover, secret waterfalls to visit, and uncharted territories to explore.

It is a place where I can push my limits and discover my true potential.

In conclusion, the wilderness is a place of great beauty and wonder.

It is a place that I will always cherish and return to again and again.

I have a deep love for TTW and I am currently in the process of devouring as many of her books as I can discover at the library. This particular one, which was written partly to encourage activist involvement in safeguarding the canyonlands and red rock wilderness in Utah from being exploited, wasn't my absolute favorite. TTW has a profound connection to the West and her family's roots there, and like most of her books, this connection is highly prominent in this one.

This is a compilation of essays, some of which were previously published, and it centers on this desert landscape. While some individuals view little more than exploitable resources or additional land for settlement here, Terry描绘了一幅充满激情的画面，强调了尽可能保持这片土地原始状态的重要性。她在遍布该地区的岩画中看到了古老的阿纳萨齐文化的遗迹。她享受这里的空旷、鲜艳的色彩、炎热以及在此艰难生存的野生动物。作为一名狂热的徒步旅行者，她许多最抒情的段落都是对她在这片充满挑战的景观中徒步旅行时的经历的致敬。

她清醒地看到了对她的激进主义的反对以及拯救这片土地的迫切需求。她的家族靠开垦土地和铺设管道为石油和天然气行业以及最近的电缆行业谋生。他们对她的环保主义以及她为了保护濒危物种而愿意减少家族生计的行为并不满意。她所生活的这片土地不仅仅是红色的……因为这是一个政治上非常保守的州，而她则是反对这些政治立场的人之一。她描述了美国东部（所有那些蓝色精英居住的地方）和西部之间的紧张关系。西部人对联邦政府以及公共土地所有权和保护的精英主义目标深感不满，他们更倾向于不受限制的个人主义，这种个人主义使得广泛的开发能够使少数人受益。似乎生活在西部的白人中，很少有人足够珍视这片土地来保护它。相反，它被视为一个私人的财富宝库，不应由更广泛的社区来控制。当然，原住民被排除在这场对话之外，他们最初被驱逐，如今更愿意将这片土地视为神圣之地加以保护。

威廉姆斯女士是一个充满激情的声音，她挑战了我们尽可能向世界扩张的欲望。在一篇文章中，她描述了自己个人决定进一步搬入摩押附近的沙漠，远离盐湖城及其不断扩大的城市扩张。她和她的丈夫为了沙漠生活的宁静和不确定性，牺牲了收入、安全和与家人的亲近。我很钦佩她这一点。她愿意践行自己的信念，这使她成为了一位杰出的作家。

但是《红色》不像她的其他一些书那样引人入胜，也许是因为它有时过于个人化和富有诗意，以至于我很难与她的感受产生共鸣。我不像她那样对“土地”有情感联系；我在城市中出生和长大。所以当她描述土地如何激起性冲动时，我无法理解。对我来说，她描述她的家人在保护陆龟问题上的紧张关系、随着百万富翁在附近建造巨大豪宅她对家乡的疏离感，以及她从一位100多年前为土地而战的女性作家那里获得的灵感的那些部分，是她最有效的。

在她所写的众多书籍中，这不会是我首先推荐阅读的一本。《避难所》涵盖了一些相同的领域，而且更有效。但这本书确实有助于像我这样的人更好地理解那些反对我们保护美国这一地区免受钻探和城市扩张破坏的力量。她描述迁徙走廊需求的那一部分尤其出色，并提出了一个如今正被气候学家和环保主义者越来越多地讨论的保护概念。为了理解这个重要概念，拿起这本书是值得的。

I was traveling through southern Utah when I read this, and it truly enhanced my trip. However, the book is a bit of an eclectic mix and not entirely consistent. I wouldn't necessarily consider it her best work, at least based on other pieces I've read. Nevertheless, there are some memorable gems within its pages. For example, the story about meeting Lady Bird Johnson at a spa where she gave a speech was quite interesting. I learned that Lyndon believed it wasn't the Vietnam War that made him realize he would lose if he ran for a second term, but rather the signing of the Civil Rights Act. This act caused him to lose the support of Southern Democrats.

The first time I witnessed the red rock country of the Four Corners area, I was truly awed. It is not just in the overused sense of the word, as a mere verbal hiccup to exaggerate the ordinary and insignificant. Instead, it is in the true sense of awesome: inspiring an overwhelming feeling of reverence, admiration, and even a hint of fear.

To put it into perspective, I am by no means an outdoor enthusiast. (When I say my idea of camping involves room service, people think I'm joking, but I'm not.) When Terry Tempest Williams describes the sensual experience of drinking from a desert stream, she contemplates the life-giving moisture and the cool hand that sustains the fragile life of the region. For me, however, I'm thinking, "There's no way I would do that. You have no idea what kind of heavy metals from mining operations, fallout from weapons testing, or just bacteria from toad skin and lizard feces are in that puddle!" Suffice it to say, I appreciate nature, but from a distance and with a Britta filter in my water bottle.

Terry Tempest Williams wrote Red to draw attention to the battle to protect and preserve the delicate ecological balance of the red rock country. The book was published shortly after 9/11. At that time, depending on your perspective, the country was either desperate to become energy self-sufficient and exploit any resources to that end, or corporations and politicians were all too eager to feed on fear in order to finally turn a profit on what some considered wasted land. The issue of land rights and the debate between state, federal, and private use is a long and contentious one in the West. TTW manages to demonstrate how complex and personal this fight is without coming across as an extremist or irrational.

The book is not solely about environmental politics. TTW also writes about the land as a living entity, as inspiration for her poetry, and as a powerful soul-shredding/soul-healing experience. Some of her poetry is included, such as a transcript of her testimony before the Senate. Her writing is often lyrical, sensual, and tinged with the fine red dust of the desert southwest. This is the book I was hoping for when I read Trespass a few weeks ago. It's still part memoir, part non-fiction, part plea, but it has balance and a more self-aware tone. I can't help but compare this favorably to The Anthropology of Turquoise by Ellen Meloy, which was published perhaps a year after this book.