Category: Blogging

Childhood Comforts

I know now that I returned to my home state of North Carolina to seek (and perhaps wallow in) the comforts of my childhood. I was a child of the ’50s, on the surface at least a much simpler time. Simpler is what I needed.

Riding the school bus was expected. No one drove their child to school. There was 1 car – for dad to use to get to work. Mother was homemaker and choir director in my world. She’d actually had higher goals but no support to get there, so she married instead and immersed herself in music and the church. My brother often said that it was Mother who called Dad to the ministry. Not God. She was the one who actually wanted to be the preacher. But let’s not get buried in that issue right now.

We were children playing in the leaves Dad had just raked into flimsy piles, walking barefoot through the cool freshly mown grass in summer (I still love that smell!), kicking up the sand and the sherbert-colored ball at the family beaches. In those days the mailman delivered to the mailbox at the end of your driveway, or by your front door. Making Christmas cookies for him-in his official uniform – and the garbage man who picked up the metal trash cans himself (no fancy self-loading trucks in those days) was a highlight of our holiday. Country roads, boxy black telephones and fuzzy-screened TV’s. Train rides and station wagons. Roller rinks and pom-pom skates. Candlelight service and Christmas carols. Ed Sullivan and even Lawrence Welk. Eventually we graduated to Laugh-In and Hee Haw. My dad had a great sense of humor.

Encyclopedias, Webster dictionaries, and homemade brown paper bag textbook covers were the norm. Public libraries overflowing with a million books were part of life. My first childhood memory is of my mother leading me into the Asheville Public Library when I was 2 years old. I still love libraries. In my recent encounter with the Orange County Public Library here in Hillsborough, I felt like a little kid in a candy store with my new membership card and a couple of books from their library sale. I was home!

The move back to North Carolina has certainly been about familiarity. It has also been about community, the one I left behind here and the one I returned to to nurture. We need that more than ever now. Yes, I took a chance moving before the election but I’m here for a reason – to support and encourage. Not that I realized it at the time. Now, even after a devastating blow to democracy, a tenderness is slipping into my heart. A strong desire to listen to and comfort those taking it the hardest. I’ve taken a lot of blows in the last few years. I have a different perspective now. I am not naïve but I am hopeful. Our country is no longer what we have held it to be and it saddens me, but I believe our task now is to come together with love, roll up our sleeves, and search for opportunities to support, belong, and make changes where we can.

I’m not sure what that means yet, but for now, here’s my contribution:

Post positive thoughts on Facebook, Messenger, email, WhatsApp and encourage others to do the same, then share their thoughts, poems, etc.

Wear my beloved Mexican clothes and tell their stories whenever possible. Maybe I’ll even do some small presentations someday, sharing the stories surrounding each piece.

Chiapas treasures

Drive my fun green (peridot!) Subaru, named Dottie after my mother. It brings me enough joy to share! After México I couldn’t bear white, black or gray.

Have breakfast with friends. And not just breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Hang out together. Go to events together. We have become isolated in so many ways with our multiple devices. (They are both a blessing and a curse in my opinion.) Time to get out and about and share. Just do it!

Create a community of support. For good times and bad. Part of the reason I wanted to live in an apartment complex was to have people around me to help with a possible health emergency. But in reality it has become a place of casual and friendly interaction with kind neighbors and people – so many! – walking their dogs. For now it is my village.

I send a silly card – purchased but playfully altered – to my granddaughter every week. I’m sending greeting cards again – Thank You, Get Well, etc. My son and I used to enjoy searching for and sending the most appropriate and lovely greeting cards we could find for the occasion. I still have some of the ones he sent me. Treasures to this day.

I am beginning to call people sometimes now instead of emailing, etc. I want to hear the person’s voice and have them hear mine. We’re less likely to misinterpret that way. Yes, I’m retired and have time on my hands. But how long does it take really, to reach out? to stay connected?

Has the move been difficult? Oh, yes. It’s like starting over. I still don’t have all my energy back from my heart episode in April/May. But there’s alot to do and I am forging ahead. My house in Mexico is still waiting for a new owner and supporting two households is tough. I’ve had some unexpected medical issues that I’ve had to find providers for and I don’t see my primary care provider until January. On and on. But in the space in between I have surrounded myself with new and old friends, every one a joy! I am so grateful. Is it hard being here in Ben’s old stomping grounds? No. Because his friends are also my friends and he is always with me.

Tumi has lots of friends too

A week from today will be the anniversary of our move to Ajijic. November 27th, 2018. I remember sweet Ben saying to me the year before when we visited San Miguel de Allende: “When you see the colors of Mexico, it will change your life forever.” I doubt he had any idea just how right he was! Who would’ve guessed that I would be an old fashioned girl, finding my way in this new world.

In his article of 10/17/23 for “The Catrina Shop”, Davide Corizzo says that Halloween and Day of the Dead are “distinctly different in their origins, traditions, and significance”. My preference is certainly for the Latino celebration of “Día de Los Muertos” (Day of the Dead) with its colorful, exuberant, and respectful nod to the circle of life. But it’s good to know the difference since I am a resident of both the US and México now.

Halloween, celebrated on October 31st (though the stores would have you think it’s in July) originated in Ireland, marking the end of summer and beginning of winter. Now, of course, it is celebrated worldwide. It has definitely trickled down into México where shops in my adopted village of Ajijic sported all the costumes, decorations (spooky ghosts, spiders, witches and goblins!), and candies we expect to see in the US.

Though both traditions see the boundary between the living and the dead as a “thin veil”, with the dead returning to the “world of the living”, Halloween has become more of a commercial festival sporting trick-or-treat, pumpkin carving, and costumes. It is a festive time for dressing up and enjoying friends and family. In neighborhoods around my apartment there seems to be a bit of competition in decorating yards. But the atmosphere is playful and cheery.

Día de los Muertos  celebrates the lives of those who have passed as part of the cycle of life, inviting them to return through offerings of flowers, candles, food and drink. Ofrendas (altars) are a time-honored way of welcoming the dead to the realm of the living, even if only for a few hours. Families spend a few days before cleaning up the gravesites in preparation for visiting the graves to celebrate with music, dance and food, often throughout the night. The animated film COCO is an excellent way to experience this celebration if you can’t make it to México.

In the 16th century Catholic priests from the conquering country of Spain decided that the way to win indigenous Mexican people over to Catholicism was to include some of their rituals in the Catholic practices. The dates of October 31st through November 2nd coincide with the Catholic feast days of All Saints and All Souls. Not accidental. Aztecs did not mourn the departed but considered their deaths part of the cycle of life. Tombs were often built under houses so the deceased loved ones remained close. Skeletons, skulls, and toy coffins have long been part of Mexican culture, mocking death in a light-hearted way. The famous well-dressed skeletons known as Las Catrinas were invented by illustrator and engraver Jose Guadalupe Posada (1852-1913) and have become one of the main symbols of Day of the Dead (much to the delight of local make-up artists!).

In Ajijic I watched as families began to enter the cemetery to clean and prepare the graves for the 2 nights of celebration – November 1st for children, the 2nd for adults. In the parking lot small trucks lined up to sell their loads of marigolds, a revered part of Day of the Dead, believed to guide loved ones home through the pungent scent of the sun-colored blossoms.

This year I invited my new and dear young friend Kenia from Monterey, Mexico, who arrived here with her family two months before I did, to check out the local Latino homage to Día de Los Muertos at Duke Chapel (at Duke University) with me. The Chapel itself is worth the visit but I wanted to connect with local celebrations if possible.

Typical offerings

Two sacred traditions meet

The Ofrenda (altar) at the Chapel was a collaboration of local organizations, including the Latino art community, seeking “cultural understanding and togetherness”. Those attending are invited to add items (non-perishable!) of significance to the tables and add a special name to the paper chain winding through both sides of the altar.

I delved into the tradition of creating an ofrenda in November of 2020, homebound due to the Covid pandemic, and kept it going throughout each year until I left this summer. My table here in NC is small but dedicated to Ben, my parents, and my love of Mexico. It is a ritual I will continue as long as I am able.

October/November 2020

Traditional ofrendas,an essential part of Mexican culture, have three levels: Heaven (top), earth (middle), and underworld (bottom -“where the spirits arrive to cleanse themselves”).

TOP-photos/religious icons

MIDDLE-favorite foods, drinks, personal items

BOTTOM-candles & a basin of water and a towel for cleansing before reaching the altar

“Candles guide the dead to their altars. Skulls, made of clay or formed sugar (calavera de azúcar or “sugar skulls”), provide a “reality check” and contrast to the jovial atmosphere. Marigolds (cempasúchitl) are the color of the sun and the flower of choice, abundant in fall. Their pungent odor leads spirits “home”. Copal, or incense, is often burned on the altar. Crosses in white, gray, or black, represent the 4 cardinal directions and help spirits find their way. A glass or pitcher of water is offered, along with favorite foods and drinks of those who have passed. Pan de muertos, sweet, eggy breads topped with crossbones, dusted with sugar, and made only in October, wait to be eaten. Often shoes, a set of clothing, and favorite personal items such as jewelry or tools are placed nearby for use by the spirits while visiting their earthly home. Sugar canes are sometimes used to create an arch over the altar or small pieces are simply placed out as gifts. Salt is offered to “cleanse the spirits and purify souls” in the year to come. Some altars include “petates“, woven reed mats placed for sleep and “metates“, the curved volcanic stone on legs where women grind corn and other foods for hours on end. Papel picados, paper flags bearing images of skeletons, flowers, etc., provide color and reference to the element of air.” (from my 2020 blog “Día de Los Muertos”)

2024-where are the orange marigolds?

I’m still looking for traditional celebrations of Día de Los Muertos near my new home. There is a significant Latino community in this area. I finally found some marigolds in a nearby grocery store – $7 for 6 small ones! I’ll be looking in craft shops or attempting to make my own I guess. I’ll miss the Ajijic celebrations lasting from October 31st to November 2nd when the new tradition of lighting the walls of skull plaques (started by local artist Efren Gonzales) takes place. “Why did you include one for yourself?” someone asked me. “So he will always know where I am!” I replied. Ben and I will always be there, remembered by friends.

Side by side…forever

thegracemuseum.org (ofrendas) videos/how-to’s & descriptions of each element of Day of the Dead

thecatrinashop.com

The students are away. 30,000 of them. There’s room to move around the city. This lovely city of beautiful buildings and friendly people. Capital of Guanajuato state. A municipality of nearly 200,000. I feel wrapped in its arms. I could stay here for awhile. Get to know it. I could do that.

I admit I am a nervous traveler. Somehow it seems to bring out my issues about getting lost, making mistakes…leftover baggage from childhood. But with google maps on my phone, I thought surely we’d find our way to our rental casita in the neighborhood of Pastita. And we did. After going in circles for awhile. Turns out there is one main road IN and one main road OUT of Guanajuato and a panoramic highway that circles the city. A friend recently told me that it’s a given that you’ll get lost in Guanajuato. Now I know. Tranquila…

Our little casita sits just behind the green gate at 156 Pastita (one of the 4 oldest neighborhoods), a portal to the lush gardens, tall trees, and modern white adobe and stone house of our hostess Sue. A transplant from Cornwall, England, former artistic glassblower turned gardener, Sue has settled happily into life in this romantic European flavored city.

We quickly learned that walking into el Centro was easy, but taking a taxi was our best option going back. Guanajuato’s stacks of sherbet colored adobe houses tumble into a narrow valley with small winding streets and alleyways, many nowhere near car width. Even with its elevations it is definitely a walkable city (barring mobility issues) and there are few parking places to be had. Buses, taxis, and Ubers are cheap and plentiful.

Arches and underground tunnels are part of the landscape here. After major floods in 1760 and 1780 tunnels built by the mining companies offered a route for the water of the Guanajuato River to bypass el Centro. In 1960 a dam (Presa de la Olla) was built bringing the control needed to turn the tunnels into underground streets and providing a reservoir of potable water.

We spent our first day wandering with the intent of orienting ourselves to the city. Our second day was guided by Veronique, a French resident of Guanajuato for 20 years. She is deliciously fluent in Spanish and loved by locals who know her as a tour guide and former restauranteur. We never thought to ask if she was picking us up. It turns out she has never driven a car in her life. Our tour through the city was unexpectedly all on foot.

We started by walking to the Embajadores, a busy central plaza not far from our casita, complete with vendors of food, trinkets, and daily necessities. Small stores and tiny restaurants line the streets. It was a good place to snag a taxi to La Valenciana mine, still in operation, where the largest vein of silver in México was found in 1774. We visited Bocamina de San Ramón, an ex hacienda and mine functioning as a museum and event hall. It sits near the San Cayetano Church, built of pink volcanic stone (cantera) in the 18th century. Intricately carved wooden doors mark the entrance to altarpieces lavishly covered in gold leaf. Nearby are the fortress style walls of the old Guadalupe mine now also used as an event area.

Returning to el Centro, we wandered past the Alhóndiga de Granaditas, a large stone grain storage building with small horizontally set windows and giant wooden doors, perched on the hillside to escape flooding. Here the Spaniards holed up in the first battle of the Mexican War of Independence in 1810. El Pipila, “an extraordinarily strong local miner” (El Pipila)was chosen to set the wooden doors aflame and did so with tar and a torch after tying a large flat stone to his back to protect himself from bullets as he crawled to the building. Everyone inside was killed. When the insurgents were ultimately caught the four leaders were beheaded and their heads hung at the corners of the Alhóndiga for the ten years it took for México to win its independence.

Mercado Hidalgo. This classical iron structure houses three floors of market stalls selling a variety of food, crafts, and household items. The beautiful building (hard to get a good photo that day-see center photo below) was originally designed as a train station by the creator of the Eiffel Tower. But the idea failed and the striking metal building topped by a large four sided clock was quickly turned into a market and named after one of the insurgents whose head hung from nearby Alhóndiga. Here we ate the best food we had in Guanajuato (this is not a city for foodies or vegetarians) – carnitas with handmade tortillas, a creamy green salsa and a Boing! fruit juice drink to wash it down. So good we ate five apiece! To the tune of $10 for the 3 of us, including tip.

Leaving the Mercado we wandered to Positos, an area of wide plazas surrounded by colorful restaurants and narrow alleyways leading to treasures like the Diego Rivera Museum (the house he grew up in) and the Corozon de Plata jewelry store. A few small Japanese restaurants are tucked away in the alleys as well, a nod to the rising Japanese population in Guanajuato. Along the way we encountered a lively group of street musicians and artists ignoring the rain and the lack of passersby. Here we left Veronique with thanks and promises to be in touch. Gracias!

Mondays museums and many restaurants are closed so at Veronique’s suggestion we decided to visit the Alfarería Tradicional of Gorky González, known for his studies in Japan (where he met his wife) and for bringing majolica ceramics to México. As we wandered through the studio showrooms, a lovely older Japanese woman approached us quietly. As she found prices for us from a huge loosely bound catalog I learned that she was Tishiko Ono, wife of the famous ceramicist, now deceased.

As we finished our transaction she spoke softly in Spanish with the ending lilt that told me she’d asked a question. It took me a minute to understand that she was inviting us to see her home.  Honored, we followed her as she walked from the shop and turned the key in the tall iron grids containing her 2 sandy haired (friendly) perrotitos and massive untamed gardens. Tree sized plants spilled out of giant pots creating a courtyard jungle. 

She opened the glass doors to the sala and switched on the floor lamp, illuminating her prized possessions – Mis antiguas, she informed us, pointing to shelves filled with older ceramic pieces reminiscent of the shop’s current stock. We declined her gracious offer of café, I’m afraid, an unfortunate decision I now know. We had plans for the day and limited energy and were intimidated by the language barrier, even though she and I had managed it with relative ease so far.

As Tishiko walked us to the door and thanked us for coming, I pulled out my phone – Una foto, por favor? She nodded Yes without hesitation standing framed by the doorway. A sweet and gracious encounter.

We wandered on to Café Tal for beso de chocolate caliente (a “kiss” of thick hot chocolate), cappuccino and croissant, and then through the Plaza de la Paz where we encountered 2 weddings at the Basilica Colegiata de Nuestra Señora, shopped in a treasure trove of Mexicana handicrafts, and made our way to the Diego Rivera Museum. Enough for one day. Museums tomorrow. Don Quijote, Teatro Juarez, Museo del Pueblo de Guanajuato and others.

But on Tuesday, thwarted by the gray skies and persistent rain, we decided to head home a day early, saving the plethora of plazas, churches, and museums for another visit. On our first day there the rains had started just as we were leaving the Santo Cafe with its famous bridge over the alley. Initially stopped short by the “river” of water flowing down the sidewalk, ultimately we jumped in and made our way “home”. It took more than 24 hours for our shoes to dry. Time to go. We’ll head back in a sunnier time of year. There is much to see.

If you want to know more about Guanajuato City I highly recommend YouTube and Wikipedia. I’m also happy to share contact information for our casita and our guide.

This is my third post about Tapalpa. Our fourth visit there. This time we went to escape the Ajijic heat. We were not disappointed. 81 is not as hot there somehow. Our visit took on a new “character” this time since we had our pup Tumi with us. AND since we were the first visitors to a new rental listing on the quieter end of town.

The word “character” has numerous meanings according to the web. In this case we’ll consider it “a distinctive trait, quality, or attribute”, “of or relating to one’s character”, but also “a distinguishing feature”. Let’s take a look.

The character of our rental charmed me at first. If I looked past the broken doors, construction materials, dismantled hot tub, etc. etc. My, what it must have been 154 years ago! (A wall plaque dedicates the original structure in 1867.) And it’s much quieter there. An occasional dog bark, or marching band or political announcement. But night time is quiet. I relished it. As long as I stuck to “the path” through the two story partially dismantled, partially remodeled structure, the center that holds it together, it was OK to be there, at least temporarily. Tumi was satisfied with the yard out back, even though he had to pick his way around boards and brush. Ben took on the morning task of firing up the wood stove to take the chill off. Upstairs the bedroom (great bed!) adjoins a private steam room/shower to warm us up before we headed downstairs. There’s no sneaking around upstairs. You can’t miss the broken, creaky beaded pine flooring with holes in it at the doorway. Is this safe? We’re tired. We adapt.

Once we established a routine we took off to join Elena for a tour of her family’s land. Once a professional “ballet folklorico” dancer living in Mexico City with her architect husband, Elena has come home “because I LOVE nature!”. We wandered past her family barn, authentic adobe (over 200 years old), past the milk cows, up the mountainside to the wide vista at the top. But only after stopping halfway up for a snack of veggies, Tajin (a delicious blend of mild dried chilis, dried lemon peel and salt) and lime. Complete with stools for Ben and I to sit on, being almost twice Elena’s age. She thought of everything. We talked about so many different things. Her English is near perfect, though she apologizes, as any polite Mexican would, she explains. Her smile, her energy, her “joie de vie”, in Spanish “alegría de la vida“, is strikingly evident. We waved goodbye, happy to have met her.

The next day we visited Gaby at her tiny corner restaurant “La Cuachala” where she and her mujeres cook up the best regional “fast food” in town. We discovered her place 2 years ago and head for it as quickly as possible anytime we’re in town. The classic Mexican brown clay pots painted with small yellow flowers and stacked on matching pedestals are filled to the brim (if you’re early enough) with hot, spicy, delicious meat and vegetable fillings for tacos and fajitas. The familiar and satisfying slap, slap of handmade deep yellow corn tortillas greets you at the door. Salsas sit in small brown bowls in front, just under the new (to us) plexiglass shield separating us from the kitchen. But beyond the smell and taste of the food what drew us in was the wide smile Gaby gave us as we wandered in tentatively. I showed her a picture from 2 years ago, taken with her daughter Gaby and the smile grew even bigger. She is calm, poised, and patient. She doesn’t mind that I struggle with Spanish. She smiles and gently corrects me when needed, replying in broken English when she can. We ate there 4 times during the week and brought leftovers back to Ajijic. We hated to leave this little corner of delights. We look forward to seeing her again.

Two years ago, wandering the streets looking for treasures, we stumbled on a little alleyway with rather more “exotic” shops than the other streets, eventually coming to a sign announcing the premises as “La Sandunga Sabe: Cocina Oaxaqueña” restaurante. Oaxaca is widely known for its amazing cuisine so I was excited! In Tapalpa?

And so we met Martín and Cristina. The small restaurant of about 8 tables greets you with graffiti walls bracketed by pictures of iconic Frida Kahlo, accompanied by words of wisdom written in Spanish. Martín is full of energy, racing back and forth between the minuscule kitchen and the entrance to greet a neighbor who announced that his dog Luna, whom he’s just “shooed” home, was missing (then found). As I stepped back to speak with him I saw the cardboard box with a small white perrotito (puppy) and its parents, just before the petite Mexican niña arrived to whisk the pup away. Martín is obviously a part of the neighborhood. “Why did you leave Oaxaca?” I asked. “It was the elections.” I left it at that.

The food was amazing. Unlike anything I’d had anywhere since we visited Oaxaca 2 years ago. Tlayudas stuffed with meat, onions & Oaxacan cheese. Oval shaped memelitas sprinkled with veggies, meat and cheese, strong café de olla straight from the brown clay pot, steeped with cinnamon and a little sugar (cone shaped piloncillo) – muy rico! – and chocolate caliente foamed to the brim. Yum! (I was so excited I forgot to take pictures!)

Martín has few customers. Most of the tourists in Tapalpa are from Guadalajara with little interest in cocina reginal Oaxaqueña, regional cooking of Oaxaca. He’s thinking of moving to Chapala. “Vamos! Vamos!” I shouted. Come on! Come on! We hope to see him there, though it’s lovely to find him tucked away in this quaint little corner of Tapalpa.

After a week there, topped off by a night of nearby band music and cohetes (fireworks), we decided we were done. Ready to head home. A day earlier than planned. I was proud of us, for taking it in stride, for finding ways to enjoy our crazy accommodations. Sitting in the living room on the old Mexican couch that morning, I realized how grounded I felt. How even in the midst of this deconstructed mess the stone, tile, wood stove, huge carved wooden supports (vigas), even the dark wooden entry doors with their sturdy thick 7″ metal key, combined with the knowledge that the structure is still standing after 154 years in this beautiful little mountain village, gave me a sense of solidity and strength. Ironic. But combined with the lovely character of the people and the town, twisting our way down the mountain I knew that we had just had another wonderful Mexican adventure!

THIS is Mount Garcia. On fire. A week ago. We wondered why we kept hearing sirens. Then we saw this picture.

Needless to say it’s the dry season here. We’ve had a couple of sprinkles lasting a few minutes each since last August. Every breath feels/smells dry. Every step kicks up dust. Every car not washed in the last hour is covered. Even our pup Tumi has gone from gray to gray with brown overtones!

The pasture behind our house, all pastures in fact, green and lush in late summer, are nothing but dry dirt and rocks now. Cattle and horses are thirsty and hungry. They’re usually moved pasture to pasture, lot to lot, but now there is no reason to move them. The two horses on our street are being fed with carrots, apples, cabbage, etc. by those of us who walk by and see their predicament. There isn’t much hay available here and most can’t afford it anyway. Somehow the animals get by.

Even scarier are the fires that ensue. The brush and grasses on the mountainside become brittle with dryness creating perfect conditions for fire. Last year there were raging wildfires east of us that took weeks to extinguish. It was amazing to see helicopters hover over the lake scooping water up in large buckets that were flown to the fires and dumped. So inefficient. You do what you have to. (Sorry, can’t find my photo.)

Weekly housecleaning isn’t really enough right now. Dust (polvo) covers tables and countertops, floors and furniture, even seeps inside cabinets, within a matter of hours. And, no, we don’t close up the house. We came here to live in the outdoors hearing the sounds of nature, feeling the breeze, watching the trees sway. It is a choice.

So last week we watched the glow of burning fires and the plumes of smoke gather. We heard the sirens. We saw the air over the lake fill with smoke. Our eyes and nostrils burned. We pondered the possibility of fire behind our house instead of across the lake or miles to the east. Home owners insurance doesn’t mean much here. Claims would likely never be paid. Houses are made of brick, concrete, and metal. You take your chances.

We wait now for the rains. The buzzing, clicking hum of the “rain birds”, cicada-like insects, began a couple of weeks ago. They are a legendary predictor here of rain in the making, 6 weeks away from their first cries. Fingers crossed. We are ready. My eyes are dry yet blurry. Nothing helps much. Clouds are gathering across the lake lately. Strong winds and dark clouds arose from nowhere last night, slamming doors and floating loose papers to the floor. Hopefully a sign of what’s soon to arrive. I’m ready to stand in it. Green has become my favorite color!

The thrill is gone. The honeymoon is over. Why are we here? What if we went back home? How can I keep my spirits up? What am I grateful for? Why am I so irritable? Why am I having anxiety attacks with only the worst scenarios at night? I wanted to see México. I wanted to see my granddaughter. I wanted to go out with new friends. And old. When?

We walk every morning because our pup insists on it, because he lives for his morning walk, because he runs circles in excitement when he sees us getting ready. And we know it’s good for us, too. But we dread it everyday. Every day. I read an article this morning about “emotional exhaustion” & ticked off nearly every symptom. No wonder I dread those walks. Even though I know that on some level I’ll feel better when we’re back home. I know that both my body & my mind will be grateful that I took that 4200 step walk through nearby neighborhoods.

An article by Alia E. Dastagir in USA Today, linked through Maria Shriver’s excellent SUNDAY PAPER info@mariashriver.com (01/17/21), lists the symptoms of “emotional exhaustion”:

Difficulty with concentration

Irritability

Nervousness

Frustration

Loss of motivation

Lack of focus

General ‘brain fog’

Feeling disconnected from other people

A sense you’re not effective or competent (even if you’ve been overperforming at home or at work)

Actual problems with performance, including making more mistakes than usual

Physical symptoms can include:

Muscle fatigue & tension

Headaches

Stomach problems

Sleep problems 

I list these to give you some kind of barometer to measure your own symptoms against. There are 3 categories listed as ways to “reset”:

Set boundaries/Don’t try to be a superhero/Figure out what “refills” you emotionally. All important. And I would add to use techniques like meditation, yoga & deep breathing to keep you in the moment. That’s when I do best.

As long as I’m holding my head above water I’m going to allow this exhaustion. An AA tenet says “the only way out is through” & that certainly applies here. After all, where could you go & not encounter the same issues at this point in time? The ticket is to keep moving. Get off the bed or the couch several times a day & DO SOMETHING. Because often I’d rather not, you know. I’m retired. I have the luxury of setting my own schedule. I’d rather escape into Netflix or Amazon Prime. I’ve seen some great stuff these past few months. And I’ve read a lot of good books, worked a lot of jigsaw puzzles on my iPad. But it’s probably getting out for the morning walk (& contact with friends by phone or email) that saves me.

So how are YOU feeling? We’re all in this together. Come take a walk with me.

I wrote this yesterday & realize I’m feeling better today. Just being able to put how I feel in writing helped. Today I’ve decided to schedule a time to write & study Spanish each day. Maybe that will help. Maybe having a new President & Vice President will help. Maybe 2021 will be the beginning of a better life, a better world, for all.

Sitting in Mexico, sunshine & blue sky, slightly chilled from the whispering breeze wafting into the open doors & windows (yes, it’s December here too).  Christmas music playing.  For me.  Ben objects but plays it for me anyway.  His memories of this Christian holiday are nowhere near my own pleasant memories.  I am sad for him.  Thinking it through…

In my childhood home, where Dad was a Methodist minister & Mother was often choir director, Christmas was a time for music, gifts, gatherings, lights, & Christmas trees.  Children starred in plays about baby Jesus & Santa & his reindeer. Choirs sang cantatas, Christmas carols, & classics like Ava Maria & the Hallelujah Chorus.  Everyone smiling, in my world at least.

Mother & I made sugar cookies with chilled dough rolled out & cut into shapes with metal, & eventually plastic, cookie cutters.  The sugary dough was yummy – until someone came along & told us all that it wasn’t safe to eat raw egg.  That was the end of scraping the bowl & licking the beaters that had blended the ingredients into a soft, sticky mass.  Fresh from the oven we moved the warm cookies to wire racks to cool then decorated them with homemade icing & sprinkles (gingerbread men scored raisins for facial features) & packed them in decorative boxes lined with wax paper.  A color-coordinated bow & tag completed the packages as we lined them up for their recipients.  The mailman, the trash men, the gas station attendant, the barber, hairdresser, & anyone else who provided a public service to our home & family.  It left me feeling warm & happy, though at that point I didn’t really understand why.

Every December Dad would take me & my brother to a field somewhere to cut down our own tree.  When Phil left for college, I got to go alone with Dad.  I loved it, loved traipsing through the fields with him, looking for just the right tree.  Usually it was on some church member’s land, scattered with a few small groves of trees left after someone some time back had cleared the land for cattle.  The trees were never very big.  Just big enough.  8’ was pretty much the norm.  I remember the last year Dad & I went.  Ambling along Dad stopped in his tracks – Look up! he whispered.   Ahead of us a red fox had stopped in his tracks as well.

We all decorated the tree together after Dad filled the bucket that held it in place with rocks & water & Mother covered it with some tablecloth or scrap of fabric saved just for that purpose.  There were shiny Christmas balls, bells, angels perched on our tree, & sometimes strings of popcorn & cranberries.  The final piece, of course, was the star placed on the treetop by Dad just before turning on the lights.  It was customary to place your tree in a front window for all to view each evening as they walked or drove by.  Our tree would stand for 2-3 weeks, others for months.  Taking it down always signified the end of the magic for me.  Back to the reality of day to day life, back to school.

In this season going to church was about singing & food & gifts & wearing new frocks.  Decorated & sprinkled with twinkling white lights, the sacred building held me spellbound.  What was this feeling that was so different from the rest of the year?  And why so different?

Christmas hymns, long my favorite, gave way to popular songs at home, played either on the record player or by Mother on the piano.  Early on in my childhood folks still gathered to go caroling in nearby neighborhoods.  The joy of the season welled up in my throat, my eyes.  Sharing this energy, moving in unison to bring joy to others, was magical.

Candlelight service on Christmas Eve was always my favorite.  Everyone (above a certain age, I suppose) was given a white candle with a paper sleeve to catch any drippings.  I’m sure it wasn’t safe.  I imagine there were accidents somewhere, sometime.  But for me it was magic to see the church fill with candlelight as we joined our voices in the old familiar Christmas hymns…Silent Night, Oh Little Town of Bethlehem, Joy to the World, and so many others.  Made even more magical for a small girl by the anticipation of Santa Claus & his reindeer.  Had I been good?  What would be under the tree for me?  How would I ever go to sleep?

Early Christmas morning I’d sneak to the tinsel draped tree where the lights were already on as Mother padded into the living room in her robe & slippers.  Christmas music chimed softly nearby.  Dad, who’d read ’TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS the night before, now read, with reverence, “the (Biblical) Christmas story”, as the gathering of kings around a babe in a manger long ago was called, just before handing each of us our gifts.  Shiny metallic paper & ribbons lay scattered on the floor as each package was unwrapped.  Stockings were filled with fruit & nuts, ribbons & bows for my hair, new socks for my brother.  Then we transitioned to the kitchen where Dad made omelette or waffles to go with the hot chocolate we inhaled at the table, holding our dearest gifts close.

I don’t remember how or when I found out there was no real person named Santa Claus.  It must not have been very traumatic for me.  Maybe I just outgrew it.  I’m not sure Dad ever did.  For years after I left home for college & then marriage, he would dress as Santa, hiring himself out (after retiring from church work) to parties & churches, handing out gifts as he Ho-Ho-Ho’d.  Oh, how he loved it.  Eventually he bought an expensive well-made suit, wig & beard that made him the best Santa ever, complete with a twinkle in his eye.  He could’ve fooled anyone!

In 1985 Dad was dying from colon cancer.  He spent that last Christmas on the living room couch.  My ex-husband & I took our son to the local Belk’s store where a photographer was taking Christmas portraits.  Finally, the 3 of us together on film.  We were proud to hand our framed print to Dad when we visited at Christmas.  He was thrilled & chuckled when he said, “Do you have to die around here to get a family portrait?”  Even at that point he loved to laugh.

After Dad died & Mother moved into a little house in Louisville, KY, to be near my brother & his family, she yearned for all of us to be together at Christmastime.  Once, when my son was a teenager, we made it happen.  My brother & his family, me & mine, all piling into the small house our Mother called home.  It was a joyous time, one of the highlights of my mother’s life I dare say.  The smile on her face, her arms raised with hands clasped together as we all arrived at her door, are images etched in my mind forever.

During my 32 years of marriage we always had a tree decorated for Christmas.  Early on I made gifts for everyone but once I’d started nursing school, then went to work, all that ended.  I joined the rat race of shoppers, looking mostly for practical gifts & eventually for the latest toy or pair of shoes (Jordan’s) for my son.  There was no church in our lives, no Christmas music unless we set the radio to just the right station or played some leftover Christmas album.  Gradually it became a task (rather than a joy) to organize gifts & travel to one place or another.  Often I only had 1 day off of work, if I was lucky, so travel was less & less of an option.  My world of Christmas hung by a thread.

When I moved to Hillsborough to be with Ben he took me to an afternoon event of a Christmas sing along & my heart soared.  I was in my element, my magical world again!  In Virginia his large family gathered to celebrate.  I thought of my mother & how she would love to have been there with us. In Hillsborough the tradition I’d grown up with of having a real tree was displaced by a handcrafted curled metal table tree that could only hold a few ornaments. We made up for it with lights strung inside & out.  Gradually I collected ornaments with birds & pine cones to hang alongside my snowman set, a gift from my first nursing workplace, & the Hallmark collectables I’d picked up at Deerfield Pharmacy in Boone.  Those snowmen are with me still.

So it’s Christmas in Mexico, where evergreen trees are found only in the high mountains & craftsmen sell sturdy trees made of thick twigs by the carratera (roadside).  This year we bought one, along with handmade Mexican ornaments & some lights for the tree & terrace.  On a walk one morning I spotted a small spool cable set by the road for trash pickup.  I figured it’d make a perfect tree stand, draped with cloth, & it does.  Every night & every morning I turn those tree & terrace lights on.  My heart soars.  I’m a little kid again, filled with excitement, hope & promise.  Though I’m missing my granddaughter’s first real Christmas (she’s nearly 2 now), I know we’ll see her on FaceTime.  We sent gifts through Amazon. The easiest way from here. But I long to hold her.  I want her to know the Christmas I knew as a child. I’m glad she has parents who love her so dearly.

Where have those feelings, those traditions gone?  Is it all no more than what & how much to buy now?   This winter holiday that begins in July?  How did this happen?

My mind stretches & my heart bursts open.  What does it mean to me now?  Now, finally, with encroaching age & the trauma of the past year, for me it is once again about giving & sharing.  Not the same giving as I did as a nurse where there was so much responsibility tied to a paycheck.  This time it is: Who can I help?  Who can I make happy?  Who can I surprise?  What does the poor Mexican family down the street need?  Who needs a local “getaway” & a hot Christmas meal?  I don’t mind that this holiday sprang up from the birth, fictional or not, of a man named Jesus.  What if it is just symbolic of how to care for each other?  What if the point, really, is to gather together & share our thoughts & gifts & love?  To create memories?  What if there was no Amazon?  No online purchasing?  What would you give?  How would you connect?  What will you & your family & friends remember about Christmas in 2020 & for many years to come?  How will we create more “magic”?

   Happy Holidays!  Merry Christmas!  Happy New Year! 

Feliz Navidad!  Feliz Año Nuevo!

Tepehua (tay-PAY-oo-wah) is the name of an indigenous population of México, and also the name of a barrio (neighborhood) on the hillside above Chapala. The barrio has a history of drug and alcohol abuse, crime, violence, and disease. Women lack knowledge of nutrition and birth control. Children often lack the proper documents that make education available, limiting their possibilities for the future. In 2010, with so much need realized, a small group of volunteers gathered together and, with the help of the Rotary Club, found funds to create the Tepehua Community Center. The non-profit organization set goals to provide better health, education, and economic opportunities for the residents through advice, counseling, and guidance. Addressing these issues primarily with the women of the barrio, positive changes began taking place. A soup kitchen brought local people in for healthy meals and socialization, with frozen soup provided to those who are homebound, old, &/or infirm. A bazaar provided shopping for gently used items. An education program was put into place, teaching children AND parents to read and use computers. Medical, dental, and maternal health care, even acupuncture, became available at the Community Center clinic, including education on diseases like cancer and STD’s. And over time a program was established to provide fresh, clean water as an alternative to the plethora of easily accessible refrescos (soft drinks) believed to contribute to the rise in kidney disease in the barrio.

My initial interest in Tepehua grew when I spotted well made, colorful face masks just inside the door of the Tepehua Treasures Thrift Shop. When I began asking questions about the beautifully made items stacked on shelves just inside the door, I realized that the person answering me (behind the mask!) was Mary Ruzich, seamstress and friend I had met last year through a neighbor. In fact, our meeting took place – PRE-Covid – on a trip to the fabric district of Guadalajara.

Leaving behind a much enjoyed sewing group in Mazatlan, Mary happily joined the Tepehua Sewing Center that had been organized in 2012. She took over direction of the group over a year ago when its beloved founder Irka passed away. Mary’s career as an elementary school teacher and long time seamstress made her a perfect fit for the job.

Twice a week the highly organized, well-equipped Tepehua Sewing Center hosted a group of ten women who came together to learn business and sewing skills. Mary is constantly listening for opportunities for the women to learn new skills and generate income. In addition to the ever-evolving array of projects, she also teaches them how to do alterations and quilting. Their expertly made products include potholders, eye glass holders, teddy bears, pillow cases, small shoulder bags, aprons, shopping bags, place mats, small zipped purses, the face masks I love, and many more quality items which are sold at community events and the Tepehua Treasures Thrift Shop (in Riberas del Pilar, next to Computerland for those of you who live in the Lakeside area). “It’s all for our children and grandchildren” the women say. Their skills have brought a higher quality of life to all in the barrio, “making lives better, one stitch at a time…”

Enter Covid. The Tepehua Sewing Center classes dropped to half their normal size. When cases began showing up at the medical clinic adjacent to it, the decision was made to close the Center for now and farm projects out to the women in their homes as much as possible. The sale of their products provides much needed income and any disturbance in that process can be catastrophic. Covid has certainly taken its toll, limiting sales opportunities through community events, in addition to limiting classes.

Tepehua Treasures Thrift Shop, is the primary support (no other fund raising is allowed) for the Community and Sewing Centers. They welcome donations of nearly any kind – clothing, jewelry, books, household items – for sale in their store. Monetary donations can also be made via PayPal, check, or cash. Volunteers tend the store Tuesday through Friday from noon until 3 PM. Masks and use of hand gel are mandatory before entering. Hours are short because more volunteers are needed. I recently heard a volunteer explain with great pride the many ways the shop income serves the Tepehua barrio. But here, also, sales are down due to limitations related to Covid. The need is great.

I was lucky enough to visit the Tepehua Community Center this week, thanks to Mary. The large white-washed building proudly sports its name facing the wide cobblestone street. There is not much activity on the street – or in the building. The ample industrial kitchen is quiet and the dining area is lined with stacks of colorful plastic chairs waiting to be put to use again. The bazaar, with its low-priced items, is a bit musty from 10 months of closed doors. The Sewing Center is quiet except for Spanish conversation between Mary and the office manager, Esperanza, working together on a quilting project. Through a rear window I see a hilltop crowded with small concrete block homes. Below, at the back of the building, sits the medical clinic, its van, and the water program building with its new truck. The clinic is only open 2-3 days a week now. A sudden too–toot-toom of a trumpet raises my eyebrows and Mary explains that a family lives in a downstairs casita, acting as caretakers. Their son is learning to play his instrument, bringing the building alive as I stand listening.

Moonyeen (Moonie) King, Director of the Community Center, describes how things have changed this year: “With everything came a sense of urgency… Dental activity was by appointment only so no lines waiting….Food was picked up at the door in packages…and potable water was delivered…The entire organization is working with limited hands on deck or boots on the ground.” Just last week the title of the land where the Community Center stands was signed over to the people of Tepehua, assuring that the Center will be theirs for years to come. Donations from the Rotary Club and the private sector “financially and materially, kept us going” the Director says. There is hope.

And “so this is Christmas…and what have you done?” In the craziness of 2020 so many are in need. Those of us who have so much have the opportunity to reach out to help those less fortunate. Tepehua and its “treasures” have become my cause. Perhaps they will be yours as well.

So “Merry, Merry Christmas! And a Happy New Year! Let’s hope it’s a good one, without any fear.” (John Lennon). Feliz Navidad! Blessings to all.

For more information about the sewing program, or to arrange a tour, contact Mary Ruzich at mruzich53@gmail.com or +1 541 690 2771.

To learn more about the Community Center and the Thrift Shop, visit:

https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.tepehua.org%2F%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR2Iq9hyOeffYMQ1Xcnfmaau7fIMYFlOP75jPSCFl1DtZM0uUN1F3lU0xDE&h=AT2M68mK7HcyXcVofLaVn37Zifxr1FmCXHhoOueba7LQH3_qAtU3dmvzxKndvFzYKVhJ3UBTkZRU5wAbHZqsgtm4XsnITkALUm0rg2lNSQnv8qj3ZEBzKwgtzMsle3pO43qWkuoJ

https://tepehua.org

(Thanks to Mary for her time, assistance, and some of the photographs. And to Esperanza & the volunteers in Tepehua Treasures for their co-operation.)

 An emergency visit to the vet this past Sunday morning took us to the nearby town of Chapala. Once we knew Tumi was in good hands and most likely had a less serious issue than we’d imagined, we took off to explore a bit.  Chapala has been a favorite of mine since I first visited the area.  It has a small city charm that keeps bringing me back.

It’s interesting that I could never find a population number for the town of Chapala itself, only for the municipality.  That number is over 50,000 (2015) while the number for the nearby village of Ajijic, west of Chapala, is around 11,000.  It is about 5 miles east of Ajijic and about 25 miles south of Guadalajara, sitting on the edge of Lake Chapala, which supplies about 60% of Guadalajara’s water.  This is the largest inland body of water in México, averaging about 4.5 meters deep, 15 miles wide and 33 miles long.

The name “Chapala” has uncertain origins.  Some say it derived from the Nahuatl name of Chief Chapalac. Another theory is that the name means “the place where pots abound”, referring to the primitive indigenous practice of appeasing the gods by throwing clay pots, spotted with blood from earlobes, into the lake.  The Nahuatl language goes as far back as the 7th century CE and brought us the words chocolate, avocado, and tomato, among others.  Around 1000 B.C. native people drifted into the area.  Chapala became a small fishing village that grew into “summer farms” as colonization began in the 17th century.  Between the 16th and 18th centuries, the population was mostly indigenous.  

The town of Chapala was founded in 1538 by a Franciscan evangelist.  In 1548 the adobe and grass church “San Francisco de Asís” was built near the lake’s edge.  By 1550 the population consisted of 825 married people and 349 children.

In 1915, after WWI, Norwegian speculators decided to turn Chapala into a resort town complete with a railway and motorized water taxis.  They planned to build a dam that would dry up enough land to allow for luxury homes, a first class hotel, and a casino.  The railway contributed to the town’s growth until 1926 when the lake flooded the tracks.  After years of abandoned disrepair, a wealthy family bought the old train station, donating it to the municipality in 1991.  The beautiful old building now serves as a museum and small art school. An old train car sits out front but the tracks are long gone.

Beside the renovated museum is an artist’s plant and architectural “remnants” store, full of native plants and unusual treasures.   Down the street is the municipal park with swimming pools, tennis and volleyball courts, and an amphitheater.

The town proper is bustling with activity.  Here you’ll find the central plaza and market, restaurants, small grocery stores, furniture stores, and other businesses found in most small towns.  I’m told that on Niños Heroes (street), you’ll find the well-known Fabrica De Dulces Chapala, a small candy factory that’s been in business for over 80 years.  Old buildings mix with new.  Many have seen famous painters and authors over the years.  DH Lawrence wrote The Plumed Serpent here.  His old house now serves as a B & B.  Find out more on https://lakechapalaartists.com/?p=9528

Near the old church the malecón sprawls along the lake’s edge, filled with craft booths, visitors from near and far, and small boats that tour the lake or take you to nearby Scorpion Island (no, it’s not covered with them; just shaped like one).  Vendors wander the malecón with their famous ice cream and twirling voladares spin upside down from a 60′ pole to mysterious flute music.

Further east past the malecón is the Chapala Yacht Club with tennis courts, soccer fields, a small bullring, and health clubs.  This is the sight of the annual Feria  Maestros del Arte, where a selection of the best crafts men and women in México are invited to attend each November to sell their carefully constructed wares.  For many the Feria provides most of their annual income.  Buyers and collectors come from all over the world to attend this fabulous event.  Hopefully online sales will help some of these wonderful artisans survive without the Feria this year.  Check it out at http://feriamaestros2.com

After lunch I headed for the public bathroom behind the mercado (market).  Not my favorite place but…when you gotta go, you gotta go.  Last time I was there the baño was closed for repairs.  Now it’s unisex!  (And I thought México was behind!)  As I started for the door a Mexicano (man) was coming out.  Was I in the wrong place?  But there on the stall doors were hand-written signs, one for Hombres, one for Mujeres.  I laid my 5 peso coin on the counter and saw a little Mexican boy, maybe 9 or 10, holding paper towels.  With a big smile he picked up my coin, ran outside the open doorway, and returned with a stack of folded toilet paper.  Right.  As I stepped toward the sink he smiled and raised the lever for water.  “Como se llama?” I asked him.  “Fernando”, he said.  “Mucho gusto, Fernando.  Y muchas gracias!”  And that’s Chapala.

Let me add that I have truly struggled with the format of this post thanks to the latest WordPress update. There is much more to the story of Chapala but I’ve struggled long enough. Unless I can wade through it or find help sorting it out, it will be awhile before you hear from me again. Thanks for your loyalty! Wish me luck!

Where in this world would I be if it weren’t for Ben Dyer?  My life partner.  Did I tell you how we met?  Let’s start there.

In 2002 I was living on my own in a beautiful little cabin overlooking a small stream in the woods of Ashe County, about 12 miles from Boone, North Carolina.  I’d been divorced for two years, bought my first house, and adopted my prize Welsh Corgi, Sir Berwÿn of Bethel.  I was feeling pretty dang good.  Kicker was that I was scheduled for a partial thyroidectomy three weeks after my move, to remove a benign tumor.

The phone rang.  It was my friend Chilton.  “I have a funny story for you.  We have this friend who stays with us once a month for a few days while he goes to acupuncture school.  He lives near Chapel Hill but he wants to move.  He told us he’d been going on Match.com looking for a woman to get to know in the mountains.  He found someone but she won’t answer his messages.  I told him to pull up the profile.  Boone’s not that big.  Maybe it’s someone we know.  And guess what, Chris!  It was you!  Can I give him your number?”  A life-changing phone call to say the least.

That first call happened two nights before my surgery.  I met him 10 days later.  He arrived in my driveway with a big smile and spent the day taking care of me since I was obviously still recovering.  Walked my dog, brought lunch, washed dishes.  That was 18 years ago.  Hard to believe.

We dated for 3 1/2 years long distance.  I was a home health nurse, he had his own handcrafted jewelry design business.  On one of his visits he suggested I consider going to massage school since my nursing job was completely exhausting and my real love was Healing Touch.  “You could live with me and go to Body Therapy Institute.  It’s one of the…..”  He had me at “live with me”.  I sold some of what I owned, including my sweet cabin, filled up a 26′ U-Haul and moved (with Ben’s help, of course) to Hillsborough, NC.  Only the beginning of a big new adventure!

Ben promised to take me to Italy (how romantic!) but it took 12 years to make it happen.  Between his work and show schedule and my school and nursing schedule, we stayed pretty busy.  When Italy finally happened we both realized how much traveling enriched our lives, brought out the best in us.  We took many trips between 2014 and 2018, mostly in the US.  We hiked in Washington state, Bainbridge Island, Victoria, BC, Bryce Canyon, Zion, Canyonlands, Arches, Dead Horse Point, south rim of the Grand Canyon, Durango, Mesa Verde, Ouray (CO); visited Manhattan and Chinatown, Chicago and Oak Park, Seattle, Sisters, Bend, Ashland and the coast of Oregon.  In 2017, having decided not to spend the money on travel to London or Portugal, we spent a week in San Miguel de Allende, México.  I had been to Tijuana and Ben to Oaxaca years before.  When you see the colors of México, he told me, it will change your life forever.

 

If you have read my posts from the beginning you know that it took a lot of work to make this move.  After our trip in January 2017 we began to research locations.  We wanted Mexico but took trips in the States with an eye toward other possible locations.  That September Ben met his sister Melanie in Ajijic, Mexico, a place we’d learned about through our research and conversations with friends.  We returned together for a week in January 2018 then house/pet-sat for friends of Ben’s cousin Gayle for two weeks in March.  We found an apartment in the village for the month of August, determined to decide by then whether we wanted to live there (here!) or not,  It didn’t take long to decide so we started looking for a place to rent, with the aim of moving by December.  We found our Casa Morada, west of town, the last week we were visiting and signed up for renting as of November 1.

Back in NC the wheels started rolling and we spent the next few months winding things up, visiting the Mexican consulate for visas, stopping unnecessary mailings, making financial arrangements, closing down Ben’s business, etc.  I completed my nursing career in May and dived full-time into making it all come together.  In October Ben shut down his business and we had a huge estate sale, ridding ourselves of about 85% of our belongings, most of which we haven’t missed.  By November 27th, 1918, we were living in Ajijic.

Now here I sit on the terrace of our beautiful modern home, looking out at Lake Chapala, the Sierra Madre Occidental mountains, palm trees and terra cotta rooftops, writing this post.  Not anything I ever imagined for myself.  Not anything that I would’ve thought possible without Ben’s sense of adventure and possibility.   We could’ve stayed in Hillsborough, but we were bored, boxed in, ready for a major change in our lives.

Ben turned 70 last September and thanks to the generosity of a friend we held a blow-out birthday celebration at her house (her sister’s birthday also).  50 people came!  This year is a bit different.  With Covid restrictions in place, we’re not doing big gatherings.  And we aren’t traveling.  But Ben turned 71 yesterday and we’ll be going to dinner with friends tonight to a special restaurant to celebrate.  Maybe next year we can hold another grand celebration or visit some spectacular Mexican town.  But for now, with so much accomplished in the past 3 years (including the addition of our granddaughter in NC and adoption of our mini schnauzer Tumi), a nice quiet dinner with friends sounds good.

And so, dear Ben, Happy Birthday!  Feliz Cumpleaños!  Thank you for this great adventure!  I love you.

 

My favorite contemporary “spiritual philosopher”, Charles Eisenstein, says that we are in “the space between stories”.  We have left behind the world as we knew it, the one we thought would last forever, and we are so steeped in upheaval and change, that we do not yet know the world of our future.  We are in between.

We have a chance now, a huge opportunity, to create a different world, a more beautiful world, one we have perhaps only (or never) imagined.  We have a chance now to come together, to care for each other and Mother Earth.

Here is the Earth I love.

And here are two stories from my own “space between”:

A few weeks ago we discovered two dogs leashed to a line tied between two trees.  They were on the edge of the field on the other side of the wall behind our house.  We could see them when we walked up to our roof (mirador) and we could hear one of them barking a high-pitched yip – relentlessly.  For 20 hours straight.  Something wasn’t right.  It’s rainy season for us and the dogs had no shelter, no food or water.

I contacted a nearby Mexican neighbor who lives next to the field and asked if he knew what we might do.  Then I saw other neighbors who were quite concerned.  None of us liked the noise but mostly we were worried about the dogs.  One neighbor contacted a dog rescue representative who started working on it right away.

It turned out that the field is rented by an elderly farmer who counts on his corn crop for his own survival.  He’d tied the dogs out to scare away the squirrels that would want to eat his corn seed.  A mystery to us as we could see squirrels scampering through the field, out of reach of the dogs, enjoying themselves thoroughly.  (Everyone has a story.)

The result was that two neighbors bought houses for the dogs then several of us chipped in to buy a month’s worth of food for them.  Around here stray, hungry dogs are such a problem that pet stores will divide up large bags of food and give a special price to the rescue people.  The farmer wasn’t happy about someone (even another Mexican) complaining to him, of course, but within a few days he released the dogs.  The noise and the abuse stopped.  The corn crop is growing.  The dogs have food and shelter.

Like so many other places right now, school is happening on television and online.  There are many children here who can’t afford internet or a device to use for their lessons.  It turned out that our gardener’s children had access to wifi (in a home of 20 people with 8 men working, chipping in to pay for internet service) but no device other than an old cellphone.

I put out a plea on our local Facebook page asking if anyone had a tablet or computer to sell for a reasonable price.  The responses that came in were either complicated laptops or high prices.  Then out of the blue a good friend, who’d just upgraded, cleaned up and donated their “old” laptop to us.  Ben threw in his extra printer and some ink.  César and Noemi’s three children are now able to “attend” school.

After this happened I decided to ask my housekeeper (who speaks no English) if she had what she needed for her three children for school.  Shyly she answered No.  Again I put out a plea for low priced or donated devices.  This time nothing.  So I sent out an email to friends here.  Within days I had enough to buy a simple, new computer at Costco.

I was so excited about giving Alba the computer, including a note listing the names of all who had contributed, that she and I were both almost in tears as I handed it over.  Through Google Translate I was able to ascertain that she does have wifi and knew someone who could help her set it (the computer) up.  Two days later I received WhatsApp messages from each of her three children – en español – thanking us all for the computer.  Tears of joy filled my eyes.  It felt so good to be able to help.

So these are the stories that make up my “space between”, the stories that remind you that we are all in this together, all here to help each other in whatever way we can.  I’m sure you have your own stories.  This could be our new, more beautiful world, where all are equal, where those who have more give more, where we laugh and cry together, smile at each other, and understand that love, respect, understanding, consideration, and compassion are the stories of the  world we have only imagined.  That’s the new world I want to see.