I should have expected this. It’s happened before.
I came home from Taos Toolbox and my first instinct was, and continues to be, to not talk about it. This happened with Viable Paradise; took months to discuss it with any real depth. Until I could, it was all surface details.
Conversation-safe details, like, “I was on time for my appointment with the Doctor. I love that she has after-work patient hours. If you’re searching for a new nurse practitioner, she’s great.” Unless the person you’re speaking with is someone already deeply trusted, you aren’t likely going to talk about the particulars of your breast exam, your pap smear, or your bloodwork.
Not that Taos was bodily invasive, but if we’re talking about the state of my writing craft the metaphor doesn’t break down.
If Viable Paradise gave me blocks of artist-grade clay, Taos gave me the stainless steel sculpting tools to transform that clay. I’m still getting used to the heft of them in my hand.
What I can tell you is that I woke every day before a dawn crawling slow and golden over the mountains. I watched prairie dogs chase, yip and dig in a garden plot their coterie took over years ago and transformed into a red-holed burrow. Deer with half-grown antlers fuzzy with sunlight moved noiselessly across the field, the parking lot, as untouchable and alien as anything I’ve ever seen. Storms rolled in, shattered parched ground with bullet raindrops. Mornings turned perfectly cold. A heat that was never hard, hills to climb no matter which route you walked. Pencils scribbled, keys clacked, and day after day of the finer points of the craft were laid out, explained and examined. And the people, who were of course amazing. Smart, witty, and trying hard to get it all down.
Like I said, surface details.
Pictured above: my little writing owl, made for me by my Sudbury writing group before I went to Viable Paradise. I couldn’t not bring the little fella along for Taos.