notitas Oaxaqueñas

Change’s Dark Truth

2011-12-20T19:48:00.000-08:00

In March, I make a 6-month sojourn to my beloved Oaxaca. This poem reflects some complicated feelings about change and leaving. It is a pantoum, a 15th-century Malaysian poetic form with repeating lines in specific stanzas -- however formulaic, to me it works like magic.

Change’s Dark Truth

It’s strange, I haven’t left yet,

and the memories are already here,

shadowy and beautiful,

telling change’s dark truth.

The memories are already here --

the Magnolia, magenta petals blazing,

telling change’s dark truth,

and your soft gray muzzle nuzzling my chin.

The Magnolia, magenta petals blazing,

and the bullfrog wintering in December’s pond,

your soft gray muzzle nuzzling my chin,

and the women in the shower room.

And the bullfrog wintering in December’s pond,

moist scent of Sassafras in the childhood yard,

the women in the shower room ─

Will I know them forever?

Moist scent of Sassafras in the childhood yard,

shadowy and beautiful:

I will know it forever.

It’s strange, I haven’t left yet.

In flux like a river

2011-08-24T12:54:00.000-07:00

I confess.

Much as I try to make it so, Oaxaca is no longer the city of my memories or my dreams. I must admit: I’m not imagining the changes since 1994. They are real and reflective of the global economic crisis, changes within the whole of Mexico, and the United States.

I’ve hinted at this in previous posts: There are many more people in this city ─ come from surrounding villages to make a living. And precious little to be had for so many. More cars, trash, pollution; few regulations. Corrupt government ─ perhaps it was ever thus, but most people I talk with agree that in the last 15 years the Oaxaca state government has made a mess of things and the city is still experiencing aftershocks from the 2006 protests and crackdown. Today I see strain on many of the faces I pass. My friend Donna tells me less tourists are visiting the villages. Many pueblos are self sustaining, but it’s sad that there’s less sharing of their customs and crafts.

Those who came to Oaxaca with me in 2003 remember Gustavo Esteva, the consummate intellectual and activist. Gustavo has grave concerns about Oaxaca and continues to work for its good at his nonprofit, “Uniterra.” Drugs and violence exist in Oaxaca he says, but they’re not operating like the Cuidad Juarez cartels. Reports of violence in Mexico need to be put in context.

Alas, the only constant is change. Or in Heraclitus’ more poetic version: “Upon those who step into the same rivers flow other and yet other waters. All things . . . are in flux like a river.”

I’m definitely in the river. Todavia me encanta la luz en las montañas, los parajos, flores, mariposas, colores, la gente, los mercados, l’arte, la musica, la cultura, el espíritu. … I still love the light on the mountains, the birds, flowers, butterflies, colors, people, markets, art, music, culture, spirit. And Gustavo tells me he has hope! And that despite these trying times, Oaxaca is still one of the best places to live in the world.

Oaxaca Today

2011-08-16T15:21:00.000-07:00

Noise: Cars, trucks, buses, motos, gas man (“Gas de Oaxaca!”), water man (“Agua!”), church bells signaling misas at all hours, firecrackers ─ for weddings, funerals, fiestas, kids’ pranks, anything; people talking loudly.

You can’t buy things online and have them delivered here. Amazon, for example. But there’s a great library started by expats and I’m now on my 3^rd John Burdett mystery/thriller starring the Bangkok Buddhist cop, thanks to the Oaxaca Lending Library. You just can’t get lots of things here ─ like good beauty products and sheets.

On Saturdays the Lending Library has Intercambios which match you up with a native speaker who wants to learn English. For one hour we speak English and the next hour Spanish. My match was Gabriela, a charming 21-year-old from one of the pueblas, studying English, German, and Mandarin here. Her father and one of her brothers (there are 5 kids) ─ who were farmers and whom she hasn’t seen in 6 years ─ are working in Philadelphia as a chef and a waiter. Her first question to me in English was “What are your dreams?”

“Do you mean what do I dream when I am sleeping, or what are my dreams for the future?” I asked.

“For the future,” she smiled broadly. This is one sweet and soulful young woman. When she grows up, she wants to live in Chiapas, travel, study languages, and be a translator.

Last Friday was Dia de Taxis ─ Taxi Day. The drivers decorated their taxis with flowers, ribbons, pinwheels. First they went to mass together to bless the taxis. Then breakfast, then they drove around all day in full regalia. Taxi Day is one of the things I love about Oaxaca.

Art, too. I’ve been coveting prints by Fernando Oliveira for years, and just bought a black and white lithograph ─ half price direct from the artist! What a thrill to see the maestro at work in his studio! This one is called “Dolor y Resistencia” ─ Pain and Resistance. It pictures the women of Juchitan, a region on the isthmus of Oaxaca, who are protesting that their men are desaparecidos (disappeared). The rooster, carried by one woman, is a symbol of new life.

Musings

2011-08-10T10:29:00.000-07:00

I’m ditching poetry today in favor of spilling my guts about challenging decisions, aging, and being alone. Apologies for not being uplifting, dear friends. I’m thinking of that adage, “Wherever you go, there you are” ─ I think Jon Kabat Zinn coined it. That is, you bring yourself, with all its beauty and blemishes, all its lifetimes and karmic debt ─ some paid off if you’ve worked for it ─ to Oaxaca or Tuscany or Berkeley or wherever you are. And so I found myself up at 3:30 a.m. drinking hot soy milk (leche sin lactosa) with honey and wondering how it would be to move, retire, age here ...

Walking ─ a favorite pastime ─ is an art here and not for sissies. Cobblestone streets ─ some old, some newer ─ are always uneven. And because there is no money to fix infrastructure or it’s directed elsewhere, most sidewalks have a hole you could step into, trees with roots that can trip you, or garage entryways slanted at 45-degree angles. Pedestrian right-of way is unheard of ─ a very occasional kind soul will let you walk. And by the time you figure out if a stoplight is red or yellow or green, it is red. I don’t feel invincible now that I’m past 60 …

With my job gone, I see now that I’m thinking not only of moving, but “retiring.” I thought not working would be a no-brainer, but ─ some of you know this ─ it’s not. So the prospect of creating a new kind of life is one challenge; doing it in Oaxaca is quite another. Surely there could be more to life than strolling around town and having late-afternoon comida with friends ...

Being alone ─ well … it gets lonely sometimes. When I’m not with friends, little Gardenia (right) and I walk these streets together, doing our best.

To be continued ... maybe poetry next time.

¡Que Sorpresa! what a surprise

2011-08-06T07:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday a surprise -- not the usual Friday at Pochote, the organic market in Xochimilco, but a mini-Guelaguetza! ─ with dancers from the different regions in Oaxaca dressed in their regional best, showcasing la danza de la pluma, la danza de la piña, etc. What a treat while shopping for organic produce, drinking jamaica and eating tortillas from a hot grill with chicken, mole, and salsa. The streets are swept clean of the big Guelaguetza, which entertained thousands and ended Monday, the day before I arrived. The city is beautiful, sparkling in the mornings after evening thunderstorms. A quietness, a tranquility here, a sweetness I’ve never known elsewhere that always delights. And that truth that abides everywhere in the world, but that is merely, blatantly, and laughably obvious in Mexico ─ that nothing is as it seems, nothing can be certain.

Por ejemplo, Donna, la dueña of my apartment, invited me to go to the opening in Colonia Reforma (a neighborhood northeast of the Centro), of a Mixup store (music/records) , where Lila Downs ─ world-renowned musician, daughter of Oaxaca ─ was singing. After all, it was publicized. What was there? An i-Shop (an Apple store!) with a small Mixup logo on the exterior, some Apple products, no records, and Lila Downs’ lilting voice piped into large speakers. Most interesting were the crowds of Oaxaqueños trying out the i-Pads, i-Pods, etc. with great gusto. Apple has won over Oaxaca.

Shape Shifter

2011-06-28T14:22:00.000-07:00

Shape Shifter is an homage to my sweet boy, Dexter, who died on June 17. He was, in all regards, a miraculous and wonderful dog, the sweetest and most tender soul I have known, a constant companion through good times and stormy ones for 12 years. In his last year, he had the great good fortune to live with me in the sweet little house on Boyd Avenue, where he cavorted with the backyard bullfrog and pond turtles, and from where he took so many lovely walks, savoring the scents of our many neighborhood dogs. No doubt his scent, and definitely his spirit, still lingers on many a Rockridge bush and flower.

Shape Shifter

I rode the high waves of grief
atop your sleek strong black back
in a dream, holding tight to your collar
of dancing bears
your heart-shaped tags
making jangly night music
in the high-altitude wind.

Your long velvety ears touched

my face as we flew past galaxies
exposing the alabaster tunnels

through which you heard me plead
I will love you forever
And onward your legs with fine gold-fringed feathers
paddled as they did in your sweet dog dreams,
and gently set me down in a land
where the light was clear as crystal.

I must go, your deep brown eyes explained
though my legs stood wobbly on this new ground

and my heart broke open spilling

its love on cactus flowers

Now when on occasion I slip,
heavy with sorrow, below the waves,
you come, shape shifter,
as the little white dog prancing lakeside,
the backyard bullfrog,
the grocery boy who ran to me with a flower bouquet
when he heard you’d gone,
the tree that will grow from your bones.

Resurrection

2011-04-16T18:17:00.000-07:00

Each April

as the sun warms and dries the damp

Easter taps my shoulder.

I am not ready

for the Alleluias

lillies

lambs

I know Good Friday well --

the black veil,

the cross,

silence

April’s new light

stuns,

terrifies,

and I am

disoriented,

unsure

which way to travel

yet

in the photo held with a magnet

to my refrigerator door

I’m smiling,

wearing the bonnet

with pink and lavender blossoms

above black netting

Each April it’s something

of a miracle --

somehow the eyes adjust,

the pulse quickens,

the feet step

first one, then the other, and,

when all is sung and done,

something primeval in me

says yes.

Misery

2011-03-20T17:03:00.000-07:00

I say I

absolutely will not hate myself

though

memories in muscles, tendons, ligaments

heart, belly

conspire.

They cannot speak

in words

yet

there is in every bloody cell tonight

lamentation

the unfathomable

unstoppable

nagging

that nothing ─

warm milk, the bath, the late-night call to one who loves me ─

soothes.

I want to be somewhere

not here ─

far from this day’s

boredom

co-worker’s harsh words

loneliness ─

to inhabit

some other body

that remembers

the cradle of capable arms,

the lullaby’s lilt.

Still I

sit with

breath

out

and wait

for tomorrow.

Homage to Maverick

2011-03-20T16:40:00.001-07:00

I only met him three or four times,

Plenty Abell Bright Star (Maverick)

yet

when I heard the old setter died

my heart ached

for a being

so beautiful ─

in silken, long, curly, black coat

and gold fringed feathers

spitting image of my sweet boy ─

Maverick’s issue,

whose dark eyes can see your soul

and almost no one passes on the street

without a look

of amazement

and joy

Virtue

2011-02-19T10:31:00.000-08:00

I’ve been thinking

how life is short and

how to live it well

I’m not thinking

of sins and virtues or

the seven deadly habits of

highly effective people

I mean happiness --

like seeing –

how big is the sky,

the bullfrog

come from the bottom

of the backyard pond

to feel

the soft spring rain

on her horny head,

the man who works so diligently – on what?

in the cubicle down the hall,

how my whole body softened

at that baby’s smile

beneath the framed glass

in my allergist’s office, and

my friend’s smile even after

the bike accident

broke bones in his face.

Some days I see myself

wanting to stay in bed

coveting someone else’s life

peeved

full of me

with appetites too big to quench

and then

I remember

this one beautiful day

waits.

Magnolias

2011-02-05T18:10:00.000-08:00

The Magnolia tree on Boyd

has a whole new look

A new spring outfit

the first on the block to strut her stuff

Petals deep pink

Ostentatious

point skyward

and as each day lingers

just moments longer

she shows a little more

of her milk-colored velvety insides,

pistils and stamens standing straight up

beckoning the honey bee

dazzled by the show

but disappointed,

her nectar saved for the beetle

The moist green leaves are all gone

shed one by one

and for just a moment

the bungalow shows off

her clean pointed roof line

blue green shingles, white and maroon trim

against bare branches

The flowers in the canopy whistle

to hundreds of buds below:

Open! Show off!

Show everyone

on Boyd Avenue, Berkeley, and beyond

how beautiful and grand you are!

and blushing, the buds begin their slow dance

Penultimate Post?

2011-01-04T07:49:00.000-08:00

Leaving Oaxaca is like leaving an old friend, my family. It has always been thus, and my heart is heavy.

This is a real life trip! Not vacation. I’ve learned so much ─ how to get water, go to the doctor, keep the cockroaches away, do the laundry, shop at the markets, cook for myself! My Spanish has improved just by listening and speaking; the Oaxaqueños are patient and sweet with me. Mostly I’ve been in the city ─ lived in three different neighborhoods ─ and I’ve been out to Monte Alban (first time in 7 years) and the market at Tlacolula (not since 15 years). I’ve haunted the Zocalo ─ it’s best in the mornings when the vendors haven’t yet cluttered it’s beautiful plazas ─ listened to the state band, attended the Anteguerra ─ a lovely musical ensemble and children’s Christmas choir ─ gone to an art opening, lunched with friends, watched the New Years Eve fireworks at Santo Domingo from bed, and learned about renting apartments and building houses. Attended an Anglican service and a Catholic Mass ─ neither are quite right for me. Could I start a UCC in Oaxaca? I’ve been writing!

I want to live here. I knew it a week into the visit. I have one immediate and important thing to tend to ─ learning how to manage my allergies in this dry season when dust and pollution hang heavy in the air. I must also plan dear old Dexter’s care. This is a tough place for a big old dog ─ he’d have to stay in the house, going out only at certain times to a park where there is space for him to walk. Maybe he’d be happy enough just being with me. We’ll see if he lasts the year or so before I move.

Thank you, dear friends, for riding along with me on this journey. It’s been that much more joyous, inspiring and enlightening because you have followed and encouraged me. Nos vemos pronto, we’ll see each other soon.

El primero de Enero 2011

2011-01-01T12:22:00.001-08:00

Los trabajadores de municipio, the city workers, must have been up all night sweeping, you could eat off the streets this morning, and only one balloon vendor in the Zocalo! Breakfast with Jim Breedlove, with whom I delivered art books 5 years ago ─ donated by Francisco Toledo, the city’s preeminent artist ─ to one of the villages. It was a project of Libros Para Pueblos, an organization that works with parents, teachers and town leaders to provide appealing spaces and attractive books so Oaxacan children can learn to read for fun.

Here’s a denouement to a 7-year mystery:

The First Congregational Church of Berkeley women who came with me to Oaxaca in 2003, brought a check from the church for $200 for Libros Para Pueblos. Some will remember. Months after our trip, someone from Outreach told me the check was never cashed. In the topsy-turvy-ness of divorce, I didn’t follow up. I mentioned this to Jim over breakfast today. He remembered the check well and apologized for Libros Para Pueblos for not following up ─ they didn’t feel they could accept a donation directly from a church; too much evangelizing here.

Oaxaca’s new Presidente del Municipio, mayor, was inaugurated this morning at La Plaza de la Danza in front of the Soledad church ─ lots of people in suits, lots of speeches. Oaxaqueños are cautiously optimistic, eternally hopeful ─ a new mayor, new governor, new party (PAN), new start.

December 31, 2010

2010-12-31T17:24:00.000-08:00

Estimados Amigos, esteemed friends, Feliz Año Nuevo!

I am spending New Years Eve happy as a clam at high tide in my pequeña apartment at Casa de los Abuelos. Very Mexican and cheery. From my upstairs bedroom I can see the soaring twin domes of Templo de Santo Domingo. Feeling human again after three days of being muy enferma con la grippa, flu, and lucky to have kicked back with it at Casa Colonial. Sweet memories of our First Congregational Church Berkeley stay in 2003.The agave plant at the Casa is enormous; Jane says it's Thorny's spirit -- it's grown by leaps since his untimely death a few years ago.

Yesterday, cabin fever threatening to drive me poco loco, I went with one of the Casa’s guests from Cambridge, Mass, to the ruins at Monte Alban, what an amazing, always fascinating place. Lois wore a pair of sunglasses so unique, the frames like leopard spots, exactly like a pair I once owned. She got them, she said, at a flea market in Boston. Could I have sold them at my leaving-Brookline garage sale in 1983? Could they have passed through many hands and ended up on Lois’ face? Is this the 7 degrees of separation?

Very few Americans in Oaxaca, a sign that recession still has us in its throes, sad. Now that I am regaining health, I am in love again with this place. The wind carries dust and diesel fumes along with the rich smells of elote, grilled corn on the cob and moist corn tortillas. Everything washed smells like bleach and borax.

The taxi driver who drove me and my things 12 blocks across town today crossed himself at every church we passed ─ many! Perhaps praying for a good new year. May his prayers and mine extend to you for peace, love, and happiness in the new year.

Sidelined

2010-12-29T08:52:00.000-08:00

Sidelined by La Grippa , the grip. But thank God I am gone from the apartment at Abraham Castellanos and am now at the Casa (Colonial) for a few days, where I can sit in the garden and let the sun soak through me. No running around the city or out to the villages for a few days, no cooking. No chasing after las cucarrachas, who yesterday seemed determined to tell me good riddance, and I them. They are like small military tanks, sending me screaming from the room, which sends them scurrying under the clothes closet. I don’t know why the Casa doesn’t have them, nor does K.T., or Donna Pierce ─ I will have to learn their remedy or else I will have trouble living here. Soledad at El Topil says she doesn’t have them, but I am dubious when she leaves two big vats of mole uncovered overnight in her kitchen.

Teresa and l'otra Soledad are cooking me wonderful meals. Amado, bless his heart, took me to la doctora around the corner from the Casa. There is a new organization called Unidos Para Ayudar, United, to Help. A young doctor sits in a small office from 9 am -9 pm next to a pharmacy. No appointments needed, people are admitted first come, first served. She checked my throat, told me I had an infection, prescribed amoxicillin, cough medicine, ibuprofen for the inflammation in my throat, and something para la nariz, the nose. I paid la doctora 25 pesos (about @ $2 USD) and then $18 USD for the medicine. Amado says this operation is funded by a wealthy man who has some sort of bone to pick with the pharmaceutical industry in Mexico, who knows how long it will last. Esta curioso, like so much else, but you don’t ask too many questions.

El Domingo

2010-12-26T13:49:00.000-08:00

Soledad gave me explicit directions

but the taxi
couldn't find her casa
on la privada and drove off,

my sunglasses on its seat.

It was a thirtieth birthday breakfast

for her nephew Roenstand

Las calles no tienen nombres,

las casas no tienen numeros

A woman walked with me

until we found it.

Inside were introductions,

café, huevos, tortillas,

frijoles, pan dulces

They were quiet

Only la mama smiled

They didn’t know what to say,

neither did I

until I asked the dog’s name

Later Sol’s sister Antonia and her daughter

came close

Hablamos
como old friends.

A Wonderful Life

2010-12-25T16:59:00.000-08:00

I have had the most wonderful Christmas ─ a mestizo Christmas! Thoroughly Oaxacan ─ starting with una misa (mass) on Christmas Eve in el Templo de San Augustin. The communion line, serving , I’m guessing 200-300 people, moved faster than ours does at First Congregational Church of Berkeley, with Padre Jose popping a wafer dipped in wine into open mouths about one per half-second. I was shivering with the return of a virus (la grippa) I and many others have been fighting, and understood little of the padre’s sermon, but his gestures and words, spoken with such heart and soul, warmed me. When the prayers were said and the Glorias sung, all 200 of us lined up for our opportunity to kiss the baby Jesus doll in his cradle. The women before me caressed him, spoke to him with all the delight and tenderness of mothers, kissed his small plastic fingers and lips. Soledad and I went to Bar Jardin for a late snack, listened to the marvelous marimbas, watched the carros from the villages driving around the Zocalo with children all dressed up playing Mary, Joseph, Jesus, and the Three Kings.

The next day an American Christmas! La grippa almost stopped me from going to the Christmas Day party I’d been looking forward to all week. But how happy I was to be the guest of my new friend Donna Pierce, at the home of ex-Berkeley-ites Kathy and David! As much as I adore Oaxacan cooking, I was ecstatic to have an American Christmas dinner! ─ turkey, gravy, ham, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, green beans, baked beans, stuffing, cranberry sauce, sweet potato pie!

I am making new friends, speaking Spanish, writing, loving it here. Loving it deeply.

Following the Star

2010-12-23T15:06:00.001-08:00

The poinsettias ─ hundreds! ─ were planted in the Zocalo a few days ago. This day / this night is Noche de Rabanos (Night of the Radishes) ─ an exhibition in the Zocalo of amazing figures sculpted from radishes. Now I know Christmas is coming.

There are signs subtler than radishes. This morning the Sanchez Pascuas market was bustling more than usual. As I passed through after a hike in the cerro del Fortin, I saw a young man consulting a long list I imagined his Madre or Tia or Abuela had made to prepare for Noche Buena. There were small wooden mangers for sale and I understood that the moss I’d seen for sale in the market earlier is to make the mangers comfortable for the baby’s birth. The churches are dressed up with flowers and greens. And, I’ve noticed ─ in homage to globalization ─ strings of Christmas lights on some houses, a Toyota decked out with reindeer antlers, niños posing for photos with Santa.

Shops and restaurants are closing early tomorrow. Christmas Eve is the big event here, not Christmas Day. Families pray at home or go to church in the evening, and have a special meal around 11:00 pm or midnight. I’ve been invited to Soledad’s house for Christmas Eve, but I don’t know if I can get a taxi back to my apartment at 1 or 2 am. She’s invited me also for Christmas Day breakfast; that may be a little easier. Amid the hustle and bustle, hope is in the air. We are waiting. The child comes!

Walking

2010-12-22T10:41:00.000-08:00

Walking

These are the staples of my day: Up around 7, have a little something to eat with organic Oaxacan coffee. Then some writing. Comida (the main meal of the day) at 2 ─ sometimes with friends, or a good book. Intercambio with Soledad ─ she practices English, and I Spanish. Lots of walking.

Walking is an art here. I’m learning to walk mindfully, aware of where my feet touch the ground, looking down at the green stones, cobblestones, holes that could swallow a small person whole, places where the sidewalk is a giant step up from the street or an earthquake one day made the cement walkway like waves in a stormy sea. Respectful of the cars, which mostly seem entitled to run a person down if I’m not nimble or watchful enough when crossing, even where there is a stoplight. Striking a balance between letting eyes take in the richness above ground ─ shops, people, food ─ and keeping a careful eye on the feet that could not walk three years ago and now carry me magnanimously all over this wondrous city. Dexter, sweet old dog, would have a hard time here.

Here is a story I wrote in 2003 about falling in Oaxaca :

Falling

I’m walking fast, my mind on important things. My leather sandals chafe tender broken blisters and tempt the uneven sidewalks on Oaxaca’s Cinco de Mayo to trip me on my way. In less than a second, I am flying through the air, landing without controls, smashing my left elbow and knee into its craggy concrete walkway.

“Shhhhhh-it,” I murmur, aware that the Oaxacaqueños congregated here might look askance at a Gringa lying belly down on the sidewalk, swearing, her loomed shoulder purse and mesh shopping bag having flown off her shoulder and arm, lipstick, Kleenex, books and electronic equipment flung in the four directions. Out of the corner of my eye an outstretched hand, a man’s I think, though I don’t look at the face. I take the hand. “Estoy bien, gracias,” I say with assurance, though I feel small, vulnerable beyond measure. “Gracias, estoy bien.”

“Su camera,” the voice says, handing me my camera and tape recorder. I take them. “Gracias.” Stuffing the spilled goods back into the bags, wiping the sidewalk’s grit from the seat of my purple jumper, I stand tall and proceed forward on the sidewalk, though I am aware of the flayed skin and reddish brown lumps already forming on my elbow and knee, aware that my spine feels out of alignment, my neck, shoulder and back stiff from the body tensing as it crashed. When I arrive at my destination, on time, sweat at my temples and in my armpits, muscles in knots, I learn that Juan Manuel left five minutes ago.

Things often do not go as planned in this city that is trying hard to catch up with the developed world. But then things often do not go as planned in the world at large. This evening the President of my country announces that the United States will invade Iraq.

In the morning I am filled with sorrow for the world and for myself. My left elbow and knee are tender and swollen. I am angry and ashamed to be an American at this time, so sad to be leaving my beloved Oaxaca in a few days, despite its damned sidewalks. Tears spring to my eyes. I’m thinking how little control any of us has in this life. Pulling myself together, I assure myself, I can come back to Oaxaca. And I can protest this war. But what about falling?

What about walking on uneven sidewalks? I wasn’t paying attention at the time, anxious to get to the meeting that didn’t take place. So, I think, I can walk more carefully, like the Buddhists in walking meditation. Breathing in, I feel where the street turns cobblestone and massages the balls of the feet, where it drops off into a dip and then a gutter easy for the foot to slip into, for the ankle to twist, and the body to hurl into the air and crash into concrete. Breathing out, I feel joy. Um. Right.

Colonia Reforma’s sidewalks are like waves in a concrete ocean. Here the earth has moved many times, causing the feet to have to step up, watch for the place where the concrete disappears, then step down over the chasm, trusting the body’s joints to bounce like well-oiled ball bearings. The Centro’s sidewalks have holes like Swiss cheese and giant steps down to the street. Stoplights change without a yellow warning; pedestrians have no right of way. Walking here can be hazardous to your health.

I took that outstretched hand on Cinco de Mayo not looking at the face, especially avoiding the eyes that might expose my tender places, and maybe those eyes weren’t seeking mine either. In this culture that is so gracious, perhaps there is something of what Octavio Paz calls masks. A vulnerability hidden behind the graciousness, because this — falling — is not really supposed to happen. Me duele la rodilla. Me duele el codo. Literally translated, “It hurts me, the knee.” Not my knee, not my elbow. But we are vulnerable. We do fall.

On my last evening in Oaxaca, I stop in the Templo de San Jose, its cool stone floors a gift to my feet, wounded from the bounce, jiggle and heat of walking all day on sun-baked cobblestones. Here in abundance are candles and calla lilies. I drop my gaze and ask God to hear my prayer and hold it, join it with prayers of others for peace in the world. Has God heard enough prayers within these centuries-old stone walls to turn swords into ploughshares? Maybe not. They say that when a butterfly flutters its wings on one side of the world it causes a commotion on the other side. In this temple I am not in a hurry. I fall on my knees with grace.

The Dark Side

2010-12-20T14:54:00.000-08:00

Don’t get me wrong. It is full of light, color, and beauty here, but there is a dark side ─ Oaxaca's shadow, as Becky would say. Here’s how I see it. When I first came here in 1994 with David, the outlines of the Sierras were sharp and clear against deep blue sky. Today, the high peaks are perpetually shrouded in a polluted haze, their outlines indistinct, blurry. There are more people, more cars, buses, trucks, and too much diesel fuel. Too much trash, not enough environmental awareness or funds to do anything about it. More and more vendors ─ people who’ve come to the city from the Sierras ─ selling cheap stuff in the Zocalo, the Alcalá, and Santo Domingo. You can’t see the Zocalo too well for the vendors, and there are not enough buyers to get rid of all the stuff. Women from Chiapas wearing black skirts, babies on their backs, wander the Zocalo hawking chiclets -- Jane believes Oaxaqueños are trafficking and warehousing them, giving them the skirts and the tienditas they wear around their necks. I heard there was a drug shooting in front of Santo Domingo a few months ago. Burger King has a place on the Alcalá, and guess what? -- there's more obesity here. Cell-phone ringtones have joined the cacaphony of band music, marimbas, and pirated CDs blaring from market stalls, and kids have tattoos and face piercings. Globalization has arrived here.

So Oaxaca is going the way of the world. Whatever violence is here still can't rival what takes place in Oakland. I feel perfectly safe walking Oaxaca’s streets at night. And for all the reasons in other posts, I'm still saying Yes.

Visions of Sugarplums

2010-12-19T14:32:00.000-08:00

In these days before Christmas, visions of a life in Oaxaca -- my life! -- are dancing in my head. My heart is full with new friends. Everywhere my senses delight in color, sunshine, music, beautiful people, glorious artwork, delicious food. Everywhere ─ despite much suffering ─ is kindness, gratitude, celebration.

Last evening as I walked north to collect my laundry and come home to an empty apartment, I was sidetracked by some new friends ─ expats living here ─ who convinced me to walk south with them to the Museo de los Pintores Oaxaqueños (Museum of the Oaxacan Painters). Famous artists like Rufino Tamayo and Francisco Toledo are exhibited here, and last night’s opening honored an artist who makes whimsical and fantastic animals from pieces of scrap and used metal objects. If I move here, I will have to change my early-to-bed habits ─ life begins after 8:00 pm; the exhibit opened about 8:30, tamales with mole were served by 9:00; Oaxacan music and dancing followed. What fun!

My new friend, K.T., a former Manhattan-ite who bought and created a beautiful home here 4 years ago, gave me lunch today along with some frank talk about the cost of living, health care, renting apartments, buying and fixing up houses. I think it is all doable!

There is a glimmer.

Joy.

Rightness.

Blessedness.

Tomorrow this may change. Today my heart tells me Yes.

Meeting the Other

2010-12-18T13:47:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning at the Oaxaca Lending Library ─ a hub for ex-pats ─ I sat with 15 women in their 60s and 70s discussing Louise Erdrich’s novels. After a week of hard work stretching and straining to understand and make myself understood with the water man, the trash man, the tortilla man, the landlord, the laundry lady, the key maker, and the hardware man, sitting with these women was like nestling luxuriously into a soft, downy chaise. Easy. But not exhilarating.There is a place for this.

In the afternoon I went to a party at my friend Gustavo’s NGO, Universidad de la Tierra, in Colonia Reforma ─ a working class neighborhood away from Oaxaca’s touristy Centro Historico. Dear Gustavo hugged me deeply ─ we had not seen each other in 5 years. There was a potluck ─ I brought pasteles pequeñas (small cakes). There were small gifts for all – each of us took a number and claimed our corresponding gift on the long table. Mostly there were Mexicans, all ages, from 3 months to 70s. Gustavo gave a little speech about celebrating hope. I met a lovely Mexican woman, Lina, a psychotherapist who volunteers at Casa de las Mujeres ─ and we talked ─ really! ─ in Spanish.

Something good about being stretched, meeting the other. Something exhilarating about understanding the differences, claiming the similarities, opening the heart.

P.S.: Today is the Festival of the Virgen de Soledad, the city of Oaxaca's own saint -- stay tuned.

A roller coaster ride

2010-12-17T07:32:00.000-08:00

A roller coaster ride. Yesterday no water ─ an empty tinaco (the tank that sits on the roof) ─ how was I to know? A good intercambio with my friend Soledad ─ she practices English and I practice Spanish. She’s having a bad time keeping her restaurant El Topil open ─ FCCB women may remember our meal there. The Triques have set up a makeshift vending area in front of her door and no one sees that this sweet 25-year old restaurant on La Plazuela de la Bastida is there. A budding “fusion” culinary trend has taken hold here, too ─ I can get a fabulous organic goat cheese salad, but it’s hard for a traditional cook like Soledad to keep up. Later, after waiting until dark in the Zocalo for a friend who never showed up, I came home sad and lonely, not realizing that last night was the most important calenda (parade) leading up to Christmas in the state of Oaxaca. Indigenous groups from many regions come to the city to parade through the Zocalo to the Basilica Soledad, where dancers perform the Danza de la Pluma on the church steps. I missed it, listened to the fireworks in bed.

This morning I am up early, taking my laundry around the corner to the little lavenderia across from Sanchez Pasquas market. Reyna Leonor Vargas Hernandez takes my dirty clothes with a smile, promises them for tomorrow morning. Next to her shop the tortilla man presses soft, fragrant tortillas made of maiz; most people buy them by the score; when I ask for two, he gives them to me waving away my money and wishing me a good day. Warm, mouth-watering tortillas for breakfast, the promise of clean laundry, clear, bright morning air. Gifts to start my day.

Real Life in Oaxaca: Bloom off the Rose

2010-12-14T21:17:00.000-08:00

I’d had twinges for days around my right arm and shoulder. Yesterday, jet-lagged and walking up Garcia Vigil with bags of groceries, I stopped, short of breath, in La Iglesia Carmen Alto. So when I awoke at 4:30 this morning with pain in my chest, I thought I might be having a heart attack, and who would I call? I’m in a stand-alone apartment on a quiet street; a physiotherapist office on one side and I don’t know what on the other. At 6am (4am your time) I called my dear Sue, who thought it might be anxiety but encouraged me to see a doctor. Who? How? George, who I met last July ─ a friend of a couple of old lefties I grew up with in Baltimore, gave me the name of his internist. I called, no one answered. I walked to the office, it was locked. The cardiologist across the street wasn’t in until 5:30pm; his secretary sent me across town to another. Dr. Aragón said my EKG was normal, my heart sounded OK and my BP, a bit high, was coming down. “Tranquila,” he said warmly, as he handed me a prescription for Tafil (Xanax).

The Oaxaqueños would say I’ve had a susto (fright). Just before I left, old Dex had a seizure. His caregiver had a crisis, leaving me to find another on short notice. Last Wednesday my cleaning ladies unwittingly locked me out of my house, having first flushed a sponge down the toilet. So when I got to this apartment Saturday at nearly midnight and the key didn’t work ─ I had to hail a taxi, find where my friend Donna lives, get another key ─ and the next morning I had a backed up toilet, I guess I began to get anxious. It’s freezing here. The apartment is poorly stocked (not even a spatula), has horrible fluorescent lights running along the tops of its 12-foot bare lavender walls, and a bad drain in the shower. I bought some warm ropas usadas (used clothes) after seeing Dr. Aragón and got eggs, fruits, and vegetables for dinner. It ain’t perfect. But with a heart still beating for Oaxaca, I’ll see what tomorrow will bring.

Super Perfectionista en Oaxaca

2010-12-13T14:34:00.000-08:00

It is because I am a super perfectionist that I love Oaxaca’s messiness. It reminds me that I am human. The old tile floors of Cristina’s apartment, cracked and grey where the grittiness of the city has seeped in. The masking tape, peeling away from the window grate ─ no way to keep the cold air out ─ 38 degrees this morning and no heat in the house. Rebar poking up from the pillar outside the living room window, and into my consciousness. Always something unfinished here.

A man sits on a step near the fountain a few steps from la Iglesia de La Soledad. There are some bags by his feet. It is warm at 4 p.m. He holds his head in his hands and does not look up when I walk by. What sadness or hunger or other pain he suffers I don’t know, but my heart aches for him. A wizened woman sits on the sidewalk. Tiny, she must be sitting on her knees, unless she has no legs because I can only see her skirt. She holds out one hand, palm up. It never moves. She stares straight ahead.

You ask, “How will the face of the Christ child come to me this year? In the man on the step, the woman on the sidewalk.

So, I am here. It was a hard trip. After having to break into my house on Boyd Avenue last week because the cleaning ladies locked the wrong locks, I couldn’t get into the apartment at #109 Abraham Castellanos at 11:30 pm Saturday─ the new key didn’t fit. Something about entry and barriers has been haunting me. But I am in; all is well, and all will be well.

Not Knowing if I'm Going or Coming

2010-11-14T17:19:00.000-08:00

In a dream

I wrote my future

Carefully crafted my last years

in words, my own voice

which said

I could create the future in Oaxaca

there would be time to write

not speeches for others’ voices,

but poems

about color

corn

birds

music

Have you heard the saying

You write because you must?

Who said that?

I must,

though I don’t know why

I don’t know why

I’m thinking about forgoing a condo in Berkeley

I don’t know why

I’m so scared

or why it must be Oaxaca

And I must start over again

My friends are here

Grand Lake Hardware, Berkeley Bowl, Cole Coffee

beloved church

the sweet old dog, longtime partner in life

he might stumble

on Oaxaca’s gritty streets

What if my writing isn’t any good?

27 years ago I moved across the continent

I worried to death, how would I iron my clothes?

When I arrived, I bought an ironing board.