In Santa Fe, helping with the annual cleaning of the Acequia Madre. The ancient ritual of care and clearing the important irrigation ditch.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
About Me
- Christie
- Creative writer - Traveler - Archaeologist manque - Ardent lover of the play of light, the journeyings of time, things ephemeral and ancient
Popular Posts
-
On my way back from campus, a fine flurry of yellow leaves. Dissettling December . . . image: Christie B. Cochrell, Leaves in Fountain -
Darkness falls—and then there are candles in red glass cups, fires of piñon wood, carols. Cakes fall—and I remember in the lov... -
I love niches, those quiet hollows in deep walls (adobe walls in Santa Fe, in California missions, or built into Cretan w... -
Typically I wouldn't like the plaid chair—but somehow it's just right in that setting. As would I be! I can see a week ther... -
A magnificent Don Carlo at the operahouse. Being grateful once again for Verdi, and for having had the good fortune to visit his home ... -
When the snow-girt earth Cracks to let through a spurt Of sudden green, and from the muddy dirt A sn... -
Just for a smile! “For a moment at least, be a smile on someone else’s face.” —Dejan St... -
After coffee in my hand-painted Italian mug, and nice sweet apricots and peach slices, but while remembrance of the night’s fog was sti... -
I have my new leg-warmers on, and just had some of Julia Child’s boeuf Bourguignon delivered to our doorstep (as well as ... -
I think I will declare a month of holidays, of holy days. May Day, Cinco de Mayo—already in place. But today I’m celebrating...
No comments:
Post a Comment