In the cool morning air amid the coastal trees, the high desert of New Mexico seems a world away. I have returned from my personal retreat to dear Taos at the foot of the sacred mountain, and once again find myself at this small writer’s cottage I currently call home. Here at the edge of
I wake in the night to the voices of coyotes yip yipping outside. The small casita where I am staying in Taos, New Mexico is silent and dark, a trickle of clouded moonlight seeping through the windows. In this moment the motorized whirl of the heater and the hum of the refrigerator compressor are both
Authenticity seems to be the word of the moment. I’ve been writing about authenticity for quite awhile, of course; it rests at the heart of The Bones and Breath, and it’s woven throughout these Soul Artist Journal posts. Yet it seems to be surfacing all around me lately, as if I’m sitting in a tiny
It never fails. Even after a relatively short immersion in the wild, I am transformed. When I started up the dusty path from the trailhead, I felt constricted in a calcified shell of containment; irascible, burdened, and somewhat prickly (think:
Amid the trees, the dry, herbaceous aromas of the lower canyon trail transform. Here the air is not only cooler by several degrees but suddenly tinged with mossy notes and a scent of green-tea, catapulting me to other places and other wanderings.