Hot Eye

Ojo Caliente.  Hot Eye.  Yesterday's foray was to Ojo Caliente, a hot springs that has been on my must see list for as long as I can remember.  No more excuses since it is only 50 miles and an hour or so away from the casita.  Once again my ride took me north through Espanola, some pueblos/reservations and beautiful landscape.  Except for Espanola.  That is not a picturesque town.

The springs were empty, and I was thankful that I arrived early.  I had the whole place to myself for about the first two hours.  The morning was chilly so I took that time to write.  And write I did.  Lovely spa-like music softly playing on the outdoor speakers, facing the sunshine in my bathing suit and bathrobe, hat to keep the warmth in and hobo gloves to keep my hands workable.  I frequent hot springs often, and I feel I have the gear down to a science.  Even in winter I might need sunscreen, I have ear plugs in case I want to dunk under, goggles if there is a long enough stretch to do some laps.  I keep a hot springs bag packed in my car at all times.  Even when I go to clothing optional places, I still take a suit.  Rules change, too many little kids... anything can happen.

Yesterday was bathing suits required.  The only problem with that is its colder to lay out in a wet bather*, than have the sun dry your skin.  The other interesting tidbit was that most springs are cell phone free zones.  Not this one.  Of course when people are parading around au natural, the venue has a responsibility to enforce no photos, no phones to protect the privacy of the guests.  When bathing suits are required and phones are allowed however, the experience is changed.

While I did not hear any phones ringing, the selfie generation was out in full bloom as the place became more busy.  Cell phones were placed on the edges of the pools and owners were admonishing strangers not to get their phones wet.  While I would never purposely damage someone else's property, I also feel it is not my responsibility to look after other peoples electronics if they choose to have them around water.  It was also off-putting to see people chatting to themselves.  For me the hot springs is a place to leave the distractions of the outside world behind.  A few short hours of being unplugged and unavailable is wonderful to replenish my spirit.  Life has taught me that when I return to my car and power up my phone all the messages, texts, FB post, etc. are there.  Nothing disappeared into the ether.  It has just been delayed.

Ojo, as the locals say, offers a mud bath opportunity.  It is in a little section and a spouting fountain of liquid mud invites me to slather myself brown.  The mud is cold, and the instructions encourage me to sit on a chair and allow the sludge to air dry.  The coolness wanes as the mud evaporates, then starts to dry, and finally kind of hardens and begins to crack on my skin.  This must be curative, because I know I look silly.  But so does everyone in the area.  There is a pool to dunk into and start the process of washing the liquid dirt off my skin.  It is warm and kind of milky in texture, though not in color.  The reddish brown hue precludes me from seeing the bottom, so I gingerly take the steps as a visit to the ER is never in my plans.  The large tub is actually shallow and feels really good to hang out in.  After a while, I emerge and hit the showers a few steps away.  Yes it is January in the southwest, where it is usually cold and I am showering outside with no ill effects.  Yummy.

Since there are eight pools total, I do try them all.  One is a silent soda springs in a lean-to.  I am the only person in there and I float on my back for a long while.  There is also a lithium pool - that demands my attention!  Lithium is a good pain reliever for my rheumatoid arthritis, so I take full advantage.  There is a cold plunge pool, where I could swim laps if I wanted to, but I don't want to.  I am digging the heat today and my bones are a bit achy.  No need to subject my body to discomfort.  The arsenic tub is the hottest and the writer in my ruminates about the irony and metaphor of this.  Mmm.

My happy spot here at Ojo is the eucalyptus steam room.  I make several trips to this hot, steamy chamber.  In Colorado my best meditation takes place in the steam bath, so I indulge in a short relaxing 'sit' for my mental health.  There is also a dry sauna, and since everything is included in the admission price (about twenty-six bucks) I go in there as well.  There is a young man with dreadlocks sitting on the top bench in the most relaxed lotus pose I have ever seen.  I long for the days when my hips behaved like that!  When I sit cross-legged I have wings that splay upwards.

How much relaxation can I take?  I want to drive back in daylight, so I hit the showers where there are lovely products to refresh me.  While in the locker room there are millennials on their damn phones.  Another reason to disallow them - but especially in a place where nudity is expected.  Privacy people.

My decision to come back as the sun is setting is richly rewarded.  For a long stretch of the highway I have the full moon rising on my left, and the sun setting on my right.  They are perfectly aligned and I have the sensation of being smack dab in the middle of the two most beautiful celestial forces of nature.

Time to Write,

Jane

*bather, Aussie slang for bathing suit.

Haiku

Sometimes the apple

Forgets the tree it fell from

Rotting on the ground

Sometimes the apple

Cannot remember the tree

From which it has fell

Sometimes the apple

Remembers the mother tree

Bringing forth sweet fruit

Sometimes the apple

Forgets it is an apple

Spoils the barrel

A Day in the Museum

My time in Santa Fe is winding down and I'm feeling a bit of pressure to be sure  I've seen all that  I wanted to see and have visited the museums and sites on my checklist.  The reality is -  it doesn't matter.  I've seen what I've seen, visited the museums I chose to visit and have barely eaten out.

The reason I've only eaten out six times in four weeks is pretty simple.  The restaurants here all sound amazing, with the proper industry buzz words applied to their ads and websites. Organic.  Local.  Authentic New Mexican Cuisine.  Farm to Table.  The enticement is there to frequent many places, especially because so may boast vegetarian and vegan selections.  What's the rub?  Dollars.  These cantinas are insanely priced; even at lunchtime.  I am not used to paying $16.00 for a lunch plate.  Especially one that lacks the pricey protein component, a/k/a meat!

Yes, this is a tourist town, and I expect joints that are strategically located to profit from their geographic fortune.  But it seems like most places are capitalizing on the heavy tourism that is essential to Santa Fe's economy.  My lovely casita has a kitchenette; two burner stove, microwave, dishwasher and a mini-fridge.  A trip to Trader Joe's or the local food co-op and I'm ready to eat in the comfort of 'home'.  Instead of spending my money in restaurants, I've spent it on a few souvenirs and cultural experiences.

Yesterday, in my quest to complete my museum visits, I checked out the New Mexico Museum of Art.  This museum was great.  Art, photography, film, and a few sculpture courtyards.  My last couple of things to see were the West Sculpture Garden and the St. Francis Auditorium.  The auditorium was formerly a church.  Beautiful.  The entrance to see the final few pieces of art was through the auditorium, then a big heavy old wooden door with a lock on the inside that triggered my intuition.  Would this antique slide lock somehow sidle over and lock me out?  I checked to be sure it was in the utmost open position, went outside, closed the door and checked the latch.  I'd be OK.

There was a gentleman in the courtyard and I have no idea if he saw or sensed my paranoia.  As is the usual way here in Santa Fe, I passed him in the courtyard and said hello and he succinctly ignored me.  He went inside, I snapped a few photos, climbed the steps, tried the door and!?  Son-of-a gun! I am locked out.  The door will not budge.  I knock a few times, but this door is thick and if no one is in the auditorium I know my little knuckle tapping will not be heard.  No worries, right?  I have a cell phone and can call the museum and ask them to send the security guard at the admission desk on a mini search and rescue mission.  What I get instead is phone tree hell.  No matter what combination of prompts I press none produce a human being to help me.  I am standing on these steps, it is chilly and I am not wearing a coat.  I know I won't die out here, but I am plotting my escape.

The wall isn't too high and if I use one of  the art installations as a ladder I could propel myself over the compound fortification. Or I could call the non-emergency police number and have them contact the museum.  Having once lived in a city where the not 911 line can take up to an hour for a person to answer, this option holds no hope.  (thanks Colorado Springs)  I could call upon my quasi-photographic memory and dial up a shop that I saw on my way over and implore them to send the rescue rangers.  I finally decide to peek my head through the wrought iron gate that separates me from the general population.  There are not confined people in the parking lot across the way. I don't call out to the dad and kid on the other side of the street, I opt to wait for someone who is on a stroll to pass by and plead my case to end my incarceration.  Luckily in a few short moments a woman walks by and at first, of course, ignores me when I shout out "Excuse Me!!".  But when I say hey - I need your help, she stops and does as I ask.  Please go inside and tell the guard that there is a panicky woman trapped in the west sculpture courtyard.

A few short moments later and I am sprung!  I am grateful to the random stranger on the sidewalk and a little pissed at the tourist who trapped me.  I ask the guard if the slide lock seems to have wafted over and was slightly impeding the door, or if it was a full-on slide bolt action that kept me from reentering the museum.  He said it was the latter and my ire is now a seething WTF??  I ask my savior if he has seen the snarky trickster.  I describe him in full detail and the guard tells me he thinks the guy has left the premises.  Good thing!

A trip to the bathroom and the water fountain calms me down a bit.  What happened to my water bottle?  I must have dropped it along the route of my wayward travels.  I'm out of sorts.  Breathe.  No worries about the water bottle - it was disposable as the public supply in this town is nasty -  forcing me to abandon my morals and buy the bottled variety.  Breathe.  You are safe.  Breathe.  Oh I know, a little trek to the gift shop might clear my head along with my wallet.

I'm looking at books and hear the cashier thanking someone for their purchase.  I turn around and it is him!  Same camera around his neck, same not friendly demeanor to the gift shop employee.  What to do...  What to say...  Should I confront this prankster and tell him not funny dude.  Should I passive aggressively make a statement to the cashier about karma, and locks, and the universe...  In the end I decide to let it go.  There is no concrete evidence it was him.  I know I won't feel good about myself if the comments in my head make their way past my lips.  Instead I just watch my nemesis exit the gift shop.  I watch him go on his merry way, through the lobby and out the doors into the glorious sunshine of the day.

I take a few more deep breaths and think to myself - next time instead of going to a dangerous museum, I'll spend the damn money and take my chances at a café.

Time to Write,

Jane

Just a Bunch o' Big Words!

Sabbatical.  Sequester.  Work vacation.  Seclusion.  Running Away.  Pick one.  They all sort of describe my sojourn to Santa Fe.  Sometimes I think I just wanted to get outta town!  Denver can be cold and snowy in January and I figured why not go somewhere else cold and snowy in January?  A treat for me to be somewhere else and write poetry and prose.  Dabble in some memoir.  A postcard or two along with some handwritten letters.

Delaying.  Procrastinating. Temporizing.  Hedging. Indecision.  Pick one.  They all sort of describe my style of working.  Or trying not to.  Putting off for tomorrow what I just don't feel like doing today.  I thought that coming to Santa Fe would clear the distractors that keep me from focusing.  Denver is a tough place for me to stay on track.  Trails!  Rec Centers, yoga, swimming. Kids and a grandson. So much to take me away from writing.  And reading. Surely new scenery would be inspirational.

Fear.  Consternation.  Discomposure.  Hesitation.  Uneasiness.  Pick one.  They all kind of describe my dysfunctional writers mindset.   Sometimes it is just easier to stay stuck, then venture out.  No harm, no foul.  Paralyzed to the point of inaction.  No typing.  No reading.  No lightning bolts of inspiration.  No amount of coffee or chocolate can break this negative reverie.  My muse is invisible and I'm not in the mood to play hide and seek.

Determination  Resolve.  Willpower.  Stoutheartedness.  Plucky.  Pick one.  They all kind of describe my head space when the motivation comes and the words flow.  This is my happy spot.  Maybe a bit manic.  Pen to paper, aching hands, pressing on. Reviewing, revising, rewriting.  Reading aloud.  Laughing at my typos - auto correct be damned.  Metaphorically ripping the page out of the carriage and crumbling it into the garbage can.  Rolling a crisp new sheet and clanging the keys.

Relief.  Reassurance.  Palliation.  Gratification.  Serenity. Breath.  Pick one.  They all sort of describe how I feel when I finish a piece.  When my lungs can take it more air than I thought possible.  When that first breath of finishing is the sweetest inhale ever.  When I can lean back in my chair, printed page in hand with words neatly in lines and rows looking back at me.

One last thought.  This is my cycle.  This is my brain.  My thinking in rhyme but talking in prose. My purview of the world; my world.  Going outside and breaking into song.  Smiling at everyone I see. A cynic's psyche and a happy heart.  Sarcastic thoughts tempered with a kind tongue.  Skeptical ruminations rendered benign by compassion.  One last thought.

Time to Write,

Jane

Ripped From the Headlines

There is no magical number
To ease heartache, suffering
400 miles of I25 cannot separate me
From the pain and the tears

Geography is not able to cure
The deep sadness, my simmering rage
Another day.  Another death.  Another deputy.

How many moms, how many times
Do we text our own LEO*
"Stay safe.  I love you"
The oddest relief to know
He's not on duty, he's in a class

My own son is not participating in a manhunt
But his guard will forever be up
All eyes will always be open, including his ajna
On duty, in daylight

At night he will sleep with only one eye shut
Replaying the day, overjoyed to be home
Keeping his wife and little one safe
From the horrors of his quotidian quotients

He will learn to look through those eyes
With the lens of danger, crime
Drugs, alcohol fueled frenzies
Senseless death

This job will scar him in ways
A mother should never know
Reality will take the sweet little man of yesterday
My boy who never played with toy guns
And turn his heart a bit cold, stony. Yet
The true nature of his compassion will
Not be lost to me

His Cop Mom

*LEO - Law Enforcement Officer

Boo! Abiquiu!

A short easy drive up to Ghost Ranch, Abiquiu, NM this morning.  This ranch is owned and operated by the Presbyterian Church since 1955, but is open to the public for retreats, classes and day trippers like myself.  The wind was whipping around up there today, but anyone from the front range of Colorado can handle that.  The constant air movement made the ambient temperature of around 45 degrees seem much colder.  That and my aching knee prevented me from taking any vigorous hikes, but I tooled around the property and enjoyed myself.

The ranch encompasses 21,000 acres of gorgeous landscape.  It is no wonder Georgia O'Keeffe came  here to live and to work. The mountains are inspirational.  It costs $5.00 per person to wander around and I double my investment by taking the walking tour with Wendy, a delightful guide.  I learned a bit about the ranch.  There are many buildings, lodging & living quarters, a dining hall and a wedding venue.  I am sure there are more structures that I did not see, 21,000 acres is a lot of land.  The number is not lost on me. The Waldo Canyon Fire burned almost 20,000 acres; I found myself looking around the valley and thinking how expansive and sobering that reality is.

The compound also houses two museums.  Archeology and Paleontology.  I take the time to see both and have a nice chat with a young lady who is volunteering at the ranch for two months from Brooklyn.  Wendy had told me that before the church took stewardship the ranch was frequented by many wealthy east coasters.  What is it about this stark beauty of brown and ochre  that call to easterners (myself included) to come west?

Now I've found two places in New Mexico that appeal to me.  I would definitely come back here and take a writers workshop.  I am thrilled they had real, printed brochures with their class offerings for the year.  There is something about the printed page that a webpage cannot rival.  Later tonight, in bed with a nightstand lamp on, I will read and dream of a return visit.  I can actually drive here without having to come through Santa Fe.  This excites me as I don't plan a return visit to the capital city in my future.

The other town I'd like to return to is Los Alamos.  Atomic City, USA.  Without sounding glib, that town had a great vibe.  Situated on the Parijito Plateau this government built community is ringed with beautiful views.  While there last week I checked out their county run rec center.  An Olympic pool?  I'm in.  The library looked modern and architecturally interesting.  There is a free shuttle bus that circulates around town.  There are museums and NICE people.  That means a lot to me  - if you've read my blog you know!  This photo was taken from the balcony at the Nature Center:

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...  I take a flat trail to seek the labyrinth.  A short stroll on a foot path brings me to this lovely 12 chartres labyrinth made from local stone.  The view while I partake in a walking meditation is breathtaking.  Whenever I enter a labyrinth I set an intention or offer gratitude. Today my parents were strongly on my mind, and I thanked them for this beautiful gift of my life.  Here are a few photos of the labyrinth and the views:

I wandered down the path a little more and came across this:

 

Today was a very good day in Northern New Mexico!  I took a few moments to enjoy my picnic lunch on the porch of the Welcome Center:

 

My drive home is interrupted by a quick pit stop to the Abiquiu Inn.  I find a little patron saint of writing to tuck into my wallet.  Yes, I paid for it first! 

Time to Write,

Jane

Three/Two/One

Three museums in two days!  On Tuesday I found myself driving up Museum Hill in Santa Fe - a short easy ride from town with wonderful views of the city.  There are several museums on this hill; I visited two.  I also spied that the Santa Fe Botanical Gardens are perched up here, and I hope to return on a warmer day and utilize my reciprocity from the Denver Botanic Garden.

First stop was The International Museum of Folk Art.  Beautifully situated in a plaza that houses several cultural institutions as well as The Museum Hill Café.   Another wonderfully unfriendly Santa Fean greets me at the entrance and takes no time out of her day to explain the New Mexico Cultural Pass to me.  So I figure out on my own that for thirty dollars I can visit four museums in Santa Fe and save a few bucks over individual admission prices.   I ask her for my twenty dollar bill back as I've changed my mind and want to purchase the $30 pass with my credit card, instead of just paying to come to this museum today.  Eye-rolling and a bit of huffing come my way, and the transaction is finally done.  She does not proffer me any advice as to where to begin, that a docent tour is about to begin, or even a map.  It is a good thing I know how to read signage and have a workable sense of direction.

I join in on the docent tour which is really a quick walking overview of the floorplan and a bit of history about the exhibits.  The docent leaves us at the Tramp Art Exhibit, and I wander through.  This is quite fascinating.  Incredible boxes, wall hangings and furniture made from discarded wood, cardboard boxes - even peach pits.  While most of the religious references were Christian oriented, I did admire this Tramp Art box with Judaica.

The largest exhibit is an overwhelming display in a large room that has a mazelike traffic flow.  This are miniatures, and dioramas of life in other lands from other times.  It is brightly lit and I can only look at so much before I feel like my brain needs a break!  I liked the exploration into what is folk art. It reminded me of the poetry discussion I attended titled Anti-Literary or Literary.  Who defines art?  This is why, as a writer, I visit museums that hold visual art.  It is a source for writing and brain stimulation.  And while I often write something seemingly unrelated to what I witnessed the connections are there.  Somewhere.

Next stop is the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture, just across the courtyard.  Here I am warmly greeted - yay - by a nice man who tells me the best way to see this museum and what not to miss.  He stamps my newly purchased passport and sends me on my way.  

What I love about this museum are the words that are displayed alongside the art.  A poets dream.  The musicality and passion is palpable.  I read several passages more than once, closing my eyes and feeling the words, instead of just scanning them.

My favorite exhibit of the day is contemporary display by Frank Buffalo Hyde.  I fell in love with this artist, his message and his artwork.  I watched the short film about him, and I want to know more.  Isn't that what art is supposed to do?  Make us think and leave us thirsting for more?  

Yesterday I travelled the short drive down Cerillos Rd., made a couple of quick turns and landed in front of Meow Wolf.  It didn't seem too crowded, food trucks peppered the parking lot, and a giant spider sculpture let me know I had arrived.  There was no line, which I would later learn is a rare occurrence, and I pay my 20+ bucks to enter the House Of Eternal Return.

I used to work in a 150,000 square foot family fun center in Colorado Springs.  I immediately spot the cosmic bowling carpet in the lobby area...  ah, that and the bowling pin sign clue me in.  This space is a former bowling alley.  

I enter through a forest of neon trees and I am again mildly reminded that at Mr. Biggs there was a day-glo indoor mini-golf. It is cool, but I've been there before, albeit with little kids swinging golf clubs.  There is so much to see here.  The front desk gal said it takes about 1.5 hours and I spend about twice that exploring.

It is hard to keep track of where I have been and which way to go to see something new, but I suspect that I managed to see much of what is here.   This fun-house for hipsters needs to be experienced first hand.  I made no attempt to solve the underlying mystery which is the predicate for this art installation.  My mind was busy absorbing the visuals, and it left me little brain power to do anything else.  In fact when I left the space, I needed to be outside, alone and in quietude.

My fifteen minute meditation in this mirrored small space.  My head and feet are touching the walls.  I entered through an ice machine.

 

In the car park - my favorite sighting of the day!  And a very good reminder that it is...

Time to Write,

Jane

 

No Need to Decide Today

My three week mark in Santa Fe is this week, on hump day.  About 14 more nights and I'm homeward bound.  Back to beautiful, friendly Colorado.  I've been thinking about my mission for coming to New Mexico, and if I am accomplishing what I set out to do.  I optimistically thought I would come down here, put my nose to the grindstone, my digits on my keyboard and finish my poetry collection on addiction.

Expectation and reality diverge.  I have written a few good poems, edited some that were previously written, transcribed many illegible scribbles into typed drafts.  But I've also learned that distraction is internal, not outward.  I love to dance, swim and practice yoga.  Except for a few times here and there I've done one of these healthy activities most days since I landed in New Mexico.  I've also visited a few museums and attended two stage performances.  Santa Fe offers a plentitude of affordable cultural experiences, as well as the pricey ones!

A great way to slide right into a community is searching MeetUp groups.  I found a wonderful Thursday afternoon writers group that works from prompts, no critiquing.  If one feels like sharing, great.  If not that is OK too.  This group is led by Gaia and meets in a yoga studio/boutique/juice bar/café...  It is a bit confusing as to what the focus is for this business, but the space is lovely and for a couple of bucks and a cup of tea, I can write for 1.5 hours and keep the creativity coming.  This is not a poets group, and I enjoy writing prose.  I take a memoir class in Denver and breaking out of my genre shell has shown me that I can put words together that don't rhyme.  Or aren't scathing.  I like the way this group hums along so much that I am considering emulating the format when I return to Colorado.  Beautiful, friendly Colorado.

I also checked out a Vegan MeetUp group.  I RSVP'd and attended dinner at Sweetwater Harvest Kitchen.  The restaurant had a special menu of animal free cuisine for the group to choose from.  The ambience was mellow and comfortable.  I chose the Chile Relleno - overstuffed with quinoa, mushrooms and zucchini and topped with a cashew 'cream' sauce.  Over the years I have been an intermittent vegetarian but I am not vegan.  I find myself eating less and less dairy as time goes on.  Even my standby breakfast food for eons - eggs - have taken a backseat to quinoa or millet breakfast porridge.

My dinner companions seem nice enough until the conversation turns to politics and lifestyle choices. One thing I am figuring out about myself is that I am more of a live and let live kind of person.  I don't lack passion for my personally important issues, but I don't publicly rage about my beliefs either.  One lady asked the group how should she tell her kids not to give her granddaughter bottles, and milk and cheese.  The rhetoric about the evils of eating animal products was bordering on vicious.  I lean back and chuckle about the irony of preaching to the choir.  Of course everyone here is in agreement; this is a VEGAN dinner.  But this lady asked how she should tell someone else how to raise their kid, so I directly addressed her and gave her my best advice.  "Keep you mouth shut if you want to see your grandkid!"  

The feminist on my left tells me how many businesses she does not frequent anymore because of someone pissing her off.  Again I am a bit amused because these are places I do support and love.  She also has a stage worthy rant on the real purpose for women's breasts replete with hand gestures, cursing and man bashing all rolled into one helluva energetic diatribe.  She complains about the weather, her neighbors and just about any other subject matter that is polite dinner conversation.  I jokingly ask her if she likes holding grudges and she says YES!  So as much as I enjoyed my meal, I am not going back to this MeetUp.  Completely without remorse, I enjoy my leftover Relleno the following morning with a forbidden gooey egg on top.  Gasp!

Since I am just four blocks from The Plaza, the terminus of the Santa Fe Women's March, I decide to mosey on over to check out the scene.  This is another value exploring expedition for me.  I know I don't want to march the 15 minutes or so from the Roundhouse to the Plaza.  It's cold, and I have RA, so exposing my body to bone-chilling temps for a long period of time is not in my best interest.   There are pink hats and women everywhere.  I enjoy reading the signs, probably from more of a literary, creative point of view than the political inclination.  I  mostly agree with what the core message is:  equal rights, equal pay, stop the abuse, protect our health and reproductive rights, et. al.  But I am not an angry vocalist.

All of the verbosity has me evaluating my convictions of life.  So to speak.  What am I passionate about?  My writing of course.  My kids and grandbaby.  But what about social issues?  Does anything rile me up enough to wear a sandwich board, carry a sign, chant?  Did my years in a marriage where it was easier to swallow my words than argue train me to be quiet?  Or have my years in Al-Anon simply taught me to keep the focus on myself?  Sweep my own side of the street?  The wisdom I glean from working my program instills an inner serenity that I am unwilling to sacrifice.  For anything.  Or anyone.  But it doesn't mean that outside of the rooms, I am disallowed from having opinions on outside issues.  Al-Anon has not quieted my voice or my ethics.

Am I just taking the easy way out by not being political?  Ignoring the nightly news.  Scrolling past as many negative FB posts as I can, before I give in and espouse, then regret... Is it OK for this beautiful song by Morrissey to be mantra du month?  Spent the Day in Bed really speaks to me.

Today I know it is OK to not know all of the answers.  I can meditate.  I can journal.  Write, talk to a friend.  Allow a boundary to be fluid.  Nothing is permanent.  The only constant is change.

Time to Write,

Jane

Madrid Revisited

After a hike in Tent Rocks National Monument Rebekah and I fool heartedly resort to a throwback paper map since GPS reception is sketchy and we have old school skills.  I had suggested lunch at The Hollar in Madrid, and the AAA fold out map made the ride seem so simple - and direct.  We leave Tent Rocks and laugh when passing through the fee gate, because there is no window at the exit side, obviously to save the gatekeeper from having to cursorily wave at exhausted hikers.

Indian Rte. 92 to NM22 where we breeze by NM16 which brought us in, and continue on the road that shares my lucky number.  Again, the speed limit is slow, but unbeknownst to us this would seem like the Indy 500 in a few short moments.  We cross over I25 and the road abruptly changes to dirt.  No, not exactly dirt.  More like rocks and gravel.  Surely this can't last long so we drive onward.  But is does last, and for the first time in quite a while I lament not having my Saturn Vue.  Circumstances and finances dictated a car switch with my youngest daughter and I now drive a newer Hyundai Elantra.  Not exactly a vehicle made for off-roading, or even rough roading.  My best guess would tell me we endured this bumpy ride for at least a dozen excruciatingly slow miles.

I used to live off a dirt road in Evergreen, Co. in the mid 80's.  I drove a zippy little Subaru hatchback with kick-ass four wheel drive.  Colorado still has plenty of dirt roads, but this New Mexico variety is one of the crappiest I've ever navigated.  I'm not exactly worried, but concerned.  Luckily the conversation speeds the ride along and before we know it Rebekah and I spy NM 14 - the road to Madrid.  Paved and perfect.  I'd be exaggerating if I said I wanted to get out of the car and kiss the blacktop, but it was close.

We are super hungry now, and I am also grateful I utilized the rustic loo before leaving Tent Rocks, because this ride took a while.  We round the curve into Madrid and park at The Hollar.  Our initial greeting is a woman hanging onto her car door, butt naked and relieving herself.  Welcome to Madrid!  Surely this place has bathrooms?  We decide to sit outside to take further advantage of this glorious January day.  There is a wood stove a few feet away on the patio and it keeps us warm, even as the sun decides to set as we finish up our meals of burgers, salad and fried green tomatoes with lavender Béchamel.  I'm vegetarian these days and love when I see veggie burgers as an option.  What I don't love is being told they are home made and it comes out perfectly machine formed.  That's a faux pas in my restaurant book.  If I had known it was commercially prepared I would have chosen a different option.  Nonetheless lupper (that's too late for lunch, too early for supper) was pretty darn good, and a much needed refuel after Nia and a hike.

There were a few other folks enjoying the last rays of winter warmth and sunshine in the outdoor seating area.  A bit of cigarette smoke wafted our way, and Rebekah commented how nice it is we have no smoking regulations in place in the Centennial state.  I wholeheartedly agree.  I don't need a side of second hand smoke with my meal.  Huddled around the wood stove were an interesting trio of pint pounders.  One of them suffered from serious indigestion and/or a deep lack of manners as his belching was prolific, loud and generally a disgusting cacophonous dinner accompaniment.  The woman vacillated between throaty laughter and weepy, whispering wails.  The third guy seemed quasi un-inebriated and was most assuredly the designated driver.  It is refreshing to see people drinking responsibly.

Our time in Madrid was coming to a close.  I reflected to my newfound friend that my first visit, about 10 days earlier had me comparing this town to Manitou Springs; artsy and tourist oriented.  Today's visit had me thinking it was more like the Idaho Springs of yester yore.  Rough around the edges, but still dependent upon locals and tourists alike to stay afloat.  I wonder how the chef/owner of The Hollar would approach such crass behavior on the patio.  That delicate balance of catering to the locals, but keeping tourists - and their dollars - coming back.

Rebekah goes to a crystal shop while I rearrange my car.  I have learned not to have anything in the passenger compartment of my car while parked in New Mexico's capitol city.  Daylight is waning and it will be easier to do this now, rather than later.  In the dark.  On the street.  By myself.  If I gave you a sense of discomfort, that is the truth of how I feel in Santa Fe.

I join my friend in the shop and the owner regales us with the tale of how his shop was recently broken into.  The intruders disabled the security cameras, broke into cases and stole years worth of handiwork.  We ask if his was the only shop broken into and it was not.  But he is convinced that his burglars are not the same thieves that carried out the other heist.  He perused Craig's List and tracked down a woman selling his wares in a casino parking lot.  I asked him if the Sheriff was the law enforcement handling his case and got an earful about how ineffective they are.  That the Sheriff did speak with the parking lot peddler and did nothing.

First impressions are not lasting impressions.  I've been to Santa Fe, ABQ and other cities in New Mexico a few times before.  This is the west and long car travel is second nature.  I was in SF with my middle daughter a few years back on our way to Phoenix for a wedding.  It seemed nice on that last foray.  Not so much this time around.  More than a few people have asked me if I am ready to move here.  Absolutely not.  Besides finding a pool, my Nia tribe, and a writing group, most of my interactions here have not been positive.  I would not be a good ambassador for "Visit Santa Fe".

Time to Write,

Jane

Tent Rocks

What better way to begin a Friday morning than to dance Magic with Rebekah Hartman?  Rebekah was in Santa Fe to sub classes at StudioNia, and we had connected and committed to a dance and a hike while chatting at Ten Thousand Waves a few days earlier.  Rebekah is a delightful dance teacher and a wonderful hiking partner.

After class we drive south on I25 toward ABQ, exiting at Hwy 16, then Rd 22 (my lucky number) till we reach Indian Service Rte. 92.  We are driving through Pueblos, en route to Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks National Monument  and I strictly obey the speed limit.  20 MPH is painfully slow, but it is not an urban myth to be respectful of the laws of the reservation while driving and hiking.  We reach the fee gate, and a not too friendly person 'greets' us, takes the $5.00 per car tariff and kind of waves us on our way.  

This is a stark beautiful landscape, and we are blessed with a warm January day.  We find the parking lot, I back in (old girl scout rules never go away), utilize a clean one-holer and set out to hike.  We pick the Slot Canyon Trail; one mile in - one mile out, with roughly a 700 ft. elevation gain.  The trail starts with a sandy loam, and an easy subtle climb.  The elevation here is lower than Santa Fe, but I still find myself huffing and puffing.  Rebekah is a patient hiking partner, stopping when I need to.  I have more than a dozen years on her and Rheumatoid Arthritis.  Not everyone I've exercised or hiked with has been as understanding as my partner today.  RA is an insidious, invisible disease.  You cannot tell I suffer from this autoimmune disorder by simply looking at me.  Well, maybe if you take a good scan you'll notice my thinning hair and brittle finger nails,  These are medication side effects that I diligently try to counteract with vitamins and supplements.  Sometimes I hobble, especially when getting up from a chair, or after vigorous activity.  There are days that I feel pretty great and other times when pain is my constant companion.

The trail becomes more challenging with our progression.  This is called a slot canyon, so I had an inkling of traversing through some tricky passages.  Some spots allowed two-way foot traffic, and other times we stopped to enable other hikers to navigate a downhill section.  Truth is I was always grateful for a short break, a sip of water and a gander at this New Mexico sky that seemed to get bluer as the day unfolded.  Rebekah reached back a few times to offer me a helping hand or encouraging words.  I studied the twisted Juniper trees, candy-caned from years of wind.  I crush a Juniper berry  between my thumb and forefinger and whiff the scent of gin.  It is a wonder that these evergreen shrubs can survive in this dryscape.  Junipers are tenacious and I borrow a bit of courage from their roots to continue as the trail gets narrower and a wee bit precarious.

We approach a portion of the path that has benefitted from trail building,  wooden steps that make this section a little easier for me.  I bless the trail builders who make my trek manageable at this last elevation push.  But after the steps the trail looks difficult, and even though I know I am 'almost there', I tell Rebekah to go on without me.  RA has limits and I've already tested them enough today.  I settle on a rock and enjoy seeing what I assume are the Sandia Mountains through the 'tent' hoodoos.

Coming down in this type of terrain can be harder than the climb, but it seems that in no time we are back on the sandy portion and close to completing slot canyon trail.  We continue onto the 1.2 mile Cave Loop Trail, and before I know it we are back at the car and the outhouse!

To read more about our adventures read Madrid Revisited.

Time to Write,

Jane

Desert Waves

Ten Thousand Waves is just ten minutes and twenty-six bucks away from the Casita.  A short drive up Artists Rd. and I arrive at a peaceful Japanese style spa, restaurant and lodging complex, nestled in the northern foothills of Santa Fe. 

Everything one could imagine is provided for you at this soaking haven.  Towels?  Yes!  Shampoo, conditioner and lotion?  Absolutely.  A robe and rubber slippers?  Of course.  Not knowing this, I brought all of the above and more!  I was able to off-load some of my unneeded necessities and travel a bit lighter throughout the spa.  Having my own fluffy, thicker robe was a bonus to the thin cotton wraps that Ten Thousand Waves provides.  The temperature was only in the forties yesterday and when one emerges from a 108 degree tub a soft, fuzzy robe feels great. 

This spa offers so much, it is almost hard to take it all in. I may return for a massage or facial but yesterday was a day for me to soak. I also enjoyed the sauna and sunshine on one of many Adirondack deck chairs.  I started at the women's communal tub, small and intimate.  This area is clothing optional, and I always opt for au natural when available.  I camped out on a chair for quite a bit, writing, and reading.  So cliché of me, but I admit the magazine I brought with me was Yoga Journal...

There is a magic to winter sunbathing in the sun-drenched southwest.  In summer people flock to pools and beaches, lie out until they are so hot they cannot stand it, and jump into cold water to refresh.  This kind of sunbathing is a bit different.  I lie out with my robe under me, so the plastic chair is not too cold against my backside, and let the sun warm my skin.  But it is only warm, and the cool breeze can be downright bone chilling at times.  Instead of plunging into cold water, we westerners ease ourselves into tubs or hot springs that range from 102 to 112 degrees.  Sometimes, like yesterday, I am only wearing a wooly hat to keep my head warm. 

Colorado has many places to enjoy this winter activity.  When I lived in Colorado Springs, I had a favorite place just an hour away; a mini retreat in less than 60 minutes of driving?  I'm in!  Next week I am planning to trek to Ojo Caliente near Taos.  Spending a month in Santa Fe allows me to leisurely explore, and I'll do what I can.  And leave the rest. 

Three women appear and they each look familiar.  I can't place if I really know them, or have seen them around town, or just have a healthy imagination.  Since this is a quiet zone, and we are all naked, I don't approach.  I resist the urge to be my out-going gregarious self.  After all I came to Santa Fe for some quietude, so no need to chat to every human I see.

I observe the day sky and sense that sunshine is going to disappear behind some large, leafless trees.  I take a long last soak in the women's only area, and bee-line straight into the sauna.  HOT!  But placid with natural light coming in, and so very clean.  (This entire place is immaculate) I collect my bag of paper materials - pads and a book and a mag - and head to the locker area.  Lockers are provided, I just need to remember the 4-digit code I used.  I grab the salad and fruit I packed and meander out to the koi pond in just my robe and slippers, find an ergonomically correct wooden slat chaise and refuel a bit before heading to the coed Grand Tub.  

Now this Grand Tub is bottoms required, tops optional.  Decisions, decisions...  I put on my boy short bottom and head up the steps to the Grand Tub.  Again, I find a deck chair to camp out on, and I cool off a bit in the waning light before reclining in the healing waters.  The temp seems a bit lower than the women's tub and that is great because I can stay in longer and get a good slathering of minerals onto my skin.  People do chat in this pool, and I converse briefly with some younger hipsters.  Man buns, piercings and tattoos abound.

Once I tried to have an additional piercing in my right ear.  My daughter Andrea and I did it together on her 17th birthday, after taking the Love, Peace and Yoga Express to the top of Pikes Peak to participate in the "World’s Highest Yogic Spiral."  And the coldest.  Did I mention it was cold?  I am not exaggerating (OK, maybe a bit) when I tell you that on that early October day it was almost 70 degrees in the parking lot in Manitou and about 5 degrees when we exited the cog at 14,110 ft. above sea level.  That piercing never healed, and I removed it.  Occasionally I entertain the idea of a tattoo, but I don't want to have pain inflicted upon me, and a hepatologist has cautioned me that having RA and tattoos don't mix.  So, I admire the skin as canvas art on others, including my two daughters.

The familiar trio of women reappear and sit very near me in the tub.  We converse and figure out that they also were at the NIA weekend at StudioNia Santa Fe.  Two of these ladies are teachers in Boulder.  There is a chance I have, or I will dance with them again.  Such is the way of NIA.  Two ladies are leaving town tomorrow, but the third is staying to teach and hang out in Santa Fe.  Tomorrow I will take her class and then we are going to explore Tent Rocks together.  I am thrilled to have a hiking buddy.  As brave as I am to travel alone, I am never that happy to be in the wilderness by my lonesome.  

I'm coming to the end of my time in the tub.  My skin is pruning and how much relaxation can I endure?  I take a shower and utilize the Yuzu based  products available in the locker room.  I also check out the Japanese style toilet.  First, the seat is warm - how nice is that?  There are controls to my left on the stall wall that inform me I can gently or vigorously cleanse my 'rear' or 'front'.  I can also air dry my privates before pulling up my panties.  If bathrooms were like this everywhere it would take people about five minutes each just to pee!  I looked up the cost of this kind of toilet because I would rally love to have one installed.  If I had a house to install one in that is.

Dressed, refreshed and ready for my final stop at this glorious spa - The Relaxation Room.  It is in a glass walled building with a high vaulted ceiling.  Shoes off, I slide the door open quietly and join about eight other people.  I spy an empty slot, lay on a bamboo mat, cover myself with a blanket, don a pair of headphones and lay down for what I can only call the Japanese version of savasana.  Spa style Asian music plays, I close my eyes, and I relax.  I have no idea how long I stayed in this space.  I just allowed myself to settle in, breath and let go...

Finally, I collect my belongings from the locker, and consider heading back down the hill to the casita. I bow my gratitude for this wonderful experience - and exit through the gift shop!

Time to Write,

Jane

Crap a Diem

I used to be a lightning bolt poet, writer.  The urgency to put pen to paper would overwhelm me.  I'd stop whatever I was doing, grab a notebook and write. I've interrupted myself driving, nursing a baby (that was a long time ago), cooking dinner.  I had to stop myself in order to start, and then?  I'd write.  And when whatever it was that pinched me in my tuchus and got me to write was done. And so was I.

I didn't revise.  Oh, maybe I would check spelling, perhaps change a word or two or correct punctuation, but it wasn't a do-over, or even a do better.  My piece pretty much remained as it was when my pen inked it onto the paper.

Then I became more disciplined, a write every day no matter what kind of writer.  I learned how to carve time out of my day and dedicate myself to this craft.  Devote myself, put my writing first.  Guess what?  So much I what I write is crap.  I came to believe that my writing often has a gem buried in the mud, and needs the sunshine of revision in order to gleam.

Now I write freehand, free association, freewheeling...  I don't wait to be depressed or grieving to put my emotions into words.  More of the mundane has moved its way on to my pages.  Not only my feelings, also my observations, opinions, commentaries of life.  Most times these are mere germinations that need a sharp revision in order to culminate into a readable, approachable piece of poetry, prose or prattle.

I know I can take a strong line or stanza from a mediocre poem and insert it into a more compelling, relevant piece.  I might put a piece away, delay working on it so that I can look at it afresh; ready to whittle and chop until I carve it into a solid strong writing.  I also know that some writing deserves to stay in the drawer, and no time is needed to revise or force a work that is simply not working.

Still - I do occasionally have those delightful lightning bolt moments, and I continue to honor them.  The gift of time and writers groups and classes has taught me to go back.  Take a breathe or two, blow an exhale onto my paper and see what flutters in the breeze.   Insert?  Delete?  Change?   Kill or nurture?  Agonize or ignore?  These are the consuming thoughts I endure, the broodings of a fledging writer.  I actually enjoy this process.  What a wonderful feeling to lean back in my chair and think "I wrote that!"

Time to Write,

Jane
PS - this is how it feels to be a poet:
Elizabeth Gilbert's Ted Talk on Ruth Stone

Cooking All Sides

Previously I wrote about red and green chile and my equal aversion to both. Not surprisingly I've been in New Mexico for 12 nights and haven't yet tried either. Except for a green chile and cheddar scone that I found in a quaint bakery walking distance from the casita. I was pretty excited about the idea of eating a baked good with chile to see if I could appreciate the famed green pepper as bread rather than sauce. Unfortunately the scone was under baked and doughy inside, with barely a hint of either green chilies or cheddar.

The most fabulous treat for me in Santa Fe is StudioNia. I've danced in a few places in 11 years of practicing Nia. My introduction was in Colorado Springs at the downtown YMCA with Loretta Milo. I danced through my divorce, I danced when I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis; although sometimes I would writhe in pain, and crawl out of the studio and into the locker room where I would hide and cry in the steam room. I danced the night the Waldo Canyon Fire incinerated 346 house in my neighborhood (but not mine). I cried that night too telling Loretta that Nia was the safest container that has ever held me. I danced through several post divorce, post diagnosis, post fire moves up and down the front range of Colorado. I danced at Miramont in Fort Collins, the Lehman Y in Longmont. I mostly dance at the Littleton Family YMCA and the Buck Recreation Center in south suburban Denver.

And now I have been blessed to not only dance a few times in Santa Fe, but to have participated in the Manifest Yes! workshop with Nia co- founder Debbie Rosas. I won't write too much about the workshop, because I feel that Nia, like poetry needs to be experienced. I will say that the investment I made was very worthwhile. I am in Santa Fe to write, and dancing is always a lovely distraction. I left StudioNia yesterday with a plan of action to achieve my goals in 2018. Nia, to me, is so much more than a diversion. This moving meditation is an inspiration source. Poets and writers need bones and other hearty ingredients to simmer a creative broth. Nia is a delightful addition to my tureen.

Bonus! About 16 months ago, I wrote a poem, This Is How You Nia.  It has always been my intention for Debbie Rosas to see this poem, to know how much her 35 years of work have touched my body and my heart. Last April, during National Poetry month I considered randomly e-mailing it to her. But that didn't feel right. Yesterday after the workshop, cake and champagne toasts emerged to celebrate Debbie's birthday. I took my two typed sheets of emotion and rhyme and handed them to Debbie; a birthday gift of my words and my gratitude. That felt really good!

If Debbie Rosas hadn't been in Santa Fe to share her body of work, I would have attended a hands-on Chile Relleno class at  The Santa Fe School of Cooking.  What better way to learn to love this staple of New Mexico cuisine and culture than to touch, smell and taste? When it rains it does indeed pour, but my choice between cooking or cooking all sides (that's a NIA reference) was easy to make.

Though I didn't enjoy that scone, I'm still going to brave a lunch or two smothered in green and/or red chile.   And I will also continue to dance my way through life.

Time to Write,

Jane

This Is How You Nia

This Is How You NIA
by Jane Hillson Aiello

Go with an open heart, an open mind

Be fearless and flowing

And vulnerable

Be scared and confident and

Childlike, childish

No one is watching, everyone

Is the observer of their own dance
Sweat and glisten, glow
You are a beauty, a pearl emerging
From your shell
The sand of the dance coaxing you

Go in your closet and pick the outfit

You’d wear to a party.  Then
Lotion your legs, your arms to renew
Their youthful suppleness
Put your hair in a bun or a braid
Brave woman, wear your tresses loose and
Let them fly

Do not rush, never rush

Arrive in style, in your own time

Relaxed, aware, ready to go
Greet your fellow practitioners
With warmth and a smile
Know in your soul all
Are about to receive liberation

Let the music move you
Your ankles, your feet, your knees
Oh those hips.  Sashay, sway
Shimmy your shoulders, knock on the back wall
Stand tall, bow stance, balance

You are a cat, a tigress

Growl; claw the air with your hands
Catch flies, play the piano
Follow the music, hear
The horns, the didge, the Spanish guitar

Front stroke, back stroke

Swim the dance of the land, of protection
Roll your wrists, tai chi fists
Elbows up, shoulders back
Expand your chest, unlock your heart
Hands on your hara, root down in your chakras
Steady the base, this is your space

Vacate expectations, you are here

Now.  There is only this one moment and it is yours
Yours.  Yours alone, yours together with your teacher
Yours with your fellow frolickers
This moment will not happen again
Revel in the joy

Get on the floor

Roll like a ball, sit like a mermaid
Happy baby, dead bug, twist and turn
Cook all of your sides
Creep, then crawl then tip-toe

This is how you dance
This is how you prance
Better than romance
In a dress or yoga pants
Pure exuberance
This my friend is how you dance

This is how you NIA.

Car Theft and Compassion

Madrid.  Not pronounced like the city in Spain, think more of the fabric madras and go from there.
Not wanting to sound too strange to all these people who won't even talk to me, I adopt the local quirky pronunciation.  Actually I did talk to a few people in Madrid, most notably a delightful local news reporter from the NBC affiliate in Albuquerque.  Forever more referred to as ABQ in my writing because although I am a good speller, I'm tired of thinking this one through every time.

This really nice man gave me some down low on local hot spots, and even a few to avoid.  He informed that ABQ has a very high auto theft rate, and I confirmed that by checking Google.  Ranked at #2 in the nation for 2016 - Denver was 46 BTW.  I let him know my purpose for sequestering myself in Santa Fe for a month, and his kind words and encouragement affirmed my belief I am spot on in my subject matter.

Earlier in the day, I had gone to a writers meetup that I will not be returning to.  I consider myself progressive and free-thinking.  Open to ideas and happy to listen to others.  But I cannot wrap my head around 'compassion is ruining the world' as spewed by a seemingly normal young woman who spends five months each year camping in the wilderness with 26 friendly bears.  Her Miata is tricked out like a Bond mobile to ensure her safety.  And she is a life and financial coach.

After that interaction, which I feel compelled to tell you really rankled me, I had to go to Al-Anon for a spiritual infusion before heading south to Madrid.  When the most normal people I see and hear in the day all suffer the effects of someone else's alcohol use or addiction, then you know I am meeting some interesting folks here in the Capitol City of New Mexico.

Today I headed south again to the #2 hold on to your keys city in the US.  I took the advice not to have much in my car and certainly nothing more than a water bottle and my gloves in plain sight.  In 55 degree weather I'm not worried about people taking my gloves.  And it is not hot enough to break my window for some life-saving liquid refreshment.  The same mileage separates Santa Fe to ABQ as Denver to CS.  Doable, but not an everyday activity for me.  It was an easy drive, and I went though at least two Indian Reservations.  Vast country.  The mountains hold no clue as to east or west, however because it was more valley-esque.

My first stop was the Lucille B. Horne YMCA on Indian School Road for a Core Class.  This Y is clean, busy and does not have a pool.  I arrived in time to lay out my mat and ask the young gal next to me if there were yoga blocks available for use.  She chuckled and informed me this class had no time for blocks, and we would be vigorously moving for a full 55 minutes.  She told me to get ready because there is no break, barely time to catch your breath, less time to sneak a sip from your water bottle.  She was not kidding.  I knew the moves; lunges, sun salutations, baby back bend, warriors two and three, plank, cobra et al, but I have never performed them at a 78 speed.  I'm more of a 16 or 33 and a third kind of practitioner.  I kept up as best I could, modifying where I needed to with my still healing, torn right knee meniscus, and chronic RA.  Panting and sweating I even managed to thank the instructor for a lovely class. (liar, liar)

But my graciousness, par usual, paid off when I again met the drill sergeant in the locker room.  We chatted and I learned she is a High School English teacher in ABQ (see how handy that abbreviation is?) and she has been struggling to get the kids to tolerate poetry.  I was so happy to impart my suggestions on how to get young people to read poetry, even though my own children in their teenage years would eye roll every time a rhyme left my lips.  Once more I tell the secret of my sequester and her reaction is another confirmation that I may be on to something with my self-imposed looming project.

Next up is the best place to talk about poetry.  The New Mexico Poetry Society meeting in ABQ. (told you!)  This was a lively group, with much attendee participation.  A wonderful workshop on The Orality of Poetry.  If I lived closer I would attend this group every month.  And the best part was that at the conclusion of the workshop, my car was exactly where I'd left it.  Ready to take me back to Santa Fe.

It is here that I usually sign off by saying time to write. Not tonight.  Tonight it is time to rest, put my feet up and find the heating pad!

Jane

Estrangeiro

I attended a second go round of the "Free Association Writing" meetup yesterday, and people talked to me.  Maybe that is the trick in Santa Fe.  Keep showing up, keep smiling, keep being myself.  We wrote to five or six prompts for various time frames, and shared if we felt like it.  I almost always feel like sharing.  Not just to hear my own voice, my own words, spoken into the atmosphere, but because I've learned a thing or two from my years in Al-Anon.

One of the most important tidbits I've gleaned from this 12-step program is that everyone's voice holds weight.  All opinions count.  It is the great equalizer to hear people from every walk of life, all socio-economic strata's, and various education levels reveal their thoughts and inner hurts; their humanness.  When people don't share, it is the group that misses out on the experience, strength and hope of each individual.  Oftentimes, it is the person who I 'don't like' or who 'irritates me' that imparts the greatest wisdom or common sense, a nugget that I can employ in my own life.

This morning I awoke at around four am.  The typewriter was clacking in my brain.  Not a computer keyboard, or an IBM Selectric, but a good old fashioned Remington or Underwood.  Clack, clack, ding. Click, clack, ding.  Key stuck, help it along, manual carriage return.  This is how it is for me, as a writer.  Thoughts and inspiration come on their own terms, in their own time. I can either jump out of bed and honor the untimely arrival of the muse, or ignore her completely and return to slumber.  This morning I went back to sleep, and I lament knowing that whatever was on my mind is now forever in the ether.  Perhaps something in my travels today will spark that memory, and I will have to stop whatever I am doing and take out my constant companion of pad and pen, and scribble away until the freight train of inventiveness passes through my station.

Maybe I was pondering the comments of my fellow writers yesterday.  Two ladies with lovely British accents flanked me at the table, and when we were through I took the opportunity to ask them some questions.  Why New Mexico?  The younger gal answered that living in Espanola was like living in Brazil, except it wasn't.  The other lady, who lives on five acres on the edge of  'The Wilderness' in an Earthship answered that living in New Mexico was like living in a foreign country, but she still lives in the United States.  These open, honest comments certainly give me a new lens to view New Mexico through.  Is the Land Of Enchantment so different than the Centennial State?

I was planning to travel to Madrid today.  It is an artsy town about 30 miles southeast of Santa Fe.  Just a nice drive, with different views, interesting light.  A few people have said that the light in New Mexico is amazing, and it is one of the elements that call artists here.  I am a sky-gazer so paying attention to the nuances will come naturally.  Perhaps the blues and yellows and oranges of the sky, especially at twilight, will tickle my pen into a poem.

It seems that Espanola is calling to me instead.  Brazil?  Madrid?  Maybe I really am in a foreign land on US soil.  First I am going to a different writers group that meets for coffee.  This group is more poetry focused, so I am excited to go and share and listen.  After a cup or two, I'll see which my car goes.  I'm open to any direction.

The Firmament

Be outside.  The park.  Maybe your backyard.

Know that the dark ones won’t last too long.

Their burdens are heavy – they will let go.

Look for animals, shapes.

Hold onto them.  A string about your tiny wrist.

Your treasure? A milky white balloon.

Lie down on the grass.  Flutter an angel in the dew.

Spoon with your lover; quietly nuzzle your neck into the crook of his arm.

Roll down the grassy knoll, over pebbles, sticks, gum wrappers.

Run as fast as you can to the top of the hill. Be out of breath.

Taco your tongue. Sip the crisp green air.

Stretch out on the earth.  Settle your body into the spongy meadow.

Wear your sunglasses, a floppy hat.  Splay your toes.

Observe with childlike wonder.  The misplaced toddler emerges.

Ignore your mother’s plea; naptime, come now meine kinder.

Pluck that verdant blade, whistle through your thumbs.

Diurnal constellations abound.

Unlearn the names, the science.  

Abandon adulthood.

This is how to look at clouds.