I don’t know when it started, because I just can’t say for sure. The older you get, the more your past inhabits your consciousness. I don’t mean it in a burdensome sense either. It’s not like I’m dragging my history behind me, it is more like feeling propelled by it. I am pushing seventy-five and the math is pretty damn simple. I’ve got way more memories and experiences over my shoulder than I have a future right in front of me. Like all of you, I am where I have been, regardless of age. The details are much more imprecise than they used to be, more like a Matisse than a photograph.
My private masterpiece of the mind is everything involved with my move to Santa Fe, which is far and away the most important series of events in my life. I spent the first forty-two years in New York City. With the exception of some vacations and countless business trips, it was all I knew. As all of us are growing up, it is easy to feel certain about so many things, the choices we make and the future we envision. I was quite preoccupied with doing the right thing, what was expected of me.
I can only speak for my life and barely at that, but I believe I was on the innocent, receiving end of a conspiracy of events, a path that was mapped out for me at birth. There was nothing I could actually do, but strap myself in for the ride. I didn’t start thinking this way until my introduction to Santa Fe. Sometime during the Spring of ’86, I visited Albuquerque and then Santa Fe. I was dating an always, aspiring actress I met in group therapy. One day, she excitedly informed me that she had gotten a lead role in a British farce, the name of which escapes me, which I thought was great. However, it was with the Albuquerque Repertory Theatre. When I scrolled 2/3’s of the way across the map of the US, I freaked out. She would be away for several months and a visit was mandatory.
I visited her on the last days of the Albuquerque performances and I didn’t like the place at all. It seemed like an accident in the desert to me and that never changed. The theatre had a number of performances in Santa Fe and we drove up there. The closer we got, the more I felt a strange kind of magic inhabiting my insides. I will never forget getting out of the car on Canyon Road, home of countless galleries, adorned by adobe jewels up and down the street. Stepping off the curb, I felt like Fred Astaire incarnate. I was always accustomed to feeling a lifetime of awkwardness in my body, but in that instant on Canyon Road, I felt a perfect rhythm, insides seamlessly melting into outside.
I returned to the broadcast advertising business of NYC and all the responsibilities that came with a lifetime in one place. I had grown extremely unhappy with my predictable life and I began to carry this dream of floating away to northern New Mexico to be the person I always wanted to be, without even knowing what the hell that meant. Several months later, my relationship ended and I was left with wondering if it was the place or her and there was only one way to find out.
I flew out to Santa Fe toward the end of October that year. I was greeted by an early snow storm, which disappeared pretty quickly, devoured by the high desert sun. Being impulsive and having some cash is an explosive combination for me. I had some bank, thanks to a sweet tax return, a direct result of losing money in a failed bar, a long story and not now. It took no time to realize I was in love with this place and there was no confusion from misplaced emotions. I hired a realtor and told her I wanted to buy the second place we saw, which completely freaked her out. She foolishly tried to convince me to take my time. I think I put down a grand as a binder. I swear I was fearless.
The home was a small adobe house, a semi-circle, with the curved back built into a hill. The builder lived in it, which I knew was a good sign. His family had outgrown the space and he was building a much larger place on the adjoining property, so he’d be my neighbor, a God sent considering my complete lack of mechanical skills, being a city boy. There were no corners in the space, because there were tires filled with sand within the walls. The home was off a dirt road, which was off another dirt road and a dead end. It sat on five acres, bordering thousands of acres of BLM land. It was in the middle of nowhere, next to nothing.
I returned to the City, waiting for the deal to close, which it did and I handled it long distance. I flew back out in February of ’87, to get some basics, in order to make it habitable. It didn’t take much for this little space. It had a wood burning stove, a little bigger than a shoe box and that would be my source of heat in the cold winters, requiring getting cords of wood each Fall. It had an above ground water tank, which I would have to climb up and look in, to see if I needed to turn on the pump.
It is so funny how the mind works. When I returned from setting up my place, I fooled myself into thinking I would visit it periodically, like some rich guy, which I definitely was not. Looking back from all this distance, I have no idea what I was thinking when I quit my job in May and decided to move out to my adobe home and make a life for myself. I swear, I didn’t have a plan, beyond knowing this was part of that plan I told you about earlier. Everybody in the industry I worked for twenty years either thought I was crazy or some heroic character and I was neither.
I will tell you the truth. I knew that I was giving myself the opportunity to be who I always wanted to be. I remember driving up to my place, unpacking my meager possessions and then stretching out on a hammock I had set up back in February. I sat out there, drinking some wine and feeling like I had just reached the summit of Mt. Everest. I walked down the road to say hello to my neighbors, who I bought the house from.
I have always referred to that place as my adobe womb and it was even kind of shaped that way. I gave birth to myself out there and began a journey I am still on. I created a life for myself and a way of being I am still connected to. I can’t tell you how many nights I sat on the red brick floor, all alone, in the middle of nowhere, crying my eyes out, which I always considered the labor pains that come with giving birth to yourself. I began to understand the nature of being alone in this world, feeling empowered by it and not frightened.
Finally, I let my hair grow down to my shoulders. I only wore jeans and even felt completely at home in my cowboy boots, a gift from a NJ friend and another long story. Just before leaving NYC, I got my ear pierced and wore it like it was always there. Even before I left, I decided that faith would be my currency and that as long as I kept my heart open, I would have endless riches. On more than one occasion, my bank balance hit zero and I never panicked, not once. I fell in love with life and began an adventure out there and even though I have slowed down, I am on that same path.
Of course, there are no fairy tales and there were consequences for my actions. When I left NYC, there were two young boys in my rear view mirror. I hurt them terribly by leaving and I could say how wonderful I was, visiting them and bringing them out for visits, but I left them in the rear view mirror and I still see them as the three of us cried.
I took to that place like I had lived there all my life. I have so many wonderful stories, but there isn’t time right now. These days, pretty much everyone I encounter is younger than I am. I encourage them to follow their hearts. Life goes by so quickly and letting it just pass you by doesn’t seem right to me.
Love
Larry