We were in Denver for three days last week. The fact that I
haven’t been in contact very much with my Denver family since mom passed began
to gnaw on me about a month ago. I’ve
noticed that when something like this comes to mind there is a reason and some
event is likely to put it up front. That
something was an email message from my cousin Dan that my aunt Ruth had passed
on. I felt immediately that this was
something I must honor even though we are trying to be more frugal lately and
avoid traveling unnecessarily.
Although my aunt had been gradually leaving this dimension for
several years due to Alzheimer’s, I believe we are all connected in ways that
don’t fit within any orthodox religious or scientific model. There is a definite association
between her passing and my recent thoughts. Although we were settled in after the last trip
to Arizona and PQ was focused on painting for his upcoming show in Jerome
Arizona in May, I’ve learned that if I don’t follow my intuition I will certainly
regret it later and it will become an obstacle in the natural flow of life.
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| Rachel and PQ, Coffee Before Heading Home |
The drive to Denver was
surprisingly easy. There was snow on the ground, and threatening clouds
swirling in four directions around us, but there wasn’t any snow on the highway
as if a shield surrounded us.
Our friend
Rachel invited us to stay with her and the offer was gratefully accepted.
We were saved from hunting down a motel and it
definitely aided the budget. Besides, being in her home gave us good catch up time, since
we’ve been out of touch since our
crazy and somewhat magical shared adventure in search of the Denver train station
last summer.
As long as I can remember when something comes to mind as “I
wonder why I’m thinking about this”, it will soon be up front in the space/time
world. Aunt Ruth and uncle Bob may be the reason I ended up living in New
Mexico and traveling to Arizona whenever possible. My parents traveled primarily
for family emergencies and weddings. Dad never had a paid vacation and anyway he
leaned toward the utilitarian. Whenever we went more than fifty miles from
home, there was a specific reason and we drove straight through without
stopping for “points of interest.”
When I was twelve, my Uncle Bob and Aunt
Ruth took me on a road trip through the Southwest. It truly was the land of enchantment for
me. I remember climbing the hill to see
Camel Rock near Santa Fe, eating fiery hot enchiladas for breakfast in
Albuquerque, then off to Arizona for the Petrified Forest and Painted Desert. We
camped at the Grand Canyon, and on the way to Monument Valley, we picked up three
Navajo men and took them to their horses about fifteen miles down the
road. Only one of them spoke a little English.
I remember back then, there were still many hogans
(traditional Navajo dwellings) made in the old style. Each hogan sat alone almost blending
into the desert except for the inevitable late model Buick parked nearby that appeared
larger than the house. It was my first awareness that comparative proportions
were a cultural value. I found it fascinating.
This was on the way to Mesa Verde.
I loved everything about the Southwest.
Cedar, Pinon, cactus, red dirt and the unlimited sky unchained me from dreadful
things like school, church and unhappy parents. In the Petrified Forest, I felt
that I was walking on jewels, in Monument Valley, earth and sky were in love
with each other as Mother Earth and Father Sky should be. Inspirited magical
items such as Hopi Katsinas, Navajo Sand Paintings, rugs and Pueblo Pottery,
inhabited each trading post and curio shop.
Although I traveled the next year with Uncle Bob and Aunt
Ruth to the Northwest and into Canada and enjoyed it enormously, the Southwest distinctly
changed my soul. Mesa Verde reset my life direction in several ways. I still recall
sitting on the stone and adobe wall surrounding Spruce Tree House while imagining
life there 600 hundred years earlier. It held something primal and essential missing
in the present. Perhaps it was the
clarity of the sky, the powdery red dirt, strangely familiar Juniper and Pinon
and the idea of actually belonging to a people whose way of life directly connected
them to a place and its creatures.
Perhaps this is the reason for a lifelong fascination with history,
archaeology and tribal peoples including my own Celtic ancestors. There is this
deep desire to go back to the essence and source, hopefully for a vision of that
stage in time before things began to fall into disconnected pieces as if this
discovery would reveal the place where the fabric of human life was torn.
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| Approaching Blanca from the East |
My Uncle Bob is the last family member of his generation as close as a days drive. This brings to
my awareness how quickly time passes. PQ and I have discovered ourselves with surprise in the shift
that accompanies membership in the oldest generation of our immediate families. What is being an elder all about? It seems that our homogeneous contemporary
culture has no place for this stage of life beyond decrepitude and the nursing
home. Sometimes I wonder if that is the real reason that so many people succumb
to Alzheimer’s and other degenerative diseases. The medical priesthood suggests
that the cause is that people are living longer now. But, this isn’t necessarily true. One of my husband’s ancestors lived to age
120, and his close friend lived even longer. There is a well-known
picture of him and another of a Taos Pueblo woman who was also well over a
hundred when photographed. They had deep wrinkles and history in their eyes but
they were not senile.
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| Blanca west of San Luis |
Our trip back to Taos was awesome. For the first time in years, I could feel and
see the landscape as I first saw it. Well,
not exactly the first impression, but as I experienced it in those first years after moving to
Taos with clear eyes. It is comparable to seeing through the window of a long neglected house after years of scum are removed.
The way to the future seems to come by mending broken roads from the past.
The Sangre de Christos were strikingly accoutred in white robes as
we headed west from Walsenburg. I had to take a few shots from my iPhone as we
approached and passed Mount Blanca. The trip home was surprisingly short but
rich in sites and memories. As I write, PQ is painting with Kiowa Gourd Dance
music playing in the background. This reminds me of several trips to Denver
with his parents, Joe J. and Frances Suazo. Joe J. would bring his hand drum
and the two of them would sing to me all the way home. I suppose I’m feeling nostalgic.
