A Break From Boys To Worry About The Weather...

The sand covers the ground here. The cold wind creates a chill. There is no rain. There are no real trees. There are mainly junipers and what is left of the pinons that were not destroyed a couple of years ago. I have grown up accustom to being able to see a horizon. I have grown up knowing that there are hundred of miles between me and where the world suddenly begins to drop away. Being a drama major I sometimes wonder if the mountains are not really elaborately painted flats.

Every now and then a thought will posses me for a while, as of late it has been the difference of my home compared to others. My land being as above described. My home being a consolation of dryness and sunshine. But there are those who go home to the ocean or to giant trees, or to a city, or rain, constantly grey, with no horizons, all from a very different type. There are homes where the majority of color is green or blue, or grey. Not here, here it is brown and tan. I have always loved how ancient people, especially natives always live near the place that is holiest in the world. Isn't that what home is in an extreme since? The place you know where you came from, the place that began it all? The place that if you are allowed to go back to provides security?

Loving New Mexico is as simple as loving culture and as complicated as loving it as well. There is another type of person here with another history. These histories often have very little to do with American History. They relate much more to a family, a direct place, a beginning in travels from Spain, from Mexico, from the center of the earth. Most true native New Mexicans are related to each other. There is an understanding. A bond.

I was told I was from Colorado Springs the other day and was quite dissatisfied. I corrected the mistake politely and said "I go to school there. My home is Santa Fe." But as I write that I wonder what exactly besides being grown here allows for such a name?