More Beauty, More Wild

The boys and I went on a day hike last week. We set out with water, granola bars, two cameras - one for me and one for Theo - and nothing but hope for a really good adventure. On the trail, Theo mostly stayed by my side. He's a budding photographer, already training his eye to see the world around him from a different perspective. While Sully is almost always twenty steps ahead and throwing something at something, Theo is paused, thinking, framing. It had just rained and the heavy canopy of dense clouds gave way to a blue sky with steam visibly coming off of the red rock. When Sully wasn't running or throwing found sticks and stones he was crouched over puddles, brimming with juicy pink worms, picking. All around us the constant din of our everyday was muted and replaced with a flutter of electric blue dragonflies and, overhead, the birds. Oh, the birds! Western bluebirds, magpies, the fancy performers - the tree swallows, and one beautiful female Stellar's jay. I was gobsmacked by the gorgeous blooms, most of which I could (sadly) not identify, along with a mental note to bump a western flower guide to the top of my purchasing list. The boys prayed, just prayed, they'd see a rattlesnake. (We didn't!) I prayed for more of this. More dry, clicking, high desert. More beauty. More wild.


I've also been meaning to pop in here and share some book recommendations. I have read so many good books in the past couple months, but these are the ones that I really loved.

Remembering Miss O'Keeffe: Stories from Abiquiu - Margaret Wood


String of Moons

I stood in the middle of the dirt road. Here and there a raven swooped low, silent. I inched over for a hint of shade, rolled my bare foot in my Teva over a pile of crunchy gravel in the shape of an infinity symbol. Eighteen years ago, I lived here. In between the mesa and endless sky and sagebrush and pink dust. It was a simple and beautiful time in my life. 

I didn't come back here this time intending to feel what I felt then but I did, which was grounded and immeasurably peaceful. Eighteen years ago I wasn't able to clearly distinguish that the scent of piƱon and the dry cracks in river's bed, lined with paintbrush, cracked open a deep part of me. Perhaps I wasn't looking for it then, just living the experience as I often did in my early twenties. But now I know, and I am bright-eyed with wonder.

As I moved along the road, camera clutched by my side, I titled my head up to the sun and let the warmth of New Mexico shine down on me. Behind the lens my focus came clearly into view. The mesa, the brilliant American Southwest. I feel something like home here, something like I feel when I am at ocean's lip.

During this trip I welcomed my fortieth year. I felt absolutely sure I was in the right place at the right time for this special occasion. And perhaps this time in my life that I've been approaching and pondering for a string of moons now has a little something to do with why I haven't been able to lay down words lately. The language that is brewing inside of me these days is so big, so full, so good, so rich and so poor, that I cannot do much besides live moment by moment, whispering: grateful, grateful, grateful.

I have added three new prints, taken at Ghost Ranch, to the print shop in very limited edition.


The problem with taking time off from writing is that when you do decide that you must write again despite the voice in your head telling you to just keep taking time off, your head and heart and soul have grown a layer so thick you begin to feel as if you cannot breathe, as if you are beginning to suffocate.

This is the thing about being a writer: your life depends on it.