Welcome to Santiago.

Welcome to Santiago, Chile.

The city spreads out in front of you - little shops, miles of suburban trees, clusters of towers, old and new - physical evidence of a complex history, trauma, resilience - that still filters through today.

It's late summer now. The days stretch until almost 10 pm, and the afternoons are far too hot to be comfortable in the sun - but perfect under the shade of a good, leafy tree. The city has hundreds of thousands of them, but they're almost all imported. This - is desert.

Well, and mountain.

Turn a corner around a modern, glass-sided monolith and you'll be knocked back by twenty thousand feet of glacier-topped Andes, looming impossibly large. Cactus and espino dot their slopes until the oxygen runs out. Tree lines. Gravel. The dwindling of life into lichens, the baking of the sun, patches of soil and ice too close to the stars for anything to grow.

It is, broadly, Western Latin America. Empanadas, ceviche and pisco are the staples of choice; fresh potatoes, avocados, beans and onions are combined into an array of delicious concoctions.

But it is also very much its own. Its own language - traffic jams are tacos. A Condoro is a mistake, not a bird.

And it is quiet. The most introverted place I've lived on this continent. The streets are quiet, parties generally shut down at reasonable hours, and I've never heard anyone shout. Even the police cars and fire trucks hesitate to blare their sirens unless it is absolutely necessary.

And things are built well, to last. A byproduct of living on the Pacific ring of fire, where 7 and 8-point-something earthquakes are a matter of when, not if.

And it is - for the next few months - home.

I've gotten to know a pair of local hawks, Chimango Caracara that sing a duet each day, as the sun sets. Watched it dip in a pink blaze, creeping northward, peak by peak, night by night. Learned the rhythms of the neighborhood cats that wander the connected rooftops. Heard the rain - a rare visitor - drum across the city. But I know I've just scratched the surface, and after ten years of travel, I know that's all I'll ever really do, even with months of time and effort. But every place, every culture, every people, every person - the time spent digging in is so, so worth it.

...

It's been a year to the day since I've sent one of these letters, and not from a lack of activity. I've been working on a video game, an album of music, and a book of photos. I've built a few apps to help with living meaningfully and focusing on what matters. My creative life has been rich, active, deep. But private.

Then a few nights ago, my favorite band - Toad the Wet Sprocket - released a new album. An acoustic set, from songs spanning their entire 30+ years of making music together.

As I listened, I was hit by how powerfully connected I felt to them and their music, even though we've never met. It felt like I'd had a distant friend for my entire adult life who I never quite kept up with, but could see and feel going through life, wrestling with the same struggles of aging and meaning and art and death. Gaining the same hard-won bits of wisdom. Felt grateful, grounded, less alone.

And remembered, for the first time in a while, that this too, is what art does for us - and that it was time to start putting my work, my song, back out in the world again.

So, hi. Welcome back. I'm going to try sending things more regularly but probably replying less. I've learned that being exposed as a person on the internet isn't my favorite thing, and even went so far this year as to set up a pseudonym and start putting work out over there. For years I've been wrestling to find solution to the tension between being a deeply introverted, rather private person, and putting out real, authentic work that is deeply personal into the world.

And for now, I think my answer is that, well, I'm me, regardless of what the byline says. And having people reach out and respond to what I make is a privilege, not a burden. If you've sent me a reply over the years, thank you. It means a lot to know that folks have connected with the things I've written and made. And if you're someone who's never reached out, who sits and reads, and is grateful for a far-away companion on your journey, just like I am with Toad the Wet Sprocket, thank you, too. Here's to all of us, in this big journey together, especially in these stormy times.

I'll be back with another letter or some photos or something completely different, sooner rather than later. See you soon - and until then, take care of yourself.

With lots of love,

-Steven