Nora Holzinger

By now, thousands of people have seen my article, The Artist’s Way is Elitist Trash . In it I critique the classic book by creativity guru Julia Cameron. The article got a lot more attention (and hate comments) than I anticipated, but I stand by everything I wrote. Well just a few months ago, at a charity book store in Silver City, New Mexico, I happened upon a copy of Writing Down the Bones (1986) by Natalie Goldberg, for a sensible $2. I had never heard of this book before, but for $2 I was willing to risk it.  I took the book back to the strawbale cabin I was renting at the edge of the Gila Wilderness and sat in the warmth of the late-winter sun and read. I read and read and finished the book, and then I turned back to page one and read it a second time. At this point, I think I’ve read this book four or five times. Part writing/creativity book and part Zen meditation guide, this slim volume teaches writing as a kind of meditative practice, a practice that can produce quality,...

I had read about it in books before I had ever seen the Sangre de Cristo mountains. I had dreams about it before I knew where it was. It captured my imagination in a way I can’t describe. It seemed like a Wild West fairytale.  Nestled between the peaks of the Sangre De Cristo mountains snakes the Santa Cruz river. Along the banks of that river is a small Catholic church, el Santuario de Chimayó, that every year hosts thousands of pilgrims who are seeking the blessed earth, la tierra bendita , that can cure whatever ails them.  I knew I needed to visit it, to touch la tierra bendita . Not because I believe, but because I wanted to believe. There was some small voice in my heart that suggested that la tierra bendita of Chimayó might even cure me.  --- The lands which the Santuario de Chimayó now occupies are central to the creation myth of the Tewa-speaking Pueblo Indians. They called the area Tsimajopokwi . This area, like much of northern New Mexico, has volcanic mineral ...

  I was pedaling and panting, the wind whooshing in my ears, deafening, muffling all other sounds. Then I saw the coyotes. I pulled hard on my brakes and skidded to a stop. Suddenly the Bosque was quiet except for the maraca rustle of cottonwood leaves and my heaving breath. The summer sky was dark, a portent of the afternoon monsoon rains that would soon pelt the dry earth.  Four of them, two adults and two adolescents, striding over the bridge spanning the acequia towards me. One of the adults yawned, head low in the heat while the other adult looked back at the teenaged coyotes trailing behind. They came up the bridge and spotted me on the rise not 50 feet away, yellow eyes looking me over as they continued on, unconcerned with my presence.  This was my second encounter with coyotes in as many weeks. As the month dragged on, I would see a coyote every time I traveled through the Bosque.  — “The Bosque” as the locals call it, is the Rio Grande Valley State Park. I ...