I met Monica at the Albuquerque airport Saturday at noon and we've been hiking and wandering the desert since. Now we're back at the airport, at separate gates, waiting for the planes that will carry us back to our respective worlds.
Monica halfway up the trail to Chimney Rock.
Monica at the top of Chimney Rock, tempting fate.
So much to think about. I'm anxious to go home and yet can't imagine fitting back into my everyday life. So much has changed inside me. After living under such vast skies and taking part in such important conversations and mind-opening classes, will I fold in upon myself to accommodate my usual place in the world? I just don't know.
Muddy water runs through NM like blood through its veins, bringing life and nourishment and energy. The landscape doesn’t just sing to my soul, it sets up a tent revival and shouts Amazing Grace to the heavens. I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind but now I see.
Having coffee on the porch in Ojo Caliente on Sunday morning, beneath a cloudless sky, I found pictures in everything: rocks in the garden, the whirl of bark on logs supporting the ceiling. Messages everywhere, from the divine to my soul: See beyond the surface, dig out the stories lurking everywhere. Excavate. The workshop handed me a shovel. The class shouted to me, "Get to the damn digging."
One of the pictures from the ceiling. Can you see the snake's face?
I think of all the times, all the many, many times I longed to find that world. I read Anne LaMott's essays about writer's workshops and dreamed of being the kind of person who attends them. And now I am. I stepped into that place, tilled up a tiny patch of garden and planted a handful of seeds that now have to survive hungry birds and high temperatures and poor soil.
Life may be short, but it's wide. Thank God and all the angels, it's so damn wide.