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Two friends rest their eyes inside of a geodesic earth dome. A triangle of sunlight frames their figures.
They are weary, but they are in heaven. This half-sphere of earth tucks them into the dry hillside of Taos, New Mexico. They’re sheltered by trees, guarded by gates, serenaded by the songs of yard chickens next door.Â
Evening is still. The quiet neighborhood sits unwaveringly in its shades of brown and dusty green, interrupted by the occasional hand-painted mailbox or address numbers.Â
The West welcomes those eager for initiation. A trail of ranch gates courted them across the northern tip of Texas, across the east side of New Mexico, through the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.Â
Two friends take a pause in the evergreens of Cimarron Canyon State Park. They wet their toes, watch the water, climb onto fallen trunks, pass a roll of toilet paper back and forth and pee in the woods. Every stop is a sacred destiny, every stretch of road is a meditation.Â
When you’re stuck in place you fumble for rhythm, routine, meaning. When the road is your home, the rhythm finds you. Anything goes, nothing stays. You are, without question, wherever you are.
The geodome sleeps two in one bed. It’s big and crinkly fresh, accented with a colorful throw. All over this dome of natural warmth, there are colorful details, treasures curated by a thoughtful eye. A framed painting of a cowgirl above a sky blue clawfoot tub. A rusted bell adorned with beads. A bright orange teapot with chipped paint.
The bed is in the loft, at the top of a ladder, beneath the high, triangular window. The friends lounge on its cloudy surface, one with a headache and one without.
The headache has been tended to. It cries beneath a wet washcloth over the eyes, prepared by the friend that is well.Â
They are at home together on the bed, satisfied with their miles of accomplishment, clear headed and sharp minded. It was a long series of yeses that lead them here — yes I will have pizza; yes I will go on vacation with your family; yes I will come visit; yes I will give you a ride across the country. Fate is steered by an agreeable Libra.Â
This long, fortunate trajectory is on their minds. While the one lays under her washcloth, the other pulls our her journal and reads aloud. It is tradition.Â
She tells the story of a home breaking and shifting, and her front row seats, and her visceral response as an audience member. At the end, the one with the washcloth cries and claps.
The sun has set. The headache, gone. The friends dress in monochrome and climb down from the loft to the front door. There is a blue light hovering over the brown earth, entirely different from the dusk in the grasslands the night before. Colors glow in the dimness. Coyotes howl out in the hills. Tomorrow they will leave this home for another one, but tonight this is all there ever was.Â
That is beautiful. I felt transported to that place with you.