rain in november

we both woke early today. we listened to the rain fall all night long, which seems an odd sound when one lives in a high desert. while in bed, thought the outdoors must be full of flooded arroyos. 

almost always, when I listen to these long rains, I think about Marquez' village of Macondo, and how it once rained for four years, eleven months and two days....leaving everything a morass of dead branches and rotting flowers. it is something I'd think about in Kansas too, while wondering if my old wood-frame house was leaking somewhere. imagining how it would beautifully, horribly rot under four years of rain. 

but looking outside in the morning light, saw that the dry land was soaking up all the rain. pulling it into the valley's dirt and all the piles of fallen leaves, leaving a few puddles to walk in.

snow is falling up higher. our wood stove keeps us cozy, which we are both comforted to discover. I'm still surprised when the fire goes out, due to my own negligence, which I'm working on... tending a fire takes constant mindfulness. 

night of the dead, alan crane, 1958

light for the Fall

two nights in which to light our candles. as darkness falls tonight on All Saint's (All-Hallowmas) and tomorrow on All Soul's (Dia de los Muertos). people in cultures all over the world believe in lighting a candle, to help those spirits that wander find their way back home. it is a time that the living world and the fallen world mingles a little. as Fall is falling, this is the time the known and unknown dead are remembered & given light.

I feel there is power in belief. whether that belief is in centered in an organized religion, faith in humanity, or the spirit of the natural world. our living is connected by the ancestors that gave us life, or the ancient peoples who lived the land we now share. I don't actually know who is out there wandering, but I know there is a possibility something is.

so, I like to light the candles, for the spirits that might be around. for the spirits in my life. a little glow, a little flicker and maybe a little peace. maybe keeping night from full darkness. giving pause, giving thought.

earth waits a miracle--
Man too;
This is the day
All saints pass through

-Anne Morrow Lindbergh (excerpt from All Saints Day)

Samhain
(The Celtic Halloween)

-Annie Finch

In the season leaves should love,
since it gives them leave to move
through the wind, towards the ground
they were watching while they hung,
legend says there is a seam
stitching darkness like a name.

Now when dying grasses veil
earth from the sky in one last pale
wave, as autumn dies to bring
winter back, and then the spring,
we who die ourselves can peel
back another kind of veil

that hangs among us like thick smoke.
Tonight at last I feel it shake.
I feel the nights stretching away
thousands long behind the days
till they reach the darkness where
all of me is ancestor

I move my hand and feel a touch
move with me, and when I brush
my own mind across another,
I am with my mother's mother.
Sure as footsteps in my waiting
self, I find her, and she brings

arms that carry answers for me,
intimate, a waiting bounty.
"Carry me." She leaves this trail
through a shudder of the veil,
and leaves, like amber where she stays,
a gift for her perpetual gaze.

as october nears end

last night I drank hot cider with whiskey and the rain fell for hours. this morning the air is clear and everything is in droplets. the aspen outside the kitchen window contrasting against the wet, dark fence. I found a piece of wood turned bright orange in the rain. 

the acequia is running full, but also the Rio Hondo is rushing. I can hear it from our yard, though it is almost a mile away. it is so loud I first thought an engine must be running nearby. the water comes from the mountains, and eventually it all runs to the Rio Grande, especially now that it isn't irrigating fields.

the leaves are a sodden mess, in all their greens, yellows and reds.

the valley has turned rust-colored. I've pulled out my sweaters and packed away my shorts. Libby the cat has been safekeeping her toys in D.'s shoes, we've found three so far--she seems to be nesting for winter in her own way. we've accepted the reality that though we have a lot of wood, we'll need even more. and yesterday I applied for a New Mexico driver's license...which made me cry a little, as I still have occasions which I feel misplaced here, and yearn for the comfort of the Plains. though in looking back to a year ago, that "homesick" feeling has very lessened since then. 

fall in the mtns

we don't have to drive up very far to find snowy patches. we cut lots of wood on wednesday, all the while under the tallest trees, and our boots crunching in the snow. I found a hollow tree, and took pictures of it, wondering who might call the little wooden cave home. 

today woke to a cloudy, rainy morning. the yellow leaves darkened by the rain, looking orange in the trees.

I keep having these dreams with an old theme, that I've been forgetting to go to class. and not that I forgot one day, that I manage to go entire semesters without remembering. and when I do decide to make sure I get there, everything gets in the way--I have to wade though long, muddy fields or I can't find the street...and I always have to walk, no matter how far away the "school" is.  

D. tells me that it is just my own unfortunate beliefs in my own inabilities, haunting my dreams. 

city weekend

occasionally one must leave the ground and fly off to the city. we'd both been to this city before, but it is one we don't mind seeing again, and this time it was with each other. & we had a wedding to attend, with me to stand up with the bride. our first morning was grey & windy, as we walked up & down the lake. tall buildings cloaked in clouds, and our noses pink from cold. 

the next morning, sunny. everywhere looking up, I was distracted by decorative moldings, sun's light carved into brick & stone, the awe that people live among such tall buildings in the sky. we kept losing our sense of direction without a horizon to gauge.

we were staying in one of Chicago's historic hotels downtown. and the lobby was a bit breathtaking, in its art & opulence and also in its energy, as it was always a bustle and filled by the din of voices from everywhere. we managed to sip coffee there, with friends. and also have a late night cocktail, allowing the overpriced drink to be admission for the enjoyment of the view.

managed to see friends who were also in town from faraway, though not for the same reasons. ate deep-dish pizza & found time to chat in the midst of so many things. 

I used to go to weddings alone, and it always felt like I was missing something. it took me forever to find the love of my life, and now having him with me, for weddings or for traveling, or even for figuring out the propane bill... is in itself a happiness. I used to have to grab hope for these things. And even though I was perfectly capable on my own, now having a partner to share all these things, is something I know I deserve, but also something that makes me feel like one lucky-ass woman.

while d. had time to explore the city, I spent quality time with the bride, as hair & makeup was done, fancy attire put on, and nerves bounded all over the place. all-in-all a wedding that went as planned, and the bride was happy. and so were all the guests. and even though I cried giving my toast, I wasn't as nervous up there in front of the microphone as I'd expected. but I think it was because I was on my 2nd drink on a hungry stomach. the wedding ended the trip, & we were up early with the sun for our journey back to la tierra. the first thing we noticed, on the ground in new mexico, was our incredibly warm sunshine. 

colors & finds

fall colors high up in the mountains.

we were up cutting wood. and we found the finger bones of a bear.

but, they didn't come home with us.

fall walks

I've been trying to take a short walk each day on our road. (I'm not the best at getting out and exercising.)

this little walk takes me from the bottom of our driveway, winds down to the river, and curves up our little mountain. I feel my calves burn a little from the climb, and I feel my lungs wonder where all the oxygen is. I see the changing colors, hear the river rushing by, walk past bear shit and convince myself to be curious rather than afraid. today I noticed leaves falling, and noted I should find out what kind of tree they are from. 

sometimes I find myself counting my steps. and I can't quit. even if I distract myself with real thoughts, eventually I again hear in my head the numbers in pace with the steps. 

and I take pictures.

we have an old camp chair by the acequia, next to a large shady tree. yesterday morning I sat there for a little while reading a book, feeling the warm warm sunshine on my arms & face. when I looked up I saw a coyote coming through the overgrown brush along the water, he was heading my way. short, quick and with his nose down. he didn't see me until I moved suddenly, out of shock. then he ran the other way. oh why did I move at all, I could have watched him cross the water over to the pasture. his coat was red in the sunlight.

I stepped inside, waiting for him to come back. he didn't. he kept going the other way.

in most native american folklore, the coyote is known as a trickster. some believe the coyote is responsible for teaching the people how to hunt. many think that witches disguise themselves as coyotes as they travel the land. one pueblo legend credits the coyote with spilling the jar of stars which mother nature had been hoping to hang nicely in the sky, thus being responsible for their scattered twinkling.

a friend of ours who grew up here, he pronounces it like a taoseño. I try to let it roll of my tongue this way. coy-yo-té.

as fall arrives

as fall arrives, so do the colors change. I can see in the light, that it is losing the reflection of all the green, and gaining more yellow, orange & brown. the field outside our adobe, turning into a plain of rust, gold, lavender, bright red and sand. oxido, oro, morado y rojo. 

though am trying to stay thrifty, visited the farmer's market on saturday. didn't let myself buy a piece of lavender/sage art, and admired the brightly colored ristras now on everyone's stall. I bought butternut, zucchini, candy onions and garlic. and some little apples. manzanitas. 

an older farmer, with cowboy hat and a crisp, tucked-in western shirt, stopped me as I walked by his booth. he was excited for me to try some of his golden apples. with his heavy taoseño accent he insisted I try a piece. I couldn't say no. and he was right to press me, they are sweet & crisp and full of a green taste. I bought a pound for $2. knowing that later some of them would become chopped, covered in cinnamon & sugar, and folded into a buttery pastry. (the exuberance of which d loves these pastries, makes me almost addicted to making them for him.)

the night before we had our first hard freeze. and it did hit hard. everything that had been so full of life, now wilted and brown, closing down because of the cold air. this is summer into fall.

friends, music, trees & an oven

sometime in the late 1970s, when I was seven or eight, my dad took us to a bluegrass festival in southeast kansas. the festival was only as old as I was at the time. we've pretty much attended every year since. 

more than a music festival (though the bluegrass makes us all happy), it is a reunion for us. old friends and every so often, new children, travel from all over to meet again in kansas.  we camp, cook & eat together. we spend afternoons under our coveted canopy of shady walnut trees. (sunny kansas days can still get hot in september) and then on our evenings we sit by the fire sipping drinks (unless a big rain comes through). or we go for walks around the grounds, seeing music played or just run into other friends from other places. 

it was this annual reunion which d. and I would always see each other, and which on year we finally started flirting & he asked me out on our first date. 

this year we spent a week at camp. the early days being quiet, with only a few of us. we set up our tents, and a community kitchen. no electricity or running water, but we went ahead and built a brick oven so we could bake whatever we felt like (zwieback, cinnamon rolls, pizza -- helps to have bakers in the camp). and when the larger crowd (& all the kids) arrived, we had the camp ready for them. (and though we love seeing the whole group, the quiet early days are always missed.)

really it is just the being there that feels so needed, and it is hard to describe it to folks who have never been. but our pop-up community, this september gathering, and the quiet afternoons under the walnut trees seems a necessary chapter each year. 

with the freeze

last pick before the first freeze. (though this morning the freeze forecast seemed more dire than it is forecasted to be now)

regardless, the freeze season is here.

we also picked a large bowl of roma tomatoes, which means more sauce--I really have to learn to trust canning over freezing because our freezer is stuffed full.

it is too bad neither of us would eat green tomatoes, in any of the ways they are prepared. I thought this as I lamented how many tomatoes we left on the vine. 

I also picked all the blooming zinnias. all those bundles of red & orange just make me smile. 

we carried over loads of wood from the shed, filling up the wood box by the stove, and stacking some by the door. though i'm not sure we will need a fire tonight, and hopefully a sunny day tomorrow will warm up the house. there is something about the first time you turn on the furnace (or in this case, build the first fire). it is the official goodbye to summer. 

we wait to hear about the truck. I wait to hear about a temp job and the insurance I applied for. tomorrow I attend a meeting with my art-show organizers. and also browse the squash & apples at the farmer's market. and I wonder what our valley is going to look like when the day comes it is all covered in snow.

waiting for the nasturtiums to go to seed.

and these poppies too. I have a goal of not buying seeds for next year, using only seeds I've gathered & saved.

cutting herbs to dry. thinking about winter meals. 

finding sunny spots indoors for the plants which were so happy outdoors.

earlier today we took a short walk. the sunshine is so warm, and the high desert oddly green. one of the rainiest seasons ever recorded. the chamisa is about to turn its brightest golden yellow, and soon the aspens will too.

otherwise, i've had far too many phone calls already in figuring out the expense and lingo of getting insurance. our truck isn't working, and so we wait to find out what the issue is and the cost. realizing I worry too much about money to enjoy unemployment. we're anxious to go up the forest for more wood. we have five cucumbers waiting to be eaten, and about 16 pints of sauce in the freezer. and occasionally, when outside, we can smell green chiles being roasted somewhere in this little valley. 

fall means preparing for what's next. getting ready for the winter days when the air is frozen & everything gets a little more still.