The cart and the horse, harnessed as he is to ensure only the person with the reins is in control of his movements, stand ready. As you pass in front of the beast, you stop to stroke his nose. He is a gentle beast, at peace with his lot in life. His head is slightly above your own, but he tips it down so that you are looking at each other, eye to eye. You sense that he is expectant, anticipating the receipt of something by way of compensation for his confinement and service this morning. But you have nothing to offer. You search in his eyes for some meaning, some understanding, some explanation, but you feel that he is merely looking straight through you, as if there is nothing behind your own eyes to capture his attention, nothing to suggest that he should feel at all as sympathetic to you as you feel toward him. You realize, standing there, that you are both merely beasts of burden. And you realize that are troubled by the thought.
Another small exerpt. Here, surrounded by the Spanish, the ancestral, landscape, I can better imagine the lives of people for which I have no physical or blood connection. The people here live very basic and pastoral lives. A simple existence, but no less pitted with trouble, controversy or heartache. No different from anyone else in any other circumstance. I think it comes down to how one responds, to what extent we allow these things to burden us. To a certain degree, this is what the book is about. I took this picture in the heart of the setting of the story, but I'm seeing that the Spanish island countryside is not so very different, despite the distance of time and space. The pictures, just as the landscape, help me to return to the places in the book, the feelings I had as I wandered where our ancestors wandered.
Antonchico, NM (2022)
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