They are so beautiful, the young people—from press photos, largely young women—who marched through the streets of our cities and towns Saturday demanding crisis responses to climate change.
These staring female saints, these progressing pilgrims, are as far as can be imagined from the images in European churches—or even in the “white” churches of the northeast.
The first issue, of course, is to level the playing field so that women have the same opportunities for education and performance as men.
Rose Simpson’s warrior women become women of flesh and blood… this is a fearsome prospect for some, maybe many, women.
Over the twenty-seven years I’ve lived in Santa Fe, many people have come and many people have gone.
I will always miss the sensation of diving off the slope, at ten thousand feet, and sailing down the longest run with big curving sweeps of my skis.
I have lived here for twenty-seven years, and in all that time, I’ve felt and seen a slow progression in state politics toward justice.
Like the medieval desert mendicants, holy men who lived their lives in remote caves and were sometimes fed by ravens, Will had long ago lost any interest in possessions, or any taste for food.
Through all these years of turmoil and change, the Santa Fe Indian Market has persisted.
Burning to prevent burning produces unwelcome results… even in the face of wildfires, we may do our forests a favor by leaving them alone.