This article was written by Bill Moake
The lonely desert mesas stretched to a line of mountains etched on the stark blue horizon. At an elevation of 7,000 feet, the morning air was crisp and cool, even though it was July in New Mexico. I was alone in front of a little shrine that reminded me of a country chapel. It seemed an appropriate metaphor considering whose ashes were buried there -- author D. H. Lawrence, the "priest of love."
To the left was the tomb of Frieda, the fiery German woman who became his wife and soul mate on their free-spirited adventures traveling around the world. With Frieda, he explored the deepest mysteries of love and tapped into the wellspring of life which
kept him going long after he should have died from tuberculosis. From her, Lawrence learned the secret of knowing all women through tender intimacy with one woman, a lesson lost in the modern age.
I had tried to make that connection with a woman myself, first in a marriage and then in a succession of relationships, but I never found my Frieda. Lawrence's writings had been an inspiration to me since I was a teenager and I had come to New Mexico to see if I could commune with his spirit. Call it a mid-life crisis if you like, but I thought of the trip as a visit with an old friend. Morning in the land of enchantment was as exhilarating as Lawrence described:
In the magnificent fierce morning of New Mexico one sprang awake, a new part of the soul woke up suddenly, and the old world gave way to a new . . .
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