By Susan Sims

Since last summer, I've lived near the famous San Francisco de Asís church. I see the steeples from my porch, and through a break in the bushes down my street hides a small grove that opens onto the church grounds. I can take a little pilgrimage any time I want.

I swear those steeples whisper my name, usually just before sunset, the best time of day here. This is when everything lights up with magic and you understand why it's called the Land of Enchantment. I sneak away from the daily grind and step for a spell into a pocket of peace and delight.

This adobe church exudes vitality from its body of holy mud and straw. Once, I spoke with a lone young visitor who described the building as chunky and fleshy; these are delicious, perfect words. Through annual remudding rituals, at least two centuries of hands have anointed this church, flesh to muddy flesh. Traditionally (and, to my mind, appropriately), only women applied the mud. The church's velvety curves suggest femininity, softness embodying strength. Mother Church indeed.

I've attended Christmas Midnight Mass here, with its enchanting combination of Catholic solemnity, Spanish singing and folk guitar, luminarias lining the courtyard and little bonfires in the parking lot. In the gift shop, I've stood in awe before the icon paintings of Father Bill, the assistant priest. I've been to the annual bazaar and witnessed a glorious fusion of Aztec and Catholic prayer-dancing by the group Teonantli (“godly mother” in Nahuatl).

But it's the courtyard that calls me, that is my destination. There, statues of St. Francis in the west and St. Clare in the east face each other. When I go just before twilight, the setting sun behind Francis lights up Clare's face. I think this is how it was for them in life. Rarely together physically, they were joined in a spiritual dance, always looking toward and illuminating each other.

In summer, a lush flower garden circles Clare. This is the spot where I most like to be, among scads of small bizarre creatures called hummingbird hawk moths. They look, as you might expect, like a cross between a hummingbird and a moth. Unruffled by my presence, they suck nectar from flowers so close I can see the long proboscis straighten out into a blossom like fishing line into a river, then quickly curl up into the mouth.

Clare and Francis stand in quiet agreement as doves chortle in the bell towers, ravens echo around the sky. Tourists and artists come clicking cameras. Clouds sweep over flowers rapt with whirring moth wings.

A symphony, with deep adobe as the secret bass line. Senses and spirit exult.

How sublime that there’s this harmony of animal, plant, and human life at a church dedicated to St. Francis, patron of ecology, lover of all creatures. I adore this place, where Mother Church and Mother Earth interlace in a brilliant dance.

Susan Sims is a resident of Ranchos de Taos.