The sign by the road said 'San Tominga River', so I slowed the van down and skidded off the road onto the shoulder. I walked back to the bridge and gazed down at the dry river bed, now full of sage, prickly pear, and a hundred other textures. As dry as this river is, the sign remains, proclaiming its rightful path. The symbolism was so heavy that I had to acknowledge it: as artists, as creators: once we have established our place in the world, everything around works in harmony. Even through dry spells, our river of creativity remains, waiting to be filled again. No matter how dry, this place is still a river. The same is true of creativity.