New Mexico is our homeland, whether our families have been here 10,000 years, 400 years, or arrived in a U-Haul last month by way of New Jersey. By birth or by choice, we have made New Mexico our homeland.

 “Homeland” is a word that describes our state well. The words I like best to describe our homeland are “Tierra Sagrada.” Vivimos en una Tierra Sagrada.

I was born and raised in the Española Valley, which is my homeland—my Tierra Sagrada. I did not realize it then, except perhaps intuitively, but looking back over five decades, I realize now that I was raised as much by “place” as I was by family and by community.

Our toys were “palitos de leña” that we turned into horses that we raced across the llano. In winter, we built our own sleds out of wood, and covered the runners with thin strips of tin before propelling ourselves down the nearby hills.  More than anything else, we used our imaginations and the place in which we lived to entertain and educate ourselves.

My home was located a few hundred yards from the boundary with Santa Clara Pueblo. The greatest part of neighboring pueblo land was that it was open and undeveloped. I had a playground bigger than as far as I could walk in 8 hours or even 10 hours. This playground was filled with piñon and cedar, crisscrossed with arroyos, singing with breezes that dried the sweat from my brow as I played with my brothers and my friends over the hills and in the arroyos.

Every day, I saw rabbits, lizards, coyotes, rattlesnakes, owls, bluebirds, sparrows, worms. I saw and heard birds I still don’t know the names of, but whose songs echo in my dreams each night.

I learned to swim in the Rio Grande, where we built our own crude diving board above a quiet pool along the Rio. There, we kept from drowning by dog-paddling our way furiously from one end of the pool to the other. We played Tarzan in the Bosque, where it was eternally cool and dark throughout the hot summer days. 

I was raised by my parents, by my older siblings, by my tios y tias, by my teachers, by my vecinos. But I was raised as well by my “place”—my Tierra Sagrada. I was hugged each night by the huge red-faced sun—embarrassed because he tired before I did--setting over my playground in the West. I was greeted each morning by the cu-cu-ru-cu-coo from the gallinero. Western breezes tickled me. Birds talked to me. Trees danced with me. Brujos prowled through my neighborhood at night, disguised as snakes and owls. “Place” dirtied my clothes, wrung sweat out of my boy’s body, made me late for supper, waited up all night for me, and made me whole.

We know that the first New Mexicans honored “place” in everything they did. Every bird, every stone, every arroyo, every mesa, every tree had a soul. For them, “Place” is not only about food and shelter. It is even more about soul and spirit.

Likewise, Indo-Hispanos brought a keen appreciation for living with “place” to New Mexico as well. Our dichos, our songs, our memories are all colored by our relationship with this sacred land.

Conservationists also share a profound respect and love for this place. They have worked hard over the last 40 to 50 years to keep many places in our homeland wild and open. For that, we are grateful.

So, whether we are brown or black or pink or tan; whether we live in downtown Albuquerque or in La Petaca; whether we are rich or poor; smart or just plain lucky—all of us are here today because, in one way or another, New Mexico has spoken to each of us directly.

As I get older, I am ever more aware that the journey that matters most to me is not the external trip of belongings I have accumulated; or cars I have parked in my garage; or what the neighbors might think of me. For me, the journey that counts the most is that inner journey of the spirit and of the soul--our inexhaustible quest for joy and peace and harmony.

Our challenge now is to create a communal vision of what our sacred place should be: a vibrant, living organism that we sustain so that in turn, we can be sustained.

Our challenge is to find the energy and spirit to fight against a vision of our homeland that seeks short-term gain over long-term viability.

Our expectation is that we will reach out across those seemingly high barriers we think divide us: cowboy against conservationist; White against Brown; rural against urban—and find that common vision of a sacred place.