When I dreamed of the life I always wanted, it looked exactly like this: waking up in an ancient pueblo under warm wool Indian print blankets, easing out of the top bunk to gather my few most precious belongings and making my way toward the community kitchen. I am the first one up, a usual occurrence in my life, and so I fire up the coffeepot. The teetering kitchen shelves cater to wanderers from across the globe and it seems almost telling to chose the appropriate coffee mug which coincides with your sense of adventure. I pluck a small ceramic cup with Scottish terriers and plaid running its width. It reminds me of when Ryan and I had first moved into the 39th St. apartment and we (in inseparable Ryan, Rachel & Jen) went to the Salvation Army for kitchenware. We laughed uncontrollably as a smorgasbord of designs ranging from kittens to Evangelical Conference mugs made their way into the basket. At $.25 each, they were well worth explaining.
The campfire smell of Taos has permeated my nostrils, spray paint coats the backs of my hands and slight traces of red dirt under my fingernails from a day of driving and creating. The trip in to Taos on 518 was, quite literally, breathtaking. I have never seen more beautiful scenery in all my travels.
For years Joy has said that Taos is a mecca for artists, and seeing as how this is a pilgrimage of my own sorts, it felt only appropriate to determine for myself. The inner plaza is the most inspiring, art galleries displaying every medium imaginable line the streets. Tourists in ski gear admire the leather and turquoise, as did I; purchasing gifts for my beloveds in the Midwest (and a pair of dainty copper earrings for myself.) In every direction surrounding Taos there is an air of unfinished efforts, or works in progress. Nothing is symmetrical, fence posts jut 8 feet high and the next only 4 feet tall, guarding the innumerable abandoned mountain homes. Miles and miles of rusting automobiles from the 50s and dogs of every color and size shoot out from the brush without warning. It is all still somehow very magical. At dusk I got lost on my way to Ski Valley where the Abominable Snowmansion hostel is located. I began to dread the idea of having to navigate the icy mountain terrain alone after dark and flagged down an oncoming truck. That is how I met Black Hill, whose age I couldn't speculate. He lives on the reservation here in Taos and after leading me to my hostel, hugged me and extended an invitation to the reservation this morning where there will be a celebration for the New Year. That is where I am headed at sunrise, to experience the true natural history of a country I both love and despise. And then's it's off to El Santuario de Chimayo for mass at one of the most sacred churches in the Southwest, if not the U.S. I had intended to photograph this church, as I had seen it in a photo some time ago, but I never did get the name. As the time drew nearer for me to leave Kansas the answer was, of course, delivered and I was blessed with not only the name of the church, but found a way to get there. Mass begins at 10:30 a.m., and then it's off to Arizona. My life has yet again changed and I am grateful to be sailing in favorable conditions.