I can't see clearly now.

By Zach Hively

​My eyesight has always been superb.

I hyper-specifically remember testing at 40/20 or 20/10 or whatever really good vision is, back when I got my first driver’s license. The DMV employee’s reaction of awe made me internalize that I was a mofo-ing superhero. I could read street signs an entire second before anyone else in the car, back when people still read street signs.

​Now our phone maps tell us where to turn. But excellent vision has other uses! Like reading a grocery list without having to search for the glasses hiding out atop my own head.

I can’t leave well enough alone, though. Oh no. I take great delight, at the very occasional party I’m still invited to, in steering conversation around to my impeccable eyesight. It’s my primary remarkable physical trait. Statistically speaking, I am the only person my age who didn’t ruin his eyes by reading in the dark. (Told you so, Mom!) I even make my living, such as it is, on computer screens. I have no reason to expect functioning eyeballs.

Especially once they stopped functioning.

You see, I got a stye back around the start of the year. Not one of those little yellow ones that you can pop with plausible deniability. No—this was one of those mighty and inaccessible ones that made a friend ask me if I’d been stung by a scorpion.

​“On my FACE?”

“I mean…” She gestured at all of me, as if suggesting I am precisely the sort of self-explanatory man who might lie—accidentally, I’m sure—with scorpions.

Whatever the cause, my vision was getting wonky, and I concluded my eye was probably infected. I got a primary care doctor and her power of prescription to agree with me—“Yup that’s infected, alright.” The eyedrops took the grotesque factor down a considerable degree.

But the fuzziness remained.

Sometimes I couldn’t focus on mountains. Other times on my dogs. Those unethically bright headlights irritated me even more than normal. I worried, increasingly, about not spotting the difference between, there, their, and they’re. Whatever professional credibility I had left was on the line. At least, I presume it was. Lines were increasingly hard to make out.

So I did what no man wants to do: I made damn sure I knew the difference between an optometrist and an ophthalmologist. One gives out glasses, which I didn’t want. The other is harder to spell, especially without sharp vision. I called that one.

This was two months into my squinting-at-menus adventure. The office set my appointment another two months out. I had ample time to come to grips with my mortality.

I even convinced myself that losing my vision—a core component of my self-worth—was beneficial for my brand. If you can’t trust a skinny chef, what about a writer without specs?

The day arrived, as days tend to do. A series of professional technicians in scrubs led me through the trials. I had, I figured, about a 1-in-10 chance of guessing the smaller letters right. I could eliminate all the easy-to-differentiate ones. The strategy seemed to go well until I started doubling up guesses. “B or E, P or … F? That probably tells you all you need to know, huh.”

​The professional smiled a lipless smile and did not tell me if I had passed the trial.

For the final tribulations, I sat in a classic ophthalmologist’s chair with all the imposing accoutrements. The Big Boss Scrubs put some drops in my eyes.

She told me I would soon be unable to read my phone or anything else, but that I would be safe to drive. This struck me as backwards. I had to prove I could see before they let me drive in the first place. But I let it slide. She soon left me unattended, and I took pictures of a great many things because I am nosy.

And when I looked at my photos, I didn’t. By which I mean, I very much actually could not see my phone.

The phone on which I receive Very Important Writerly Emails. The phone on which, if I were ever awarded some lucrative contract for once, I would read about it. Worse, the phone on which I had typed out that afternoon’s grocery list.

The doctor came in—or so I was told. He intoned with far too much lighthearted joy that my vision, not fifteen minutes earlier, was 20/20—a clear downgrade from whatever it was before!—and that I was merely experiencing a disease (those were his words, “merely experiencing a disease”) that, to retread an old joke, sounds like a random line on a vision chart.

​“Say that again, please?” I begged, my hands grasping for his outline.

“Blepharitis.” Spelled B unless that’s an E; L, unless that’s an I…

No matter how ominous it sounds, this is just med-school speak for “slightly puffy eyelids.” They’re gently nudging my eyeballs. Take some supplements, keep washing your face, you’ll be fine, dude.

The Big Boss Scrubs handed me a cheap rolled-up set of sunglasses and ushered me on my way. My vision got fuzzier and fuzzier. I made it to the grocery store, recognizing that this might be the last place I ever saw. If “saw” is the right word—I couldn’t even see to punch in my telephone number at the checkout. For all I knew, my total was eight thousand dollars. For all I knew, my bananas were plantains.

I pleaded with a higher power: Please, return my sight to me, and I promise I will stop boasting about my superior vision. I will use it only for good! I will enjoy mountains again—and books, beautiful paper books. I’ll even turn the light on to read at night. I promise.

But I’ll never stop complaining about those blasted headlights.

By Karima Alavi

The Qur’an: 22:27   Call all people to the pilgrimage. They will come to you on foot and on every lean camel from every distant path

As many people know, the foundational elements of Islamic practice are based on the Five Pillars: the Shahada, or Declaration of Faith, praying five times per day, fasting during the month of Ramadan, giving alms, and making the pilgrimage to Makkah if one is physically and financially able to do so.

​There are also two major holy days (‘Eid) in Islam, the ‘Eid that celebrates the end of the Ramadan fast, and the recently celebrated ‘Eid al Adha that acknowledges the completion of the five-day pilgrimage (Hajj) that draws millions of believers from across the world to Makkah.
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  While there, all “Hajjis,” both male and female, perform a series of rituals meant to deepen their faith so they can return home with a heightened sense of spirituality meant to follow them for the remainder of their lives. One significant requirement of the Hajj is for participants to fight the Inner Jihad, which is the “Jihad of the Nafs” or the Struggle Against the Ego. For this reason, there is no distinction during the Hajj between rich and poor, between political or religious leaders and their followers, between different races and nationalities. For that reason, one of the earliest requirements of the Hajj process is to forego fashion, jewelry, and other outward indicators of status that can, in our daily lives, seem so important to us. Male Hajjis don simple white garments made of two unsewn cloths, while women have more options as long as their clothing is modest. As the Hajjis say, “Robes of royalty are exchanged for robes of piety.” The whole point is to not draw attention to oneself, to conquer that inner voice of the ego that suggests that one person is above, or more important than others. Because of this state of outward—and hopefully inward—modesty, a person could be standing next to a king, a billionaire, a famous artist, during the Hajj and not even be aware of it. Everyone is dressed in a simple manner. Everyone performs the same rituals, drinks the same water, eats the same food.

The focal point of the sacred mosque in Makkah is the Kaaba, a large structure draped in black and gold cloth. Referred to as the House of God, it stands at the heart of all Muslim prayers as a symbol of submission to the will of God, and their unity with co-religionists scattered around the earth who are praying toward the same place. There are specific rites to be performed during Hajj including those meant to commemorate Abraham, Hajar, and their son Ismail. Alongside the acknowledgement of their submission to God’s will is the honoring of their faith in God’s mercy, a faith that is rewarded by Divine Mercy for all three of them. That’s why, when people say “Muslims pray toward Makkah,” they’re partially correct. Muslims pray toward the Kaaba, built by Abraham and Ismail, which happens to be in Makkah, the only place in the world, by the way, where Islamic prayers are performed in a circle rather than in straight lines.

Gathering in Abiquiu:

On Friday, June 6, the ‘Eid to commemorate the completion of the Hajj was celebrated at the Dar al Islam facility in Abiquiu, New Mexico. Families, friends and neighbors gathered from as far as Somaliland, Turkey, and California to share prayers, games for the children, and a feast of lamb, rice, salad and, as usual, plenty of sweets.

During the ‘Eid celebration in Abiquiu, people gathered for two prayers during the day. The first was a special ‘Eid prayer, led by Anand Taneja, Professor of Religious Studies at Vanderbilt University. He and his family traveled from Nashville, TN, to spend time in New Mexico with fellow Muslims.

 Several non-Muslims joined the festivities, including two women from California who decided to sell their belongings, buy a van, and travel across the U.S. They were in Abiquiu visiting a friend when they saw the open invitation to the ‘Eid celebration in the Abiquiu News, and spent the better part of the morning at Dar al Islam asking about Islamic traditions, eating breakfast, and observing the ‘Eid prayer.

​The meal served on ‘Eid al Adha has a special religious significance that reaches back to the time of Abraham and Hajar, mother of Ismail, who is considered in Islamic practice to be Abraham’s wife. Those familiar with the Judeo-Christian-Islamic tradition are familiar with the story of Abraham being ordered by God to sacrifice his son. (Isaac in the Judeo-Christian tradition, Ismail in Islamic tradition.) In the moment before the sacrifice, God provides a ram to be offered in Ismail’s stead. Other Qur’anic verses tell of the time Hajar and Ismail were led to the desert by Abraham who walked away, causing Hajar to question his purpose. When she asks if this strange action is “from God” and Abraham says yes, she proclaims her belief in His mercy. When she sees her infant son weakening from thirst, she runs between two hills in search of water. In the end, God rewards and comforts her, as he did Abraham. The angel, Gabriel, appears to Hajar and reveals a spring, called Zam Zam, that bursts forth with water. The interesting thing about that spring is that it is still running, after four thousand years, bringing cool, fresh water to the millions of Hajjis who visit Makkah each year.

Time to eat. And play.

The translation of Eid al Adha is Feast of Sacrifice. Muslims around the world join in the completion of the Hajj by millions of fellow believers. It’s a time to honor Hajar, a woman revered for her strength, perseverance and faith, along with remembrance of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son. Both these stories serve as a reminder that God will provide in times of desperation and need.

Part of the ‘Eid celebration is to sacrifice a lamb (or other animal) as a way to commemorate Abraham’s obedience of God and to celebrate God’s mercy. Muslims are enjoined to share their food with others during the ‘Eid and to spend time with friends and family.

​Two full lambs were cooked at Dar al Islam for the ‘Eid. The process was complex, beginning the day before guests arrived. In preparation for the event, Fidel Serrano, Facilities Manager at Dar al Islam, and Jesus Miramontes Morales, Maintenance and Facilities Staffer, dug a large roasting-hole in the ground the day before the celebration. They ignited juniper branches to warm the hole and to dry the surrounding ground that was damp from rain earlier in the week. Those branches burned through the day and simmered all night. In the meantime, the lambs were marinated overnight in apricots and spices by Rehana Archuletta. The result was a meal so delicious, many guests claimed that it was the tenderest meat they’d ever eaten.

​On the morning of the ‘Eid volunteers made rice, salad, chai, fruit dishes, and sweets to accompany the lamb. In between all this work, children enjoyed the playground and the bouncy castle beneath a blue New Mexican sky, just as the first day of the three-day ‘Eid celebration was coming to a close in Makkah.

Options Being Considered as Enrollment Continues to Decline Throughout the District

As many as five elementary schools in the Española school district may close in the coming years as it faces an enrollment decline and financial struggles. 

The district’s population has decreased significantly since 2020 and is now at 35,580, with only 19.6% of the students under 18 years old, Colleen Martinez, president of Visions in Planning, Inc., said during a presentation at the May 5 school board meeting. 

Enrollment has fallen by over 30% since the 2015-16 school year, dropping from 2,291 to 1,478 elementary students, Martinez said. Projections estimate a further decline to 1,152 by 2030-31, leaving 59.5 surplus classrooms — equivalent to two to three elementary schools, she said. This declining enrollment is costing the district significantly, particularly at the small schools.

“Smaller schools cost significantly more to run, and you’re not getting a return on that investment because you still can’t support full-time music, you still can’t support full-time art, you still can’t support full-time PE at an under-enrolled school,” Martinez said.

The district faces significant maintenance costs for its aging schools. For example, Abiquiú Elementary, with a capacity of 140 students, had only 70 enrolled this year, which is down 40% since 2015-16, Martinez said. Hernandez Elementary, once full at 159 students, now has 85 students enrolled. The 73,000-square-feet of excess, unused space requires upkeep, affecting the district’s small schools.

“The number of work orders that are coming into our system are substantially higher in our smaller schools, because those are generally the older schools,” Superintendent Eric Spencer said. “When you start taking a look at what’s the total number of purchase orders to date, divide that by the population of students during the school year, you can definitely see where all the human resources are going.” 

The district spends around $17,000 per student at EPS’s smaller schools and around $7,800 at the larger schools, he said.

The enrollment decline is consistent with a statewide trend of a more than 20% reduction since 2009–2010, affecting even growing districts, Martinez said. EPS projections, based on averages, indicate a further 21.4% enrollment drop over the next six years, driven by ongoing out-migration, low birth rates and a shrinking local population she said. This decline is expected to particularly impact Abiquiú, Dixon and Velarde elementary schools, with projected enrollments in six years falling to 44 students at Abiquiú and 30 at Dixon, Martinez said.

To address the anticipated, continued decline in enrollment, Martinez presented four options to the board. Option one would shrink the district to six elementary schools by merging Velarde and Dixon into Alcalde, splitting Hernandez students between Abiquiú and Española elementaries and moving Chimayó students to Sombrillo elementary. Option two would cut EPS down to five elementary schools, combining Abiquiú and Hernandez with Española; Chimayó with Sombrillo; and Velarde and Dixon with Alcalde. Option three would merge San Juan and Fairview elementaries, while keeping option two’s changes. Option four would keep seven elementary schools, merging Velarde, Dixon, and Alcalde, with parts of Hernandez folding into Abiquiú and Española.

“In summary, just looking at declining enrollment, maintaining the 10 elementary schools and the teachers, both economically and educationally, is just going to be unsustainable,” Martinez said.

The prospect of closing schools has been met with resistance by some in the community.

“I know there’s been fights amongst the community, especially Velarde, about closing their school,” School Board President Javin Coriz said. “But in the long run, they can’t be selfish. We have to think about every single kid in this district and how it’s affecting their learning environment.”

Regardless of which option the district selects going forward, the board recognized that communication with the community will be key.

“We’re going to have to be transparent with (the communities),” Coriz said. “We’re going to have to make sure that they’re aware of the reasoning of our possible action.” 

He advocated for community forums to discuss the data, and asked that Martinez join the forums so the public could hear the facts directly from her.

Faced with difficult options to confront the declining enrollment, Coriz emphasized that the closure of some schools would not come without its benefits.

“It’s not only going to benefit us financially, but it’s also going to benefit your kid educationally, because now we’re going to have enough teachers, principals and counselors,” he said.

He also noted that smaller schools miss out on programs like Moving Arts due to low enrollment, creating disparities in opportunities for students.

Board Secretary Dale Salazar said that having the district less spread out could also increase student safety across the district.

“You know, it’s like they say, having all your eggs in one basket,” he said. “If we can do that, our kids will be safer.”

The financial strain on the district, coupled with ever-decreasing enrollment is forcing action to be taken.

“It’s time to start plugging the holes on our ship and trying to get to the prize,” Coriz said. “You know, it’s getting these kids education in a healthy environment ... and we got to start thinking about that.”

Other business

Following Martinez’s presentation, the board approved entering into a contract negotiation with Dynamic Leadership Solutions to assist in selecting the district’s new superintendent, a process expected to conclude by July. Spencer’s final day will be June 30. He’s retiring one year earlier than originally contracted. The board is currently reviewing applications and aims to finalize a timeline for interviews and background checks, Spencer said.

As conservationists know, these clever dam-building rodents are a boon to recovering wetlands. But they can also contribute to flooding that causes catastrophic damage to acequias, which are crucial to traditional farmers in villages like Chimayó, New Mexico
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by Molly Montgomery, Searchlight NM

Twice last year, in the spring and fall, water burst from the Rio Santa Cruz and poured into the tiny northern New Mexico community of Santa Cruz, between Española and Chimayó. It cracked concrete ditch liners and spilled into houses and a trailer park.

Investigating the first flood, acequia commissioners and mayordomos — the elected leaders of New Mexico irrigators who’ve used the water from hand-dug ditches for centuries — discovered an abandoned beaver dam. It had been there a while: the wood had softened and whitened, and willows had grown up around it. It had trapped more than seven feet of wet silt.

The spring flood, which occurred after a heavy rain, spread so much silt that it was impossible to remove the dam. Come October, the river swelled again during another storm and carried branches, basketballs, stumps, shoes, brush and bottles downstream. The willows around the dam caught the debris and the water rose up against the heap and rushed over the banks.

Irrigators along the streams are frustrated and worried about the time and money that beavers could cost them. The memory of the 2024 floods looms — a flood or a block can cost tens of thousands of dollars and leave farmers without reliable access to water in a season when they need it most. With drought intensifying, they’re under increasing pressure to share a limited resource and don’t want to navigate another area of stress.

Dredging the channel and raising the banks required use of a bulldozer, a backhoe and a trackhoe. More than once, the equipment sank into the silt. In all, the surrounding ditch organizations had to spend around $35,000 to repair the damaged waterways.

Acequia organizations typically have very little money. After they spend what they raise from member dues on maintenance and repairs, they’re usually left with a couple of thousand dollars in their annual budgets, at most. That year, the acequia spent whatever extra money they had on flood repair, getting assistance from Rio Arriba County (around $18,000) and the East Rio Arriba Soil and Water Conservation District (around $5,000). The flooded area was in Santa Fe County, but, acequia leaders say, they couldn’t get assistance from Santa Fe officials. Because Rio Arriba constituents were affected by the flooding, the two Rio Arriba entities agreed to help.

​In the past few years, citing evidence that beavers can make a place more drought-resilient, Santa Fe County and a prominent national conservation nonprofit, Defenders of Wildlife, have encouraged the presence of the big, paddle-tailed rodents in a stream system that includes the Rio Quemado and the Rio Santa Cruz.

Rio Santa Cruz Area

Stemming from those rivers is a dense network of dozens of acequias, which, with gravity and gates, make it possible to divert water to farmers’ fields.  People in the communities around Española and Chimayó depend on it to irrigate their chile, corn, melons, berries, stone fruits, greens, carrots, flowers, alfalfa and other crops. 

​Irrigators along the streams are frustrated and worried about the time and money that beavers could cost them. The memory of the floods in Santa Cruz looms — a flood or a block can cost tens of thousands of dollars and leave farmers without reliable access to water in a season when they need it most. With drought intensifying, they’re under increasing pressure to share a limited resource and don’t want to navigate another area of stress.

“Now we have to worry about beavers?” says Brian Martinez, a parciante (water recipient) on the Acequia de la Puebla in the community of La Puebla who grew up digging ditches in Chimayó. “I don’t know of any acequia that would be doing somersaults to do that.”

Several acequias leaders contend that they’ve received inadequate communication about planning by the county and Defenders of Wildlife — some find the communication they have received to be disrespectful and condescending — and many view the two organizations as outside entities that shouldn’t be able to impose their ideas about local waterways without significantly more community input.
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Water is Life
Often called the “lifeblood of northern New Mexico,” acequias are collectively tended, democratically governed irrigation ditches, primarily located in the north-central part of the state. By Molly Montgomery June 4, 2025

The issue is especially fraught, given the history of Santa Fe-based environmentalists in northern New Mexico, who have, more than once, argued that they know better than Chicano residents how to take care of the natural world, and who have sometimes blocked them from practicing traditional agriculture.

​“They need to come and see what our issues are,” Ross Garcia, commissioner on the Acequia de los Ortegas in San Pedro, says. “We’ve been irrigating for generations.”

The benefits beavers can bring

In recent years, environmentalists around the world have been singing the praises of beavers, pointing to them as a natural solution to the climate crisis. The dams they build alter the flow of water, slowing and spreading it. Their storage tactics allow the ground to soak in water, which, during dry stretches, can seep back out.

Streams throughout the western U.S. that once ran year-round started running dry during droughts; when beavers took up residence again, the streams began to flow year-round once more. The wetter an area is, the less likely it is to ignite in a wildfire. And studies indicate that beavers’ aquatic engineering revitalizes biodiversity and mitigates dangerous bacteria.

Beavers are native to the mountains and valleys of northern New Mexico. Hoping to establish the positive trends the creatures can bring about, Santa Fe County and Defenders of Wildlife have implemented projects that involve welcoming the animals — who move in on their own and are not released — into wet areas around Chimayó. Various laws make it illegal to remove beaver dams and kill beavers, and conservationists argue that learning to live alongside them is well worth it.

Peggy Darr, a wildlife biologist who worked with Santa Fe County during the creation of a controversial wetland and now advocates for beaver conservation with Defenders of Wildlife, is planning to install beaver dam analogs (BDAs), which mimic beaver habitats, on the Rio Santa Cruz and the Rio Quemado. BDAs can attract beavers to take up residence.

“One of the goals of BDAs is to have beavers take over and improve upon our restoration work, as there are not enough resources, financial or otherwise, to do the critical work beavers do for free,” Darr wrote in an email.

​Santa Fe County also encouraged beavers to move into a Chimayó wetland, called Los Potreros, which the county has worked to conserve over the past few years. Historically a wetland and then a grazing pasture, the area was put up for sale and slated for development in the 1990s. In response to community concern and advocacy, Santa Fe County eventually purchased the area in the name of “cultural preservation and conservation of traditional agriculture and natural habitat,” according to county communications coordinator Olivia Romo.

In 2021, with a grant from the New Mexico Environment Department, the county contracted with Ecotone, a Santa Fe-based landscape planning firm, to restore the wetland. Ecotone built structures that emulated beaver engineering, and beavers moved in and built dams.

The results have been striking. Water has spread across the pasture, turning the grasses emerald. Ducks erupt out of the marsh, and redwing blackbirds trill from the tops of cattails. Meanwhile, the beavers, who tend to come and go, have moved on to other areas in the stream system.

A lack of community input

​Several community members say they were excluded from the planning processes for these projects. About four years ago, someone reportedly destroyed a beaver dam at Los Potreros  — other dams were breached with a shovel  — which prompted Santa Fe County to put up signs saying that the area is under surveillance camera and that “It is illegal to vandalize beaver dams, molest beavers or kill beavers on Santa Fe County Open Space Property.” Some residents found the sign and the camera insulting and viewed it as an instance of the county defending animals instead of the rights of people. (No one, as of now, appears to be planning to molest or kill beavers.)

Acequia leaders are worried about how much water is being diverted from the Rio Quemado into the field. The few meetings the county hosted to discuss its plans left residents feeling confused and unheard. 

​“It was done pretty quickly, without much input from the community,” says Michael Diaz, a flower farmer in Chimayó and the mayordomo of the Acequia de los Martinez Arriba, which historically irrigated the former pasture.

Diaz has seen the benefits beavers can bring to mountain wetlands. “I’m totally down for that,” he says. “But not if it’s just for Santa Fe County to look cute.”

He’s watched the wetland soak up huge quantities of water. He wants to know how much of that water evaporates and whether the absorption limits downstream use. He’s also worried that beavers will reproduce and fill the waterways with dams and burrows, which he doesn’t have the time or money to clear. The water has spread so far across the pasture that parts of the acequia are difficult, if not impossible, to access for repair. He’s not sure how irrigators could get equipment to those areas if there is a breach. 
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Into a bank of the acequia close to the wetland, about a third of the way down the ditch,  a creature has been digging tunnels. Diaz and a couple others patched the holes with sandbags and plastic from an old greenhouse. He believes beavers are the culprit. (Jan-Willem Jansens, the owner of Ecotone, says it’s more likely a muskrat, a claim that others fiercely dispute. Either way, Diaz has found more tunnels since the wetland expanded.)

Darr agrees that beavers don’t belong in acequias and says she wants to prioritize helping farmers survey and remove dams from the channels. She worked to implement various beaver-human coexistence measures at the wetland — pond levelers to prevent flooding; wire caging around trees that community members didn’t want beavers to chew on; and similar caging around acequia headgates to prevent them from getting clogged.

Defenders of Wildlife has funding to send farmers to training sessions about beaver coexistence, Darr says. She’s offering to enact a cost-share program to help pay for the challenges irrigators experience.

But some of the mitigation tactics seem ineffective to residents: as the landscape of the wetland has shifted, beavers have chewed down supposedly protected trees. And the idea of having to take on more expenses and tasks to coexist with beavers strikes several commissioners, mayordomos and farmers who are working around the clock, often for free, as impractical.

“It doesn’t seem fair to the acequias, because they’re already financially strapped, and they’re strapped for labor,” says Brian Martinez. “To expect an acequia to cost share whatever amount of money it might be isn’t tenable.”

​Defenders of Wildlife has also hired a farmer, Emilio Borrego, to talk to community members about how they might make use of the advantages beavers offer. Borrego is the chairman of the Acequia de la Otra Vanda in the community of Córdova, upstream from Chimayó.

“I get that it’s not so black-and-white, and it’s an issue that takes time,” he says. But he believes he’s benefited from the presence of beavers. He says that upstream dams have acted as speed bumps for the water during heavy storms, and they’ve played a crucial role in protecting Córdova from severe flooding. Borrego also accesses regular waterflow for the crops that he grows.

Córdova’s environment is different from the communities between Chimayó and Española. It sits at 7,146 feet in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristos, about 1,000 feet higher than Chimayó,  with a higher stream that feeds it. But it’s still a dense community reliant on acequia water, and Borrego believes beavers will make the entire watershed more resilient to climate change. 

He also notes that beavers move in on their own and “are extremely hard to work against.” Taking apart a dam can cause a bigger mess than leaving one in place, he says. “They’re really tenacious little creatures. They work super-fast. There already is a beaver presence all along the whole watershed.”

“Where’s the community?”

Currently, people don’t know how many beavers live in the rivers, nor do they know whether the wetland is storing more water than it loses to evaporation. The dearth of information is amplifying acequia users’ frustrations about communication.

Steve Finch, a hydrogeologist who has worked with all 64 acequias in the stream system, hasn’t seen data indicating how much water is being stored. He notes that beavers can be beneficial in higher reaches of the watershed, but he’s concerned about the extra labor that the presence of beavers would require from acequia users lower down.

“It’s already too much effort to maintain the acequias without beavers,” he says. Acequia users “are out there every day, managing, maintaining, operating, and the last thing they want are beavers in or around the acequias.”

​Community members want more data, something they emphasized at a meeting that the county and Defenders of Wildlife held in Chimayó on the evening of May 29.

The gathering was designed to show that both organizations hope to prioritize conversation with the parciantes, commissioners and mayordomos. But word about the meeting reached very few people. Less than ten residents of the surrounding area were there; some found out about it only after others already there texted them.

Coursing through the conversation was deep anger that people who don’t actively depend on acequias are making decisions that seriously affect the flow of water.

“It seems like we have a majority of people working on this project than people that live in this community,” Diaz said.

Although a couple of the county employees and a contractor with Defenders of Wildlife are acequia users from northern New Mexico, the divide between community members and meeting organizers was palpable. People frequently cut each other off and talked over each other. A beaver proponent grew visibly upset as acequia leaders expressed their anger.

​“You guys just want to just protect a certain little area here where you guys can collect your money and have your little group meetings,” said Isaac Martinez, president of the commission of the Acequia de los Martinez Arriba. “Where’s the community?”

There was also a generational divide. Borrego, who’s in his 30s, argued the value of working with the beavers; several of the commissioners and mayordomos in attendance who don’t want the beavers in the water ways belong to older generations.

“I’m going to be doing this for a long time, and I know that the climate’s changing a lot, and that’s the thing,” Borrego said. “If we don’t have a healthier water system, or if we take away these things that are actually helping there be more water in the water system itself, we’re going to be screwed. It’s going to be way different by the time I’m your guys’ age.”

Attendees said that going forward, they need more information that will take into account the harms beavers can enact in their particular community. 

Shelley Winship, an administrator and former supervisor of the Santa Fe-Pojoaque Soil and Water Conservation District, asked that the county perform a cost-benefit analysis for the valley around the Rio Santa Cruz. “You talked about the services and benefits beavers provided, but you haven’t quantified the cost to the ecosystem that beavers are causing in an acequia community,” she said. She noted that acequias, too, provide benefits to the ecosystem, also slowing water and delivering it to plants, and that negative impacts to acequias would result in the loss of those benefits.

​“If you don’t understand the particular ecosystem that you’re looking at, you’re going to make recommendations that are going to cause problems,” she said.

Searchlight New Mexico is a nonprofit, nonpartisan media organization that seeks to empower New Mexicans to demand honest and effective public policy.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
June 2, 2025

THE FOOD DEPOT’S NEIGHBOR TO NEIGHBOR FUND DRIVE
LAUNCHES 14TH YEAR WITH $500,000 GOAL

Santa Fe, N.M. — The Food Depot is excited to announce the launch of their largest
fundraiser, Neighbor to Neighbor. Groups across Northern New Mexico are invited to
donate and learn more about the friendly fundraising competition at
thefooddepot.org/n2n.

All proceeds from the 14th annual fund drive will benefit The Food Depot, Northern New
Mexico’s only food bank. In 2024, the community-wide fundraiser raised over $482,000
to support food security efforts across The Food Depot’s nine-county service area. This
year, the nonprofit hopes to raise $500,000, the equivalent of two million meals.

“Neighbor to Neighbor makes such an impact on our community,” shared Jill Dixon,
Executive Director of The Food Depot. “I am always encouraged by the hundreds of
teams that work together over the summer to provide healthy food for their fellow New
Mexicans. This year, I am confident we will see another record-breaking year of
generosity.”

Originally launched as a food drive in 2011, Neighbor to Neighbor became a fund drive
in 2020. All donations collected during the drive will go directly to supporting The Food
Depot’s innovative programs and dynamic network of partner agencies across Northern
New Mexico. For every $1 donated during Neighbor to Neighbor, The Food Depot can
provide up to four healthy meals.

Neighbor to Neighbor begins June 3 and will end September 23, 2025. During this time,
neighborhoods, businesses, schools, and community groups can register online to
compete in the friendly fundraising competition. Winning teams in different categories
will be announced in early October. Individuals are also welcome to participate by
donating directly to The Food Depot’s hunger-relief efforts as a “Friend of The Food
Depot.”

​Thank you to 2025 Neighbor to Neighbor sponsors: Bell Rock Consulting LLC, Café Pasqual’s, Santa Fe By Design, Santa Fe New Mexican, and TechSource, Inc. The
Food Depot is still accepting business sponsors to highlight during the fundraiser.

To learn more about participating groups, donate, or start your own group, visit
thefooddepot.org/n2n. Any questions about Neighbor to Neighbor should be directed to
Amanda Bregel, The Food Depot’s Director of Communications at
[email protected].

###

About The Food Depot

The Food Depot, Northern New Mexico’s food bank, works to make healthy food
accessible to every person in every community. Serving nine counties across 26,000
square miles, The Food Depot distributes nutritious food and essential resources to
more than 40,000 people. A combination of innovative food programs, resource
navigation, and bold advocacy supports individuals and families on the path to lasting
food security. In 2024, The Food Depot provided an average of 700,000 meals each
month through a combination of its own direct programs and partnerships with more
than 80 nonprofit agencies. Recognized for its impact and integrity, The Food Depot is a
Santa Fe Chamber of Commerce Nonprofit of the Year, a Santa Fe Community
Foundation Piñon Award recipient, and a four-star Charity Navigator nonprofit. Together,
we can nourish communities and create a hunger-free future. Learn, donate, advocate,
and volunteer at thefooddepot.org.

Organizational Contact:
Amanda Bregel, Director of Communications
[email protected]
(505) 510-5539

And other AI betrayals.
​
By Zach Hively

I know that AI is all the rage. I know. But I speak as someone who doesn’t fully understand AI: I don’t trust it.

Why not?

Well, I was thinking about writing about the toad that my dog pursued around the back yard the other night. I didn’t realize at first that he was pursuing a toad—the night was, as nights tend to be, dark outside, and the toad was hard to see. I thought he was interested in a particularly animated clump of grass.

I, too, because curious about the grass, and how it could possibly startle my dog. Then it jumped, and so did I.

I remembered immediately, with startling fuzziness, a book I read twenty-six years ago that taught me everything I know about dogs and toads—it was the novel Big Trouble, by Dave Barry, in which the dog encounters a toad and proceeds to hallucinate something or other. When I search for specifics on what he hallucinates, because twenty-six is indeed a lot of years ago, Google tells me there is not an AI overview available for this topic.

​But that’s not the main reason I don’t trust AI.

So I grabbed my dog’s collar to prevent his own hallucinatory event. And I missed it. Because he didn’t have a collar for me to grab.

You see, I like to take his collar off at night. I figure it feels as good to him as taking off my pants at the appropriate time feels to me. Three hundred-plus nights a year, the collar comes off after we go outside one more time.

But not, of course, this night.

Without a collar to grab, I got my dog by the scruff of his neck. This he did not like very much. He is invested in being a Very Well-Liked Boy, and I can extrapolate that Very Well-Liked Boys seldom get scruffed.

Also, I am not an expert scruff-taker, so my dog slipped my grip and darted back to the toad in order to sniff at it some more.

The toad—which is generally more intelligent than we here give toads credit for—had hopped along to someplace else. Or so thought the dog. He sniffed everywhere, erratic, desperate to locate his new friend and/or toadie drug dealer.

Yet I could see that the toad, in its helpful way, had stayed put. He squatted in the one place in the immediate vicinity that my dog, for all his methodology, was not sniffing.

Ultimately I re-scruffed my dog and got him back inside. He was, as far as I could tell, unaccompanied by any vivid hallucinations.

I thought I might write something about all this. I also thought, Hey, this is not the first time I’ve seen a toad out here. Did I ever take a picture of one I can use as a Featured Image for this story?

​I searched the photos on my phone for “toad.” My phone returned only this one shot I took of, well, not a toad:

As you can see, there is no toad herein visible to the human eye. The dog corroborates: he does not smell one, either.

Now, is this photo search feature a function of AI? I have no idea! But I’m inclined to believe so, purely because it did not work. No human could mistake this photo, clearly of a praying mantis, as the work of a professional worthy of publication. Not even here.

​Some things just require a personal touch. No AI could write this exact piece, because no AI has ever felt the panic that the local animal poison control people are all in bed at this hour. And you cannot tell me that you want to trust AI with ANYTHING when it has never, not even for one ill-timed second, wondered if toads can make people hallucinate too.

BY: AUSTIN FISHER
Courtesy of Source NM
Link to original article

BY: AUSTIN FISHER
Courtesy of Source NM
​Link to original article

Interview with Maximiño Manzanares

By Jessica Rath

When I interviewed MariaElena Jaramillo in February, she told me about the Matachines Dances being revived in El Pueblo de Abiquiú, and later suggested that I get in touch with Maximiño Manzanares if I wanted to learn more. Several other people in Abiquiú mentioned the name – in connection with teaching music and art at the elementary school, for example, or: “what a kind, community-oriented person this is”, I heard. The perfect subject for an interview, I thought, and when Maximiño was kind enough to set aside some time for a conversation, we met at the Abiquiú Inn to talk. They’re the youngest person I’ve interviewed so far – they’re 24 years old. Maximiño uses the pronouns “they” and “them”, and because I strongly believe that everybody has the right to decide this, I will honor their wishes, of course.

Maximiño was born and raised in Santa Fe, which is called O’ga P’ogeh Owingeh (White Shell Water Place) in the Tewa language, as I learned. Maximiño comes from an intergenerational line of musicians, including their Dad David Manzanares, their Tío Michael Manzanares, their late Grandpa Herman Manzanares, as well as many more aunts, uncles, cousins, and other relatives.Music, singing, dance, and other artistic endeavors are embedded in their family’s genes and go back many generations. It was a delight to hear stories not only about Maximiño’s childhood, but also about their Tías, Tíos, Abuelos, and Bisabuelos [for our Spanish-challenged readers: Aunts, Uncles, Grandparents, and Great-Grandparents].

“Both my Mom and my Dad have amazing musical backgrounds, and they have immersed me in music my whole life,” Maximiño told me. “On the day I was born, my parents and I were joined by my Tío Michael, my cousin Peter, and all four of my grandparents. My Grandpa Herman brought his guitar, and all of my family who was there sang Las Mañanitas, one of our traditional birthday songs, for me. In my first moments of being earthside, my family sang to me to welcome me to the world. Part of the lyrics translate to: “On the day that you were born, all the flowers bloomed.” Las Mañanitas means “the early mornings”, and it's a song that we sing to honor people on their birthday. So, it was, is, and always will be a deep blessing for me that, on the day that I was born, my family came together to sing me into the world.”

What an absolutely delightful story, listening to the music your family performs for you the moment you are born! What a wonderful welcome. But there is more.

Maximiño continued: “When my Momma was pregnant with me, she and my Dad would play music all the time, even with headphones that they would put over her tummy so I could hear more clearly. I was surrounded by music, even before I was born!”

The residence of Maximiño’s great-grandparents and grandparents was built in a part of Abiquiú known locally as Los Silvestres. Over the years, it has come to be marked by an adobe wall and a rock retaining wall. I must have passed it thousands of times. That’s where Maximiño’s great-grandparents Maximinio and Rosana S. Manzanares raised their Grandpa Herman’s generation, where their Grandpa Herman and Grandma Ellie raised their Dad’s generation, and where they’re living now with their Mom and Dad.

“When I was little, before I started school in Santa Fe, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents and familia as a whole in Abiquiú, and those are deeply cherished times in my life,” Maximiño continued. “In the spring, when the water was flowing through the acequia, my cousins and I would get little paper cups, and we'd catch tadpoles. And then we’d let them go, of course! Or, we’d race sticks down the ditch, or play around the apricot trees that our Grandpa Maximinio planted. There was no limit to our imagination. And there was always music, and so much love, and wonderful stories! All this made us feel so grounded.”

​After elementary school, Maximiño attended ATC, The Academy for Technology and the Classics, in Santa Fe, and after graduation matriculated into Stanford University in 2018. In September of 2019, after their first year of college, they moved from Santa Fe back to Abiquiú, together with their parents. Then, during Maximiño’s sophomore year, the COVID-19 pandemic globalized, and they took a leave of absence from school to return to Abiquiú and help their parents care for their Grandma Eleanor.

“We were with my Grandma Ellie from October of 2020 until she passed away on August 1st of 2022,” Maximiño went on. “We got to spend almost another two years together, and those were some of the most sacred experiences of my life. We shared so many conversations, so many meals, and so many laughs. And she shared so much wisdom from her childhood and her life as a whole, including stories about her parents, her grandfather, and her extended family. She forever forged, strengthened, and cultivated my heart and spirit. It was immensely special for me to get to live together with my Grandma, Mom, and Dad in this way.”

During this time, Maximiño and their family quarantined, masked, and practiced other safety protocols that the pandemic has necessitated in order to help keep everybody safe. After their grandmother’s passing, Maximiño started to participate more in the community doings while still continuing to mask and practice other COVID-19 safety protocols. For example, they and their Dad began participating with the choir. The Pueblo de Abiquiú Choir performs during masses for the community, whether for weekly mass, baptisms, weddings, quinceañeras, or funerals and burials. Maximiño’s Grandpa Herman led the choir for over 25 years, and now they and their father continue the tradition.

​“Actively participating in and leading the choir has constellated us to other musical doings in the Pueblo, including the Las Posadas, Christmas caroling with the youth, events with the Library and Cultural Center, and our Feast Days. Music is such a wonderful way to bring people together. You get to see everybody, you get to connect with the elders and the young ones and all the relatives in between, and you get to take part in feeling the pulse of the community and making memories together.”

I was curious: what’s Maximiño’s major at Stanford? What are they studying?

​“I have a bit more than one full year left of school,” I learned. “I started in 2018, but because of personal and family circumstances, I've taken multiple leaves of absence. I've had a very non-traditional path through college, and it's been so beautiful because I’m getting this parallel experience of schooling in California alongside the education from my family, my community, and the land here. They all coalesce in an amazing manner. I intend to go back to school as soon as possible, complete my remaining coursework, graduate, and then return to Abiquiú.”

“My major is in a program called CSRE, which stands for Comparative Studies in Race and Ethnicity”, Maximiño explained.  “CSRE majors get to choose one of many different concentrations, and mine is called IDA, which stands for Identity, Diversity, and Aesthetics. The IDA concentration focuses (through the lens of Critical Race and Ethnic Studies) on the ways that diverse racial and ethnic communities utilize various forms of artmaking and storytelling to perpetuate their cultures and to struggle for liberation of all people and the Earth.”

“It has been an immense privilege to get to learn about and participate in the various doings and lifeways in El Pueblo de Abiquiú. All of my tías and tíos, all my primas and primos, and of course my Dad, have been so generous and gracious to share their knowledge, teachings, and understandings with me. For example, mi querido Mano Dexter Trujillo has been teaching me the songs that are done for our feast days. I am also learning more about the songs and prayers that we do when our elders and other dear community members pass away.  I am forever grateful to every relative from the Pueblo for their teachings and their love. To be entrusted with these ways and with the responsibility of helping pass them on is such an honor.”

Yes, I understand the appeal. Those traditions can easily get lost.

Next, Maximiño told me about another project. “My Tía Victoria Garcia, who is the principal of Abiquiú Elementary, invited me to be a contracted Music and Art Teacher at the school. I enthusiastically accepted, and, between March and May of this year, I had the blessing and honor of teaching a little over 70 students from kindergarten to sixth grade.  It felt especially cosmic because so many of my ancestors were teachers. My great-grandfather Maximinio, who I'm named after, was a teacher here in Abiquiú and Barranco. My grandmother's mom, Cordelia Laumbach Maés, was a teacher. My Tío Benigno “Bennie” Manzanares was a teacher. My Tía Patricia Manzanares-Gonzales was a teacher, professor, and administrator. They were all school teachers, yet, as my Grandpa Herman would say, ‘Everybody can be your teacher!”

​Such wise words were common in Maximiño’s family, and they shared more quotes that were passed on through generations.

“My Mom has said: ‘It is not in the perfect moments we grow, but in the imperfect ones.’ My Dad has said: ‘Poco a poco, se anda lejos’ (Little by little, one goes far) and ‘We must live with respect, humility, consideration, and love’. My Grandma Ellie would tell my Dad: ‘If you can dream it, you can be it!’ And my Grandpa Herman told me, ‘If you want to be somebody special, be yourself!’ So, the wisdom that my parents and grandparents have shared with me has strengthened my roots, so that no matter where I go, I can be true to myself, true to where I’m from, and I can strive to move forward in my life with the utmost love for all of my present relationships; with the utmost respect for my ancestors; and with the utmost love and devotion for all future generations. In the words of James Baldwin: ‘The children are always ours, every single one of them, all over the globe.’ We are responsible for all of them, including and especially those who we will not physically meet during our lifetimes.”

​I was so impressed with the way Maximiño acknowledged the guidance and support they received from their family. And not only accepted it but internalized it, made it their own to pass it on to others and future generations. And then I learned from Maximiño one of the stories of where this sensibility came from:
​
“There's a story that my Dad has told me with regard to people’s ‘dones’ [gifts], and it’s about wisdom from the late Teresita Naranjo, an elder and incredible potter from Santa Clara Pueblo and a dear friend of my grandparents. One time Ms. Naranjo was over at my grandparents’ home when my Dad was about 14, and my Grandfather asked my Dad to play the guitar for her. So my Dad played for her, and she listened to him, and when my Dad finished his song, Ms. Naranjo said: ‘You have a gift, and that gift is not just yours. That gift belongs to your parents, and me, and the community, and the whole world. The Creator has entrusted you with this gift, and your responsibility is to make it the best that you can, so you can then share it and give it back to the world.’ My Dad and my Mom have raised me in that same way and spirit. All of the things that fill my heart, like music and dance and my family and our community and our culture, they are not just for me or for any one person. The gifts themselves are not solely ours, but, as I learned from my Dad’s story about Ms. Naranjo, what is ours is the responsibility to make them the best we can so we can share them back with the world respectfully, generously, and wholeheartedly.”

Maximiño shared another great story with me. “Back in 2018, during my first year of college, I got to be a part of an a cappella group on campus called Stanford Talisman. They were founded on campus in 1990 with the intention of sharing music with compelling stories from around the world. A lot of their original repertoire is comprised of struggle songs from the anti-apartheid movement in South Africa. So the origin of Talisman is rooted in struggles for Black Liberation, and over the past 35 years, the group has come to include music from all over the world. By the time I joined the group, a little before their 30th anniversary, we got to learn songs from Hawai’i, a song from Nicaragua, multiple Black American songs, and songs from India.”

​“Every year, Stanford Talisman goes on a tour for spring break,” Maximiño continued, “and for my freshman year, we went to India! So here I am, 18 years old, the first time I ever really traveled internationally… I remember being in awe when we were in Udaipur because its biome and climate are so similar to that of Abqiuiú. Even some of the homes in Udaipur reminded me of the adobe homes here. It was such a cosmic experience.”

“Then flash forward to this year, and one of my dear friends and fellow alum from the group reached out and let me know that the current group was going to come to New Mexico for their tour this year. So my family and I helped them coordinate their lodging and their itinerary. They stayed and performed in Santa Fe and Ghost Ranch. They also did an assembly at the elementary school in Abiquiú and shared some music in the Pueblo –– to me, it felt that everything came full circle. This coalescence of my upbringing, my family, my time at Stanford, my time with Talisman, and my time in the Pueblo, they all coalesced and got woven together.”

Maximiño is such a good storyteller, I could have listened to them for hours. Here is another one:

“I mentioned earlier that my Grandma Ellie would tell my Dad, ‘If you can dream it, you can be it!’ From my Grandma’s saying, my Dad and Mom co-created and co-cultivated the idea of dreamseeds.” 

“Just like we have seeds that we plant in the garden,” Maximiño continued, “so, too, do we have the seeds of our dreams that we can plant out into the world, and they each need their own tending in order to grow and ultimately come true. Of my dreamseeds, I have two in particular that I would like to share right now––one for El Pueblo de Abiquiú, and the other for the world as a whole. My dreamseed for the Pueblo is that our people, both individually and collectively, will do everything we can to learn as much as we can about who we are, about our truths, and about where we come from. It's from these truths that we can have a strong foundation and be the best relatives that we can be, not only to one another in the Pueblo but also to all our relatives in the greater Abiquiú community, and all of our relatives in the whole world!”

What Maximiño next told me made me happy. Maybe there is hope, after all.

​“My family and I are vehemently against all forms of oppression. I'm thinking of our relatives in Palestine and in the Democratic Republic of Congo and in Sudan, and of all the people who are facing colonization and ethnic cleansing and genocide… So my dreamseed for the whole world is the liberation of all colonized and oppressed peoples and for me to do everything that I possibly can to help realize this collective dream.”

“My Grandfather would say (and my Dad continues to say) that every day we give thanks for the Breath of Life. I want to become so fiercely intentional such that  I live and act each day knowing that every breath I take is not just mine. With every breath that we’re given, may we all come to understand the next right things to do, and may we then do them, even when they are scary, uncomfortable, or new.

​“May I become more grounded in my body. What is my whole body feeling? What is it receiving? What is it giving, and how does it fit into this beautiful, intricate, infinite multiversal web that we're all a part of?”

Important questions indeed, worthy of contemplation, and somehow surprising to come from a young person. More wisdom and less Ego – that’s what I usually expect from older people, and often I’m disappointed. To meet somebody who isn’t preoccupied with their own success, who doesn’t dream of becoming famous but of serving their community – this doesn’t happen all that often. And yet, I’m not surprised to find such a person in Abiquiú, which has plenty of unconventional, community-oriented people.

​We will continue this conversation at a future time; I’d like to learn more about the traditional Matachine dances, and Maximiño will consult with the elders who have made their revival in Abiquiú possible about what can be shared, as well as the most respectful and considerate way to share these stories. And I definitely want to hear more stories from Maximiño’s abuelitos. It was such a pleasure to listen. I know you have many commitments, Maximiño, and I’m grateful for the time you gave me. May all the flowers keep blooming for you!