Up here in the mountains of northern New Mexico, in an ancient village that has gone through more than its share of hardships, whose suffering would put mine to shame, two friends spent a day celebrating what it is to live.
And why should this matter to you? Why am I writing this to you? Because I think we are universal and the struggles I fight are the same as those you do. Because we are human. And there is no escaping it, my friends. We are in this together and whatever any one of us can do to help with that, matters.
I don’t want to grow old before my time and I fear I may have during these last 2 ½ years of shingles… I choose strength. I choose to stay strong, to get strong again—one day at a time, one foot in front of the other. I can already feel a glimmer of my old self returning and I’m thrilled.
I know that in much of the country you’ve had more snow this winter than you can bear. But here in New Mexico we’ve been starved for it. We need snow each winter like a flower needs the sun and, finally, we’ve been getting it.
… and standing in the middle of that street, with no traffic, in the midst of all those abandoned buildings, the mercantile and houses, it was so quiet… It was almost as if I was sensing the silent footprints of a world now out of fashion.
Kim decided to honor this snow day by making a nice pot of stew. What better way to warm up the house than with the good aromas of delicious food simmering on the stove? And I thought it was high time you all had a chance to enjoy another wonderful recipe conceived by Kim Moss, this one loosely based on a Provencal classic.
And my heart silently shifted back. Back to one who wants to believe again—even if that belief is somewhat fragile—in the making of marks on paper or canvas, just to be making marks.