06/23/2026
From our Summer 2026 Ecotone Newsletter
Over the Western rim of the Sangre de Cristo Mountain Range sits the fabled city of Santa Fe. With its rich history, adobe architecture, and galleries, it’s known to many art enthusiasts as the “Paris of North America.” Symphony tickets go there for $300. During peak tourist season, a night at the La Fonda Hotel can run $1,000.
Here on the East side of the mountains, a couple dozen of us have gathered at a Benedictine monastery for a three-day retreat. We’ve come to explore the spiritual life. This site consists of a few modest buildings. It’s overseen by six monks who have dedicated themselves to a life of poverty, prayer, and hospitality to strangers.
It’s the last morning of the retreat. A handful of our group choose to join the monks for their weekly Mass. Most days, daily morning rites like this one, draw but three or four visitors. Winding myself down a narrow hallway, approaching the small chapel, I’m startled. The room is filled. I remember it’s Sunday. I find a place to stand, inside the door, of to one side.
A middle-aged Hispanic man is playing a guitar. His voice full, strong. I become aware that hymns during this service all have at least a portion of their lyrics sung in Spanish. The Abbot leads the centuries-old liturgy with a respectful, gentle intention. Those who fill the chapel this morning come from the nearby rural countryside. Of Mexican descent, men wear jeans and plaid shirts. Some walk with canes. Many women wear shawls. Their hands are worn and rough from working fields and orchards.
In Roman Catholic tradition, this sharing of bread and w**e, the Sacrament, serves as the heart of the Mass. Hymns of thanks and hope are sung by members of congregation. Individuals walk in single file up to a wooden altar. The Abbot blesses each of them, then places a small...
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