The Native American spirit is spilling out of every adobe doorway. Even the gravel on the sidewalk is calling to my ancient wolf mother psyche. The red clay earth and the woven afghans remind me of Kingsolver’s imagery and the homesick nostalgia therein. Home as the Earth. The source that we are so far removed from and so yearning to return to.
Stone walls and houses made with hands. Hands of your family. Hands of your neighbors. Villages, or Pueblos, pieced together, wall by wall. Room by room. To accommodate a community.
Once again I am overwhelmed by a hotspot of creative inspiration; an entire city, capital city no-less, totally devoted to making and sharing art.
The Great Rucksack Revolution 