Leaving W. San left me in a state of shock. 

And like shock goes—I didn’t notice until I stared at the walls of my temporary spot on Marcy. East Marcy. A bit fancy for my past sixteen years down on West San Francisco Street. 

“End of an era…” friends chimed in when I told them. Ain’t that the truth. 

Many of you pre-Zozobra-ed in that casita. Some of you enjoyed mimosas and parking in the compound for Indian Market… Others of you healed in that space—came to individual sessions, learned headstand at West San, healed infertility and cooked babies in your stomachs while I propped your legs up the old adobe walls.

Clients sad to leave, even though the foundation of the bathroom was crumbling, and in the later years the water brown some mornings from street flooding. My father first visiting the spot begged me to rent something bigger, with a proper washer/dryer and bedroom for God’s sake.

But I loved 443 W. San. 

It was an oasis when I found it in 2007—washed up from a failed relationship in Los Angeles, I left for New Mexico vowing to watch the light change. I got an agent in Alburquerque and soon got my SAG card working locally, proving to colleagues I wasn’t crazy. These days—all the Hollywood girls move here. Secret’s out and quality of life so much better, few look back. 

I’ve since bought property and pay taxes in Santa Fe for a lot that will stay mine. No more threats to buy the building and stick a note in my mailbox telling me when to get out. The very reason the town speaks to us is its authenticity. I don’t see us protecting that enough…

Back to me broken—ripped open raw and begging friends, clients, anyone who’d take my call to say—“if you hear of anything…” The thing is space—is everything to me. I want open hardwood floors, not a dining room. I want natural, not your LED track lights. I want creativity, room to dance, and a big bathtub to soak my bones. 

I transformed as a person on W. San. 

I taught too much yoga and made a slow, steady return back to the full performer I am. Many lovers adored my place as much I did, but none of them stayed. And I did the spiritual work in that casita to find out why. I cried and fell to my knees on those angel pine floors year after year. I am grateful for you, but even more for letting you go. 

What is it about space that makes us reminisce?  Bout’ the old pad on 3rd Street? Or the infamous 3930… The nostalgia is over-whelming and maybe a yearning for simpler times. Cuz, let’s face it—now is not simple. 

Which brings me to Spring and urging you to blossom and all that. To rise up like Jesus, again. Because there is something to letting go… Packing it all up, not knowing what’s next—

You got this,