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We toured a house this week. A house built in the 1970s in what was then the outskirts of Santa Fe. Adobe walls, vigas stretching across each and every ceiling, brick floors, views of both Sangre de Cristo and Jemez mountain ranges. Its beauty was soulful, imbued with the style and attitudes of another era. I stood on the crumbling deck, looked past the dry arroyo at the bottom of the four acres of juniper and chamisa and wondered who this house might have turned me into if we'd lived in it when our children were young. There is sense of wildness there that I grieved. We were so attuned to keeping them safe, opening their futures to what we'd been told they would want: opportunity, achievement, acceptance. Did we do enough to show them wildness?  Maybe not, but as I look at photographs of T & E riding trikes in bare feet, climbing rocks in their stained shirts, telling stories with uncombed hair, I think: yeah, maybe.  And, in the most beautiful arc of my life so far, they

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