The Santa Fe Home

Here's a view of home here in Santa Fe, New Mexico. About twelve miles south of the Plaza, it's toward the end of the Old Santa Fe Trail.

The place had a pioneer flavour when we moved in ten years ago. More families have followed since, so the sounds of birds and coyotes is now joined by dogs and roosters, but 11.5 acres is still enough to hide away in.

I grow grumpy when I have to hit town, and satisfied when I get to stay on the land where writing tends to flow. Well flow is perhaps a bit strong, but it's beyond a trickle, about 600 words a day of this new novel. Research reading sees me dipping back into books of native American lore, for that old wisdom of living with the land.

Today's wonder was simply sitting in the ponderosa grove and looking up at the clouds. When I first arrived in North America (that time it was Canada) I was immediately struck by the cloudscapes, vast and so high, magnificent bulk evidence that a whole continental landmass is stretched below. From home looking south you can notice the curvature of the Earth, and watch rainstorms walk about the land. It frees the imagination of this particular English writer.