When you first come to the desert,
You know it by what it doesn't have:
"Wow there are no trees!"
"No grass!"
"All you have here is rocks and sand!"

Often people feel it so bare and foreign:
They quickly cover the desert with green like the Amazon.1

Later, sometimes, they see
That the vastness of the desert has its own stark beauty.
They see that this nothingness of the desert
Is really a lack of noise and distraction.
And with all the distraction gone
You can sense something that you never knew was there.
And then you have fallen in love with the desert.

G‑d too fell in love with the desert.
The vastness and emptiness
Where nothing calls attention away from Him.
No water, no plants, no agriculture,
No accomplishment and really no endeavor.
Just Him.

He likes it when people appreciate the desert
In themselves.
Notwithstanding accomplishment and gumption,
Simply realizing that in the face of Him
There is no accomplishment, no endeavor large enough
To be worthy of taking away from Him.

He loved the desert so much
That he wanted to get married there.
And he wanted his kalla-maiden to have that desert quality.
"That you followed after me into the desert,
A land where nothing grows."

So the Jewish people got married in the desert of Sinai
And have a 600,000-letter document to prove it.
And this document they cherish.
We got this at Sinai, they say,
Because they treasure where they got it too.

Now the Jewish people are again in the desert:
Part of the Jewish people.
The Coachella, in my case.

We see something more about the desert.
We see that it is full of water, but the water is down below
And we have to bring it up.
The desert too now has room even for our accomplishment.
And it still is vast and beautiful
With a stark and awesome beauty.