My tank was almost empty. In the desert of the Navajo Nation Tribal Reservation you can go more than an hour between gas stations, and I didn’t know if I had an hour left in the tank. So when I passed a station attached to a laundry mat I pulled in without a second thought, chuckling to myself when I saw that instead of other cars there were two horses (unsaddled) wandering between the pumps.

As I was reaching for my camera to take their picture, I realized I wasn’t alone after all. A group of five men, middle aged (though it was hard to tell), were leaning against a nearby wall. They sized me up, unmoving. Their clothes were ragged, sandy. Are they homeless? Here? In the desert? They aren’t dangerous, are they? I kept repeating those last words like mantra, as the tank filled at what seemed 1/10th the normal speed.

Thunk. The nozzle popped open. My tank was full, and I was still alive. The men still hadn’t moved. I laughed a little bit at my fears as I got back into the car, then leaned over to clean up some of the junk in my passenger’s side seat.

That’s when I heard it, the knock, knock, knock. I wheeled around, and there in my side window was the face of one of the men, nose nearly pressed into the glass. Where are my keys? Did I lock the doors? Is he going to try to get in? Where are the locks on this damned rental car?!

He had a bloated face with sagging jowls, short mussed up hair, and a weeks-worth of gray and dark stubble; his shirt was torn, and it look liked he had either been wallowing in the desert or hadn’t washed it in some time. He was making noise, but I couldn’t understand him. Is it English? Are they words? He rapped on the glass again, pointed back at the others, then slowly he pointed a single solitary finger at me. What did it mean? Was it a threat? 

I found my keys, but still couldn’t find the locks. What if he tries to get into my car? What if I lock it, and it sends him into a rage? Does he have a gun? What if I drive away and that causes more trouble?

Finally, I decided to yell through the glass and pantomime, “I don’t understand you.” “I don’t understand what you’re saying”, then: “I’m going to turn on the car”, and finally: “I’m going to drive away.” He continued to gesture. His face was a kaleidoscope of emotion I couldn’t quite decipher, ever changing in the light – pleading, helpful, hungry, angry, drugged, insane, meek, defeated.

I peeled out of the gas station. No one followed. What had he wanted? Waves of residual fear, relief, and guilt kept me company the next three hours as I drove into the growing darkness. 

Stepping back, I’ve been shocked by the scale and depth of the abject poverty I’ve witnessed in many of the reservations in the Southwest. For instance, in the Navajo Nation, an autonomous region in Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah that is larger than Massachusetts, the average income is ~$25,000 per year, ~47% of households live below the poverty line, obesity is the norm, and cancer rates are multiples the national average. Driving through the desert I’ve been aghast to see so many dilapidated shanties and trailers completely disconnected from the grid.

But before my run-in at the gas station, as someone just driving through, I’d just been seeing this world through a photographer’s eye. Having not actually met or talked to any of the people, it was easy for me to abstract the people who live here, turning the dwellings into the subject of my lens – either capturing their “beautiful suffering” – or using it to provide scale for the beauty of the stark natural landscape. But in the aftermath of my encounter, and then subsequently meeting so many Navajo people the last few weeks, I now see the world is a very different way, and it’s felt immoral somehow to snap photos the region’s poverty.

The absurdity of it all is heightened for me in that these areas are also tourist destinations for much older ruins. But unlike the modern day ruins of the reservation, these ruins are vaunted and protected. People (like me) collectively pay millions of dollars to camp near, photograph, and climb in places like Mesa Verde National Park and Chaco Canyon National Monument.

But what is the right response to it? In the face of it all, I’ve felt so powerless. What I’m seeing here breaks my heart and makes me feel ashamed that we have places in America that feel no better than the slums I’ve seen in Tegucigalpa, Zimbabwe or Johannesburg. But what am I supposed to do?

As I’ve been thinking about these questions the last few days, I realized this word “ruin” has been haunting my mind for some time now, well before I came to the southwest. Wallowing in my own self-pity, I felt like my life had become a heap of rubble. I hoped that by going on my journey alone to the west, and surrounding myself with miraculous rock formations and endless desert vistas, I’d find a wellspring of new internal strength in order to rebuild my life. And yet, what I’m finding is the greatest rebuilding has not been when I am alone, but when I am sharing new (and unexpected) moments of connection and love. In Sedona, at my teacher training, it was seeing and being seen in my brokenness by strangers - and still being loved fiercely. In Denver, Santa Fe and Albuquerque it was talking late into the night about tragedies, fears, and hopes with old friends and family who I’d always kept at a surface level before.

And in Taos, it was also meeting another homeless Native American man. This time on the street. His clothes as torn, his hair as disheveled as man at the gas station. It was getting dark and he was carrying a sketchy looking plastic bag. As I passed he raised his voice and asked me to stop. I was afraid, but I tried to bring an intention of love to whatever was about to happen. From his bag he pulled something. Was it a weapon? I burst out laughing. it was a bundle of sage tied together with a string! And mountain sage is one of my favorite smells in the world. I only had $5 in my wallet. Handing it to him, I asked if I could have the sage. He eagerly said yes, and then pulled second bundle of sage from his bag to give me for free.

30 minutes later I ran into him again. This time he opened with a smile and a big wave. I asked him how the sage selling was going, he looked back at me grinning and proudly said, “You wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve actually sold more! You are my lucky charm!” We both laughed aloud together and gave each other a pound, fist to fist.

I know my encounter will not change the economic trajectory of this man or this region. But rather than obsess on all that can’t be done, there is much I can do: be eager to learn what is real, be curious to discover new ways to help, connect authentically with everyone I meet, and be generous (in wallet and spirit!). You may say this doesn’t amount to much, but it’s what I have to give. And if my heart is convicted, and if I can, why should I hold it back? I am no ruin.