My Southwest adventure/”soul” vacation – December 2017
Day IV
Christmas
Day.
I
took all day of Day III on my journey to drive to Santa Fe, arriving at my
destination well before dark—on Christmas Eve. I had chosen the El Rey Court, a delightful adobe
motel that has historic roots and even though is on the outskirts of town, on
Cerrillos Road, was still central to every place I wanted to visit while in
Santa Fe for four days. It was beautiful, cozy. I set up my “writer’s garret,”
and got myself oriented so I knew where things were and how to navigate without
a map or GPS (it doesn’t take me long to get comfortable in a new town, I have
an excellent sense of direction and a willingness to explore and immerse myself
in a place). Santa Fe is not big, only about 80,000 people, so this was easy to
do.
On
Christmas Day, Monday, I drove around Sante Fe’s downtown and immediate
streets, looking for an open restaurant. It’s about 9am. I’m startled by the
closed store fronts, not one place open – haven’t found a restaurant yet – but
being alert to the notion that restaurants attached to hotels would likely be
open for their guests. I’m circling, carefully navigating the one-way streets.
I’m repeating the circuit I became familiar with last night having arrived to
this enchanting place on Christmas Eve eager to join the energy of the place I
remembered from my Christmastime visit 30 years ago.
Last
night, the place was bustling with moving bodies—groups, couples, families all
merry and bright, taking in the lights, streams of glowing luminaria, festive
storefronts—coyote, chili, mesa-scenes, native tapestries and jewelry, an
explosion of color and delight—and, of course, the spirit-stirring scent of
burning pinon pine pervasive everywhere. It is as I remembered it, times three.
I think Santa Fe was much, much smaller and less chic when I was here last.
This
morning’s visit is in stark contrast. I’m surprised by how few people are here.
And yet, at the same time, my Southern sensibilities provide the observation
that I am equally surprised by the numbers of people who are out—away from
their home bases—on Christmas morning! This is something of a revelation to me,
as I’ve spent all of my Christmas mornings, ensconced at home, among presents
and family, home-cooked meals, Christmas trees festooned with our own creations
and choices…until now.
And
yet, there is something magical and inviting about this discovery. There’s a
whole world “out here.”
I
finally find The Burrito Company, open and busy with diners and cheerful,
welcoming employees.
“Mary,
Did You Know” is playing on their audio system. The booths are bright red. The
place is warm, homey, and the smells are enticing, the prices remarkably
reasonable for these parts.
It
occurs to me as I bite into my delicious chorizo quesadilla, accompanied by a
large café mocha, that on this “most wonderful time of the year,” that the
warmth and comfort I seek in connection with others is really everywhere, not
just at home. It’s “out there” but how do you find it? [I get momentarily
distracted from my journaling by the menu sign that heralds “fried ice cream”
and I think, “Have I ever had fried ice cream? I’m intrigued.]
Returning
to this thought, how will I find the connection I seek today, all alone, “out
here” on Christmas Day?
I’ve
been thinking all morning that it would be super uncool of me to hone in or
invite myself into anyone’s family Christmas Day, that’s one thing I can cross
off the list of options! I think, though, about all the times my Bergh family
opened our home and hearts—and dinner table—to other alone people over the
years, people in transition, seeking, or broken, and I muse whether my karma
will come around. Will someone “take me in” as I took others in, in past
Christmases and other seasons?
Sarah
Greene, a new friend back home, texted me a suggestion to connect with a dear
friend of hers who lives in Santa Fe and who would be “happy to meet me.” I’ll text
her, but not on Christmas Day.
Ok,
so if I’m not inviting myself into someone’s family sphere today, how am I
going to spend this day?
It’s
worth noting at this juncture, too, that some of those dearest to me back home
are texting or sending me well wishes on Facebook. And, I’ve talked to my
family of origin—most members—on the phone by mid-morning as I now type this.
I’m feeling somewhat less alone thanks to their reaching out.
And
yet, what is always at the forefront of this emotional tension is the conflict
I have always had to seek adventure, to put myself “out there,” away from home,
and exploring and appreciating God’s great glory and reveling in the great
human experiences granted to me as an observer, a traveler in this life, and
sometimes participant.
Indeed,
there has always been something magical to me about the serendipity I have
experienced through travel. It’s a tension between “aloneness” – watching
others’ togetherness from outside the circle—and yet at the same time relishing
my vantage point of sentinel, one sort of keeping watch.
It
has always been a part of my makeup to observe, to stand outside, to feel
different. What do these folks know about being close, being vulnerable, being
happy, standing together—as witnesses to one another’s lives—that I don’t?
But
as I have gotten older, I am beginning to recognize that not everyone knows
something that I don’t know, that I can learn to reconcile that my differentness,
and my desire to stand apart at times, is something I can enjoy.
I
know that I can enter into the sphere of others easily when I choose to. For
example, last night, upon arriving in town and heading to the Coyote Cantina at
Ralph Megna’s suggestion, I met a lovely family headed by oil and gas Oklahoman
and recent Santa Fe transplant, Ellis Randolph. They were sitting next to me,
animated with their lively discussion, and welcomed me into their conversation.
They also invited me to join them for the luminaria walk, but after exchanging
cell phone numbers and hanging out waiting for them for several hours I ended
up declining, instead opting to rest back at the El Rey after my long day’s
drive.
It
is enriching, however, to experience a tiny piece of another person’s life, though
entirely fleeting, when they are willing and open to sharing it. It is in those
moments that I feel really special—gifted, in a sense. Blessed. Thank you, God.
And, thank you, strangers, for opening your life to me, if only for a moment. I
already felt a connection to Ellis’ family in that moment—Ellis’ story about
his move to Santa Fe, his daughter Mary’s Silicon Valley story, his
brother-in-law Jay’s cross-country Tesla trek.
But
back to this singularly “alone” Christmas morning. As I sit at The Burrito
Company, I continue to jot down notes…
The
balance of the emotional tension in my conundrum resides in the need to enjoy
my solitude. In between the moments of serendipitous connection and aloneness,
I am seeking to enjoy my own company. What a concept, right? It is, for some of
us!
I’m
never more aware of how alone I am than when I am focused on enjoying my own
company. I’m chuckling as I’m writing this, because I remember my dad being
particularly fond of his own company and never hesitating to remind others who
tried to enter his sphere that he was “perfectly content enjoying his own
company.” He would do this by fishing, hunting, reading, watching sports. It
was often difficult for him, I think, to allow others to share those
experiences with him, his pursuit of solitary activities consumed a good deal
of his adult life, as I recall.
I
realize for me, and that is part of why I am taking this solo journey across
two states, that though I am quite accomplished at “staying busy” as my sister
Vicki calls it—going places where other people are—that this time is about
learning to pursue and enjoy solitary activities that are fulfilling.
I
feel compelled to write about it. Writing is one of those solitary activities
that is fulfilling for me.
So,
if I go back to my original question, “how am I going to spend this ‘most
wonderful day?’” part of the answer was that I had in my mind that following
breakfast, I would attend the 10am mass at St. Francis Cathedral in downtown
Santa Fe.
When
I found The Burrito Company open for breakfast, I also found a parking spot
around the block from it, which I realized once I saw where I was, exactly, was
also less than a block’s walking distance from the Cathedral. How lucky, I am thinking. After I have
breakfast, I can scoot the three minutes or so over to the church for mass.
So,
that is what I did.
The
Christmas Day mass at St. Francis Cathedral turned out to be what I would
characterize as a “whole person” experience, where I was engaged with not only
my intellect but with every one of my senses, with my feelings, my
spirituality, and my personality. Maybe my other experiences on this trip have
been like this, too, but this particular one bowed me over. I was, quite
literally, “overcome.”
It
started with the overwhelming sense I had that we are all one family—the
diverse crowd, locals and tourists alike gathered for the special mass to
herald the birth of Jesus, and the priest welcoming all and carrying out the
proceedings in English and Spanish. There was excitement in the air, the place
was bursting at the seams, and many folks had to stand at the back of the main
nave or even out in the lobby. I snuck past waiting crowds, and being only one
person, was able to slip into the end of a pew about three rows from the back
on the far right. I tapped an older lady on the arm, asked if I could slide in
next to her, as there was still room in the pew.
I
joined the service, had already missed the readings, but caught the first hymn
while I took in the Corinthian columns that soared several stories high framing
bright white walls and arches painted with ornate Romanesque scrolls in deep
greens, reds, and gold. Soon I could hear the choir, and though I could not see
them in the transept, was happy to enjoy Oh Holy Night accompanied by an
organist, violins, guitar, bell choir, and at some points in the song, someone
playing castanets. It was quite beautiful, and that was when my emotions first
came to the surface.
Besides
the fantastic space, and the music, and the priest’s warmth, the little lady
sitting next to me held my hand as we recited the Our Father. These days,
Catholics tend to raise their palms, some congregations encourage the
hand-holding connection, but as I looked around, my neighbor and I were some of
the very few who had actually reached out—I was, literally, touched. This
brought another wave of emotions, the tears started to drip down my cheeks. I
was, and whispered to my hand-holding neighbor, a “long way from home.” It was
so beautiful. My neighbor whispered back that “she was finally home again,
after 20 years away living in Texas,” and a tear also rolled down her cheek. It
was a special moment for me, an “old softy,” as my dad would have said.
The
prayers for the homeless, the needy, those without families, those on hard
times all hit me pretty hard in the following minutes of the mass, too, as I
bowed my head and couldn’t seem to stop the tears. I wasn’t sad, I don’t think;
I felt that the primary emotion was gratitude, and a sublime connection to
everyone and everything at that moment. I decided to accompany my neighbor to
communion, as she grabbed my elbow and steered me up our side aisle and I had
not committed any mortal sins since my last (albeit without a priest)
confession. I felt something powerful was happening in that space, and for that
time, and was happy to be a part of it.
I
found out after the service that the dear older woman was a Santa Fe native who
had returned to live in her hometown after 20 years in El Rio, having agreed to
live on a lake with her husband. She was so happy to be home. She told me that
her name was Rosina Lopez de Short. I talked to her about the topic I was
writing about: how people grow and make decisions during times of transition.
It
turned out that Rosina, 81, is an artist, a retired art teacher, and she gave
me her name and I gave her my email.
Later
I found this online image of Rosina with her artwork.
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