On a Good Friday I drove to Albuquerque. Thousands of the faithful walked north along Interstate 25. They sought the healing miracles of the sacred sands within the Santuario de Chimayo in the village of Chimayo, nestled in a valley, lined in cottonwoods and pastures within the Sangre de Cristo Mountains 24 miles (38.4 km) north of Santa Fe. From Albuquerque, the distance nears 80 miles, but the distance is unimportant to those who make this annual trek.
The gentle slope from the lift allows me to find a place without skier traffic. I take in the magnificent view below — a village nestled in the pines, to an expanse of a muted brown, deep green and mauve rural valley. A chilled wind adds pink to my face. Another swipe of chapstick protects my lips, a swig of water trickles down my throat like fuel for the ride downhill.
Neither a closed window nor locked door kept me trapped inside. I roamed my godparent’s neighborhood at midnight or stretched out on the crabgrass and watched shooting stars. Imaginative thoughts found their way on paper. Music, any kind of music, was mine to hear. Eye makeup. Long hair. Fashion boots. Tight jeans.
A row of popular blow mold Christmas characters, cleverly displayed at eye level, caught Charlie’s attention. “Look, Santa lights up!” Charlie exclaimed as he caressed a 13” fat Santa with his black bag of goodie at his side.
I’m not one to sulk and wallow in my own misery. So I switched to my 300 mm lens. Some interesting activity up the beach caught my eye. I zoomed in on the scene. Suddenly I forgot about my morning conversation with my physician. A pod of brown pelicans — maybe close to a hundred, the males in their colorful mating plumage, and the females seemingly enjoying the attention, beckoned Oly and I to get a little closer.
A week ago, the chemo curls were long enough to where I pulled out my hair product and accessories. I felt like a girl again. Less than a week ago, knowing the nightmare of watching my hair fall out and me too vain to have it shaved, I went in for the hip-grandma look of what is essential a female’s butch cut. This halted some of my joy. It halted some of my fantasy that I was a normal person again—like one who doesn’t live her life around cancer every day.
We have a wide-open chance to find our connection with each other as opposed to our differences that mean nothing once the fires of fear have engulfed the middle path to knowledge, peace and interconnection.
Honestly, I do not like wearing a mask. It’s not comfortable, I feel like others don’t know if I’m smiling when I speak or not. I can’t see the mouth expressions of others wearing a mask. And it just plain muffles me.
Busty orange breasts take presence in the courtyard, wiry feet cling to a copper rim precariously balancing the full weight of each […]
This post is directed to those of us who just want to crow and crow loud. Yes, a bit of crowing feels good—but it is exactly way the disruptors have behaved for too many years. Let us not follow that muddy path.