My soul responds to the isolation, beauty, wild and cocoon of winter as it did many years ago at "Dancing Raven" in Colorado's San Luis Valley; my solo five year mountain retreat. (Living on the Spine: A Woman's Life in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. I have copies of that. My other book, NM Sanctuaries, Retreats and Sacred Places is sold out. I had to order one used from Amazon a couple of weeks ago. How do you spell irony?) I unfold my writing life in Wood Tick's extra room. He has gifted me the space, yet I feel more strung out than ever. La Perla is covered with a sheet of plastic. My few worldly possessions are stowed away in Colorado where a girlfriend (read: savior) recently boxed and sent my snowshoes and gators cuz here I sit with my snorkel gear, evidence of earlier plans for winter south of the border.
Winter's dictate: be worthy of the holy moment; step into the stony darkness and raise my face to the Big Dipper's effervescent shower.
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