Airstreams

8.31.06

For some reason, I've been thinking of Airstreams, those beautiful aluminum, shining RV's of the 50's, landed space pods built to transport people along our nations highways and byways. Unlike the bulky Winnebago, these self contained units are sleek, guiding the wind to caress their bellies and backs like a mother in love. Bullet shaped, I imagine them gliding along behind the familiy car in silence, to be deposited at an airy campsite, where grass grows green and perhaps a brook bubbles near by. (Of course, this is highly unlikely now a days as most campgrounds are cramped and crowded but the image I conjur in my mind, seems rooted in this ideal scenario.) I think of traveling beyond, to new places, to dipping toes in new waters, holding hands on a new path, looking up at a new sky, with open eyes. All this from the image of silver arrow shot from a sturdy quiver.

The words recreation vehicle make me smile. Recreate means to have fun, but when broken down turns into re-create. Is this what it takes to enjoy ourselves? To become something else? Or is it more literally to reshape our environment? Departments of Parks & Recreation can be found in every city, the government's attempt to provide a piece of nature to its citizens in a safe, palatable way. A place to play sports, picnic, canoodle under a tree, watch the toddlers, all acts of recreation. If we are re-creating ourselves in these moments, then what is the original template? All work and posture? Are we attempting to conjur up original Eden in getting away from what we know in our daily lives?

Vehicle: a machine or medium used to transport or make changes. These trailers allow us to escape to places where we can be in nature, shed our city skins and cavort. I guess this is a metamorphosis of a kind, to relax and breathe deeply, kiss schedules goodbye and a more sense oriented day hello. Camping makes us slow down, listen to the crickets (if they're not being drowned out by your neighbors boom box),taste pine needles in the scrambled eggs, savor a book under a shade tree, make love on an air mattress.

In my dream world I have my own Airstream parked and packed and ready to go for a bit of reclusive respite. And when not on the road, it sits there, gleaming in the sun or moonlight, beckoning with a twinkle on the hood, tempting me to sneak off at a moment's notice, reminding me of past ventures. Road conditions may be unpredictable, but the ride is worth it, for destinations unknown hold the promise of surprise, change, something new; at the very least, the joy of having traveled beyond oneself. It's all in the journey.

Kodak Moments

8.31.06

I lie in bed at the end of the day, noshing on a perfect Pink Lady apple (imagine a yellow Delicious whose skin has been kissed by rose lipstick) and think how lucky I am to have this gift of time in life. I get to work at something I enjoy, raise my kids with a modicum of stress, play my music, dance (tonight, for some reason, I concquered the contra section of an alegrias that's been stumping me for a while) connect with friends and enjoy the end of a summer's evening on the front porch with a glass of wine and a loved one. It's a gift to have such balance on those days when I can find it and for which I am very grateful.

I realize that something has moved me recently to post pictures of myself and I have been wondering why. The writing ahs been a release of various energies and queries as well as a record of my various peronalities, an attempt to document these fleeting cerebral moments as if to prove I've been here. And now I think the photos too are an attempt to capture these moments in time which reflect how I would like to see myself and be seen. I've taken a gander at YouTube and Myspeace and others' blogs and see a panoply of personalities in search of an audience. A generation is growing up with this new way of connecting to others, known and unknown and I'm fascinated by what all this vertual intimacy really is about. When we turn the camera on ourselves to share something of who we are or believe we are, is it really as simple as a bid for attention in a world that passes us by too quickly and coldly? Or are we, in looking into these various mirrors trying to pay better attention to our selves?

At mid-life, with a body I've never had before and will never have again, it feels natural to want to freeze those moments when I feel most myself. IN joy, in play, at work, in love, in life. But there are, of course, those other times, in sadness, in loneliness, in anger, frustration, guilt, fear, shame or envy, those dark places which I would never think of capturing even though they are as much a part of my picture as the light.

Ye olde photo album rarely reflects our shadows, the unpleasant moemtns and if we look back over them, we could think our lives were pretty rosy after all, a series of accomplisments, milestones, parties, promotions, passages, pleasures. We could forget all the pain and ennui between the pages. Maybe this then is where all the self-disclosure comes in, trying to convince ourselves that life is truly a pretty picture (the result of our national individual pursuit of happiness) which is naive and not terrbily honest or inspirational. We snap the highs in life but forget that existance is impossible without the lows that provide relief.

The safety of the internet, though, allows the other motive for exposure which is to ask the world, are we okay, are you okay with me, when I reveal all this stuff? The warts along with the wry humor, the verbal stuttering along with the vivacity, the off-key warbling along with my wild and wavy hair? When so many of us live isolated lives, existances removed from some of our soul needs, it makes sense we might want to try on new masks, with few risks. And maybe, by letting it all hang out, we'll dare to find what feels right to try on in the real world: the would be rocker will start a band, the closeted chocolatier will open a shop, the repressed housewife will welcome her husband with a belly dance, the closeted gay gets to come out and play.

I've come to accept that cyberspace is here to stay. I just need a new set of maps, an astronaut suit, oxygen supply and sturdy tether to navigate. If you look up into the sky one night and see a raven haired dancer floating about, checking out the alien life, just wave. I'll be back soon. With my camera.

P.S. very frustrated with Blogger lately as I can't seem to post photos and realize that I have come to look forward to the search for an appropriate image to accompany my thoughts. we are such visual animals I realize.

Communing with Nature

8.30.06

There is this enormous tree at work that shades part of the parking lot and patio area where I give health demos. Today I was aware of the birds conversing with each other, hidden behind their green leafy curtains, planning their morning worm hunt, or their next likely poop target. I wondered what they think of us huge landed animals as we wander or waddle around carrying things and babies with our featherless arms. They must resent the huge bloodmobile today, making its grinding noise under their living room, spewing cholorophyl robbing gases into their bedroom.

I pay more attention to animals lately as my kids obsess about getting a dog and we visit a canine park with regularity. They are such wonderful companions to so many people. I think of the animals and fishes we eat (especially the wonderful halibut I made the other night, smothered in fresh corn, jalpenos, butter, lime, garlic, cilantro, salt and pepper, but I digress) and how restauratns are now limited in their deep sea food offerings due to overfishing.

I wonder what it's like to live more directly accessible to our food stuffs. Of course, it's romantic to imagine growing one's own vegetables, grinding one's own grain, fishing one's own fillets and slaughtering sirloin on an as need basis. There would be no time to dance, play, read, create or meditate if we spent all our day time providing for this most base need. But really, what tastes better than a slice of sashimi, a peach just picked, a loaf of bread hot from the oven. slathered with freshly churned butter (which I can't say I've ever taste but it sounds good)?

The birds have quieted suddenly. Is it nap time or are have they gone off to Seeds-R-Us for shopping spree? I think of birds in cages, who chitter and chatter and fill the empty space of a widow's apartment. The cat who warms the lap of a pastor reviewing his sermon on a sunday morning. The millions of hamsters who capture the imagination of our children in their ceaseless rotary circumambulations. Animals are our sustance, our succor in solace, our beasts of burden, our planetary partners.

We also use animals as images or symbols to express ourselves: hungry as a bear, angry as a lion, mad as a fox, impsh as a monkey, loyal as an elephant (my favorite beast), skittish as a mina bird, cute as a kitten. Do animals look at us in the same way and describe their peers with human like attributes? Kid's movies, books and tales use animals to tell storeis and I wonder why. Is it easier to see ourselves when once removed in form? Or is it that we have some ancestral memories of our animal origins, our primeval time shared in a more natural environment. I remember learning about social marketing and an African nation's use of the Puma image to sell condoms. I wonder how that image manifests itself in the mind of a man as he uses one. Does he think of racing through the veldt, flexing powerful muscles, seeking his prey, while having sex? The male mind is often a mystery to me; women, of course think about the laundery during the act (just kidding, I'm sure a few of us slip in images of langourous sloths, playful puppies or equally ardent tigers while mating.)

I am inside now and the birds' kaffee klatch sounds have been replaced by the noise of an office, with machines, telephones, keyboards, computers and colleague's chatter. Would that a leafy wind could blow through every now and then with the scent of jasmine or a waft of petals landing on my desk. I'd even settle for a bird dropping if it meant a song was nearby.

Intersections

On the way to our Sunset Junction street festival performance, at the intersection of 2 major streets in LA, the guitarist, dear Charlie, and I were discussing the problem with marriage these days, which in his opinion has to do with 2 things: 1.) the lack of romance and 2.) Velocity. The former makes sense; sometimes couples, over time, forget to hold hands, look each other in the eye and really stay in the moment with each other. The latter refers to a sociological term he had heard of which describes the fact that in this era we are rushing around so much and are exposed to so many different people. I'll read more about it, but it got me to thinking that, yes, the availablity of experiences, material goods and new relationships grows all the time along with a societal maw that never seems to get filled.

The reason I'm dancing now is because 16 years ago a rolfer recommended that I take up flamenco, which I did. Today, I got to perform and enjoy this amazing art form which has opened a different world to my imagination. Last year, I had a moment in time, while watching a performance that triggerd a huge transformation. I wouldn't be here today, sharing this passion with my friends and family and the faces in the audience had it not been for the confluence of events that took me to that rolfer so long ago. Six degrees of seperation and all that. ANd I would never have the dream of moving to Spain or Mexico to immerse myself in another life had I not met this woman so many years ago, who figuratively and literally got under my skin.

So Charlie, who at 71, remembers the free lovin' days of the 60's and I got to reminiscing about our youth and pondering today's youth and how we all have so many choices, or at least the perception of choice, made even broader with Match.com, MySpace, YouTube etc. This coupled with a media which offers ever escalating promises of pleasure along with purchase maybe makes us never content with what we already have. Now I think of the word "purchase" which also means a hold on something and the word "content" which also means that which is inside. What are we trying to hold onto inside of us when we look outward to other people and other things for whatever's missing inside?

We are a nation founded on the individual's pursuit of happiness. Yet that definition seems to change all the time. Once we have our basic human needs met, then we want the next thing out there. Which brings up the issue of hope, desire, dreams. When we get a taste of something that we like and want more, whether it be a food, an idea, an experience, a person, an adventure, some of us decide to run with that new interest while others simply put it away as something forbidden or unavailable or impossible. Some cultures, such as our allow more freedom in that individual pursuit, while others proscribe any and everything outside of the narrow norm. Which is "happier?" Is ignorance truly bliss?

Before telephones and motorized vehicles, one couldn't venture too far from home, taste too many new things, meet too many new people without a huge effort. Nowadays, it's as easy as going to the mall, flying to another country, logging onto a website. Anything seems possible. And the messages continue to tell us that we should want more, different, new and right now! So we meet people from different walks of life who influence us in major and minor ways (ife we let them); we think to ourselves, hmm, I could try that, or be this way or go there. We pass by the big store window of life and wonder, wouldn't that feel, taste, smell, sound good? And then we go home to what we have and we look at what's there and say, is it enough, is it right for me now in this time in place.

We re-invent ourselves every day, every time we meet someone new, every time we go someplace different, every time we experience the strange or bizarre. Or do we? Is there a core that never changes, only masks we use on demand? Is it at the intersections at life that we get to test ourselves, when major choices must be made? How does one trust a decision made in one circumstance, knowing that circumstances change all the time? Where do we find our true selves when we come across so many people who need/want different parts of our multi-faceted natures? If we don't face our shadows consciously, will they eventually find the light of day anyway? Will I ever shut up and stop asking so many questions?

No. I'll greet the next meeting of minds, confluence of events, planetary alignments and electrical charges that make up the maps of our lives with a smile and see who stands there, hands on her hips, facing the sun.

Leaving Libido Land

8.25.06

Two discoveries at work today got me to thinking about what we know about our sexuality, or think we know. A request for a counselor to talk to mentally impaired adult males about sexuality, brought up the fact that some of them need to learn how to masturbate. This surprised me as I would think something like that would come naturally either through self discovery or learning. Seems that's not necessarily so. In my search for more information on this subject I came across a Conference on Sexual Fantasies vs. Realities: Implications for Research and Practice! (punctuation mark not mine!) being offered in, of all appropriate places, Las Vegas this fall. It is sponsored by the Society for the Scientific Study of Sexuality, very austere and academic sounding, and offers CEU's for therapists, sex educators and the like. I don't know, maybe some of our leaders should go check it out; look into what they keep sublimating with all this missile waving they're obsessed with. Maybe we should all go check it out and get to know ourselves better. Becaues, despite all this sex we bandy about in the media and arts, I still think we're pretty repressed. It all just seems to leak out of our social seams, in the form of STD's, DV, unwanted pregnancies, over-indulging in other sensual substitutes and a general dis-connect with these marvelous bodies we have.

So, I got to thinking about sexual instincts and desires and the thoughts that surround them from shame, guilt, pleasure and fantasy to the base logistics of how to put hand, mouth, sex toy or suggestive wordplay here or there and have a go. Some of us seem to learn masturbation naturally on our own, others read or hear about it and then figure it out. But what must it be like to have those urges and not know there's a way to satisfy them, due to cognitive impairment? What must it be like, also, to have those urges and know them, but be unable to actualize them due to illness, injury, shame or lack of opportunity? I learned that some mentally challenged patients get caught in inappropriate places as they seek privacy to pleasure themselves. We know millions of people access porn and erotica for their own devices and millions other deny urges, sublimating them into food, art, exercize, depression, abuse or other distractions.

Watching children grow up, it's hard to escape their inherent sensuality. Some are more aware of their genitals as sources of pleasure and access them more readily. Others seem to have no conscious idea, just pull at their penises absent-mindedly or rub themelves on jungle gym poles not knowing why. At some point, we all learn what's down there and what you can do with it. What's interesting to me, is when we lose touch with our sexuality, those of us do, and why. Some, of course are shamed out of it early on, others shame themselves in response to broken hearts or unmet needs. And some of us go on to revel in our god-given bodies, without doubt and shame, and others just couldn't give two squats about sex (although I would venture to say, those needs/desires were there at one point and somehow got squashed).

When I look around at how obsessed this culture is with a certain version of sexuality, that is, the young, firm bodies gyrating in the quest of orgiastic union, I marvel at the concurrent guilt and shame around the very idea of enjoying sex unless it's within a sanctioned coupling of some sort, preferably over the age of 18 and under the age of reading glasses. When and where along our civilization process did we decide it served our species being better to deny than celebrate libido, those "instinctual energies and desires derived from the id?" which include, but are not limited to sex.

Why are we surrounded by so much sexual imagery and suggestivtivity, yet need to buy how-to videos, attend tantric workshops, go through years of therapy to learn how to revel in this natural side of ourselves? When did this all get cut off? Was it with Christianity and the useful purpose that guilt fulfills in governance? Was it with the discovery that sexual exploration leads to disease or absent fathers, which doesn't help protect our progeny? Was it merely Madison Avenue's insiduous fashion of making us feel all so unworthy so that we'll buy the next over-priced and unecessary boob job, erectile tab, race car or fuschia colored lipstick? Mother Nature's way of curbing population growth (sorry, that one hasn't worked.)?

When our children leave Libido Land and cover themselves in shame or modesty, when they stop holding their parents hands and hugs and when kisses turn into "aw, Mom, that's gross" must they also lose this wonderful body/fantasy connection that we seem born with? If we could all communicate our fantasies, or deepest dreams, honestly, would we need porno/ fantasy workshops/ 900 call lines? Probably. Our minds are so vast and can stretch as wide as the ocean if allowed, and we seem to enjoy the new after a while. I just wonder how many of us get the chance to go those place we dream about, sexually and otherwise, if we don't have permission or safety or opportunity. We seem so hungry for something in this nation, in this time, and when food is so readily available, I wonder if that sensual experience isn't the substitute for so many unmet dreams and desires and un-done deeds.

I've read that if you and your loved ones feed each other a meal, both will eat less. There is something in the sharing of that sensual moment of meeting a base need that seems to make up for sheer quantity. If McDonalds started offering massages instead of milk-shakes, I think we'd see a lot more waists and lot fewer wasted passions.

Tinkering with Life

8.24.06

Stem cells. Embryos. Emergency Contraception. When does life begin? All this discussion about tinkering with blastocysts in order to create new cells, organs, tissue, life saving therapies got me to thinkig about the many ways we manipulate life, through medicine, plastic surgery, psychoanalysis, exercize, nutrition, prayer, music, art, reproduction, death. I've always been fascinated with the Right to Life position that human life begins at conception, but have never had the chance to ask any what they want us sexually active, menstruating women to do with our periods, which, despite the use of contraception, may contain an aborted embryo. If indeed that flow contained a human life, shouldn't we be burying every tampon or sanitary napkin, performing last rites just in case there was a little person-to-be in there? If we go ahead and take a blastomere from an embryo, they now say, we are still destroying life, even though that procedure is thought to be harmless to any ensuing development. According to this theory, then, every cell in our body is "human lifel" and we're sloughing them off like dandruff daily, so wouldn't we need to also accord these dermatological detritus the same honor as the rest of our bodies when they die?

What about our thoughts? Aren't they human as well? And our actions? And our feelings? These are all human but no one seems too concerned when we kill those off through abuse or neglect. What is personhood, when you can alter the body that contains it so easily and when it changes from second to second on its own accord? Who are we really when we put on different masks for different roles in our lives? is the man who puts on a suit to go to work as a civil rights lawyer not the same man who goes home and joins a KKK chatroom? The straightlaced woman who erects a pole in her garage for "fitness?" Why do we get so worked up over a couple of cells here and there when they're removed from an ovary but not when they're blown off a body during war?

We discard mal-formed fetuses, dump unwanted babies, incarcerate neer do wells and fob off our seniors to abusive homes without a second thought, but get all in a lather over animal abuse and environmental protection of some rare toad. Isn't it all life worth protecting? Are we fearful that such tinkering smacks of God like behaviour? So? Who is God, but that which dwells in these all too human bodies anyway. When we murder each other we're murdering God and when we create life in a petri dish we're creating God, so it all would seem to be part of the plan.

If we can see life in every living thing then we either have to preserve it all or leave it all up for grabs. We should probably see God's grace in the non-"living" as well: the diamonds, the plastic wrap, the volcanoes and cathedrals and prions and lava and, heaven forbid, Twinkies. It's all a continuum going back to the big bang, or the divine creation, whichever floats your boat. Anything that improves life for those here, seems to be a good idea and worthier of our time and efforts than those endeavours which continually destroy.

Dream Meal

8.23.06

Avacado-jalapeno glace

Albacore gravlax "terrine" with tapenade

Coffee-infused duck breast with French Lentil Salad

Whipped Brie de Meaux with Tellicherry pepper, fig compote

Blackberry soup with juniper cream and candied lemon peel

White & Red Loire Valley wines

(LA Times Food Section)

Now, why would anybody prefer a Big Mac, when you could spend a whole day preparing, presenting, savoring and sharing such deliciosity? There has got to be a better way to live than running from meal to meal, never really tasting one's food. I will now go raise a glass of chilled wine and imagine such a repast and how I might actually make it happen.

(I love this image that come up for the word "delicious" in Yahoo image search, called Memories Delicious Melon)

And on the subject of delicious experiences, what is that mechanism that triggers those desires in the middle of a commute home, at the scent of a flower, the touch of a child's forehead, the whisper of a shared wish? Will we ever find this a more interesting, laudable query than how to blame others for our problems?

Back to that glass of wine.

Armchair

8.20.06

By the window it sits,

the worn old stuffed settee

upholstered by years of use.

Its arms are soft,

the seat ample, welcoming;

the fabric skirt draping to

the floor like a curtsy.

It has nursed newborns,

transported weary men around the world

on newspaper airplanes,

buffeted a child

through afternoons of boredom,

lent a cat its seventh life.

This fully lived chair

knows secrets held

and tears unshed,

has witnessed the comings

and goings of generations.

It has sensed death

and celebrated weddings,

held forth in debate

and dictated a rooms decor.

Mended, re-sprung, newly tufted

it has not wanted for attention.

But now and then

on a late night,

when the room is dark

with only the fireplace cricket

to keep it company,

this chair, this keeper of the hearth

listens

hoping to hear the distant strain

of a flute.

This Car Culture

8.20.06

A friend just left Hanah's "friendship party" to drive her daughter to her riding lesson in a town 45" away, late this sunday afternoon. She is frazzled after a week of shepherding her 8 year old all over the place and will grab some fast food dinner on her way. Another friend and I were talking about how our husbands don't understand this job we have as moms/homemakers, which include maintenance, budgeting, cooking, cleaning, time management, therapy and chauffeuring. Another mom picking up her daughter lamented the 20 pounds she's gained recently and Noah earlier wanted to go to the store and buy more stuff. Sitting on my front porch as M washed his vehicle, it all just hit me: these are symptoms of our car culture.

Because we can, we cart our children all over town to their play-dates and various activities. We spontaneously go to a store to get that one thing we need for a project. We back up our bloated mini-vans to supermarkets and load up with bags and bags of groceries. We commute hours daily to our jobs. And along the way we pick up these pre-fab, fat-filled foods because we have no time to cook. I have no idea how many hours we spend running around doing this and that every day, but especially in a city as spread out as LA, it's just too much.

A recent article in Truthout sighted a study in Australia which showed that our cities are more and more unhealthy as suburbs take people farther from work and we spend more time driving than walking. We are getting fatter and more depressed by this lifestyle that doesn't afford our bodies the basic privilege of walking and we have so much food/TV/computer distraction available that we numb out from the stresses of living with whatever's fast and readily available. Our cars and our bellies get bigger, but what's happening to our souls?

Thinking of our recent stay in Guanajuato where people have to carry their grocery bags up steep hills and every one walks everywhere, I was reminded of New York City, where, also, most people don't have cars. You live in small apartments with small kitchens and refrigerators and there's just no room for all the stuff you can purchase and accumulate in a suburb with a 3,000' ranch home. When I remember my many bachelorette pads over the years, in various cities, I remember having cosy dinner parties and planning outings with rental cars and taking public transportation to cultural events or classes. My life was no less rich for the lack of space or "stuff" to fill it with, or the ready wheels with which to zoom around. One goes out to restaurants or parks or even the streets in summer to socialize when you dont' have enough space to share. You live out in the community more. I remember the great scene in "The General" with Buster Keaton as a spoiled young rich man who gets into his car and drives across the stree to visit his girlfriend. A brilliant moment of visual commentary.

We are isolated in our cars and we drive farther distances to achieve the same ends we used to be able to attain on foot in smaller environs. And we are getting sicker along the way. Plus these machines are eating up our environment, using up resources and driving people nuts and our nations to war. Something's not right with this picture.

Cars are wonderful when they transport one quickly to the emergency room, bring you to your far flung family for re-unions, let you cart your bass across town for a gig. But I feel we're paying a huge price on a daily basis by these huge mobile shopping carts we drive around, constantly filling them with gas and gadjets and groceries and a go-to, gotta-get-there now mania. Not to mention the garages whose interiors accumulate all the stuff you don't have room for, don't really need, and don't know where to put.

What if we were all allowed a donkey to get around? Maybe we could slow down this pace of living, firm our inner thighs and generate enough high quality compost to grow more broccoli on our roads' medians? Okay, not likely. But a girl can dream, can't she?

Lying Our Way into America

In the locker room the other day I overheard a conversation between a woman who looked and sounded to be of Semitic extraction and some other voice who congratulated her. She responded saying that "Yeah, it's a big thing, I had to answer all these questions, like if I was a communisty sympathizer, or had relations with any revolutionary parties and I said, well I'm not a communist myself but I'm not against it and do you remember 1776? So basically, I had to lie to become a citizen of this country, isn't that ironic?" I gathered she had just been naturalized and gone through the ceremony, flexing those mendacious muscles we all have and use when necessary for higher gains.

When I do a Yahoo image search for "lying" what comes up are the myriad maidens in repose, retiring dogs and George W. Bush. I feel partly sorry for the guy, since, really we (well, those 62 million who voted) chose him because he made us feel good, told us what we wanted to hear and now that we don't like what his words have wrought, we're blaming him for being who he is. We didn't want to hear the truth that Iraq had nothing to do with 9-11, that we are dependent on these countries who foment the very terrorists who attack us, that we supported Bin-Laden and Hussein when it served us, that we are eating up the environment and that we are no safer now than we've ever been, partly because the money pipeline is by-passing homeland security into the Iraqi war.

Had a discussion today about how with democracy comes the responsibility to be informed, to speak out, to vote yet how few of us do. I lie to myself everyday as I get into my mini-van, blaming the car companies for not producing a more efficient vehicle that serves my needs/wants. I don't have, or take, the time to suss out all the details of these many huge issues that affect the details of my life on a daily basis and I know I'm not alone. All this technology that allows us to be informed at any moment in time maybe serves the opposite effect of making us want to tune out because it's all so overwhelming. We parse the news into bits that we can handle and allow ourselves to get distracted by the sensationalist stories, while nations struggle to survive and peoples watch their worlds get destroyed.

Our cognitive dissonance is a wonderful tool, when used for self preservation, but how sad to have to start out one's new life in a country being dishonest about ones beliefs, especially when one of that nation's basic tenets is freedom of speech. Maybe the application process should be simplified and potential citizens asked merely: "Are you for us, or agin' us?" It would save millions in paperwork and processing time freeing up the INS to perform more useful tasks like polishing flagpoles, erecting border fences and profiling lip-gloss toting grandmas.

Walking Stick

Gently she crawls

on hard wood floor

seeking something lost

in a corner.

Scabbed knee

and splinered fingers,

torn hem

and scuffed shoe,

her journey

into the past.

Under the dresser

her long arm

lands upon

the solid dowel.

Whittled here,

carved there

dark wood

etched with symbols,

a life once lived.

Once a cane,

supporting dreams

carrying hearts.

She rises now

holds it to her own

and sighs.

This Death Thing

8.12.06

Today I read that one of the purported bombers was a young man, who as an 18 year old had sought answers from his pastor about some life questions. Unsatisfied with the responses he posed the same to an Imam and, finding them more to his liking, converted to Islam. The paper didn't report what those queries were but I was more struck by the fact that this kid chose his religion based on whatever information someone gave him that resonated with something within. I would imagine that also, whomever he went to for answers must have related to him in a way that made him feel valued, his questions important, his being recognized. Perhaps, had he had access to a Quaker, or a Budhhist or a Jehovah's Witness, he might have gotten different answers, or maybe even the same ones, but chosen his belief system based on whatever good tea he was offered, or warm shoulder proffered, more than the actual words involved. I don't' know, wasn't there but these turning points in people's lives are fascinating.

So here we have some young men who have become convinced that the right thing to do is blow up fellow human beings. How long did it take to sway their malleable minds? How different are they, really, from any young man conscripted into an army, a gang, a crusade? We all have the potential to kill, yet most of us don't either from conviction or lack of opportunity/need. When does one cross that divide between right and wrong? A new friend of Noah's brought over for a play date a rated M for mature video game, that I had prohibited in the house for hits gratuitous violence. His friend is 9 and I wonder why his parents think it's okay for their son to ape young men chasing cars and killing people who get in their way? Why do I allow Noah to play with those little green plastic soldiers? Is there any difference? Now, that I think of it, yes. Those little green soldiers don't' bleed in technicolor and groan in stereo when shot. A child would have no image of that until exposed so would have to imagine the effects of his play battles. These games surround you with special effects that take you into their world. Can growing up with these be much different from growing up in a family where hate is fomented, stereotypes fostered and abuse (emotional or otherwise) allow? This is pushing the envelope, I know, but how can we as parents say it's wrong to kill, it's wrong to put down women, it's wrong to destroy property, but let our kids virtually do so for hours on end every day.

Is this actually our own way of embracing death, of acknowledging that life is precious by remmbering how easy it is to take it away with a bullet well aimed, a bomb well placed, a poison seamlessly delivered? I recently met a woman, cheerful and sunny in disposition, who revealed that 10 years ago she lost her only son and husband in a car crash. She has been re-building her life but still mourns this momentous loss. I know a few women have been sucked into this Jihad, but it is mostly men who give up their lives for those vestal virgins, or their country, or their cause. Could it be that our brains are so well designed with men having those smaller corpus collosums, the pathway between right and left brains, reason and emotion, so that they can go out and do the nasty dirty work of the species while we women folk clean up the mess or the mastodon carcasses?

If I start to think about all these lives wasted and the prospect of my own children being asked to give up theirs for some great cause, I want to go someplace else with a bottle of wine and sit in a lavender field. But then, I remember that most countries conscript their youth for a period of time and think why should my children be exempt from a nation's defense needs? They shouldn't. But then, no one should have to fight if they do not want to.

Whoever gave answers to that young man who allegedly planned on taking people's lives was both a powerful figure and a conduit for a swath of hate sweeping around the world in search of open minds. Like the serpentine boa around my Frida Kahlo-esque skeletal muneca used on the Day of the Dead, this desire to end life seems all to easy to wear when one's own life feels dispensable. How can we help people believe there is more to gain in slaying that snake than in feeding it daily and allowing it to insinuate itself into the hearts and minds of so many?

Sam, the Man

8.11.06

I am sitting in the shade of an umbrella at the Y, enjoying the warm, sunny day after a workout when a smiling man asks if the other chair at the table is free. I invite him to join me. He looks like John Glenn (the astronaut, if I have the name right) and to be about 60 or so and we start talking; he has a friendly ease about him and a wonderful bright face when he smiles. He talks about how he used to spend hours out in the sun, playing volleyball at the beach, how no one thought about the dangers of too much sun back in the 30's when he was a youth. He's actually in his 80's with great grandchildren and I marvel at his fitness and his lovely openess.

We chat about this and that, about the rampant anonymous sex kids are having, how when he was a kid his father told him he'd die if he masturbated, how back when he got married, he and his wife had to buy a book to know what to do. She's still with him and I asked the secret to his 60 year old marriage. He beamed at me and said, "Well, we're just good friends and care about each other, and have these kids together. There's no passion now, because your bodies change, and I did have to go out once and be foolish, but we hashed it out one night, got all ugly and in the morning, decided it was worth it to keep it together."

He said this all with a returning smile and I just marveled at his honesty with a complete stranger and his matter of factness. No couples therapy, or drawn out guilt trips, just one night of dealing with the issue and solving it, moving on. Perhaps that's how it was done 50 years ago, before therapists were a dime a dozen and Dr. Phil a fixture in our lives. His good nature I'm sure made things smoother or maybe I'm romanticizing the situation. It was just lovely to spend time with someone who's been around, through wars, and women's lib and all the heaving and hoe-ing of this culture, and to be present in his sunny demeanor.

What makes a life nearing the end, one of smiles rather than frowns? I don't know this person, but as his buddies picked him up for their ritual lunch, I thought ahead to that time of life when going to the gym and eating with the guys can take up most of your day and how, in the end, what is really more important than taking care of yourself and your relationships? I feel so rushed to accomplish many things in this last half of my own life and I wonder, do I take care of the important things as well as I should? As a mom, family comes first, then the pursuit of some meaningful purpose, then creativity, then friends. I had noted earlier a young woman on he rcell phone gushing to her friend about some guy and something said and another thing bought and this thing overheard and when she was ready to hang up she made plans to call back her friend later in the day and told her she loved her to death baby. I marveled at this unbridled enthusasim at every thing she had to say and wondered if she went on all day like that. It reminded me of my 7 year old and I thought, some people just have this eternal "on" button. I feel mine has only recently been flipped and sometimes am not sure where to put all the energy.

So Sam gets up, a little creaky, but finds his saunter as he takes off with the guys and I thought, this octagenarian has more joy, more aliveness than many people half his age. I wonder what his secret is. Did he figure out early on how to live life fully, or is this the ease you reach as you wind down, if your genes are wired to a grin and not a grimace? I hope I live long enough to find out.

Of Men & Missiles

Thomas Friedman wrote in yesterday's NYTIMES about the micro vs. potatoe-chip difference between Israeli and Hebollah troops. The former were "caught off guard" because they're busy thinking about how to build a better micro-processor while the latter are obsessed with building their Islamic state. This image of bright young men with eager minds huddled around either a mother board or a missile casing almost brought me to tears. One group has the possiblity to make better lives for themselves and their families through work and an economy that allows entrepreneurship; the other seems perhaps less endowed with those creative and imaginative outlets all humans require to rise above limited circumstances. And both are destroying each other in the name of religion, old world rights, territory and some sovereign sense of righteousnes. I look at the pictures of destroyed towns and broken lives, of anguished faces and that heartbreaking photo of a tiny baby buried in rubble with only its mother's hand partially excavated next to it and feel... nothing.

This is very troubling; that I now look at these images of war and devastation and natural disasters around the world and can no longer process the disbelief, the horror, the sadness that I used to. Is it overkill? Have I reached my limit of compassion? Do I not care? Or have I just built a nice protective suit of armor to keep from going under every time it looks like another atrocity is on its way?

When I worked in population education years ago, we used to use El Salvador as an example of a country whose demographics were such that something like 75% of their population was under the age of 20. We warned that unlimited population growth in economies that could not employ their men was a recipie for revolt of some sort or another. The Sandinistas at the time had full coffers of able young bodies for their cause. I see pictures in the news of all these Muslim men around the world, fighting, protesting, mourning, rebuilding, worshipping and these photos do reach out to me, for they represent this incredible need we all have to be necessary, to be heard, to be vital. When war or ideology or inequitable resource allocation gets in the way of a young man's ability to provide for himself or his family, it's always a recipie for trouble, whether it be the Afghani poppy farmer or the homey in south Central Los Angeles. Women seem to weather these times better; they have their familes to care for, their networks of support. It's the men who sit around their hookah pipes, or their cell phones, or cigarettes and grainy TV pictures and try to make some meaning of their lives. This waste of talent breaks my heart; for a life without purpose is one of loss. Of time, of dignity, of essence.

Missiles flying across borders like rocks across a neighbor's fence as men ache for a homeland, a job, a raison d'etre. Their women at home, cobbling together a meal, tending to the children, mending curtains, painting their toe-nails if they dare. When will we all step back a moment and remove our heels from their dugouts? Will it take some nuclear insanity to wake us up? Or are we going to keep lobbing bombs at each other like 3 year olds with their water baloons? When do we turn the war machine into a sewing machine or a laptop or a remote controlled brain surgery suite? When will we allow our men to flourish so that they have more to lose than to gain by destroying their play pens?

Breasts and the Body Imperfect

8.9.06

I undress to change shirts for dance class and Hanah comes in to ask me something, but changes the subject and looks at my breasts. She asks why I have different bras and then goes on, "Is it because sometimes you want to look like a teenager with your boobs all pointy like this," and she takes my breasts and pulls them out to look like torpedoes. I laugh and start to answer her, but then she takes them in her hands again and says, "or to look younger like this and not so floppy?" as she pushes them together to create a long lost cleavage. I tell her that yes, I wear different bras for different looks as she pulls at my nipples and continues her query,"or to look like you have a baby and are still nursing?" I stand there, 49 years old, with my falling flesh and look down at this lucious young thing, with her innocent questions and bright eyes and thank god for this body which allowed me to create her and her precocious curiosity. At 7 she has an incredible mind, which I hope she continues to use in her exploration of the world, and her growing self. There is something so lovely about a mother-daughter connection, this natural wonder at what the female body can do. I only hope she continues to revel in hers and doesn't fall prey to this culture's obsession with all things firm and young and perfect, even when artificially enhanced.

She loves to pose in front of the mirror and flex her muscles and ask if she doesn't look like a man from the chin to the top of her pubic area and I always say she looks like a powerful woman. I know she is referring to her lack of breasts, but I want to re-inforce in her this body pride without likening it to a male ideal. I think about our society's ideal of a boy like rail thin body with impossibly large (usually enhanced) breasts and want to protect her from all these media messages. She is lucky adn will be tall and gorgeous, may have my sisters DD boobs or my size A, but she will be forever reminded of some way she could improve her self, be thinner, sexier, curvier, smarter, funnier, somethign more-er. I know friends' daughters who at 6 felt they had to "diet." There is something very wrong with this picture, when kindergarteners are aware of their looks in this way.

I remember exactly when my own body image issues began and have vowed to never question my looks in front of the kids, but already, when I was exercizing the other day Noah asked if I was doing it to be thin. I told him no, it was to keep strong and I hope he heard that. At camp he mimicked the older boys with a complaint taht there were no "sexy hot girls" there; this from a boy who otherwise thinks girls, especially his sister, are gross. It seems impossible to protect our children from inappropriate sexual/image issues with billboards using sex to sell everything and video games proferring the same impossible buff bodies on both sexes as action ideals. Don't get me started on Barbie and Ken and their unreal dimensions. We douse them in this sex stuff and then have hissy fits when they actually become sexual and start to explore these budding bodies. This is where our insanity kicks in.

I wonder when Hanah will get grossed out by mom's old body, when/if she will question her own. She seems so matter of fact now, squirting a bottle of red gatorade into a cup adn saying, "Look Mom, it's having a period!" Will she keep this wonderful open, practical sensiblity when the hormones kick in, when the boys start paying attention, when she starts to compare her body with others? We mothers have a huge responsibility to keep our daughters grounded in the wonders that all body types offer. Fathers too, although there seems to be less obsession with males on body image. I hear that’s changing, however, with the new metrosexual ideal of the well tended, coifed, manicured, tailored heterosexual male and then, too, the steroid pumped 6 pack abbed athlete/Abercrombie & Fitch look.

When I think of what we do to our bodies to please others or to quell our own insecurities about our attractiveness, I get sad for the thoses of us who do not fit the insane ideals and who obsess about trying to get there. I have one friend who loves her wrinkles because they are a sign of her passages in life; that’s an attitude I admire. She is small breasted and full hearted and mothers a son who still wears pink. Perhaps I will introduce him to Hanah in 20 years.

Narcissus

Thomas Moore's book, Care for the Soul, fell off my chair and opened to this page which included a quote of Rainer Maria Rilke: "Our task is to stamp this provisional, perishing earth into ourselves so deeply, so painfully and passionately, that its being may rise again, 'invisibly,' in us." Moore continues: "This reminds me of narcussus becoming the flower: nature manifests itself through our human lives, and our personalities flower as acts of creation."

Moore then quotes Rainer in his Sonnets to Orpheus:

Though the reflection in the pool
Often swims before our eyes:
Know the image.

Only in the dual realm
do voices become
eternal and mild.

This makes me think of how hard we fight the shadow within us, those natural forces that go unheeded, how only when we acknowledge them do we begin to find this "eternal and mild" voice within.

Maybe also exlpains why I feel like hugging trees and get turned on by a flower and worship a fig lately.

Figs

8.8.06

I bought some figs today, perhaps my favorite fruit, close tie with persimmons, papayas and mangoes and noted how differently they taste from the ones I had in Mexico. Not better or worse, just different. I wonder if it had to due with their ripeness, or the minerals in the soil where they grow, or the altitude or my level of hunger at the time of eating them, or the position in which they were eaten, solo, standing, sitting, or amongst others. When I think about the process of eating, of putting something in your mouth, experiencing it with your tongue, your teeth, your taste buds, your smell, why isn't every experience the same, if all your body parts remain constant? When Proust wrote about his Madelines, he answered that question, for the sensual experience of eating is so often linked with the circumstances surrounding the act.

Yet, in every experience we are a new person, having sloughed off old cells, being in the process of generating new ones all the time. When we eat, we not only take in vitamins, minerals, calories, carbohydrates, proteins, fats and water, but we imbue the process with hunger, desire, need for solace, aleviation of boredeom, distraction from pain or solitude, anger at neglect, joy in shared experiences, satiety of bodily needs. Eating is rarely just about eating. A fig is never just a fig. And nourishment a many faceted thing.

I love watching people eat and in my work, ask people to take note of how they feed themselves. Is it in a rush, in front of a TV, alone, with parties, pressured by spouses or in-laws to add more to the plate, absent mindedly while playing a video game? I was constantly hungry in MX from walking so much, up and down hills and losing everything almost as quickly as I digested it, but loved the opportunity to try new combinations of known flavors. Oatmeal "soup" in the morning with sliced apples, salads with jicama and pineapple, sopas with new pastas and different vegetables, salsas and pico de gallo, the freshest of tortillas, enchiladas and even re-fried beans; all foods I eschew back home. Was it the fact of someone else preparing all this for me and at hours I'm not used to? Or was it that part of living in a new place is eating as the locals do and that adds a certain delight that's missing back home with exactly the same foods? A corn cob is a corn cob is a corn cob, until you sprinkle it with chile, salt and limon, spear it with a wooden stick and eat it wandering along narrow streets, listening to minstrels and the hew and cry of students in search of a party.

We have lost so much of our sensual enjoyment of food in this country, with our busy schedules and the predominance of "fast food" outlets. I see so many obese children and my heart breaks to think of the dice stacked against their ever having a normal relationship with food, given the families they come from, their genes and this environment saturated with junk and soda. Yet, despite the quantity of food people are eating, many report not even tasting what they eat, when asked to slow down and discern the flavors they're inhaling. What does this say about our culture, supposedly the epitome of Western Civilization, if we can't taste the food we eat, don't have time for our moments in the sun, won't open our eyes to the gentle curve of a shadow on our porch?

When I think of some of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, they are the whorl of a young palm frond, the sea anemone under azure waters, the round precious rump of a baby's behind, the sunrise over a calm ocean, a perfect peach. Some of man's creations come close: our temples, some bridges, an artificial hip joint, a love letter. But that which comes from a tiny seed, hidden deep within the purple-white flesh of a fig, for example, is an amazement to me, that genetic code which creates over and over again in nature's perfect experiment. Tiny miracles which require only a bit of soil, water and sun to turn into elegant morsels of food. No wonder they cost $4.99 a pound!

Here's an assignment I would enjoy as a travel writer: tasting one particular food all around the world, where it grows or is raised naturally and where it is imported. How it is prepared or harvested, where it lies in the food chain of a nation, what literature it has fostered or been featured in or art it has inspired. What wars were fought over its abundance or dearth. If we could approach each meal as if it were our last, or first, how we might savor it and refuse to ever eat again anything wrapped in plastic, served on styrofoam or colored puce.

Home

8.7.06

I sit on the front porch, enjoying the cool evening and the spider who's diligently building a huge condo complex from our crepe myrtle tree to the entry way and realize how tenuous is both his construct and the very idea of home. I have just spent 2 weeks in another country, in another person's house, feeling comfortable and welcome amongst strangers and now am back in my world of known things and people and marvel at how easy the transition is. If home is where the heart is, then indeed, whereever one decides to open that part of oneself, whether it be in one's regular abode, or a hotel on a business trip, or in a yurt in Nepal or on a medical ship providing services, or perhaps even in jail, then that is where you find yourself. As I clean up the vestiges of an unoccupied house and decant the suitcases and wander the aisles of the 99 cent store I think of all the stuff, the things of life that we associate with who we are. My cello has been unplayed for 2 weeks and it feels like the only thing I really missed while away. Am I being romantic in thinking that I don't need all the other accoutrements I've grown so used to? Or am I still straddling that inter-continental divide, between here and there?

Perhaps it's this ability to keep connected to one's loved ones now, whereever one is that keeps one centered. There was a woman at the house who spent every free moment when not in class on teh phone to her new boyfriend back in teh states. They are in that new falling in love stage, where their whole world revolves around each other and I couldn't help feeling sorry that she was missing this experience to know the town, the people, the country. But that's not what she needed; it was that connection to someone that was more important at this time in her life, than taking advantage of her surroundings to experience a new world. So the telephone cord became her life line, always stretched from teh table to the couch where she would remain hunkered down in virtual real time with someone 1,000's miles away, until she can be with him again. The copper wire umbilical cord to her home replaced that space she was in physically for her time away.

I wonder if all this instant connectibility will help us see the world in a new way. I remember reading that the fax machine was responsible for the fall of the U.S.S.R. as people were able to send documents to each other in the time of a phone call. We know that e-mail was used to prepare for 9-11 and has connected people of various ilks from around the world withe a speed and intimacy never before posssible. One can watch teh news and now seek alternative opinions and information from blogs and other sources, find like-minded spirits to discuss issues of import or survey the opposite camp's positions and maybe learn something new. Or do we just seek information that re-inforces waht we already believe.

When traveling, I love to discuss my country's politics and history and hear how we are perceived abroad. I watch foreign television and think what a skewed picture others must have of us by the programming that they view. And then I watch a father caress teh cheek of his daughter, a mother chase after an errant toddler, a toothless grandmother hobble down the street, young man admire the naked legs of a female jogger in shorts, couple groping on a bench, two men discussing a soccer match. And the scene appears re-producible; a template you could lay down pretty much anywhere (well, except the female jogger and groping couple in a Muslim country).

I come home and see people just being people (thanks Barbra), some speaking this language I just "immeresed" in, and wish our leaders could take a deep breath and open their eyes. The big businesses (and their political partners) that drive commerce, economies and now these wars for the fuel we depend on, are all made up of people who are so far removed from the day to day realities of mankind, there's no way we should expect them to look out for us. They look out for themselves and their friends. THrow religion into the mix and we have tar clotting our eyes shut to the commonality of mankind. I can't look at the news of Iraq and Lebanon any more, can't fathom cultures, cities, homes, families destroyed because some big boys are waving their dicks around in the name of democracy or hezbollah or zionism or capitalism.

I don't know that women leaders would do things differently but I can say one thing, housekeeping and homemaking require cooperation, not competition. They require attending to the minutiae of life that keep us all alive, the cooking and cleaning and mending and making and baking and teaching and tending. As I put my home back together and make a quick microwave dinner I think back to the senora who does her shoppping daily, who climbs up the hill to her house 3 times a day, who takes care of her guests and prepares 3 meals a day for close to 15 people and goes to church and attends funerals and gets her hair done and watches her grandaughters and puts the clothes on the line to dry, as so many millions of women around the world do, I think, what woman has time to make war?

My spider has built an incredibly strong web to trap and house his prey; it takes all day and then he will rest and eat and, if need be, build again when his home is destroyed by the wind or a passing arm. Would we, if we paid more attention to our real needs, and not those suggested by the media or the marketplace, be more creative and less destructive? Have we as a race ever been free from conflict and the transgressions of war or are we doomed, ultimately to destroy so much of what we build, in the name of "nation-building" and "peace keeping" and "sovereign rights?" Will we ever just sit with what we have and be glad?

Guanajuato Day 16

OUr trip draws to a sunny close with a huge rally in the square with the Governor of Guanajuato talking about the elections. Our Senora is a Calderon supporter, as I understand is most of this state, and it was fun to see the outpouring of people in the plaza as I took one last hike up to Pipila for a gorgeous view of this city. People were dressed either in suits and dresses or in their casual attire, but it didn´t have the feel of our protest/support marches wherein people openly express their opinions; perhaps I didn´t hang around enough, but it was fun to see something non-tourist-y.

At a family restaurant last night on the Jardin, I noted that the serving sizes get bigger, the more American-ized the restaurant. The mole was good, despite the Howard Johnson atmosphere and the rotating pie display case.

Later, M & I went to a local "gay friendly" bar for drinks and some nice canned rumba/salsa/cumbia music. My tum wasn´t up to hip shaking, but it was interesting to watch the older men in their white fedoras nurse their drinks, then politely go up to a group of single women and ask one to dance. They´d hit the floor and turn into marvelous undulating figures, meeting and parting in their twirly, swirly moves, then when the music ended, without a word they´d retreat to their tables. None of the men were "hunks" , many with paunches, glasses, balding, but they could move their bodies and enjoyed doing so. I wondered where they learned these dances; it´s never surprising to see women let loose like this, but I loved these 50+, 60+ men doing their thing with grace and pure enjoyment. I´ve been doing flamenco, a solitary dance for a long time, but am thinking it´s time to learn some partner moves. So much is revealed in this mode of social intercourse and I remember loving those disco days back in the 70's.

The stay feels all too short. I never conquered the subjunctive, got to see the interior of the Teatro Juarez or see the mummies (no big loss there, but thought the kids might enjoy them.) It always feels that just as you get your travel legs, it´s time to go, but what I take back with me is this wonderful sense of having plunked myself down into a new place and reveled in all of its idiosyncracies (back to tossing toilet paper in the bowl), it´s taste delights (chile & salt on fruit, yum), its people (lovely to look at and friendly to boot) and its mirrors. For in leaving home, you get to see yourself in a different light. Often that´s in the eyes of the new beholders you meet, but more so in how you feel when untethered.

This street was the last one we walked down before heading to the airport. Noah decided to try yet another shoe store in hopes of finding his high top Converse and by pure chance, in a tiny hidden shop, he hit the mother lode. That's one thing I will always remember about Guanajuato; how you can set out to find or do one thing, or nothing at all, and something quite surprising and wonderful happens. Here's to new streets, new corners to turn and new vistas ahead.

Guanajuato Day 15

Last night we have a lovely dinner at an Italian restaurant that’s been decorated with tons of folk art, painted furniture in bright colors and woven fabrics, heavily carved beams. European cuisine is welcome after a week of burritos, tacos and enchiladas, although the kids fall asleep waiting for the ever so slow service. I forget how meals are really a time to relax, and not a rushing, re-fueling station they tend to be at home during school time. The restaurant over looks the centro and one of the churches had a light show in which the windows light up from the inside with various hues, like passing fancies.

More rain on our next to last day and I do a spin class in the morning to replace my morning hike up the hill to school. I already miss the morning conversation class and requisite grammar practice which I will have to keep up at home if I’m ever to beyond this level I’m at.

The Diego Rivera house where he was born, now houses some of his non-mural works, which reveal his many varied styles, from pointilism, to cubism, to representational portraits and a style which I can only liken to Koonig. I was only familiar with his murals which are fantastic, but these pieces reveal so many talents and also the evolution of his subject matter from traditional oil renditions of wealthy family members to the depiction of socialist topics in his later and bigger works. Frida Kahlo was featured in one room and heavily in the gift shop. Of course, she’s much prettier to look at than he was, but the museum was really about him and his work so I was disappointed not to find a gallery book as I was caught taking the only 2 pictures I got.

The rain is beginning to get a little boring even to this desert dweller, and I wish I had my cello for practise while we wait out the thunderstorms. But I like the groove we’ve gotten into, with lunch at the Senora’s and then more exploring in the afternoons and dinner at some new place. The kids are trying to convince us to adopt the 2 german shephards on the roof nearby as they’re convinced they’ve been abandoned. Someone finally came up to clean up all their poop so we’re relieved that they’re not truly strays. I am understanding more and more their desire for a pet, although I’m not quite ready for the responsibility which will ultimately be mine as I’m at home more. Some of these big brown eyed creatures to just cry out to be taken home, given a warm hearth and a few thousand strokes behind the ears.

As our visit draws to a close, I feel unfinished business. Not sure what I had expected to accomplish here; certainly benefited from the Spanish immersion, but also had some ideas about international living. Perhaps because my childhood included so many wonderful experiences in other countries, I have a peripatetic gene which went dormant for a while and has now awoken. This stay was too short to have a real sense of living/working abroad, but I did approach the school about coming back to offer a workshop I’ve recently been trained in and I like the idea of bringing my limited talents to places I want to know more. I love this cross-roads where people come together from different places with a common goal and hope to make this kind of “vacation” a habit.

These 2 pictures of Rivera’s caught my attention for their different textures and imagery. The Virgin receiving her “saliva” from the tree in all her fertility and the woman holding her hair. As I know a little about Rivera and his treatment of Frida, and perhaps women in general, I wondered if he held a Madonna/Whore dichotomy vis a vis females. Don’t know enough; would like to know more, but at any rate appreciated both these pictures for their divergent depictions.

Guanajuato Day 15

Last day of classes and a brief afternoon outing to one of the mines where we descend into one of the hand picked tunnels and imagine waht it was like to haul 60 kilos of rocks on your back up ladders made from tree trunks. It´s always a good reminder of what humans are capable of when under the yoke of slavery or necessity or religion as we witness in the incredible church across the street from the mine´s entrance. I think of what all that gold leaf on the filigree could do for a church´s ministry and sigh. I think christianity admonishes not worshipping idols but that´s what they all look like up there on the wall behind the altar, dripping in oro and beatific facial expressions. I do love the idea of church, and sanctuary, but wonder how much time, money and effort is spent in the administration of various religions, rather than the inner experience.

Moments here¨

teaching the grandaughter, Ferdie, how to play my flute. she gets the embouchure right away and produces a few notes, not an easy task on an open holed instrument

the three girls playing jump rope on the roof

Noah self wrestling on his bed with his luchador mask on

late night meals on the jardin watching the world go by

cups of elote, cilantro, chile, limon y sal on the street

the break of dawn with mist in the mountains

the hot sunny air after a day of rain

wet green cobblestones

orange walled churches

the chocolate used for their hot drink

the human buzz of city life

vendors with their wares

piles of figs on display

Couple

Here´s a marriage made in heaven.

Guanajuato Day 14

Two yowling cats wake us up before dawn. They are either in heat or distressed at another days arrival. There is no way to sleep past 6 am here, with dogs, gas men, street noises rising straight up the hill. I love the lights against the sleeping town as the sun rises; they remind me of golden buttons on a velvet jacket as the giant wakes from a drunken stupor and tosses off his raiment.

In conversation class we discuss infidelity and how in Mexico it is more the women who are unfaithful, what with their husbands away all day, motels fill up around 10-11am. There is still the machismo problem and young girls are often advised to marry gringos because they don’t beat up on their wives, earn more money and respect women more. I might argue to the contrary given our own domestic violence problems but we all agree that the internet, TV and international travel have affected expectations of relationships. One woman knows someone who refuses to communicate with anyone by telephone; it must all be by e-mail. We all wonder how this generation of children will grow up and learn to navigate life, love and all that goes with social intercourse if they do it with a screen between themselves.

On the way back from school we heard the sound of clog dancing or something rising up the hill. Closer to home we found the source, the Ballet Folklorico of Guanajuato practicing in an inner courtyard. It was hard to recognize them win their warm up attire, missing the colorful huge skirts and the men’s machetes. We’re sorry there are no musical/cultural events these week, but the kids enjoy an impromptu children’s show about Water Awareness in a town square. It seems this week some water convention is working on a new reservoir and a plaza was filled with displays illustrating the history of water use and Greenpeace had a tent up. I was aware of what a university town has to offer over some smaller bergs.

Finally we see a sight, the Alhondiga, or grainery, which was the seat of the Mexican revolution. A beautiful building with some wonderful murals on the entrance and exit stairways. The museum has displays of some very delicate oil portraits of early residents of the town and also ancient Indian art and clay pieces. I am more moved by the small painting of an old woman; sadly my flash was not allowed but I did catch a picture of this solid and proud looking couple.

Tomorrow is the last day of school and I feel like I’ve only just begun to get a handle on understanding how limited I am in this language. I also realize how little I know of this city, having stayed fairly central, choosing to hang out with the family and listen in on people’s conversations in the square. But it’s been wonderful to talk to all the different teachers at school’s and get a sense of the bigger picture in Mexico at least socially and politically.

Tempest

Torrents, slice down
the night towards
inner tunnels,
thunder cracking at
the edge of sky
while lightening
breaks open
a universe of stars
waiting to be held close
in fingers clawing
towards earth.
Inside this cannon
the sound claps and rips
and roars into ears
searching for a sigh,
a sweet caress,
a nod towards
the heart
which lunges
and leaps within
when wet shoulders shrug off
the mantle of familiarity
and open like
a sluice gate
to the unknown.

Guanajuato Day 13

Last night’s thunderstorm was magnificent, but made sleep difficult. The kids slept through it all, but these tempests always stir the soul for me. Living in the desert as we do they are welcome change of atmosphere; the electricity snapping, calling my dendrites to attention. I love the experience but it made for a groggy morning of conjunciones de moda.

We taste some wonderful homemade ice cream on the way home from school and my stomach survived both the street vendor’s enchiladas de las mineras and an apple from the mercado which I ate with skin on. (I like to live dangerously). We have yet to do any major sight seeing, although all sights are new for the kids and just the experience of hearing the language, whether on the streets or the Disney channel, seems to be helping in class. One of their teachers remarks how smart they are (who, my kids?), how polite they are with each other (what, my kids?) and what a delight they are to have in class (you’re kidding, my kids?). I guess they have the Jekyll & Hyde thing going on. They’re not fighting the homework anymore and it all seems to come easily to their little sponge brains. Pretty soon they’ll surpass me, subjunctive and all. But I guess that’s the plan.

Having this family is an extra bonus, with the two girls, there’s always the opportunity to chat, the senora and her grown children are good for a discussion of something or another, so I don’t mind, missing the museums right now. I’ve heard some of the host families aren’t as hospitable, so I feel fortunate for the room service, good typical meals (except today when they ordered pizza because the senora had to go to a funeral) and friendliness. I also love how they all live close together, unlike so many of our nuclear families back home. Hanah spent the afternoon playing jumprope with the girls on the roof patio.

I am more and more aware of this town as a center of government and tourism and how this is a particular kind of Mexican experience. Were I in Mexico City, a beach town, or small pueblo, it would be different, just as the U.S. has a many subcultures. I feel ever the outsider, especially as I power walk up the hill to school in the morning, past the local’s casual ambles, with my backpack filled with the family’s umbrellas, water bottles and cameras, ever the tourista. I would love the opportunity to live and work here, find the carniceria, lavanderia, biblioteca etc. and blend in as much as my gringa looks allow. In conversation class we get to discuss many of the cultural differences between the States & Mexico, but I feel more of the universals when I look around me. How families matter, how people look groggy in the morning on the march to work, how construction workers stand around at break time eating their taquitos, admiring the women, how kids enjoy the same computer games, how seniors navigate the streets with care, how dog poop everywhere smells like shit and a baby’s smile anywhere warms the heart.

We talk about what’s going on in Lebanon/Israel and throw up our collective hands that things will ever change. The teacher notes that they never have Bush admirers attending the school and we’re not surprised since so few of his party seem to have any interest in life beyond our borders. And I fear that this is what will do us all in, this lack of understanding that humans are the same everywhere. Just look at the children. You can teach them hate as easily as love and acceptance. And don’t get me started on the word “ tolerance.” It should only be applied to a stomach-ache, not a race, people, sub-group or belief system.

Michael took this picture from our rooftop, looking down the steep callejon. Even from this distance you can feel their connection.

Guanajuato Day 12

8.1.06


I break my 25” record walking the mile and ½ uphill to school by 3” and realize how much I miss walking back in LA. You miss so much inside your car or public transportation: the smells, shoulders brushing on narrow streets, the careful navigation of dog poop and potholes, attentions to details on a house door, eye contact. Pedestrian cities have an entirely different feel from vehicular ones and I think of New York’s energy and San Fransisco’s compactness and Paris’ street life and so many metropolitan areas in which I have lived, where I have felt more alive than in LA. I don’t need much in the way of commercial venues, but I do enjoy cultural events, educational opportunities, a good coffee shop, dependable electricity and fresh produce; which nowadays leaves many options in the world open. What I am reminded most of here in Guanajuato and my brief visit to San Miguel is the importance of the central plaza, the meeting place where people parade and discourse. You just don’t pull over to the side of the road in LA to chat with a friend you meet at an intersection.

In saying hello to a worker at the school, I think of how Spanish uses Buenos Dias, the plural to wish one a good day. In French, it’s bonjour; Italian, buon giorno, German, Guten Tag and English, Good day or Hello, all singular formats. Am not familiar with enough other languages to know how others greet, but this idea of wishing someone a series of good days, rather than just one at a time is interesting. More reason to romanticize this language I am so greatly enjoying right now.

Michael and the kids take the funicular up to the base of the great statue of Pipila as I hike up the steep steps, which are virtual rain gutters after the afternoon thunderstorm. It’s a typical tourist sight with vendors and food stands and Noah buys these weird things called Snake Eggs. Ovoid magnetic metal things which, when tossed into the air, snap to each other and click wildly. For some reason I find them fascinating, this tizzy of activity between two opposing poles, that brings them together, like long lost lovers. He stands at one end of the plaza tossing and buzzing his, while a man on the other end, seems to respond in kind, tossing his own. I buy a set for myself, finding the smooth shapes soothing and think I’ll use them in a sort of meditative way, like the Chinese use those musical cloissone balls, the name of which I can’t remember. They remind me of conjuctio, that attraction of opposites which seems to drive so many relationships, biological functions, psychological battles and outright insanity. What makes two opposing forces, such as the magnetic poles, seek each other out? Did Mother Nature design everything with a missing part so that it would seek it’s tally-half? This seems to drive so many great love stories, such art as I understand colors to be complimentary, symetry a desired goal, those musical phrases which cry out for the resolution of chords and arpeggios.

Here´s to those wonders in life, which ask us to look beyond, within, without for questions and answers and those odd media, such as a child´s toy which prompt them.