“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.