Ghost Ranch and Georgia

This is my home away from home at Ghost Ranch, where I am hosting our 2017 art retreat.

This sweet little cottage is where Georgia O'Keefe used to stay the first few summers she spent here, before she bought a home on the property.

It's pretty awe-inspiring to stop for a few moments here and there, and consider Georgia's presence and her experience all those years ago.

She didn't have the internet to occupy her brain cells, for starters. I'm doubtful that there was a television in the wilds of New Mexico in 1934.

There weren't many people on the ranch then, and Georgia was a bit of a loner anyway.

So I'm imagining her world as one of crystal sharp clarity, where the colors of red that emanate from the rocky cliffs weren't dulled by how many likes she got on Facebook that day.

Or the sound of ravens circling and cawing wasn't drowned out by a Netflix binge.

I'm guessing she spent many an hour sitting inside and outside this adobe home, ruminating on life with all its complications and complexities, 1930s style.

Georgia's world had its own wounds and struggles which have been recorded for posterity.

And yet, I can't help but feel a slight (and undoubtedly romanticized) envy of her stripped down life, sitting in wonder of the natural beauty of Ghost Ranch that so inspired her art and her luminous career.

Henry the 8th and Glastonbury . March . 2017

Morning sun at Glastonbury Abbey ruins.

Having been here more times than I can count, it feels like home.

And it kinda is, because I happen to know my ancestors at least ten generations back lived in this historically rich little village, which is also the location of the abundant lore of King Arthur and Avalonian mythology.

I'm feeling all the feels as I rest against the cathedral wall, destroyed nearly 500 years ago by the henchmen of King Henry the Eighth .... who is quite possibly my 10th great grandfather thru his affair with the sister of Anne Boleyn.

So crazy right?

One 10th great grandfather born and raised here, a humble weaver who died in an almshouse (still in existence) across the street from where I sit.

Another 10th great grandfather, drunk with personal and political ambition, destroying this abbey and murdering the Abbott (as well as a ton of other unspeakable eviscerations of the great dissolution of the Catholic Church in England).

I am quite certain one grandfather would have borne witness to the devastation of this great Abbey, one of the most powerful churches of its time, at the sole command of the other.

And here I sit, 500 years later, just doing my thing. Little old me, in the shadows of my own unique kaleidoscope of lineage. Mind blowing, really.