Blazing hot sun, a snow shower, strong wind, bitter cold on this Good Friday. I stay at home writing, reading, sorting pictures.
In Chimayo, the pilgrims have arrived or are arriving to pray and take home a bit of the sacred earth that heals.
Late afternoon, I go for a walk. On the moor beyond the Morada, it’s a must today. At the cemetery, the graves have blossomed with new flower offerings.
On the way, I meet these four pilgrims who are going home. We greet each other.
“A picture of us? Okay.”
When I take the usual path, over there, I see the traces of the cross carried and dragged, then some stone crosses and straw in the places where some knelt, I imagine.
I follow the tracks for a while. Lose them.
I see the earth, barely dry, already cracking, birds everywhere, elk tracks in a dry riverbed.
I hear the wind, feel the cold coming on as the sun disappears.
I walk back along the long straight path that leads from Georgia O’Keeffe’s cross to the Morada,
in the cold colors of dusk.