Family.

Pre-wedding photo. My brother did the ceremony and I read a few poems and cried. My baby sister got married this last weekend, and I couldn't have been more proud of her. She wore jewelry that my grandfather had given my grandmother in their 65 year long marriage. She looked like Grace Kelly, so beautiful, so poised and quiet, so timeless and so much herself.

I was happy to get through my small speech before I started crying through the poems. My God who knew that this kid would turn out to be the pure embodiment of grace, poise, and perfectly timed sarcastic humor. She is the one giving me advice now. Thank goodness.

In the ceremony, my brother also showed everyone a poem I had typed on an old Remington typewriter probably 10 years ago, a Rilke poem called 'Evensong', and said he had been carrying it with him wherever he went, as a kind of protective talisman, whenever he traveled, beat-up worn piece of paper. Phew.

He put it in a box for Bekah and Eric, I put in a beautiful old and velvety aged rioja, and it suddenly clicked. Like a stage floor appearing under my feet. I have the most beautiful and sweet family in the world. Short trip, but I feel like myself again, I feel grounded, feel the power of the red rocks surrounding them when they said their vows, feel the expanse and space of Colorado, but mostly feel grateful. Grateful for the deep spirits in my family, in my sister's adopted family, in their friends-as-family.

I spoke with both my sweet uncles at length, tried to get a good photo of my uncle Rick's rattlesnake cowboy boots (for fancy occasions), I painted a strange and visionary owl (mix of Wm Blake and Maurice Sendak) for a party, and held a very long rambling conversation about Neil Young and Crazy Horse,,,, and (!!!) drank jug white wine out of a giant glass with ice cubes in it. This my friends, is a world away from NYC, as you can obviously tell.

The last day I was there, my grandmother showed me photos of many generations past, her sweet patio with magic hoya plant that my dear departed uncle gave her and seems to bloom when I visit, her alone white space of air and light, her treasures from a lifetime.

My mother cried when I left, and she and baby Wyatt had matching pajamas on. My Dad is working on my Art Deco clock in his workshop, and gave me his old collection of postcards from when he was a boy. I missed my plane back to NYC, but he and I sat and drank airport coffee and talked about his trip to China, to the Great Wall, to Hong Kong.

We probably missed the flight because we always laugh too much about the giant blue horse sculpture with menacing, glowing red eyes rearing up on its hind legs as you enter DIA airport, and the fact that the sculpture fell and crushed its owner to death in the making. Morbid? Yes, but I love the way my dad laughs about it each time. I laugh too.