Gratitude

For Safe Arrivals

Hello, Friends!

If you’re new to this newsletter, my mission is to help us all reconnect with this living earth and strengthen our terraphilia, humans’ innate affection for and connection to this planet and its numinous, interwoven community of lives.

I’m ten months into my Year of Spiritual Thinking Project and have just moved from the home and landscape I thought would nurture me until I leave this existence, to a place where my heart and lungs will be happier and healthier.

Moving Week

Wednesday was moving day. It was also the day my internet connection died, but I didn’t have time to figure out what was wrong. I was too busy packing all the last-minute stuff.

And then Mike and Willie from Bekins ProRelo arrived in the big box truck and spent about five hours carefully inventorying and labeling my boxes, crates, tools and furniture—wrapping the latter in moving blankets, and stowing them in the truck.

By the time they left, the house was empty, echoing. I slept in my bedroom that night on my camping mattress with Arabella, my Christmas cactus, for company.

My bedroom, empty but for Arabella and my camping mattress and sleeping bag (not in the photo).

Closing and Driving

Yesterday—Thursday, the day I would normally write this newsletter—I woke early and raced to get everything that wasn’t on the big truck into Rojita, my little Toyota Tacoma, so that I could make it to the title company in time to sign the papers to finalize the sale of my beloved house with its blue gate, welcoming courtyard and wild high-desert acreage.

“Everything” included Arabella, who at 68 years old and three feet across, is heavy, awkward and not easy to move. More about that later.

And then I hit the road for my new hometown, Montrose, on Colorado’s less-peopled and more naturally diverse West Slope, where the mountain peaks tower over desert plateaus, and the rivers rush downhill snow-melt cold.

It’s a six-and-a-half hour drive from my house south of Santa Fe to Montrose, through long stretches of stunning landscape with few towns and no cell service in some places, including one gorgeous stretch winding up and over the Continental Divide on a two-lane highway where pronghorn antelope, elk, bighorn sheep and cows far outnumber people.

Bighorn sheep on the highway two autumns ago. (The rest of the herd is up the slope on the right-hand side of the photo.)

As I drove, I parsed the patterns of plant communities and the shape of the landscapes, watched hawks, greeted familiar mountain peaks and winding creeks, passed more than one convoy of hunters with their big trucks towing OHVs and trailers, and listened to the hum of the tires on the road.

Revising My Life

And I absorbed the shock of leaving the house I thought I would die in and starting over—at age 68—in a new place, rebuilding community, re-growing roots. Revising my life the way I revise my writing, listening to words and meaning, considering, honing, tightening, reflecting. Tossing out what doesn’t serve me and strengthening what does.

I’ll be honest: The opportunity to choose new rhythms and patterns excites me. Packing and organizing and the actual physical move does not. It’s just grueling. Not to mention storing all of my stuff for a month before I can unpack and actually move into my new house. That’s hard, but I’ll survive.

The closer I got to Montrose, the more my excitement built. I am ready to settle, to make myself a new nest, a new routine, a new beginning in this homestretch of my life.

Arrivals

The sun was getting low by the time I pulled in at the little cabin on the banks of the Uncompahgre River at the south edge of Montrose where I’m staying for the next month.

I managed to carry Arabella into the cabin—but she lost some big branches passing through the narrow doorway. I feel guilty about failing to adequately protect her, but we’ll both recover.

And then I unpacked the stuff I brought with me for my stay.

My cabin, with the river just beyond.

After which I took a long walk on the riverway trail at sunset, greeting some friendly horses I passed, soaking in the golden light and the view of the distant wall of the San Juan Mountains, already white with fall snow.

Sunset while walking the trail

I spent a quiet evening reading and answering messages, slept hard and long, lulled by the rush of the river, and woke to a frosty morning, feeling good in a way I rarely have for the past two years.

So good that I walked a brisk three-mile loop along the river, across the highway bridge, and back to a pedestrian bridge, savoring the sunrise light illumining the coppery-gold cottonwood leaves and the crisply fresh air.

The view from my morning walk

Today, Mike and Willie arrived with the big truck—having left Albuquerque at three-thirty this morning so they could do the drive here and back in one day. We worked together to unload the truck and fit everything into my storage unit, and then, the final paperwork signed, off they headed.

I drove back here to the cabin to relax by the river, profoundly grateful for the safe arrivals of the belongings I hold dear, including Arabella, slightly smaller than when we left Santa Fe, but still soaking up the sunshine and the view of the river.

Arabella at the cabin by the river….

Gratitude

I am grateful to be here, grateful to be alive, grateful for the chance to arrive safely and start anew.

May we all arrive safely through the changes in our lives. May our country pass safely through this election, and may we find ways to heal this planet, wracked as it is by climate change and wars.

May we work together to add to the ocean of life and love and to ensure peace for all.

Blessings, Susan