There's A Lot Of New Life Out There

 

Horses make a landscape look beautiful.

~ Alice Walker

 

Wings

Hawks were all over the place! Green Mountain road was free of snow and the sage and buttercups were reaching up, trying to grab the sun before the clouds took over that blue sky. At every bend in the gravel road, behind every cliff, a Red Tail's wingspan would appear and dip and then the bird would soar away. This happened so many times, for miles. Once, we stopped the car and got out to watch. C took pictures of one doing circles 'round and 'round, looking down on us, like he'd never seen humans before. Maybe he was protecting some nest tucked away on the other side of the cliffs. Maybe he was simply saying, look at me, I can fly!

Hawk lady, Helen Macdonald, has written a memoir. So far, so wonderful.

Could this be a little Warbler of some kind? He certainly was trilling like there was no tomorrow.

Here's Mama Owl! Her tail feathers, anyway. She made her nest deep this year. She's learning. Wise owl.

Here you can see her face. Somewhere in that nest is at least one fuzzy white owlet. We saw it, for only a moment.

I will go back there again today in hopes of seeing the baby balancing on a branch in the sunshine.

The sage is growing long and lush near the creek.

Cloud rumble. Or something like that.

Wherever we go, there they are. The Pronghorn Antelope is the quintessential prairie animal and my favorite of all the creatures that fly.

Peppergrass. The entire plant is edible.

The beginning of the end of the day.

 

 

 

 

She's A Place

 

My Sister

My sister is a place where

Sorrel horses walk single file through tall

Lodgepole stands,

Where sunlight severs down and dulls and shatters

Before it hits the ground,

Where the grass is tall saw grass, wavy

Like the grass in the Sargasso Sea,

Where eels spawn and the new eels

Migrate to the continents of their parents'

Origin, inexplicably...

We don't know how they do that.

Life is nothing if not obvious.

My sister is a place where

I left the gas cap on top of the '82 Land Cruiser.

It's got to be around here somewhere,

But I can't find it,

And if it's around here

It's walled by snowy mountains where

The wildflowers (lupines, columbines, penstemon)

Bloom a month later than here,

And are smaller,

And all around are aspen trees turning yellow

As their yellow leaves turn in the wind,

Where things that fall and roll away

Cannot be found under the fragrant sage,

And as I look around, I'm thinking

Of the time I chained and churned and shoveled

That rig through five miles of thigh-deep snow,

Occasionally jacking it up in back

And tipping it off forward to keep going

Just to get to a phone to call a girl,

And the time I drove with my daughter

Across Nebraska and Iowa in 105 degrees,

Blocks of ice to cool us pooling on the floor.

My sister is a place where

Rivers swell in spring and falter in the fall.

My sister is a place

Where no time passes.

We cannot live there.

-James Galvin

 

 

Holed Up in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains

I sat staring at the rain drizzling down the windows. Long wooden paned glass wrapped around the room at the top of The Mabel Dodge Luhan House. The old wood floors creaked as you'd expect from an old Adobe built in 1918. For years I have wanted to sleep in the solarium room. It's always booked but I finally snagged a reservation in time for a spring break retreat. Marveling at the Sangre de Cristo mountains out to the northeast shrouded in fog, looked like misty Appalachians, not an ordinary scene in New Mexico. To the west lies the Rio Grande River Gorge and the Brazos Mountains jutting out at 11,000 feet. Taos valley is covered in sweet sage and pinon and the giant cottonwood tree that looms over the solarium room is showing signs of tiny green buds on silvery twisted branches. On this first day of spring it seems only natural to sit and listen to the rain. Magpies show their irredescent blue feathers as they fly, then perch and stare at me through every window. I watch Ravens break off twigs and fly back and forth, adding them to their nest in another tree.

The rain has stopped and in it's place comes a burst of sunshine. On the Taos Plaza shop owners fling open their doors and turn their signs from Closed to Open. Reminding me of a scene from the Johnny Depp movie 'Edward Scissorhands', every one of them at the exact same time start sweeping their portion of the sidewalk. I walk by and one man stops sweeping, looks up at the sky, then at me and gestures "happy spring!" I smile so big and return the salutation. That's what I love about being in Taos. Everyone always seems so happy to be alive. World Coffee serves a Sweet Mexican Mocha that cannot be beat, anywhere. It's this tiny little shack on the corner of the plaza, packed with hippies, tree huggers, shining, smiling faces and friendly chatter over a Mumford & Sons song playing in the background.The girl who made my mocha, it happened to be her birthday. When I looked into her clear green laughing eyes, I saw the happiest person on the planet. C and I grabbed our hot drinks and drove out to the Rio Grande Gorge bridge. Another houseguest at the lodge had told us about a white horse she had seen in the sage flats at the bridge just yesterday. I wanted to find that white horse.

There was no sign of a white horse.

We took the meandering road up to Arroyo Seco, a sleepy little artist village with funky shops and the famous Taos Cow where they make their own ice cream. I'm going to tell you something that will probably sound dorky but I always have to stop in the Taos Cow just in case Julia Roberts is in there picking up pastries and espresso or ice cream cones for Hazel, Henry and Phinnaeus. She does live there, America's Boho sweetheart, tucked high up in the mountains above that town. We enjoyed the most delicious homemade cinnamon roll as we sat outside by the creek, waiting for Julia to show up.

There was no sign of Julia Roberts.

Evenings were spent by the kiva fireplace writing and reading. Burrowing ourselves into comfortable old leather chairs and making numerous trips to the kitchen for hot water and tea, C and I would occasionally look up from what we were doing and smile at each other in the silence. This was a good place to come to. Sometimes you just have to go away from home to find your place in the world again.

On a different note, my mom can walk now. Without all the details, here is what we've discovered: honestly, we thought she would never walk again. It did not look good two months ago, what with a broken spine in two places and the long and slow healing process and a lot of uncertainty. An extremely motivated and encouraging physical therapist got her up and walking. My mom got her strength back, her confidence back. My younger brother, Jeff, who is an athlete, stood by her side and showed her some excersizes she could do. He gave her small hand weights for strengthening. She took his arm and he slowly walked her around the kitchen. I'll never forget the day she told me "I walked eleven paces today!" Since then, she's been to see the finest Neurosurgeon in all the land and this is what he said: "It is nothing short of a miracle." Now, everyday my mom goes to the Clubhouse pool and walks in water. My dad is right there with a nice fluffy towel to wrap around her when she gets out. They are really getting back into the groove again.

The weather was perfect. It was sunny and crisp with fine clouds and a soft breeze. Just as we crossed the New Mexico border into Colorado we meet up with the wild horses of the San Luis Valley, also known as Wild Horse Mesa. They had their backs to the snow covered peaks of the San Juan Mountain range. We pulled over and walked out in the field towards them as they drank from a canal. There were ten horses altogether. Bays and Sorrels with white blazes and stripes down their noses. I have since learned from an observant girlfriend that there are a couple of round bellied mares, that foals are in the future. There were a couple of shaggy young ones, too. I kept my eye on one who was caked with mud and walked with a limp. Oh, I wanted to help somehow! Was there something in it's hoof? Was the leg sprained? There was nothing I could do. That is nature. That is the life of a wild one.

The dirty white horse was the ring leader, it was obvious. We could see he had wise eyes. We could see he was older. His dingy yellow twisted and tangled mane hung down to his thigh. He was a very good boy. After an hour, he made a move and the rest followed. They all turned and walked away. We thanked them for letting us spend time with them and then we headed back to the car.

Clomping through Rabbitbrush we stumbled upon a bleached carcass. Wild horse bones. A perfect white skull with nice teeth and a faint smile. C and I looked at each other and smiled. In the silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Take 'er Slow

"I want my life to be a celebration of slowness.

Walking through the sage from our front door, I am gradually drawn into the well-worn paths of deer. They lead me to Round Mountain and the bloodred side canyons below Castle Rock. Sometimes I see them, but often I don't. Deer are quiet creatures, who, when left to their own nature, move slowly. Their large black eyes absorb all shadows, especially the flash of predators. And their ears catch each word spoken. But today they walk ahead with their halting prance, one leg raised, then another, and allow me to follow them. I am learning how to not provoke fear and flight among deer. We move into a pink, sandy wash, their black-tipped tails like eagle feathers. I lose sight of them as they disappear around the bend.

On the top of the ridge I can see for miles.... Inside this erosional landscape where all colors eventually bleed into the river, it is hard to desire anything but time and space.

Time and space. In the desert there is space. Space is the twin sister of time. If we have open space then we have open time to breath, to dream, to dare, to play, to pray to move freely, so freely, in a world our minds have forgotten but our bodies remember. Time and space. This partnership is holy. In these redrock canyons, time creates space--an arch, an eye, this blue eye of sky. We remember why we love the desert; it is our tactile response to light, to silence, and to stillness.

Hand on stone -- patience.

Hand on water -- music."
― Terry Tempest Williams, Red: Passion and Patience in the Desert