black-chinned hummingbird

Black-chinned hummer at the feeder yesterday

“Just write,” they tell me. “Just write.” Something wants expression and I’m the one to do it, but not for the last few weeks. Editing the soon-to-be published collection of blog posts I wrote during my mother’s final chaotic last four years on Earth precludes any letting go to be creative. It’s also like washing in sulphuric acid.

I went to bed last night wanting nothing more than to get the hell out of Taos, not that I knew where to go instead. Fifteen years is long enough, I told myself. Fifteen years of struggle and soul work, fifteen years of isolation. Whatever else it is, Taos is not a happy or a comfy place, and the deeper energy you may have heard about is not the kind of thing that makes you smile. Far from it! I have a theory that if you’ve never been obsessed with running away from here, you aren’t a true Taoseño. I guess I made it, then, and now perhaps I’ve grown to where I really could be anywhere.

Oh sure.

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