“It is Wise Fool New Mexico’s mission to ignite imagination, build community, and promote social justice through performances and hands on experiences in the arts of circus, puppetry, and theatre.” Thus their moniker, “Changing lives one circus at a time.”

For those of you planning a trip to northern New Mexico I want to enthusiastically recommend that you get your hands on an Essential Guide Santa Fe & Taos as soon as you land in the state. It is a free publication that covers galleries/studios/museums, shopping, dining, spas, lodging, attractions, wine tours, special events, recreation and more.

As promised, Isbabro Ortega came by to install our new window pieces the day after Anna and I got them painted. We had hoped, when we ordered them, that they would help warm up the exterior of our somewhat severe looking old adobe house, and we weren’t disappointed.

You all have seen this shot of my yard about a million times by now. It’s the path back up from the land grant so I walk it every afternoon. You’ve seen it buried in snow or brown with its winter grasses. I’ve posted photos of it iced over and delicately dusted with snow. But have you ever seen it deep in the new grasses of spring?

I was having lunch at the gallery the other day and heard something outside. I got up to look and there they were. All four of them—big, strong, healthy and rambunctious—and EATING what was there for them outside.

Master carver, Isabro Ortega, delivered the window pieces for our Anna Karin Gallery. Anna and I were thrilled. Enough so that we set our alarms early the following day so we could go down to Espanola and buy paint before we needed to open the gallery for the day. And we set right to work painting them.

Saturday night I was outside at sunset expecting the Super Moon to rise over Truchas Peaks at any moment. My timing was off, though. It wouldn’t show itself for another forty minutes or so. I stayed outside as the sun was setting, waiting, because I wanted to be sure to get a picture of the Super Moon for you all.

When the mayordomo (the individual in a village that oversees use of the water) gives permission to do so, local farmers and ranchers open the gates that are holding the water back, allowing irrigation water to flood their fields. It is always such a beautiful sight! The water flows over their land, forming shallow lakes.

I’ve written to you several times before about Truchas Peaks. It is the mountain I see from my kitchen windows; the mountain I watch as I have my morning coffee. It guides me through the land grant during walks with the dogs. It is the ever-present sentinel of my life here; the peaks that ground me and also cause my heart to soar.

I was sitting at the Anna Karin Gallery the other day when I started hearing some rustling and chirping. There, under the propane heater, with his little head tucked tightly into the corner, was a tiny baby chipmunk.

Mary is a professional musician. She has spent much of her adult life playing classical music with symphony orchestras. She also plays the Native American flute. Not long after she arrived, she asked if she might play a blessing song throughout the gallery. Absolutely! So I shot a video as she moved from room to room. And this centuries-old home gathered her in its embrace.

I am no longer needing fires to heat the house. While Skye and Bubba are deeply disappointed by this and would likely cozy up to a morning fire in the middle of the summer, the fact is, wood chores are over for the season. I’ve filled the indoor bin to brimming, the wood pile that has been a fixture in the front yard for the duration of the winter is gone, the tarps are folded and stowed.

Okay, I can’t help it. I’m over the moon about the arrival of spring! Living up here at 8500 feet, the winters can be long and cold. But I saw my first blue bird today—a little finch-sized bit of living color—that made my heart sing. So I’ll say goodbye to winter for another year, with gratitude for the snow we’ve received, and will fully embrace the spirit of spring.

The Sandia Mountains are east of Albuquerque and more than a two hour drive from my home. Even so, I see them from my house as part of my southern view. They’re that little graceful, humped shape sitting above the rest of the hills—rather elegant I’ve always thought. Sandia means watermelon in Spanish. It’s thought the name derives from the reddish color of the mountains at sunset.

I love my artful life. Just the other day my friend, Vera, invited Anna, Bill and me over for a spring afternoon potluck. She and Nickolas live one village down the mountain in Ojo Sarco. It was sunny and warm and, even more important, still. Not a breath of wind. We spent the entire day outside.