Pottery Near the Concho

Roger Allen is having a pottery sale on Saturday morning!

No Spain

Forty-eight hours ago my adventure-freak brother was in Amsterdam. And now he's trying to reach me from Houston.

Houston?
What happened to my not-so-annual birthday celebration in the Pyrenees? Ugh!

Giselle is trying to comfort me with a song. She says it's about a beautiful woman who gets what she wants, but I have my doubts. It's in French. And she's had her fill of wine.

You ought to see her, swallowed by my Old Gringos, with her hair in her face and a drunkened smile, swaying back and forth, raising her wine glass for emphasis.

:)

I feel better already.

Giselle Colette

I accuse her of making up her name.
This newest pose IS soooo 'Giselle Colette' . . .don't you think?

Marfa, Texas

See the chairs in the far corner of this photo? That's one of my most beloved spots -- sitting in the stillness of a crisp, before dawn morning -- watching and listening to the sounds of Marfa rising. (With really good coffee.)

Giselle called me this morning.

"Angeline," she says with her French accent. "Come to see me. I've been to Manhattan shopping."

"And I have some new Old Gringo's and Levis," I sing.

We squeal at the same time.

We'll lounge about in each others clothes. My limbs hanging well below any of her designer hems and her limbs disappearing under my organic cotton ones. We'll be two different birdettes in a forgiving desert town. Girls can do that in Marfa.

I think I'm quietly falling into my . . .

blue period.

I need to roll around in fields of lavender.

Roots

I took a long drive out through Central West Texas farmlands yesterday. Destination? My favorite little Catholic church in the world, St. Boniface, in the tiny little German farming community of Olfen. As I drove down the meandering path through massive fields of maze and cotton, I felt I was on sacred ground, rich in family history. Fifth generation farmhouses peppered the fields. Some abandoned and boarded up, but left standing as reminders of the hardworking families who settled this fruitful Texas land. Most still occupied by descendants of those who migrated here from the Westphalia area of Germany in the 1860's. Those who still earn their living much like their great-great-great grandparents. I can smell the earth out here.

I spot St. Boniface easily in the great distance. There she stands, all alone. Her white steeple and tin roof a beacon in the mid-day sun in an endless sea of green.

As I enter the church, I pause and reflect on the many times I've been here, and how I feel as I enter through the old wooden doors. It's always the same. For it is here, like it is for me when I'm in the vastness of Big Bend or in the mountains of the Catalan Pyrenees, I feel washed in a holy spirit of sorts. It is here that I feel closest to my God. Although I'm sure she is quite different from the God these Catholics worship here.

I walk slowly down the middle aisle, surrounded by the ornate interior structure and glistening stain glass, with Christ looking at me from every direction -- but it's not him who I am seeking. I find my spot on a pew, my eyes searching frantically for her. Over to the left, peering directly down on me. There she is. Mary.

I smile up at her -- it's been a while. She smiles back, kind of a Mona Lisa smile -- all knowing. My recent marital upheaval, my burning desire to start anew and the fact that I am once again, going commando in her presence.

And even though I'm not a blood Lange, Honhensee, Weishuhn, Fuchs, Halfmann, Matthiesen or Wilburg ---like most who worship within these walls -- or that I'm not even Catholic . . .or hold traditional Christian beliefs . . .

Mary loves me anyway.

Sunday morning coming down

Ok - well maybe it's 'riding down' for me today . . . for I have been invited to go mountain bike riding with a friend. Because of the recent downpours, the trail is sure to be gloriously muddy.

I can't wait!