Somewhere west of Albuquerque and east of the Continental Divide, we stopped at a Dairy Queen on I-40/historic 66 at Bluewater, New Mexico. I can see on the satellite image that there is a tiny town and a lake associated with the name, but from the interstate, all we could see was a single gas station and fast food joint in the middle of a whole lot of nothingness.

We filled up on fuel and Peanut Buster Parfaits, sharing space for a short time with other humans who all seemed intensely aware of each other after spending so much time alone in their cars. Then we climbed back into the van to continue our ride into the sunset.

As my husband made a U-turn in the gravel to get back to the on-ramp, we passed by some concrete traffic barriers. Ordinary, mundane traffic barriers, yet in the glow of the setting sun in the New Mexico light they were magnificent. They reminded me of the old Spanish churches we weren't getting to see on that trip, because we were traveling with a purpose, not as tourists. "Stop!" I yelled, and hopped out the door in my flip-flops, camera in hand. Despite being deathly allergic to their bite, I picked my way through some angry-looking red ants that were as big as house pets, and knelt in the dust to click off a couple of shots. In my mind's eye, I wasn't seeing a traffic barrier. I was seeing a painting of the San Francisco de Asis church in Taos, bathed in the light of the setting sun. It's surprising how similar the forms are.

I've always liked the resulting painting, because it's an example of how important light is in a painting. As I often say, even the most mundane object can look extraordinary in the right light.