Trees give me claustrophobia. Humidity gives me the feeling that I can’t see the real sky. Big cities are…ahem…not my thing. In Santa Fe you can have a therapist treat your polarity, or you can study quantum physics, or do both at once. In the land of Chaos Theory and ancient kivas, great restaurants and critical water shortages, these things don’t seem so far apart.
We built a house here. It has a life of its own, this house. It’s the color of the hills; the wind blows through it and the sunset moves across the walls in silent light and shadow. The ravens and the chipmunks wander over it as if it were a natural thing, like a mountain or a cave.
We humans just live here like the rest of the critters, a part of this ridge where Indians used to sit and work arrowheads. Their flints litter the ground at an outcrop above us, where there is a good boulder to sit on and a particularly nice view of the sunset and the Jemez Mountains to the west. It’s easy to imagine sitting there and striking the red-and-white chert in the silence, looking out over the valley. There are many such spirits that live here.