My mother was a delicate pretty woman who played the flute and was quietly artistic. She married a dark haired handsome man, a seeker of thrills who would be my father.

Grace was gone. Our one year old, comical and lovable Bassador was nowhere to be seen. We live in the high mountains of northern New Mexico with rough terrain, deep arroyos, rocky formations, mesas, and cliffs densely covered with pine, pinion and cedar trees. Mountain lions, coyotes, bobcats, bears, rattlesnakes and hawks live here. The territory is not safe for a young pup who had never been alone outdoors.

To a pigtailed elementary school mystic back in the 50's, spirituality was pretty flavorless and conservative in general, at least in my neighborhood, and completely absent in my chaotic home. Yet I was deeply aware of benevolent energy which was protective and truthful. It was always with me, in the distance yet nearby. It drew closer when I was in danger.

On June 17th, a white man opened fire in the historic Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, S.C. (“Emanuel AME”) killing nine people including a pastor/state senator during an ordinary Wednesday Bible study. Something about this got me to thinking. In fact, I can't stop thinking about it. But not for obvious reasons.