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Our nephew Tyler, that’s him up yonder, has a deep knowledge of and fascination with mines and mining, well at least of the hard rock underground variety. An open pit or the environmental calamity of blasting a mountain top off are definitely not his jam. If I recall correctly, it all started with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and their underground lair. Pretty cool, when you think about it – there’s a whole world under there.

So, logic follows that we would some day visit the Western Museum of Mining and Industry here in Colorado Springs together. It’s located a short distance from I-25, with excellent signage, but it still took us eight years to get there! But, hey, we did it. It was a next level experience to wander about in the presence of an expert and to watch Tyler’s face light up. Like when he saw a diorama of the Comstock in California and named it before even looking at the signage. Or his astonishment at having equipment he’d only previously read about or seen rusted and decaying in some out of the way mining town in the high country looking quite regal and fully operational.

If you have any interest in mining, and especially if you know someone who does, I highly recommend a visit. You might even spy a hawk in the parking lot! The museum does an exceptional job of creating experiences that mimic the look and feel of going underground, which offered an excellent connection to my Grandpa George, who was a coal miner in Springfield, Illinois, from the late 1800s until his death (from Black Lung) in 1945. They also have some really cool displays and videos of past and present mining technology. The rocks, like the fluorescents above, were a nice surprise, too. What a meaningful day for us!

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Floral

Spring is not yet here, but the song of a solitary, pioneering blackbird when I wake, the smell of something warm and floral on the air in fleeting moments, these signs give me hope.

Tracy Rees

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Lit

Can anything harm us, mother, after the night-lights are lit?”
Nothing, precious,” she said; “they are the eyes a mother leaves behind her to guard her children.

J.M. Barrie

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Last week, Monday to be precise, I took a solo excursion to New Mexico, firstly in search of places to celebrate my Native Mexican heritage, with that dash of Comanche. My ancestral lines go back to Peru and the Maya of the Yucatan, and who knows how long they journeyed the thousands of miles to New Mexico or where they lived in between. Life is full of mysteries.

My primary concern was finding where long departed grandparents were married or baptized. Sadly, for the first stop, my camera, likely in an act of inattention, got out of setting and took the weirdest, mostly unsalvageable photos (save one – you’ll know it when you see it). Perhaps in an effort to cement my return, I wondered, because I definitely will be back.

Santa Cruz de la Canada, where three grandfathers (Jose Candelario Garcia, Jose Antonio Maes, and Jose Joaquin Garcia de Noriega) were baptized, and two sets of great-grandparents were married, (Jose Joaquin to Maria de la Concepcion), and most exciting, Antonia Olaya Xiron (such a beautiful name!) to Francisco de la Cerda on March 4, 1743. Isn’t it amazing to think this happened thirty-three years before before America was even a country?

The above two photos are in and around Espanola, the land of Ohkay Owingeh, where my Grandma Esquipula was baptized in 1827. This eastward view is one she took in, too. If you’ve done any similar traveling, I’ll bet you experienced that crushing sense of wonder and home. I come from this place. My soul lies in this soil.

My next stop was Abiquiu, the place Georgia O’Keefe made famous, and where a handful of my grandfathers were baptized at Santo Tomas Church: Juan Rafael Serna, Valentin Serna (born on Valentine’s Day!), Jose Felipe de Neri Cisneros, Florencio Casillas, and Marcos Antonio Alire.

You may be wondering where the church photos are, as I definitely have them, but I decided on painting watercolors and sharing them at a later date. Stay tuned…

And again, I was struck by the familiarity and awe of this landscape, a warm embrace of my ancestors welcoming me home.

Rio Ojo Caliente, here and a few below

My final stop was Ojo Caliente! I hadn’t been there since 2016 and had never gone without Greg, so it was an especially meditative time of very little speaking and much listening, to the fall and splash of water, wind over naked branches, and the early quiet of day.

I ate a few delicious meals at the Artesian, walked in the chill of morning (after the wild creatures in the labyrinth!), practiced yoga, and scrubbed and soaked and steamed, over and over again, fully aware of my great privilege to do so in a place my ancestors received similar respite.

Ute Mountain and the freshly capped Sangre de Cristos

All is revered, all is home…

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Strange

We have to dare to be ourselves, however frightening or strange that self may prove to be.

May Sarton

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