“I went around saying for a long time that I am not one of those Christians who are heavily into forgiveness – that I’m one of the other kind. “ – Anne Lamott
Does this surprise you about me? It shouldn’t. In fact, I think most of us have a hard time with forgiveness, especially when it comes to forgiving ourselves. Read more…
We were rich.
Billionaires.
With his feet
he drove across the country,
semi loaded for delivery.
With her hands
she sewed dresses
baked bread
roasted caramel popcorn.
We were rich.
With his hands
he built a house –
cinder block and wood paneling,
rooms for all.
With her hands
she warmed our clothes on the wood-burning stove.
I went to school smelling of wood.
And love.
We were rich.
With his hands
he harvested grain
and raised animals…
anything to feed us.
With her brain,
she made little
feel like much.
Indeed, she fed a multitude
with less than five loaves and two fish.
We were rich.
With his courage,
he removed us from all we had known
and moved us to all
we could not know.
With her heart
she cradled our fear
while she must have known her own.
We were rich.
We did not know excess, or that excess even existed.
We didn’t know new clothes; we shared and passed down.
We did not know truffles or caviar or wine,
but we knew full bellies.
We knew love.
And boundaries.
And affection.
We knew we held the universe in their hearts.
We knew they lived for us.
We were rich.
Something about you
whispers to my gypsy heart.
Hard scrabble sagebrush-
roots reaching down
in search of water
that is not coming from the sky.
Dust storms swirl above mesas -
flat with erosion
and ancient stories.
Abandoned cars under bridges -
stories of lives they’ve taken…lost to history.
I can feel the hoof beats of the vaquero’s horse
galloping across the dry plains,
my ancestor.
Did he look to the west
and see thunderheads?
Hoping as I do?
Did wagon wheels get stuck in the red clay?
Did hearts reach for the big sky of New Mexico
as mine does?
Voices echo off the canyon walls,
calling home my nomad’s heart…
begging me to stay and return
to the caliche dust
with my forefathers.
I’m barreling down the interstate at 75mph on a perfect 75 degree spring day, hauling my horse behind me. I’m driving my truck, Ricky Bobby (my Ford 150 that is one of my great loves ), and singing along to George Strait playing on the oldies country hits station. It dawns on me, in that minute, that I am living my childhood dream.
I grew up in rural southern New Mexico. I actually lived on a farm with assorted animals: goats, chickens, peacocks, horses, a steer, rabbits…you name it. My dad was on a horse before he could walk and made sure we were, too. I come from a long line of horsemen and ranchers. There are family whispers that a one great grandfather was a horse thief, and another shot a horse for losing a race. You could say that horses and The Wild West run deep in my blood, but unfortunately; I showed no interest in them as a kid. Try as he may, my dad couldn’t convince me to put down a book long enough to go outside and ride. Read more…
Throughout the shortened days and frigid nights of winter, my soul treads along un-walked trails. Every step, every sound, magnified in the snow and so, I step lighter, making my way through the dark, becoming one with the ice.
My heart stills as the days grow colder. It hides away behind a wall of crystal stones, its own fire, its only warmth.
Separated
Protected
Sound and life muted by heavy snow.
It seems winter has come and made its home with me. Read more…
Some days are weighted with all of the trying to figure it out. Bricks from belly to brain, heavy. All day long, I strive. And as night falls, there are no answers; still, only questions. I find myself wandering; and then, of course, with the herd. In the darkness, I can scarcely make out the white blazes on foreheads and feet. They’re curious what brings me out so late.
After accosting my pockets and finding no treats, they begin to move away, back to their dinner.
Except one.
I sit on the red gate and she follows me, standing as close as she can manage without stepping on my feet with her dinner plate hooves. She noses in my belly, looks at me as if to say, “Why bricks?” Then she breathes her hot breath into my chest. I lay my hands on her as if I’m a healer, but the healing is flowing into me. She leans closer – one eye gently focused on my face, waiting. Read more…
I am drawn like a moth-to-the-flame to successful, driven people. They fascinate me. Uber-disciplined CEOs, scientists, corporate career women, renowned software developers, athletes…this is my inner circle of closest friends. They all wake up, setting the world on fire with their ideas and work ethic, and then manage to have families, stay in shape and maintain friendships.
I am…how shall we say… a combination of hippie, highly opinionated French woman, and rough outdoorsman. Picture flower-child meets Annie Oakley meets Marion Cotillard, and they have a love child who is a whiskey connoisseur. I can be found reading poetry and listening to French music in the mornings, hauling a load of hay and shoveling a corral of horse manure in the afternoons, and dancing at a hip hop class in the evenings. I write. I ride horses. I cook gourmet food, a lot. In short, I do whatever strikes my fancy with great joie de vivre. I despise schedules and striving. Read more…
Like scouts, they arrive
quietly and unannounced -
soldiers of spring,
but weaponless,
only harbingers of the larger regiment to follow. Read more…
How do you tame a wild bird, its flighty little heart,
its constant search for sustenance, shelter, safety?
Its desire to escape the confines of its lofty cage? Read more…
I normally try to stick to original content, but this video sums up in pictures and a few words how I feel about a topic near and dear to my heart. I couldn’t say it any better.
~Deb