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.   

 

            

  

Desert Colors

 "May I trust in the Unfolding Mystery and meet it well.

May I dwell in the land and be nourished by its faith." 

Psalm  37:3  Psalms, Ancient Songs for These Times

Rabbi Yael Levy          

     

 Rabbi Yael has published her book of psalms and I am delighted. It is as beautiful a book as I knew it would be. 

   

These times are certainly testing us. Yet, more importantly, they are strengthening us. Let us set our intentions and continue to love. 

      

       

    

     

image:  Red Rock Canyon State Park, Cantil, CA, April 2026  

  

El Morro

 

Looking at my photographs of El Morro National Monument in New Mexico, I realize that I never did get a definitive picture.  There is the view of El Morro itself (Spanish for “Headlands”). However, El Morro is large and my IPhone is small, so I found it not easy to photograph. From the top there is the beautiful view of Morro Valley. There is also the view of the historic pueblo that sits at the top and is in the process of being refurbished. There is the pool of water at the foot of El Morro which is why it became a stopping place for first the ancient ones who scratched their petroglyphs, and then the Spaniards, who added their elaborate signatures.  As you  can see from the attached photograph, the site is protected to maintain the historical integrity so one cannot really get too close. 

  On a trip decades ago, Tyler and I stopped at El Morro, and we wanted to return to both Zuni and El Morro again. On this trip we walked the path to the top and saw the pueblo and kiva. We then walked the lower path to view the petroglyphs and inscriptions. We talked about trying to spend the night  in the small campground there, but the sites are first come, first served, and they were all taken. The campsite is probably an excellent place to camp and view stars on a clear night.  El Morro is just off of the two lane Hwy 53, so I think the nighttime would be quiet. However, the ultimate quest of our trip was to visit Albuquerque to determine if we might want to live there, and it seemed time to begin that part of the journey, about a two hour drive.

I am having some difficulty gathering my thoughts about our trip. This morning I wrote about visiting Zuni on our way to El Morro and Albuquerque, but I accidently, but nonetheless permanently deleted the file.  I will try again tomorrow. I think I am having some trouble simply settling into being home again, partly because I retired from professional ministry days before we left on this trip.  I have much to process.

Yes, we fell in love with Albuquerque and New Mexico. At times, I have found myself wistfully remembering when I moved from Texas to California. I was 20 something when I  packed everything in my red VW, and off I drove with $200 in my  wallet. This is obviously a different time of my life. As intimidating as a move is, we  are fortunate to have a house to get ready to sell. This will take some time. Hopefully, the economy or the world won’t completely collapse in the meantime. However, just to be on the safe side, I will hold in reserve $200 cash to help get us out of town. For now, I am reading Paul Coelho’s The Alchemist to remind myself to not be afraid to dream.

More to follow! If you want to see the images, please go to my Facebook Page or send me an email to sayarbrough@gmail.com. They are large files.   

 

“As he mused about these things, he realized that he had to choose between thinking of himself as the poor victim of a thief and as an adventurer in quest of his treasure.”  

Paul Coelho, The Alchemist, A Fable About Following Your Dream, p.44 

 

“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

Jesus as quoted in Matthew 6:21  

           

               

 

Prayers and Prophecy

 "Everyone has a place in the mosaic of peace." 

Pope Leo in today's Vigil for Peace   

      

            

"The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; 

the desert shall rejoice and blossom like the crocus; 

it shall blossom abundantly

and rejoice with joy and singing."     

Isaiah 35:1-2      

        

image:  Ocotillo,  Kingman, AZ, April 2026

Dreaming of There

 In the dream I am walking

through a desert.

I am seeing rocks on the ground

with the word "There" carved 

in their stone. 

I believe I am following 

the path of an artist.  

There are others with me.  

I wonder about these stones,

where they might be leading 

me.  

We arrive at a hotel 

and we sleep.

It is strange to dream

of falling asleep while sleeping. 

It is not easy to wake up 

while believing I am still

in the dream.   

I stand and look out the window.   

It takes a few moments 

to realize that I am 

not there, I am here,

still in the dream,

still trying to listen to 

the guidance of an artist 

who speaks through carved stones.

How can I tell when 

I am on my way to there?   

Perhaps I am already gone.     

   

say, April 2026    

  

       

  

image: Petroglyph National Monument, Western Trail NW, Albuquerque, March 2026

  

  

 

Tunnel Vision

 We are indeed home. I never expected my travel recollections would begin with this image, but when I spotted it on a cafe wall, I laughed out loud.

 

 On our journey home, we drove the beautiful State Hwy 155 to postpone getting on Hwy 5 as long as possible (Tyler is proving to be a great path finder!) At one point we noticed  a sign for a cafe and market. I remarked that a cup of coffee and a bite to eat sounded good, so we pulled into the parking lot and went in. On the wall of the cafe were several advertisement posters from bygone years and this poster caught my eye.
After we ate and drank some of what was possibly the worst tasting coffee I ever have had, we walked back to the truck. There we were approached by a thin, straight-spined woman who had the appearance of one who worked outdoors for many years. I believe she was older than I, but not by much.
She asked me about our truck, and I explained some of its finer points, including the fact that we appreciate its smaller size. She responded in what I might call a rural accent and lamented that gas prices would probably continue to rise so a smaller truck is probably a good idea. She then added, "I believe we voted in the wrong man. I hope someone better comes along." Trying hard to avoid any snarkiness, I added that I hope he leaves sooner than later, and we said our good-byes.
As we continued our journey through that beautiful verdant land of rolling hills, I realized that we were probably traveling through DT country. In rural countries, higher gas and diesel prices are serious. Ranchers, and certainly farmers as well  have animals to feed and transport, and equipment to maintain. I felt that woman's disappointment and wondered if she would ever vote for a Democrat. I also again wondered if our current color coded two party system has resulted in so much polarization that all of us risk not listening and thinking clearly as we cast our votes.  
Yes, there are indeed some tunnels that lead us astray. May all of us have the courage to simply turn around and explore a new direction.    

       

    

Our trip was filled with wondrous sights, delicious foods, some new jewelry, and many good conversations. I will begin sharing some of my photographs and musings in the next few days. I also plan on exploring using Substack for my writing.  If you have any thoughts or insights you would like to share about this idea, please let me know!