gracias a mi compadre Roberto
at the end of a torrent of words
just before the quiet opens between us again
I ask him one more question
if we reject then what we remember
in favor of forward looking
and forgiving
if we cease to give our stories
the right to tell us anymore
in what ground
if not in the rot of memory
do we stretch deep roots
and thrive?
one atoning
and astonishing word
he offers
ceremony
life-giver ever free of grievance
time-keeper reinventing cycles
timeless space where we begin
and live again and again
antidote of beauty for memory's wounds
new story-weaver living only now
circles that embrace, defend, uphold
say all this work was not in vain
your labor springs up future past who knows
your offerings received into a greater whole
the beauty that you love in the world feeds you
and the love you give to beauty
in every sacred re-membering
feeds the world
Saturday, March 26, 2016
Sunday, February 7, 2016
out
I feel like an inmate who gets out of prison tomorrow. Some part of my brain had started to think I was trapped in this claustrophobic trip forever. But it keeps coming back to me, unexpected, here on a gear-grinding bus and there on the grungy, filthy street: I got another life out there! One where I'm free to move. I've got a truck. And music, and books, and more than these few changes of worn-out clothes. Friends who care. Who live open-eyed, awake in heart and conscience, caring for the Earth. Who work with creativity and humor and subversive resourcefulness. No sheep, these friends. Who don't make me labor and exhaust myself to have a simple conversation. Who know I'm articulate, who know where my heart's at, and who don't judge me by appearances or by some unfair stereotype they got here with on their own, here in beautiful but exhausting Mexico, before I ever came along. I've got more freedom than many of these sleepwalkers all around me have ever dreamed of in all their lives. I've got work, community, ideas, possibilities, places to go, places to stay, no dependents, no judgments, few obligations, no outer-imposed belief systems weighing me down. What in the world am I possibly gonna do with all this freedom?
Gonna hit the ground running, for one thing. Gonna laugh myself silly with gratitude, for another.
Gonna hit the ground running, for one thing. Gonna laugh myself silly with gratitude, for another.
further (Feb. 6)
Breakfast this morning at the Casa de los Amigos: the table seats 12, and it's a completely different dozen every time I join them. Today there is a curious division -- on the left, three white people talk in English about activist work. On the right, three black men eat silently, two of them gazing at cellphones. The first conversation sounds out of my reach already, so I turn to my right and ask the usual question at this table of travellers, "Español o ingles?" One of the men replies, "Frances". It's quite possible these men are newly arrived refugees making a start in Mexico, for which the Casa reserves several private rooms. On another visit I talked with some guys recently arrived from Africa, who said they liked Mexico City, only it was way too cold. I'd love to hear something of these men's story, so I offer half the French I know, "Bon jour". "Bon jour!" all three repond immediately. And then no more. I try one more time, with the guy on my near right, "De donde es?" He smiles, and repeats, "Frances". If they're actually starting their entire world over from scratch here, I surely wish them well. Puts my current alienation in perspective. Always somebody further from their homeground than I am.
Taxco (Feb. 4)
Taxco, Guerrero has got to be the most fantastically dreamlike town I've met. First, the moment I get off the bus there is an information desk with a friendly man asking me, oracle-like, "What are you looking for?" When I reply, cheap lodging, he directs me to a guesthouse that is straight uphill (the entire town is straight uphill, really), and _inside_ a market. I have to climb a few flights of stairs, weave between stalls of clothing and fruit, and ask directions several times just to find the entrance. The place is some crazy cross between medieval keep and post-apocalyptic colony. Everybody's here on top of everybody. Somehow it works. Somehow, it weirdly feels like home.
Second item of business is a laundromat. Which here, of course, normally means dropping off your clothes at a tiny storefront to be washed, dried, and carefully folded. But today it means asking literally 9 people for directions, having a man call down from a balcony, "It's in here!" and finally scooting between the tables of a small taqueria and up a narrow flight of stairs into someone's living room, where a kind woman tells me to please come back tomorrow after 6.
Second item of business is a laundromat. Which here, of course, normally means dropping off your clothes at a tiny storefront to be washed, dried, and carefully folded. But today it means asking literally 9 people for directions, having a man call down from a balcony, "It's in here!" and finally scooting between the tables of a small taqueria and up a narrow flight of stairs into someone's living room, where a kind woman tells me to please come back tomorrow after 6.
The very steep streets of the city center would be seen as one-lane in the U.S., but here they accomodate two directions of traffic with pedestrians on both sides -- no sidewalks -- with only a couple inches to spare. Just as I'm wondering how the V.W. Bug taxis pull it off, down one of the narrowest comes a hearse, almost scraping stucco walls, followed by six men walking with a casket on their shoulders, and about a hundred people dressed in black. All traffic calmly stops as they cross the sunny plaza without a sound and enter the church.
Finally, I'm admiring the designs painted in white on many of the stone streets, from a simple line to mark the center to flowers, bees and geometric figures. Then I walk down another alley-street where a repair crew is working, and weaving between careful piles of black and shiny white stone I realize that it's not painted. It's all hand inlay work. If this strangeness is just the first afternoon, I can't wait to see what strange dreams I have tonight...
Finally, I'm admiring the designs painted in white on many of the stone streets, from a simple line to mark the center to flowers, bees and geometric figures. Then I walk down another alley-street where a repair crew is working, and weaving between careful piles of black and shiny white stone I realize that it's not painted. It's all hand inlay work. If this strangeness is just the first afternoon, I can't wait to see what strange dreams I have tonight...
(two days later, energy shift)
Four days left in Mexico. Exhausted. Claustrophobic. The constant noise has me about to snap, and the piles of trash everywhere are making me cry. Deeply missing my precious Earth-connection in Taos. Made 5 different plans yesterday and gave them all up. Nothing seems worth the effort at this point. Getting anywhere means either walking hours in traffic where emissions testing is unheard of and pedestrians have no rights, or riding hours on a bus playing one violent, soulless movie after another. The small towns are no quieter than the City, and the country least of all. I went back last night to a restaurant that had offered peace and unusually tranquil music the first time, only to find that they were playing the radio AND the TV, both at once.
Only clear thought this morning, in Taxco, was to get a coffee and sit on the plaza for 20 minutes before heading out. This is a very difficult action for me, sitting still. But I did it. It was early, and workers of all kinds were putting the city together a piece at a time. A young man set down a bundle of brush, carefully shaped and tied it together in several places, and stood up with a broom, which he used to begin sweeping leaves off the plaza. Right next to me, another guy set up a straight-backed wooden chair with a metal platform attached, for shining shoes. He set out brushes and polish, checked the change in a small drawer underneath, went for a stack of newspapers from a nearby vendor, and then carefully buffed and polished his own shoes (might as well be your own advertising). A woman at one side of the church set down a large plastic bucket topped with an embroidered cloth. I thought she was waiting for a bus, but after several combis passed her by and she stood patiently, it looked more likely that she was selling tamales. In the middle ground, a guy crossed repeatedly, each time carrying a plastic crate full of bottles of Coke on one shoulder. The driver of a Nissan truck with a bed full of 5-gallon water bottles parked in front of a nice restaurant. A handsome grandfatherly man with silvery mustache, cowboy hat and boots stopped next to the woman with tamales, gazed attentively across the square, and then crossed the plaza and did the same at its opposite corner. Mothers and fathers walked little kids in red and white jogging-suit uniforms to school.
I watched them all and added another major item to the list of things deeply missed: work. A role and a task to fill the days. I've never liked being a tourist. I'm terrible at it, really. Can't wait til spring offers earth to turn, chance to labor and sweat and be useful for something.
quote (Feb. 2)
"How can we contrive to be at once astonished at the world and yet at home in it?
...we need this life of practical romance: the combination of something that is strange with something that is secure. We so need to view the world as to combine an idea of wonder and an idea of welcome. We need to be happy in this wonderland without once being merely comfortable."
-- G.K. Chesterton, _Orthodoxy_
goodbyes (Jan. 31)
Wow. Goodbyes are hard enough with people you care about. How much more so, when you have no idea when you'll see them again. Or in what state their lives will be.
Yesterday I took advantage of my status as Wealthy Aunt from the States (which still makes me laugh, but I guess comparatively speaking it's the truth), and gave my nephew Raul a fine day in Xalapa. We spent a few hours at the Museo Interactivo -- an educational kids' museum a lot like Explora in Albuquerque -- which included dinosaurs, old cars, experiments with gravity and electricity, a film in the planetarium, and a sculpture garden in the forest reserve surrounding the place. He seemed to enjoy the sculptures just as much as the science exhibits. I have such joy at this kid's openness to life; such hope for his potential. We took a taxi back downtown, ate tacos al pastor, watched some guys painting a new mural, and talked a lot. I did my best with the double challenge of language and inner voices (which still say I have no right to advise anyone on their lives, even a 9-year-old kid) and offered what wisdom I could scrape together for him, on living through the very possible separation of his parents. At about the same age I was when it happened to me. I said all the things I needed somebody to say to me then, but didn't get: that none of it is his fault, that both his parents love him, that he's got a wonderful heart and a brilliant intelligence and is stronger inside than he may know. That it won't be perfect but it will probably be alright. That it's beautiful that he's such a sensitive soul that he cries at the tears of others, and I really hope he doesn't forget how to cry as the world needs more guys with that ability. That if he just studies well and reads a lot and stays healthy, he can do pretty much anything he wants in the world.
Which, by the way, I asked him about. What do you want to do when you grow up? He smiled. He had an answer ready. He said he'd like to be mayor of a town so he could get people to take better care of their land and water. And maybe to work with solar energy. And also to travel the world. And could I please check in with him when he gets old enough to travel, and take him along if I'm going somewhere interesting.
Yesterday I took advantage of my status as Wealthy Aunt from the States (which still makes me laugh, but I guess comparatively speaking it's the truth), and gave my nephew Raul a fine day in Xalapa. We spent a few hours at the Museo Interactivo -- an educational kids' museum a lot like Explora in Albuquerque -- which included dinosaurs, old cars, experiments with gravity and electricity, a film in the planetarium, and a sculpture garden in the forest reserve surrounding the place. He seemed to enjoy the sculptures just as much as the science exhibits. I have such joy at this kid's openness to life; such hope for his potential. We took a taxi back downtown, ate tacos al pastor, watched some guys painting a new mural, and talked a lot. I did my best with the double challenge of language and inner voices (which still say I have no right to advise anyone on their lives, even a 9-year-old kid) and offered what wisdom I could scrape together for him, on living through the very possible separation of his parents. At about the same age I was when it happened to me. I said all the things I needed somebody to say to me then, but didn't get: that none of it is his fault, that both his parents love him, that he's got a wonderful heart and a brilliant intelligence and is stronger inside than he may know. That it won't be perfect but it will probably be alright. That it's beautiful that he's such a sensitive soul that he cries at the tears of others, and I really hope he doesn't forget how to cry as the world needs more guys with that ability. That if he just studies well and reads a lot and stays healthy, he can do pretty much anything he wants in the world.
Which, by the way, I asked him about. What do you want to do when you grow up? He smiled. He had an answer ready. He said he'd like to be mayor of a town so he could get people to take better care of their land and water. And maybe to work with solar energy. And also to travel the world. And could I please check in with him when he gets old enough to travel, and take him along if I'm going somewhere interesting.
In the interest of objectivity: it might or might not be entirely fair to tell a kid who lives without plumbing, in a decidedly anti-progressive town with mud streets, where I wonder if anyone, seriously, ever goes to college instead of getting pregnant at 15, that he can do anything he wants. But history does validate this possibility in equally unlikely places. I'm gonna hold out what hope I can for this one.
Veracruz (Jan. 28)
Veracruz, Veracruz is as close as I've been to Havana, or how I imagine Havana. This city would be the perfect setting for a 40's film noir, or maybe a modern crime flic requiring the word "gritty" in every review. Palm trees, potholed streets, moldy 4-story buildings peeling off their paint in salt air (pink, white, and lime green), street lamps, rusty wrought-iron balconies. Central plaza tiled in white marble and surrounded by the portales of bars and cafes with little tables and strolling musicians. Ocean view blocked mid-town by sky-scraping cranes and massive cargo ships from all over the planet. Malecon further south with historic statues and battered rowboats tied to the piers. And in the heart of the city, one of the kindest welcomes I've found yet on this trip.
I met Jack and Emily (and their cute 3-year-old son) on my last trip here, and they've offered me an open door since then. Which came as a particular relief after the last few days in Mazatepec, where all mi hermana's friends and neighbors have decided to talk _about_ me instead of to me, using her as an interpreter. Yeah. When we're all speaking Spanish. "Where is your friend from?" "How long is she staying here?" "Is she cold?" No, my Spanish isn't perfect. Sometimes I miss a beat, or have to ask for a repeat of a question. And I remembered belatedly what I've heard all along, that Veracruzanos are known for talking way faster than everybody else, but it's more than that. Some have changed their mind about my linguistic abilities AFTER a few friendly exchanges. Others have refused to try at all, sometimes saying no right in front of me even as mi hermana assures them we speak the same language. This is so dumbfounding to me that yes, I've at times remained without words to contradict them (or the interest in trying).
When I related one of these conversations to the friends here in Veracruz, they both responded immediately with, "Wow, that's rude! What a lack of respect!" Me being always the too-kind and too-diplomatic, I replied "Well, I know something about small towns, and people who just aren't into trying anything new..." "No" they replied. "That's just rude." Well thank you, friends. I can use the affirmation. Especially when it comes with wonderfully open, animated talk about the world, travel, economics, family stories, as well as world-class cooking by two people who went to culinary school. This is the kind of hospitality that gives a weary traveller the hope to keep going.
I met Jack and Emily (and their cute 3-year-old son) on my last trip here, and they've offered me an open door since then. Which came as a particular relief after the last few days in Mazatepec, where all mi hermana's friends and neighbors have decided to talk _about_ me instead of to me, using her as an interpreter. Yeah. When we're all speaking Spanish. "Where is your friend from?" "How long is she staying here?" "Is she cold?" No, my Spanish isn't perfect. Sometimes I miss a beat, or have to ask for a repeat of a question. And I remembered belatedly what I've heard all along, that Veracruzanos are known for talking way faster than everybody else, but it's more than that. Some have changed their mind about my linguistic abilities AFTER a few friendly exchanges. Others have refused to try at all, sometimes saying no right in front of me even as mi hermana assures them we speak the same language. This is so dumbfounding to me that yes, I've at times remained without words to contradict them (or the interest in trying).
When I related one of these conversations to the friends here in Veracruz, they both responded immediately with, "Wow, that's rude! What a lack of respect!" Me being always the too-kind and too-diplomatic, I replied "Well, I know something about small towns, and people who just aren't into trying anything new..." "No" they replied. "That's just rude." Well thank you, friends. I can use the affirmation. Especially when it comes with wonderfully open, animated talk about the world, travel, economics, family stories, as well as world-class cooking by two people who went to culinary school. This is the kind of hospitality that gives a weary traveller the hope to keep going.
3rd (Jan. 25)
Third birthdays. Of all the subjects my cultural education has yet to encompass, I had no idea that this was one of them. My niece Zoe turned 3 on Saturday. Her mom spent the last couple months working herself to exhaustion, to give her a proper celebration. I thought she meant good food, a cake, some presents. This after all is a household that lives without running water. I was wrong.
Arriving in Mazatepec on Saturday afternoon, I found the old schoolbus (only transport from Xalapa) didn't turn up their part of the road as usual. When I backtracked and walked in, I found the road was blocked - with special advance permission from the transport office in the next town - with tables and chairs, potted plants, and shaded by a giant tarp with a Corona logo. DJs were stacking amps on the sidewalk and playing music from old laptops. Balloons framed a banner with photos of Zoe, behind a table draped in purple bearing FIVE tres leches cakes, each topped with a different fruit, boxes of marshmallow bouquets, and gelatinas of every color. Neighbors already arriving were served plates heaped with rich mole and chicken or pork (they had bought a pig from a neighbor, and had it butchered), rice, tamales, and tortillas handmade on the comal.
Zoe was a princess right out of a fairy tale, shimmery purple floor-length dress, hair intricately styled, and a tiara. After the first round of guests ate, the DJs played "Las Mañanitas" as her father brought out FOUR piñatas, one after the other. When cake was served, the parents toasted Zoe and all the guests in matching glasses bought new for the occasion. Her father borrowed the mic from the DJs, whispered in her ear, and handed it to her so she could say "Thank you all for coming to my party".
All afternoon, more guests arrived and ate. I'm pretty sure the whole town came through at some point. Many brought nice gifts, which they must have had to go to Xalapa to buy, as there are no real stores in Mazatepec. When it got dark the DJs packed up and made way for a local cumbia band featuring Zoe's uncle on keyboards. People danced (and kept eating) til 1 a.m. The food didn't begin to run out, either, and the next day bags were packed up and distributed among friends and neighbors til it was all gone.
When I asked her mom, why the third birthday , she only said, "It means we're grateful for her having life so far..and that she's changing from a baby to a little girl." That's some kind of gratitude. I've never seen any celebration in the states that holds a candle to this. I didn't dance, other than one song with mi hermana. Spent a fine evening upstairs with my nephew and a dozen cousins, playing tag, blind man's bluff, and a terrific stuffed-animal battle. I won't mention either how I dealt with the noise levels - ha - but I was grateful all the same that Life, somehow, connected me with a family that sure enough knows how to celebrate.
Arriving in Mazatepec on Saturday afternoon, I found the old schoolbus (only transport from Xalapa) didn't turn up their part of the road as usual. When I backtracked and walked in, I found the road was blocked - with special advance permission from the transport office in the next town - with tables and chairs, potted plants, and shaded by a giant tarp with a Corona logo. DJs were stacking amps on the sidewalk and playing music from old laptops. Balloons framed a banner with photos of Zoe, behind a table draped in purple bearing FIVE tres leches cakes, each topped with a different fruit, boxes of marshmallow bouquets, and gelatinas of every color. Neighbors already arriving were served plates heaped with rich mole and chicken or pork (they had bought a pig from a neighbor, and had it butchered), rice, tamales, and tortillas handmade on the comal.
Zoe was a princess right out of a fairy tale, shimmery purple floor-length dress, hair intricately styled, and a tiara. After the first round of guests ate, the DJs played "Las Mañanitas" as her father brought out FOUR piñatas, one after the other. When cake was served, the parents toasted Zoe and all the guests in matching glasses bought new for the occasion. Her father borrowed the mic from the DJs, whispered in her ear, and handed it to her so she could say "Thank you all for coming to my party".
All afternoon, more guests arrived and ate. I'm pretty sure the whole town came through at some point. Many brought nice gifts, which they must have had to go to Xalapa to buy, as there are no real stores in Mazatepec. When it got dark the DJs packed up and made way for a local cumbia band featuring Zoe's uncle on keyboards. People danced (and kept eating) til 1 a.m. The food didn't begin to run out, either, and the next day bags were packed up and distributed among friends and neighbors til it was all gone.
When I asked her mom, why the third birthday , she only said, "It means we're grateful for her having life so far..and that she's changing from a baby to a little girl." That's some kind of gratitude. I've never seen any celebration in the states that holds a candle to this. I didn't dance, other than one song with mi hermana. Spent a fine evening upstairs with my nephew and a dozen cousins, playing tag, blind man's bluff, and a terrific stuffed-animal battle. I won't mention either how I dealt with the noise levels - ha - but I was grateful all the same that Life, somehow, connected me with a family that sure enough knows how to celebrate.
list (Jan. 17)
Things I miss about New Mexico: Turquoise skies, unpolluted, unobstructed. Rivers that flow clean and clear, with no trash in them. Our sacred Mountain, constant presence with Her ever-changing light over Taos. Empty sidewalks. Silence. The sound of wind in trees. Coyotes' crazy laughter at night. Stars. The company of animals in general - deer, elk, rabbits, bears - which I had come to take for granted, and they are not seen here, or not here at all, so very strange. Real (dark) beer. Green chile. Hundred-mile vistas.
Favorite quote heard on this trip: "The new traveller who spends a week in a new country, and then returns home, writes a book. The traveller who spends month and then returns, writes an article. The traveller who spends a year or more returns, and says nothing."
I'm sure that, as soon as I get back there, a list of things missed in Mexico will also appear. Blessing and curse (challenge) of the traveller, to be always and never content where we are.
Favorite quote heard on this trip: "The new traveller who spends a week in a new country, and then returns home, writes a book. The traveller who spends month and then returns, writes an article. The traveller who spends a year or more returns, and says nothing."
Obviously I'm not quite to that point yet. But I find less to say about here than a month and a half ago. And I've mostly stopped taking pictures. Which seems like a small advancement: Or maybe it's just that my $40-a-week closet/room has no outlets, so I can't charge my phone this week. I've also accepted that the goal/wish/daily work here, like it or not, is for the most part exactly the same as it is in New Mexico. Or anywhere, for that matter. Learn. Listen. Heal. Help or serve, if possible. Honor Earth. Acknowledge Mystery. Praise Beauty. All goals quite often misunderstood by others, if not totally invisible or incomprehensible to them. And that often (except maybe for the one about Beauty) don't involve words.
freedom (Jan. 4)
Understanding, ready or not, often kindles transcendence.
Transcendence, at least a leaving, often a kind of death.
Death, likely as not, delivers freedom.
Freedom, clearly, essential to Life.
It's not exactly the road that I wanted, but it is most certainly the one that I asked for.
And have been gifted, time and again.
Transcendence, at least a leaving, often a kind of death.
Death, likely as not, delivers freedom.
Freedom, clearly, essential to Life.
It's not exactly the road that I wanted, but it is most certainly the one that I asked for.
And have been gifted, time and again.
lesson, 2 (Jan. 3)
Been feeling like the Bad Tourist this week. For reasons within and without, too many repeated misunderstandings, possibly "cultural differences", are starting to get to me. Sorry, inner judges, but I just don't know how to accept being constantly cut in front of in lines, or talked ABOUT instead of TO, or being assured that, don't worry, a dish doesn't have any chile in it when that's actually what I want. But as always, have to try to shine the light on the beauty and the understanding, though it be small. Last couple days have brought the very clear and valuable message, "Don't assume". It happened when a woman at the next hotel down seemed to be listening in as I inquired about prices, and then made me a better offer than her neighbor. With the clerk at the bus station, who told me busses started running at 6:30 a.m. and then wasn't there at 7:30 -- but just as I got annoyed the bus pulled up to the empty station, right on time...
And then (in case I wasn't getting it yet), the message came again today in a really sweet style. Stopping at a "tourist information" office, I said "Buenos dias" to the older man inside. He replied in kind, and then turned away and began writing on a chalkboard. I watched, nonplussed, as he ignored me and began to write -- in English. "Sometimes I feel afraid...be not ready". Finally I said, politely I hoped, "Is there someone here who can give tourist information?" He turned immediately and said, "Oh, excuse me! You probably thought I was ignoring you, but you see, I am blind. Since I didn't hear you, I thought you had passed on by." We proceeded to have a lovely conversation in which I not only learned all I needed to know about the area, but also that he had lived in Seattle for 5 years ("Of _course_ I went there to work"), and in that time had become pretty fluent in English, which helped to give him a job in this small town. He made absolutely sure I had understood all his directions, and then asked if I would mind coming back by the next day, to tell him how my outings went and so he could have the feedback on his information. I would not mind that at all. Been overdue for a little of that kind of understanding.
And then (in case I wasn't getting it yet), the message came again today in a really sweet style. Stopping at a "tourist information" office, I said "Buenos dias" to the older man inside. He replied in kind, and then turned away and began writing on a chalkboard. I watched, nonplussed, as he ignored me and began to write -- in English. "Sometimes I feel afraid...be not ready". Finally I said, politely I hoped, "Is there someone here who can give tourist information?" He turned immediately and said, "Oh, excuse me! You probably thought I was ignoring you, but you see, I am blind. Since I didn't hear you, I thought you had passed on by." We proceeded to have a lovely conversation in which I not only learned all I needed to know about the area, but also that he had lived in Seattle for 5 years ("Of _course_ I went there to work"), and in that time had become pretty fluent in English, which helped to give him a job in this small town. He made absolutely sure I had understood all his directions, and then asked if I would mind coming back by the next day, to tell him how my outings went and so he could have the feedback on his information. I would not mind that at all. Been overdue for a little of that kind of understanding.
rumiquote (Jan. 2)
Lovers think they're looking for each other,
but there's only one search: wandering
this world is wandering that, both inside one
transparent sky. In here
there is no dogma and no heresy.
this world is wandering that, both inside one
transparent sky. In here
there is no dogma and no heresy.
The miracle of Jesus is himself, not what he said or did
about the future. Forget the future.
I'd worship someone who could do that.
about the future. Forget the future.
I'd worship someone who could do that.
On the way you may want to look back, or not,
but if you can say, There's nothing ahead,
there will be nothing more.
but if you can say, There's nothing ahead,
there will be nothing more.
Stretch your arms and take hold the cloth of your clothes
with both hands. The cure for the pain is in the pain.
Good and bad are mixed. If you don't have both,
you don't belong with us.
with both hands. The cure for the pain is in the pain.
Good and bad are mixed. If you don't have both,
you don't belong with us.
When one of us gets lost, is not here, he must be inside us.
There's no place like that anywhere in the world.
There's no place like that anywhere in the world.
-- Rumi
lesson (Dec. 29)
This afternoon, in an empty parking lot on a temporarily closed university campus, a blind man gave me a tango lesson. Music included, thanks to a tiny ipod of which we each shared an earpiece. If that isn´t the perfect metaphor for my life at the moment, I don't know what is.
quotes (Dec. 31)
From the introduction to a borrowed book, an anthology of writings about daily life in Mexico City, a couple quotes that left me feeling I got it right so far (since walking the streets here is what I spend about half of every day doing):
"Strolling through the streets remains the best strategy for understanding the cultural complexities of Mexico City: its delirious nature, its endless contradictions (it is a place of extreme poverty and extreme wealth), its surreal images (André Breton famously called it the most surreal place on earth), and its jumbling of historical periods (modernist high-rises next to eighteenth-century palaces are a common sight)...Aside from lively downtown streets, relentless crowds, and anarchic energy, there is one aspect of life in Mexico City that sets it apart from generic cities: the strange penchant its inhabitants show for weaving elaborate narratives out of everything that happens to them..."
"Strolling through the streets remains the best strategy for understanding the cultural complexities of Mexico City: its delirious nature, its endless contradictions (it is a place of extreme poverty and extreme wealth), its surreal images (André Breton famously called it the most surreal place on earth), and its jumbling of historical periods (modernist high-rises next to eighteenth-century palaces are a common sight)...Aside from lively downtown streets, relentless crowds, and anarchic energy, there is one aspect of life in Mexico City that sets it apart from generic cities: the strange penchant its inhabitants show for weaving elaborate narratives out of everything that happens to them..."
"We'll never know exactly how many we are, for this city is, in the strict sense, incalculable...The landscape overwhelms us, and the only way to make it cohere, to give it meaning, is to travel through it. The city works because it can be traversed.
...The megalopolis is built for internal navigation, like a sea without a port.
...The megalopolis is built for internal navigation, like a sea without a port.
...Large cities lack a structured language; they can only aspire to a broken language, a mosaic fragmented by limitless growth and exuberant chaos.
...Postmodern cities - oceans, infinite zones of passage - signal a shift from verticality to horizontality...less an edifiable space than a setting for movement."
...Postmodern cities - oceans, infinite zones of passage - signal a shift from verticality to horizontality...less an edifiable space than a setting for movement."
ed. Rubén Gallo, _The Mexico City Reader_
quote (Dec. 24)
"...but loneliness is not living alone, loneliness is the ability to keep someone or something within us company, it is not a tree that stands alone in the middle of a plain but the distance between the deep sap and the bark, between the leaves and the roots."
-- Jose Saramago, _The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis_
-- Jose Saramago, _The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis_
la familia (12-22/26)
To all my friends, planning to spend whatever holidays we spend with whoever we call family, I wish much joy and peace. Particularly to those who, like me, spend these days among family of heart and of choice.
Today I finally made it out to the village of my adopted family, Mazatepec Veracruz. Where, just as hoped, I was welcomed back as if no time had passed. Except it has: in place of the cute baby girl I met two and a half years ago, I now have for a niece one of the loveliest three-year-olds I have ever met, with huge dark eyes and a way with animals. And I guess I should have expected that my nephew who, last time, was a fun and slightly silly seven-year-old, is now a scary-smart nine-year old with whom I can barely keep up with in conversation. I explained to him that I might have to ask him to slow down, as sometimes my understanding of Spanish (especially Veracruzano Spanish) doesn´t keep pace. He thought a minute, then asked me to repeat everything I had just said, in English. He listened to me, thought about it. "Yeah, I didn`t understand anything you just said either...alright." Then he spent the next hour teaching me to play marbles. Okay. I`ll start wherever I can. With the language I lack, and with all the memories of family and kindness I missed, my whole life. If they`ll let me -- and they will -- I`ll take my place here among the children, and let them teach me both.
This trip, as with the last, I carried a third suitcase 1,500 miles -- in addition to my own two backpacks -- full of gifts for the family. Since they live even more simply and carefully than I do (a lot more simply, really), they're fine with used clothing and shoes. Though I look for the best of Empire's leftovers to share with them: Guess jeans, Adidas tennies, Gap shirts. Books for my niece and nephew from a last-minute used-book fair in the Capital. My Christmas gifts were: a paleta (lollipop) and a drawing from my nephew. A most amazing dinner of tamales de frijol, spicy red-chile-roasted chicken, tortillas handmade on a comal (the small wood-fired stove everyone uses in the village), and a hot drink made of apple, plum, and guayaba. And the extravagant privilege of sitting on the floor in my pajamas first thing in the morning, surrounded by sweet family exclaiming over their gifts, all of us laughing and full of gratitude. Really, I'm not sure if I remember doing that presents-in-pajamas thing even as a kid. The family I grew up with was more formal than that, more attached to appearances. The family in Veracruz lives without indoor plumbing. Baths happen with a bucket of water in the kitchen. The tin roof leaks when it rains. I wouldn't say they stand on ceremony. And I wouldn't call them poor, either, since they live with such awareness and generosity.
In the late afternoon we went back to mi hermana's mother's house, for leftover tamales. Then she and I walked up the mountain, on the quiet road that climbs to the next town. We crossed a tiny stream and a cow pasture, and hiked up into the cloud forest. Out of reach of the noise, of the people, of everything, we sat under mossy trees populated with ferns, orchids and bromeliads, watching fog roll up the ridge until darkness turned green magic into shadow, and dry corn fields, barking dogs and crowing roosters showed us where home was again.
Today I finally made it out to the village of my adopted family, Mazatepec Veracruz. Where, just as hoped, I was welcomed back as if no time had passed. Except it has: in place of the cute baby girl I met two and a half years ago, I now have for a niece one of the loveliest three-year-olds I have ever met, with huge dark eyes and a way with animals. And I guess I should have expected that my nephew who, last time, was a fun and slightly silly seven-year-old, is now a scary-smart nine-year old with whom I can barely keep up with in conversation. I explained to him that I might have to ask him to slow down, as sometimes my understanding of Spanish (especially Veracruzano Spanish) doesn´t keep pace. He thought a minute, then asked me to repeat everything I had just said, in English. He listened to me, thought about it. "Yeah, I didn`t understand anything you just said either...alright." Then he spent the next hour teaching me to play marbles. Okay. I`ll start wherever I can. With the language I lack, and with all the memories of family and kindness I missed, my whole life. If they`ll let me -- and they will -- I`ll take my place here among the children, and let them teach me both.
This trip, as with the last, I carried a third suitcase 1,500 miles -- in addition to my own two backpacks -- full of gifts for the family. Since they live even more simply and carefully than I do (a lot more simply, really), they're fine with used clothing and shoes. Though I look for the best of Empire's leftovers to share with them: Guess jeans, Adidas tennies, Gap shirts. Books for my niece and nephew from a last-minute used-book fair in the Capital. My Christmas gifts were: a paleta (lollipop) and a drawing from my nephew. A most amazing dinner of tamales de frijol, spicy red-chile-roasted chicken, tortillas handmade on a comal (the small wood-fired stove everyone uses in the village), and a hot drink made of apple, plum, and guayaba. And the extravagant privilege of sitting on the floor in my pajamas first thing in the morning, surrounded by sweet family exclaiming over their gifts, all of us laughing and full of gratitude. Really, I'm not sure if I remember doing that presents-in-pajamas thing even as a kid. The family I grew up with was more formal than that, more attached to appearances. The family in Veracruz lives without indoor plumbing. Baths happen with a bucket of water in the kitchen. The tin roof leaks when it rains. I wouldn't say they stand on ceremony. And I wouldn't call them poor, either, since they live with such awareness and generosity.
In the late afternoon we went back to mi hermana's mother's house, for leftover tamales. Then she and I walked up the mountain, on the quiet road that climbs to the next town. We crossed a tiny stream and a cow pasture, and hiked up into the cloud forest. Out of reach of the noise, of the people, of everything, we sat under mossy trees populated with ferns, orchids and bromeliads, watching fog roll up the ridge until darkness turned green magic into shadow, and dry corn fields, barking dogs and crowing roosters showed us where home was again.
Cuicuilco (Dec. 4)
Today: Cuicuilco archeological zone, in the south of Mexico City. Cuicuilco was a city and ceremonial center first inhabited a little over 3000 years ago. Presently, it's a lovely patch of wildness in the center of a ring of freeways and skyscrapers. The settlement was partly covered with lava in a volcanic eruption around 400 BC/CE, which led to it being abandoned but also helped preserve its several structures. The pyramid at its center, made of large, rough volcanic stones, is about 75 feet high, and maybe that wide again across its flat, grassy top. A sign at the site speculates that this place, fairly uniquely, was built so that many people could gather and participate in the sacred ceremonies on the summit. Which idea I like, a lot. Inclusivity, room for all at the top.
I met only one other person while walking the narrow paths among giant cactus, bee balm growing 6 to12 feet tall, mesquite trees and others that looked like gigantic jade plants. There were psychedelic succulents with flowers that somehow combined salmon and turquoise. In place of carbon monoxide, the predominant smell in this city, was a sweet live green aroma that rivalled the Bosque in Albuquerque. It was a needed respite after a few days in the City's overload.
Approaching the pyramid, the quiet disappeared as I caught up with a large group of elementary kids on a noisy field trip. They were coming down as I was going up. As we met, a boy called out "Welcome!" A bit further on, a man who looked around 60 smiled and asked me - in English - "Where are you from?" When I told him, he turned to the group of kids he was accompanying, who looked like 3rd graders, and announced (still in English), "Everybody, say ´Welcome to Mexico!´" "WELCOME TO MEXICO!" they all called out in a perfect chorus.
Oh my other country, los Estados Unidos, how I wish you could take an example from this one on how to be truly human. You´ve got a difficult contest with this country, so far, when it comes to stealing my heart.
I met only one other person while walking the narrow paths among giant cactus, bee balm growing 6 to12 feet tall, mesquite trees and others that looked like gigantic jade plants. There were psychedelic succulents with flowers that somehow combined salmon and turquoise. In place of carbon monoxide, the predominant smell in this city, was a sweet live green aroma that rivalled the Bosque in Albuquerque. It was a needed respite after a few days in the City's overload.
Approaching the pyramid, the quiet disappeared as I caught up with a large group of elementary kids on a noisy field trip. They were coming down as I was going up. As we met, a boy called out "Welcome!" A bit further on, a man who looked around 60 smiled and asked me - in English - "Where are you from?" When I told him, he turned to the group of kids he was accompanying, who looked like 3rd graders, and announced (still in English), "Everybody, say ´Welcome to Mexico!´" "WELCOME TO MEXICO!" they all called out in a perfect chorus.
Oh my other country, los Estados Unidos, how I wish you could take an example from this one on how to be truly human. You´ve got a difficult contest with this country, so far, when it comes to stealing my heart.
Southbound (Dec. 1)
39 hours on the bus gets you from Albuquerque to Mexico City. Or a little less, if you´re capable of sitting and being enclosed nonstop for such a stretch. I´m not, and had to get off in a couple towns and breathe real air for a bit. But I had promised (Life, myself) that next trip to Mexico, I would honor the Earth by flying less, and take a bus to see how the people travel.
I did the trip in three stages: Albuquerque to Chihuahua, Chihuahua to Zacatecas, and from there to Mexico City. All the busses had seasonal workers returning home to Mexico for the winter, from all points north: Idaho, Chicago, Colorado. One guy had been riding for three days straight. We had to sit for two hours at the border, while the workers got off and negotiated with authorities inside. After they finally boarded again, an official got on and asked a couple of them for money. I don´t know if it was fees or fines or something else. Wanted to ask but didn´t want to pry. There's really only so far my good intentions can go: much of the people's trip, I'll never be able to understand. My point of view is trapped within my privilege to move freely.
All the busses also carried that beautiful kindness to the stranger that´s always met me in Mexico. At one point an official took an extra section of my ticket for some reason. The bus driver called my name to give it back to me, but I didn´t hear him. Six people around me let me know right away that I needed to go up front. A 20-something worker included me when he passes around a bag of Doritos - "No, take more!". Two women in their 60`s traded friendly conversation, and when we all got off in Zacatecas, their home, one gave me her address and phone number, inviting me to come to their house if I needed to rest a few hours. Or to come back later if I want to visit their city. At the end of the line, very kind friends had offered to pick me up at the terminal, and take me to their house. I arrived exhausted and smelly and having barely eaten for two days, realizing belatedly that I should have gotten a cell phone to call them. I looked around to find there´s not even internet at the bus station. Carrying three packs around a room full of a few hundred people, I can only ask for a small miracle, that we somehow run into each other..and we do. They wave at me from across the room, and suddenly all's well. I took that as a clear YES, on which to open this journey.
I did the trip in three stages: Albuquerque to Chihuahua, Chihuahua to Zacatecas, and from there to Mexico City. All the busses had seasonal workers returning home to Mexico for the winter, from all points north: Idaho, Chicago, Colorado. One guy had been riding for three days straight. We had to sit for two hours at the border, while the workers got off and negotiated with authorities inside. After they finally boarded again, an official got on and asked a couple of them for money. I don´t know if it was fees or fines or something else. Wanted to ask but didn´t want to pry. There's really only so far my good intentions can go: much of the people's trip, I'll never be able to understand. My point of view is trapped within my privilege to move freely.
All the busses also carried that beautiful kindness to the stranger that´s always met me in Mexico. At one point an official took an extra section of my ticket for some reason. The bus driver called my name to give it back to me, but I didn´t hear him. Six people around me let me know right away that I needed to go up front. A 20-something worker included me when he passes around a bag of Doritos - "No, take more!". Two women in their 60`s traded friendly conversation, and when we all got off in Zacatecas, their home, one gave me her address and phone number, inviting me to come to their house if I needed to rest a few hours. Or to come back later if I want to visit their city. At the end of the line, very kind friends had offered to pick me up at the terminal, and take me to their house. I arrived exhausted and smelly and having barely eaten for two days, realizing belatedly that I should have gotten a cell phone to call them. I looked around to find there´s not even internet at the bus station. Carrying three packs around a room full of a few hundred people, I can only ask for a small miracle, that we somehow run into each other..and we do. They wave at me from across the room, and suddenly all's well. I took that as a clear YES, on which to open this journey.
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