Mission San Antonio de Padua

 When Tyler and I began discussing taking a fairly short camping trip in early May, I mentioned that I had always been curious about Mission San Antonio de Padua, about 26 miles off of HWY 101, north of San Luis Obispo. A friend told me that the mission was interesting, and that there was some good hiking in the area.  I had always been curious about the mission because it seemed to me to be a fair distance from Hwy 101, originally known as El Camino Real. We decided to check it out. This was the trip where we camped in the Valley of the Oaks, which was so beautiful.  

We arrived at the mission just after noon. We paused to have a snack on the tailgate before going in. The weather was warm and quite sunny. The grounds were very quiet, and again, I was struck by its remoteness.  Even Mission San Miguel, only a little further south, is just off of Hwy 101 as is Mission San Luis Obispo. Mission San Antonio does have a close neighbor, Fort Hunter Liggett Military Reservation, but even those grounds were quiet. 

We walked into the main building and were greeted with a warm welcome. We never learned the  name of our greeter, but she encouraged us to look around, and that we did. I am pretty much past the stage of romanticizing the missions, however beautiful and interesting the buildings might appear. The missions were institutions of enslavement for the Indigenous population, many of whom died due to diseases that they had not been exposed to before, and maybe even heartache (my theory). As we explored the mission, there was a short cello piece that played repeatedly over the speaker system. I love the cello, but this repetitive strain was so melancholy that I began to feel I was experiencing the weight of the sorrow of the members of the Salinan tribe who were moved there. Tyler and I went on to find our way to the courtyard, and then to the sanctuary.  Tyler expressed surprise at the number of rooms encircling the courtyard, and when we went back to the main entrance, we were told that those rooms, now used as retreat rooms, were where the "neophytes" were housed. How strange and confining those rooms and that role must have been for the Salinans. 

I mentioned to the woman who greeted us that I was surprised at the distance from 101 to the mission. She replied that it was because the builders of the mission were following the water, not the road, which did not exist at that time.  However, the mission was not all that close to water either, but they were able to build an aqueduct system which was pretty sophisticated for the time. 

We were told that services are still being held in the sanctuary, but only about 50 people from various communities in the area attend. We were also told that in the summer a few more attend, due to the arrival of those training at Ft. Liggett.     

We then decided to motor on to the campground on Nacimiento Creek that Tyler had found online. There was an open space, and it was wonderful to camp by the creek. We did have a few mosquitos join us just to keep it real. The next morning Tyler spotted a staircase going up a hill. Alas, it was covered with some also very real poison oak, so we decided to simply let it be.      

Attached is a view of part of the courtyard at the mission. The figure in the foreground is a sculpture. Tyler is standing further away. I am the unseen one lurking in the shadows.

             

And Then Came the Coyotes

 This is our first full day of being back from a two night camping trip on Mt. Diablo. It seems the summer rush has not yet started, so we pretty much had the camp ground to ourselves, with the exception of two lizards who had claimed the bathroom building as their refuge, and one female turkey who Tyler named Mildred, but we called her Millie. She appeared to be the sole turkey in the area, and we decided she was probably an older bird; her tail feathers were a little tattered, and her overall color was muted. We watched her methodical comings and goings, including a surprising brief flight. She even walked into our campsite as she went about perusing the area for food. She was definitely much less impressed by our presence than we were with hers.

Many birds live in the Mt. Diablo State Park, so the day into night was filled with bird calls, including those of ravens and a Great Horned Owl. The weather was definitely warm, but not overly hot as that area can get. I spotted a gopher snake that was stretched out as long as it possibly could be to take in the sun. Tyler also saw what he thought was a California striped racer snake who stopped by, but a visit to the Mt. Diablo Summit Visitor Center on Wednesday morning revealed that what he had actually seen was the Alameda whipsnake which is considered rare and endangered. I am sorry I did not get to see this seldom seen creature, but I am grateful for the photographic display at the visitor center.

We did not get to see many stars. While it felt to me like we were surely far away from any possibility of light pollution, we were actually only 14 to 16 miles from the large human settlements of Danville and Walnut Creek. That means a lot of light is being generated, and 16 miles is not nearly far enough for complete darkness. I am still amazed at how remote our campsite felt, but the bathrooms were a clue: they included flush toilets, showers, and even hot water.

While we weren't able to see a grand celestial show, we did have a nice view of the moon. It was just past its full moon phase, so it was still round and bright in the sky. Nonetheless, the night held a surprise for us. We were awakened from our nocturnal rest by the piercingly loud sounds of yips, howls, and other mysterious vocalizations of what sounded to be a pack or maybe even two of at least a hundred coyotes. The sound seemed to be all around us. We heard them again around dawn. Once again we found ourselves outside cell phone coverage so we could not do any research about what we heard so we were left to our fertile and imaginative musings. Such musings can be misleading, and facts can be helpful for holding misleading notions in check.

I have long respected the resourcefulness of coyotes, but after my morning reading, I find myself even more in awe. I have learned that most packs of coyotes include the alpha male and female, maybe some adult offspring, and pups. Their vocalizations are varied and yes, can be loud, due to the distances the sound must cover. They are social animals who mate for life. What we imagined to be several packs coming together, was probably just one group consisting of maybe 15 animals of various ages and hierarchical levels. Their vocalizations are not idle chatter, but rather fairly sophisticated communications between pack members. Such enthusiastic vocalizations also alert others about who is in the territory. The second night we were there, we heard them again, but they were further away. When we woke Wednesday morning we heard them once more and they were much closer. That morning we also woke up in dense fog and the temperature was much cooler. When I ventured outside the camper, it was still foggy. I saw a smallish solitary coyote over by the restroom. I watched it sniff around some, perhaps intrigued by the scent of a tasty lizard or two. However, there was little chance they would be out in that early chilly morning. The coyote then began to walk in our direction. At that point I took the advice of the lizards and retreated back into the camper. I know coyotes seldom want to engage with humans, but I was not awake enough to press that assumption. I also read this morning that solitary coyotes are typically younger coyotes who have left what is called their natal packs in order to find a mate and start their own pack in another territory. My respect for these fascinating and resilient creatures has grown because of what we experienced and learned.

I have started keeping an informal log of the creatures we see and hear on our outings. I am also going to order a field guide to the animals found in the West to take with us because we periodically find ourselves without a cell signal. Climate change, an administration that does not seem to have any interest in conservation whatsoever, and, of course, my age are all telling me to pay attention to who and what I am and am not seeing. The photograph I am attaching is the view we saw from our campsite. The woods that surrounded us support the life that we were able to get a glimpse of and enjoy in our short time there. Our state and national parks, already understaffed, are not immune to a marauding government and disrespectful human visitors. Many of the beautiful sandstone rocks and caves in the park are covered with graffiti, and there is a real danger of some of our currently protected public lands being sold off for private production and development. I was at risk of ending this post on a somber note, yet this morning, just in the nick of time, I received this encouraging reminder from Rabbi Yael Levy:

"As many ways as there are to get lost

that’s how many ways there are to return

.Let us walk with care

and lift up lightsfor and with each other."

Let us continue to celebrate what we have, and work for the good as best we can.

If you want to explore coyote vocalizations, YouTube is a good place to start:

https://youtu.be/l-0aK59t42g?si=mm3bCYX9ZQkrRNgP

A Blessing and a Story

 Last night I came across this lovely poem written by James Wright that I received through First Sip in 2024. It speaks deeply of a Spirit of Place. I need these reminders to look and take in the grace.

Yesterday, I found myself almost overwhelmed by some frustrations I was experiencing with Kaiser. Kaiser's system works well until it doesn't. I almost decided to not go to yoga; I felt maybe I was too frazzled and distracted. I did go, and of course that was exactly what I needed to do. After our lovely class, a fellow student came up to me and said, "I noticed your God Is Still Speaking bag." (I bought this small bag at a UCC conference years ago. It is the perfect size to carry my water bottle and other items I might need for class. I don't think I have ever carried anything else in it.) He then added that he had a story I might like to hear. I was happy to listen.

He said that years ago, a friend told him that his young son had run excitedly into the house after spending some time in the backyard. The child exclaimed, "Dad! The trees talk, but they talk very slowly!" I was delighted to hear this, and selfishly wanted to know of other conversations the child might have had with the trees. He knew of no others. Regardless, I hope the child was able to continue to ponder the experience. I am grateful to add my ponderings to his.

I am reminded (again) that the Holy Spirit always offers inspiration and healing, and speaks in many surprising ways.

A Blessing

Just off the Highway to Rochester, Minnesota

Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.

And the eyes of those two Indian ponies

Darken with kindness.

They have come gladly out of the willows

To welcome my friend and me.

We step over the barbed wire into the pasture

Where they have been grazing all day, alone.

They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness

That we have come.

They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.

There is no loneliness like theirs.

At home once more,

They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.

I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,

For she has walked over to me

And nuzzled my left hand.

She is black and white,

Her mane falls wild on her forehead,

And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear

That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.

Suddenly I realize

That if I stepped out of my body I would break

Into blossom.

photograph: Petaluma, 2024

Correcting the Course

"I wonder how many times the world will change before we learn that the world IS change. I wonder how long we will struggle against change like a fish on a line, rail against it like children, build fortresses of sand around ourselves only to see the waves of change dissolve them again and again. I wonder how long it will take for us to learn that stability is vulnerability, that resilience is strength...

This is what it means to be resilient: to mourn a thousand endings and celebrate a thousand beginnings, to be as strong as steel and as soft as warm butter, to practice both resilience and acceptance, to cradle both life and death in our arms."

 Ethan Tapper, Vermont forester and founder of Bear Island Forestry and author of How to Love a Forest  

 

I found this quote in this morning's email from First Sip. I am unfamiliar with Ethan Tapper's writing, but now I am intrigued by his work. I have said and written more than once that I really am not a forestry kind of person. I generally prefer a more open landscape, preferably a dry one with a vista. However, on our last two camping trips I was able to see some tall healthy ponderosa forests in Northern New Mexico, as well as camp in a beautiful old oak grove in Central CA.  Not sure the latter counts as a forest, but there I was standing, sleeping and breathing among the silent ancient ones. I knew only awe and gratitude. Perhaps I am learning how to love a forest. Maybe I should get the how to guide book.  

Yet, what caught my eye in this morning's email was the reminder that the "world is change". Earlier this week I found myself praying, "Please guide us through these correcting times." The word correcting surprised me. Yet, I do believe these are times of correcting our course. Certainly what we are moving through feels to at least some of us as harsh, traumatizing, even dangerous. However, there is much about our nation that has long been harsh and dangerous. Harsh and dangerous to the land. Harsh and dangerous to those who were enslaved. Harsh and dangerous to the Indigenous people who were part of the land long before the settlers arrived.  Harsh and dangerous to those who simply want access to education, affordable health care, and a chance to work and support a family. Harsh and dangerous to those whose lifestyles and beliefs just seem too different. All of this reflects a resistance to change and growth, and that resistance is throttling us.

I am reading Kaitlin B. Curtice's book Native, Identity, Belonging, and Rediscovering God. I am not very far into the book, but she writes eloquently about what it means to her to be what she described as "a white-coded Potawatomi woman". It is a book about reclaiming her Indigenous roots and about reclaiming her own story, as well as the story of her people, while also exploring what it means to be an Indigenous person of Christian faith. She, too, is moving through a correcting time. We all are.  

Her writing reminds me that we must all remember our own stories as well as the stories of others and our nation. Yes, even the inglorious ones that embarrass, sadden and even frighten us. Curtice writes: "So with that in mind  we journey through our own stories, carrying our own experiences, living lives beyond the times of our ancestors. We step through that reality in trust, and we find a depth of God we could not have known existed - a depth  that holds us in a space where we can speak the truth to a time in which the rich and powerful express their power through oppression and not compassion."   

Let us all go forth courageously, shedding our own outdated codes in order to remember and reclaim our own stories. You might ask "Well, where are the guide books?" Everywhere. Both ancient and new voices are rising up, including our own. We just need to learn to listen and speak with discernment, not prejudice. With courage, not fear, and always with the intention to let love surface. Easy?  Probably not. But truthfully, I know no other way.     

  

 

    

image:  Wagon Caves, Los Padres National Forest, May 2026    

Sights and Sounds on Prewitt Ridge

 "Our lives, our circumstances, and our choices are uniquely our own. There are no right answers. But there is a right question. It's the one that rubs against our self-righteousness, resistance, and fears. The one that revolves a never into a maybe into an okay, let's see.

When you ask yourself, 'Why not?' you may find that you are no longer stepping reflexively backward or standing rigidly still. You could instead find yourself in motion, across a vivid and unpredictable landscape, over impossible mountains and beyond the deep blue water's edge, where you surprise yourself, once and for all, by getting wet."

Karen Maezen Miller

On the second day of our trip we drove up a winding and narrow road in Big Sur to Prewitt Ridge. The road is steep and unpaved, so patience and a sturdy 4 wheel drive vehicle are needed. Having experienced Big Sur only from the coastal highway, I was surprised to discover how high the terrain is. (AI tells me that the altitude is "roughly 3,200 feet" and roughly is a good way to describe every inch of those feet.) Nonetheless, we were able to wind our way to the top of the ridge and found a beautiful campsite that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. We could not actually see the water because there was a layer of fog on the ocean as far as we could see. It would move back and forth along the coast and the valley below us, but it never climbed to where we were, nor did it recede far enough so that we could actually see water. After we set up camp, Tyler took a short walk, and I sat and read for a few minutes. Eventually, we both settled in and simply watched the fog. The movement was mesmerizing. Tranquil is a word I don't get to use much, but that is how I would describe our day and evening. However, late in the night that tranquility was interrupted by a loud scream. We both sat up with "What was that?" rushing from our mouths. We listened and heard the unnerving scream again. Our minds settled enough so we could agree that the scream was probably not of human origin. I mentioned that I had heard that at times some wild cats such as a mountain lion can at times sound human-like. The piercing sound was quite unnerving, and my envisioning a nearby screaming mountain lion did not bring me comfort. The next morning while still in my sleeping bag, I looked out the window and saw a creature running quickly along the side of our camp. I still had cat on my brain, so I told Tyler that I just saw one run by. He asked what it looked like. I reported that it was tan and smallish with a remarkably long black tipped tail. He then asked if maybe I had seen a weasel. I could not answer the question because I had no idea what one looked like. At that moment we had no cell phone coverage, so the research was delayed, but once I could investigate online, I concurred that I probably did see a weasel. I also learned that in times of high stress or territorial disputes, weasels can and do emit a piercing scream. As alarming as the whole experience was, I feel fortunate to have gotten a glimpse and sound of this creature. When we camp we see and hear birds, mostly jays and woodpeckers, and we often spot lizards and squirrels, but otherwise we do not see much wildlife. Yet, a couple of years ago, we decided to meet two longtime friends at a KOA in Petaluma. They travel in a RV, so we camped among the RVs for two nights. Even in that full campground, a fox and I startled each other on our solitary predawn journeys, and from our friends' campsite I was able to watch an owl taking flight at dusk. I treasure all these brief sightings. Karen Maezen Miller's quote resonates with me as I learn how to camp. Unlike Tyler, I did not grow up camping, but even in my 70s, I find it a worthwhile endeavor. I am grateful for his skills that help me to get out in nature so I can get a glimpse of some of her landscapes and wildlife. Most of us need to fine tune our senses. Otherwise, we risk becoming lulled into giving developers a free hand to pave and overbuild. It is too easy to forget that we are all in this together, and we all need space to thrive.

Image: Yes, there is an ocean, and goodness knows what else, out there! May, 2026

Mariposa Lily

I have fallen in love with a flower. On one of our walks during our recent trip, we spotted these lilies growing among the grasses.  It is a CA native, so it has an intricate role in the  pollination of the life around us. There are several varieties of this lily, and I have just learned that it was/is also an important plant for the Native American culture, both as a source of food and for medicinal purposes. I am smitten.   

I recently have been reminded of the resilience of hospital and hospice chaplains. I have been visiting a friend who was a member of the church that helped inspire my unsteady steps as I dealt with my aging parents two states away. It was at that church where I began to understand the importance of a faith community.  She is now in the hospital, and the medical staff is trying to help her restore some of her physical strength after her recent heart attack so she can go home and receive care there. She is in her 90s, and not yet in hospice care.   

For most of us, hospital rooms are not places of luxury. I find myself trying to fit around equipment, the priority of the schedule of the medical personnel who are tending to her, and family members. Frankly, I am not as agile as I once was as I try to stay focused and attentive to the Spirit and to the physical priorities of what is going on around me. 

So, this morning I pause and ponder a lily blooming among the tall grasses.  On the same trip I also was blessed to see many bees busily visiting blooming flowers, not in suburban gardens, but growing wild. I also came across several patches of the California native milkweed, Asciepias speciosa or showy milkweed.  It was not yet blooming, which is why I could recognize it. I have tried to grow some in a large pot with no success. Yes, failure can be a very good teacher, as many of us are learning in these times.  

I must add one more thing. As we Californians prepare to vote for a candidate to run for governor, I believe it is our responsibility to keep our environment in mind. I will simply say that candidate Hilton appears to hold little regard for the environment. Please vote, and please vote for the health of our land. Yes, it is a balancing act. Let us be attentive to what we are trying to pollinate as we find ourselves trying to live in these rocky times. 

      

Meaning and Beauty on a Monday Morning

 "You take the pen -- and the lines dance.
You take the flute -- and the notes shimmer.

You take the brush -- and the colors sing.
So all things have meaning and beauty 

in that space beyond time where You are.
How then, can I hold anything from You?"

~ Dag Hammarskjold~   

As quoted in First Sip    

    

Image: 

Tyler took this picture, and I think the photograph does a fine job of showing just how large some of the oak trees are in the Valley of the Oaks,  Wagon Caves Rock Formation, Los Padres National Forest.  Although we did see several caves on our hike we did not find the actual Wagon Cave. Now there are at least  three items on our to do and see list: seeing the caves, viewing bighorn sheep, and witnessing condors in flight.   

Early this morning we had very high winds. The winds have returned, but are a little milder.  Alas, our planet continues to grow restless. Why wouldn't she?  

    

        

Message from the Ancients

 We slept two nights 
among the old oaks. 
They are quiet in that grove,

and probably always were. 

Yet, as I walked in the morning light, I heard one, 

(or maybe all in perfect unison) say,

"Stand tall to withstand.

Let your roots anchor you. 

Let the sun grow you. 

Do not be afraid of decay.  

You may live 200 years,

or maybe 2,000, or maybe a mere 20 years more.  

Regardless, decay is inevitable.

But remember, your decay will nourish the world."     

             

   

     

image: Wagon Caves Rock Formation, Los Padres National Forest. From Wikipedia: "The location is known for huge valley oaks that are up to 100 feet (30 m) tall with trunks 6–7 feet (1.8–2.1 m) across." Beautiful area. Most of the oaks there are large and healthy,  but even those that have perished are beautiful. The remnant you see in the foreground is taller than we are.  A true sanctuary that I miss today. To sleep and spend your waking hours among old oaks is life changing.  This the woodpeckers and jays know. I think generations of those birds and even some owls have sought sanctuary there. We camped at a site under a large oak and were greeted with bird song from morning to night.  At times we just sat, listened, and marveled. And at night we saw stars. I think we are better humans for it.         

Another Look

 This morning I woke with an image in mind of a series of archways, one above the other, each growing just a little larger than the one before. There was not much color; the space between each arch was a fairly nondescript cream color. Wondering where it came from, I jotted down the image in my journal, and then stood up with the intention of going upstairs to retrieve my reading glasses. Walking past one of our bookcases, I spotted a newspaper clipping that I found yesterday while going through some old newsletters. It was a clipping of an article entitled "Memory, migration and the startling art of Martin Ramirez" written by Caille Millner who at the time was writing for the San Francisco Chronicle. Unfortunately, the page is not dated, but I read online that she wrote for the Chronicle from 2012 to 2020. I think I initially discovered the article in 2019 or 2020. I rediscovered it this morning with a celebratory "Aha!" and examined the article more closely than I did yesterday. The article also included a photograph of some of the art with the description: "An untitled work by Martin Ramirez from a 1970 show at the San Francisco Art Institute".

Millner began her article with, "Born into an impoverished farming family in a rural province of Mexico, Ramirez joined that country's first wave of economic driven migration to the United States in 1925. He worked his way to California, only to find his prospects dimmed by the Great Depression. When the San Joaquin County police picked him up on the street in 1931, it set in motion the then simple process of having him committed to a mental institution for the rest of his life. That was the last episode of his public life in any country."

Yet, Ramirez, who eventually received a diagnosis of schizophrenia, drew and painted on any piece of paper he could get, including paper bags and gum wrappers, and did so for the rest of his life. It is a complicated story, but his story and his art have endured. Millner cites the research of Victor Espinosa who even met with Ramirez's family in Mexico to try to more fully understand Ramrez's life and art so that his story did not completely disappear.

I am sure that when I first came across this article, I was more intrigued by the art rather than trying to take in the story. However, I believe many of us are now understanding more fully that our nation has long found immigrants, the ill, the impoverished, and generally those of another culture as more of a nuisance rather than people with a history worth listening to and exploring.

Second image is from Lena Young's fb page that I found in my search for more of Ramirez's work.

Considering

 On Tuesday of this week Tyler and I were able to spend a few hours with two friends we have not seen in about ten years. They arrived via cruise ship on a return trip to Canada, where they have lived for many years. We met in the morning and since we had lunch reservations at a restaurant in North Beach, we decided to take a cab (yes, there are actual taxis that line up at cruise terminals) we decided to go on to North Beach. Tyler asked if anyone would like coffee and I quickly voted yes. He led us to Caffe Trieste. I was grateful  that there was an available table inside. The sky was overcast, and the weather was chilly and a little damp.   

We sat in that small cafe and talked for at least two hours, probably longer. At one point a guitarist and mandolin player took their places in a corner, and played at just the right level so they could be heard while still allowing ample space for the conversations around them. This appears to be a time honored and well honed tradition at this cafe that just celebrated its 70th year.    

I began to feel uncomfortable about our taking up a table for so long. People were lining up at the counter, but it was pointed out to me that most were getting their coffee to go; there were still vacant tables in the cafe. We continued our conversations. Being able to linger over coffee and conversation is a gift of retirement. The week before I went with Tyler to listen to a friend's band. There we also lingered at a table with a friend. I had not spoken with her in over a year. 

When a woman I once attended church with retired a few years ago, she named retirement as her time of  "refreshment". For me, I think it is a time of reconnecting. Not only with friends, but with those parts of me that have slowly been buried over the years. I want to reclaim my spirit of exploration, both the world around me, and the world within. In order to do this, I need to accept that my balance is not what it was, my hearing is not what it once was, and my hands often do not do what I want them to. I am learning to ask them nicely, and yes, that does help. At times I simply must claim the right to not move as quickly or efficiently as I once did. This is true of writing as well.     

The Gospels tell us that Jesus knew that his physical time on earth was limited. So, what did he do? He walked and considered wild flowers and vineyards and workers. He lingered at tables and talked. He touched those who yearned to be touched. He refused to be rushed. He prayed that he could do what needed to be done.  

 This tells me that the practice of connection and reconnection is a worthy endeavor, and I will dare to say that it is a holy one. That is just how sacred this life that we all share is.         

"Sometimes by chance I am the first one back from Communion and I watch as they [his sons] approach, wading gracefully through the shivered colors of the sun streaming through the windows. Time stutters and reverses and it is always yesterday and today. Maybe the greatest miracle is memory. Think about that this morning, quietly, as you watch the world flitter and tremble and beam."  

Brian Doyle, One Long River of Song            

       

     

           

  

  

image: One of my favorite photographs. I etitled it, "Family"

   

Through the Market Place

 Yesterday, Tyler and I went to the Protest/May Day Celebration in Oakland, just off the BART Fruitvale station. It was young, loud, and wildly diverse. We walked through the market area, greeted people, signed petitions for support of issues like public transportation and schools, joined in some chants, and even stopped at a Native American restaurant for tea and appetizers. The restaurant, Wahpepa's Kitchen, is committed to traditional Native cooking and local ingredients, and seemed appropriate for the day committed to not supporting corporate businesses.     

 At the other end of the market, we came across a circle of people dressed in a variety of feathers and beaded costumes. One woman was holding a container with burning incense, and she walked among the costumed people in the circle. We paused to see what would happen. The dancers eventually spread out in a large circle, resulting in the gathered crowd being pushed back as far as possible. The drums commenced, a conch shell was sounded, and it often was in the dance, and the rattles rattled, and the dance began.  

The dance was lively and very focused, and the costumes were colorful. Yet, the dance was not really joyful, in the way I understand joy. I think the dance was both a protest and also a determined prayer. One of the dancers was dressed differently from the rest: Her face was masked and she wore a camouflage jacket. On the back of the jacket was the message, "Chinga La Migra". Yes, it is an obscenity, but these are obscene times. 

 

As I reflect on the day, I find myself thinking about all the young and earnest faces I saw. They are inheriting a hurting world, so it is no wonder they protest, speak loudly and bluntly. I  think we owe it to them and the world to join in this chorus. 

    

Most of the photographs I took of the dance are simply not very good. If you are on Facebook, I suggest that you go to Tyler's page. He took some beautiful pictures. 

    

      

The Path of Peace

 I found this poem in my draft queue. I do not remember the dream, and I am grateful that it is being revealed now. The image is from November, 2025. It reminds me that at times the path of peace will include tears. 

Last night I dreamt 

that a friend and I 

went together to the funeral 

of someone her father knew. 

I knew neither her father nor his friend.

When we arrived at the chapel 

we found  that in order 

to enter, we needed to pass 

through a garden of 

many paths and levels. 

Any confusion we were feeling

eventually dissolved, and 

we simply walked, 

along one of the many paths leading 

along streams of flowers, shrubs, and trees.

When we arrived at the chapel door 

we found that we each carried 

a perfect blossom.  

We took our seats in the stillness,  

each holding a flower,

as the service began for 

a man who released his hold 

on this life to lead us 

on a journey of peace.     

     

     

What About Albuquerque?

 On March 26, Tyler and I left Gallup, NM and went on to Zuni and El Morro. As I have mentioned, all were memorable places.  While we hoped to camp at El Morro, the small campground was full, so we decided to drive on to Albuquerque, which was about 2 hours away. While we were on the road, I called and reserved a room for four nights. When we arrived, I happily popped out of the truck and went in to register us. I took my place in the short line. 

The person at the front desk appeared to be efficient; she obviously knew her job. However, as I watched, I realized that she was not really interacting with the guests. She knew what she needed to say: "Fill this out and sign and the bottom. We will need your license plate number and your credit card number". She never really looked at the guests while doing what needed to be done. It was around 5:00 p.m. or so, a time when travelers and out of town workers are often tired and want only to settle in their room. For some, this interaction might be enough.         

When it was my turn, she realized she had not pulled our reservations. I told her that I was not surprised, I made the reservation only about an hour or so ago. She, on the other hand, expressed much surprise. Talking more to herself than to me, she replied, "But I always have things ready." 

I, however, am at the stage of life when efficiency has pretty much lost its luster. I smiled and said, "What beautiful earrings you are wearing." On each ear she wore a large blue circular disc surrounded by beads. She stopped and looked at me. She then touched one of her earrings, a movement that many of who wear earrings often do when someone notices what we have on. Maybe I am not alone in needing to touch them to actually remember what I am wearing. She then added, "I am an Indigenous beader. I usually sit here and bead." I would have liked to have learned more, but there were weary people waiting behind me. I thanked her for her help and her beautiful work. This time, she smiled. The next day I saw her again. She was holding her beading project close to her face and was working with much attention. As I needed nothing from the front desk, I chose not to interrupt her. I did not see her again.

This interaction set the tone for my trip to Albuquerque. Tyler and I had come for one reason: to see if we believed that we could live there. For me, that meant talking to people. It was a wonderful experience. I even talked to the wind. On our first full day there, the wind came through, stirring up a sandstorm. Tyler made just one comment: "You have got to be kidding." I laughed, and said, "Hello Wind. I remember you from my childhood. I see you have come to welcome us." I grew up in West Texas where one is often greeted by wind and dust.     

Yet, it seems that even in an arid land, lilacs grow. The scent was so enticing, as the people, the art, the food, also proved to be. More to follow.      

  

    

 image: Lilacs growing in Old Town Albuquerque 

Sanctuary

 When we camp, we almost never have access to water, so we bring our own. We have a tank that Tyler has mounted on the inside wall of the camper, and it holds close to ten gallons. The tank is connected to a hose and a pump, giving us fairly easy access. Nonetheless, when camping, especially in an arid land, we don't want to be frivolous with our water use. That has been our practice, regardless of where we camp. 

On March 31, we found a campsite tucked in among some sycamore trees that were growing close to the Gila River. The next morning before we left, I told Tyler I wanted to wash my face and hands. He turned on the pump and poured some water into my cupped palms. After I washed, I did the same for him. That moment of holding the water in my hands and pouring water into his felt both sacred and humbling.  

Two days before when we were preparing to leave Albuquerque, we bought water at a local market to replenish our tank. Tyler undertook this transfer in the parking lot of our hotel.  

We stayed four nights in this Best Western hotel. The hotel was pretty standard, but our room was on the third floor and there were two trees growing right outside our window. Their location meant that our window was at leaf level. Every morning we would wake to birdsong and green leaves. It was as if the trees themselves were singing the day into existence.  

When the tank was full, we had  about half a gallon of water left over. I took the container over to the trees and gave them both a drink, and thanked them for their presence. They had given sanctuary to the birds and to us. Trees in an arid land are allies indeed. May we learn to be as well.     

  

"I will travel pathways of connection,

for you have expanded my heart."   

Psalm 119:32

Psalms, Ancient Songs for these Times 

Rabbi Yael Levy      

              

    

  

Zuni

 The drive from Gallup to the Zuni Pueblo is short - less than an hour along a two lane highway. When we arrived we stopped at the cultural center to get our bearings, and really to show our respect. The woman there was friendly and helpful. We opted to not take a tour, so she showed us where we could go, and where we could not. She reminded us  to  not take any photographs which I would not have done anyway. She suggested that we simply drive just a little further on, and  stop at some local galleries. And so we did, parking in front of  the first gallery we came to. However, we were surprised to  learn that it, and the second gallery, were closed. We walked a little further on, and found an open sign. We were welcomed in.

Here we found ourselves not in a gallery, but a shop where raw materials, including turquoise, were sold. For as long as I have known him, Tyler has been interested in jewelry and jewelry making, so he was quite intrigued. There we met an amiable fellow, I shall call him Ben (not his real name), who seemed to be delighted to have someone to talk to, and talk he did. He told us several times that he would buy his materials from no where else. The woman behind the counter, I believe she was the owner, reminded him with no humor that he had not brought her any of his dragonflies in a long time. Ben never really responded to her comments, keeping instead to what was really a friendly  monologue.     

I mentioned to the owner that I was surprised to discover that the two galleries we walked by were closed. She rather off-handedly replied,

 “They are from Pakistan. Who knows what hours they keep, but the  shop down the street is open.” I do wish I had pursued that conversation a little further, for I was surprised to hear about the Pakistani shopkeepers, but I got distracted by a stack of magazines residing on her counter: the “New Mexico, Special Collector’s Edition” dated February, 1995. It was an issue dedicated to turquoise. She said I was  welcome to take a copy.  We thanked her for her hospitality, and walked out the door.

Tyler and Ben both walked a little ahead of me. Ben kept talking, treating Tyler like an old friend. The gallery was indeed open. There, Ben found other people to talk to, and I found  a lovely bracelet to  replace the Zuni bracelet I bought decades ago. That bracelet eventually lost all its very small inlaid stones.  

As I paid for my purchases (I also bought a wooden salt cellar decorated with hummingbirds in black, blue, and red),  the woman behind the counter spotted the magazine. I told her  it was from just down the street. She was so intrigued, I suggested that she take the copy, and I would stop by the shop and pick up another copy. I did find myself wondering just how much the owners talked to one another. 

After picking up the second copy of the magazine, we then returned to the truck.  The woman at the materials’ shop wanted to know who received the first copy and I explained and thanked her for her generosity.  

We then took a drive down the dirt road that was the street. We knew we were not welcome to go into the area that I think of as the heart of the pueblo. We could do that only if we took the tour, and that certainly made sense to us. As I peruse the New Mexico magazine, I am reminded of the challenges of holding in balance traditional ways, with the influx of money that travelers, settlers, and developers bring.  This has been the case ever since the Spanish, who were more interested in finding wealth rather than balance, first arrived.   

I will digress here, as I just came across an ad in the February 1995 issue of the “New Mexico” magazine that mentions a cookbook, The Best from New Mexico Kitchens. I have that cookbook. It was sent to me many years ago by my mother’s best friend, Arlene Hart. I remember her with love. Her laughter and her books were such a beacon for me in some lonely times.  She wrote in her very intentional handwriting the following inscription on the first page: 

“To Sue Ann Donaldson from Arlene Hart 

Many happy hours

‘slaving  over a hot stove’

To feed your friends ‘Tex-Mex.’”    

   

Arlene was a fine cook, and while there probably were days when she may not have been in the mood to be in the kitchen, preferring instead to sit and read, I don’t think she really thought of herself as a slave. I hope not, anyway.  I must have asked my mother for a recipe for green chili sauce because Arelene highlighted the titles of the following recipes:  green chili sauce, tame green chili sauce,  and salsa. I am smiling.  Arlene always cooked by a recipe; my mother almost never did. That was a source of much laughter between the two of them.     

    

On our way out of Zuni on our way to El Morro and then Albuquerque, we stopped and filled up the truck with gas. Our hope was that at least some of the money would stay in the pueblo, if nothing else to help pay for the salary of the young man who worked there.       

     

Since I have no photographs of Zuni, I am attaching a photograph that was taken at the beautiful Red Rock Canyon State Park, Cantil, CA which is outside of  California City.  I love this image of Tyler, gazing ever further on.   

        

      

Gallup, New Mexico

 When we arrived in Gallup, NM, most of the galleries were already closed. We did find one that was open, and we spent some time there viewing the large collection of jewelry. The person helping us was not American Indian but rather Middle Eastern, and was probably the owner. He  was knowledgeable about the various artists, and appreciative of their work, and we spent some time there.

We had already decided to not try to camp that night, and I asked if he had a hotel recommendation because Gallup has a daunting number of  hotels and motels. He replied that he felt any of them would be fine, but suggested that we at least stop and have a drink at the historic Hotel El Rancho. We did just that, and found ourselves settling in after a long day of driving.

Because I have little to no interest in Western movies or Route 66 lore, I did not expect to like the hotel as much as I did. However, the staff was friendly, and the food and margaritas were tasty, and the family owned hotel was very well maintained.  It opened in 1937, and catered to those working in the film industry, particularly those who were filming Westerns in the area. On the walls are movie posters of by-gone stars such as John Wayne or Errol Flynn. Just about every photograph was of someone dressed in Western garb, often on a horse, with a gun in hand. I found the images unnerving, especially since so many of the staff were Navajo or maybe Zuni or Hopi. However, inertia set in, and we stayed.  Our room was small, but so well kept that I left the last of my cash as a tip for the cleaning staff.  The rooms were named for movie stars. Our room was the Joseph Cotten room, although there was a disclaimer that he probably never stayed at the hotel.

The next morning as I was packing some items into the truck, I was approached by a polite and smiling man. I could not tell you if he was young or old, but I do not believe he was Anglo.  He said that he would not get paid until Monday, and was short of cash. Could  I help him?  Just to let him know I was not insensitive to his situation, I responded that I had to decline because I had already given away my money as a tip for the cleaning staff. He smiled again, nodded his head, and quietly walked away.  Whether he was a well-practiced charlatan, or someone truly in need, or both, I will never know, but the exchange was friendly. This was the only time on the trip when I was ever approached for money, although in  Albuquerque we did see one fairly disheveled man eating a slice of pizza while holding a sign announcing his homeless state.  Also on this trip we saw very little graffiti, and I don’t recall seeing anyone muttering to themselves or yelling and raising their fists at something or someone unseen by those around him. I also don’t remember seeing any political advertisements. Perhaps I am simply revealing my selective memory.    

 

The sign above the entrance to the hotel reads, "Charm of  Yesterday, Convenience of Tomorrow".

From Gallup, we went on to Zuni. I had already written about that experience before, but alas, I accidently but permanently deleted that file, and will need to start over. Thank you for helping  me remember.