Our old adobe home is located near the Rio Grande, close enough to see her waters glinting through the winterbare willows and cottonwoods. We stay pretty close to home most days, fishing and photographing the river, making art, watching the ever changing sky and land. Once a week or so we drive up the highway to Taos to visit the hardware store or down the mountain to Dixon's co-op and magnificent community library. On rare occasions we drive to Santa Fe to pay homage to Trader Joe. We did that this morning, and it dawned on me that when I travel too far from the Rio Grande, I really miss her. She is a big mama river, and I just feel better when I'm close to her. This surprised me as we drove back up the canyon. I saw myself craning to see the first view of her as we passed the Velarde orchards, then breathed a sigh of relief when the highway sidled up to her near Embudo. Home, again, in the arms of my mama rio.
When we lived on the California coast, I enjoyed seeing and hearing the ocean nearby, but this feeling for my mama is different, more visceral, more intimate. I'm just learning about this connection, and I suspect that my mama will be teaching me more about it, day by day.
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