For the last couple of weeks I have been in Santa Fe, not scheduled to go back to NYC until next week. It is always such a contrast to be here compared to the crazy energy of the big city.
What other capital city do you know of where you can fish within steps of the Capitol building? Santa Fe is grounded in her past and her traditions and that feeling of small town so lost elsewhere these days. I always tell people Santa Fe is the perfect combination of small town and big city. Everyone knows someone who knows someone here, it isn’t six degrees of separation, it is usually two at most. But unlike so many other small towns the big difference, here in Santa Fe no one cares what you are doing behind closed doors.
Summer is also a time of color in the desert. When the rains come in the right order and amount the ground bursts into bloom as part of its constant struggle to survive our arid surroundings. It has been a decent year so far, of course we could use a lot more rain **always**, but the spring tease was just enough to start the dance of life.
As summer comes upon us here in the desert southwest another thought begins to enter everyone’s minds and most conversations, “monsoon season,” that glorious interaction between the western winds and gulf moisture, the bringer of life.
Into rainbow season we go, full of hope for the storms ahead and always looking back at what binds the people to this land. That thing I have such a hard time putting into words that brought me here. That thing that kept me coming back year after year. That thing that drove me to call this the only true home I have ever known.
So, next time then…