Take Me to Church
It is impossible to take in Santa Fe and not witness myriad manifestations of spirituality. It's in the historically significant churches anchoring a public square. The sacred grounds of nearby reservations and pueblos. It's in the art and jewelry showcased in galleries, outposts, and sidewalk sales. The preparation of Christmas enchiladas and heated discussion of what "spiritual but not religious" really means over lunch at the Plaza Cafe.
Rarely has a girls' getaway been so in-your-face about its underlying intention. Less than a week later, I'm still unsure how I feel about everything after experiencing so much mysticism during three days in New Mexico.
Spring awakening
Spring arrived just as we did, from bursts of lemongrass-colored tree buds lining walkways to a white and pink blossoms spilling over brown adobe fences meant to contain them. The high desert sun shone intensely except for one brief April shower that bode well for early May blooms waiting their turn to dazzle.
My travel mates from New England soaked in the warmth and lunar landscape of the American Southwest. I wasn't as enrapture by high desert highlights, especially given it hit 86 on the day I wore winter clothes and settled back to low to mid-60s soon as I switched to lighter spring wear. Still, I could appreciate the lack of daily disruptions and the thick glass standing between me and an anxious reptile at a kitschy rattlesnake museum in Old Town Albuquerque. I wolfed down New Mexican cuisine (It's all in the green chiles, I'm told.) and enjoyed a chance encounter at the George R.R. Martin bookstore.
Feeling better ... and worse
I came home carrying the germs of a raging cold and work deadlines that didn't care if I was sick. My body was sore for days from a therapeutic massage that smoothed out seven years' worth of painful adhesions. My mind was still a mess, which is saying something given all the reminders that there's a higher power ready to assist.
I felt an ethereal presence in the ancient caves we accessed on wooden stairs, dwellings that once housed thriving communities predating European settlements; the brushstrokes of genius in a Georgia O'Keeffe painting; the ingenuity of a funky art installation that had me traveling through a refrigerator and stuck in the fireplace for a hot minute. It was in the fine dining experiences I wasn't sure I deserved and in the grace of robe-wrapped strangers who let me fall apart in that zen-dominant spa.
Maybe if I hadn't come home with such a bad head cold that persists to this day, I might be offering a few more Amens for all that Santa Fe offered. Instead, at least for now, all I can summon is a succession of Achoos.
Coming up: more trip details, once the clouds in my head and congestion in my chest clears.
Photos from The Cathedral Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi, the mother church of The Archdiocese of Santa Fe.
