My Life at Sky Farm

Ducks in a Row

All organic yummies

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For years I have been visiting my sister’s family farm, Sky Farm, located between Houston and Austin in the rolling green pastures of south central Texas. Decades ago we lived at another farm/commune nearby so Jody’s place seems pretty much like home. Furthermore, my father’s grandparents were from that area. They are actually buried about five miles away in the Catholic Cemetery in Industry. So, yeah, it would be easy to put down roots as.  it seems I already have roots there. I have posted a blog to that effect on my other blog site. http://howtofindhappinessinyourself.wordpress.com/2013/04/30/roots-in-the-sky/ I think you will enjoy it as another chapter in my wanderings.

Here’s to your health, happiness, and wisdom,  Marie

More musings:

Indifference wears torn jeans; detachment, a saffron robe.

Solitude is a poor counselor.

Saved by the 7th Day Adventurists

(It’s best to read “Stuck in Paradise,” my last post, before reading this one. It describes how I got into the specific predicament that compelled me to hitch a ride to San Diego with missionaries.)

Bravo! Ole! I made it out of Mexico! As described in my previous post “Stuck in Paradise,” it’s really hard to travel from the Sea of Cortez, Baja California to Marfa, Texas. To describe the two places as “remote” is an understatement, and transportation to either place is a major challenge. You travel at your own peril.
In early March, I had begun my Baja trip with three new friends in their big Ford F-150 king cab. Twelve days later I was “abandoned” by my friends who decided to keep traveling into the Mexican mainland, and I had to determine a way to travel the approximately 1400 miles back to my hometown Marfa. It had been made clear to me when I signed on for the extensive journey that my friends had a relaxed time table of “about three weeks,” I just didn’t know how relaxed it would be or that they would decide to travel to the mainland of Mexico.
Once I got over the shock of the email informing me that they wouldn’t be driving back on Highway 1 to fetch me and take me back to Texas, I planned my escape. I was to take a slow bus from Mulege, Baja, where I was staying, to Tijuana. Then I would take another bus to San Diego, then the Amtrak train to Alpine, Texas. Upon reaching Alpine/Marfa, I would have to talk someone into driving me to Odessa, Texas to pick up my truck that I had left at our point of departure. It would take, at least, four days from Point A to Point B to C to D, and blah, blah, blah. An alternate travel plan would have been to take a couple of airplanes, plus a bus or two, plus a few other maneuvers; but it would have only saved a day and cost twice as much. There was no easy way to do it. “You can’t get there from here?”
Mulege is Marvelous
Meanwhile, I was staying in one of the world’s coolest, cheap hotels in a gorgeous part of Baja, waiting for my friends to return when I got their email saying that they had decided to cross over to the mainland. They would NOT be circling back through Mulege to pick me up as originally planned. They knew that l “could find a way back.”
After I explored my options, I booked a ticket on the Amtrak to Alpine, departing San Diego on Wednesday. (That itinerary only runs on Wednesdays and Sundays.) I was still in Mulege on Monday morning at my hotel, drinking coffee with Alfredo, the concierge.( Alfredo made coffee for me every morning before knocking on my hotel door and saying, “Esta listo el café, mi reina. The coffee is ready my queen.” How bad can life be when you have a man making your morning coffee and calling you my queen?) We were chatting when two guests walked into the reception area to tell him goodbye. I had seen them around the hotel over the week; and they looked really “gringo;” but I was wrong. The gentleman, Alej, said, “Adios Alfredo, we’re heading for San Diego today. It’s been great knowing you.” I heard “San Diego” and my heart literally skipped. I thought, “This is meant to happen. I’m gonna ask for a ride,” which I did. I said, “Er, hmmm (in Spanish), do you think you might give me a ride to San Diego? I’m small, I’ll pay. I don’t have much luggage.” They said they’d think about it, and they later agreed to do it. It took me fifteen minutes to pack!
I, too, had taken a moment to think about traveling with them. I didn’t know these people; I had a fairly solid plan (even though it’s not recommended to travel on the highway at night in Baja on the highways. The roads are dark, narrow, and frequented by cattle and burros. Daytime is totally safe.) Also, I had to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything critical within the few minutes I had to pack up. I ran to the cash machine for 2000 pesos; I checked my list, realizing that I would miss buying a couple of gifts for back home. Oh well. Half an hour later I was on the road in my new buddies little sedan.
My Missionary Travel Mates
Alej and Berta, to my surprise, are 7th Day Adventists, or as I like to say, 7th Day Adventurists. They are missionaries and had just been in Mexico for ten days, visiting prisons and clinics, delivering Jehovah’s message and a lot of bibles and books. Upon hearing of their mission, I thought I might have to listen to two days of proselytizing. Indeed I was to learn a huge amount about the 7th Day Adventists, but it was OK. It was more about their enthusiasm than my conversion.
The main mission of the 7th Day-ers is to make a difference. I heard countless tales about their forays into skid road, their food pantry deliveries, their garage sales to fund philanthropic projects, such as the work in the Mexican prisons. Of course, it is all couched in “Christ’s word.” I explained to them that I practice Buddhism, thinking that this would dampen their enthusiasm to present the 7th Day message to me. They were very polite and probably pulled back a bit on “Christian” principles which ironically correspond fairly closely to some of those of Mahayana Buddhism, my practice which focuses on compassion for all sentient beings and our common good.
I tried to explain to them at some point when they kept mentioning God that in Buddhism there is no “creator” and, therefore, no God or Jehovah in the typical sense of the word. I said that for me God is the spiritual spark within each of us and, simultaneously, the unifying, non-dual aspect that IS what we perceive as reality. I don’t think they were going there with me.
Anyway, we got along great as we drove across Baja, a road well-traveled by them for many years. They are some of the kindest people I have ever met, devoting a big part of the last thirty years to helping others. They impressed the heck out of me. Of course, it got a bit heavy at times. At some point Berta gave me a very literal explanation of Eve’s sins in the Garden of Eden, that Adam had only gone along with Eve’s slip up with the apple because God had said that, once, they had eaten of the tree of good and evil, death would begin. Adam didn’t want to live without Eve so he went along with her apple-eating behavior, after which they had to wear clothes, women suffered in childbirth, trees grew thorns, and so forth. This story was hard to stomach for a Buddhistic, feministic, skeptic; but I was polite.
However! This is the question: how can two perfectly kind, smart, practical people “buy” the bible quite so literally. Not only do they believe in the literal meaning of the bible, but they teach it constantly. The irony is that their particular type of Christianity follows what I consider to be Christ’s example. This is good; I would describe them as Christians. But I’m inclined to think that I am also a Christian, a Christian Buddhist. Why not? OK, it’s not that simple. Tomes have been written on the subject, but Christ would encourage us to question our surroundings and our personal convictions: “Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.” When we surrender our intelligence to dogma, we elude our inner truth that is our birth-right. Right?
But back to the 1000 mile car ride with new strangers, it worked out just fine. Alej is tall, elderly and rather dignified. He descends from Spaniards, the English and the Tarahumara Indians. Berta looks totally Irish but is also Spanish. She is short, plump, and talkative. They are both very attractive people, it’s easy to see how then can easily connect with those with whom they share their message and their bibles.
Baja, the Alligator Peninsula
The Baja Peninsula is a real alligator of a land formation with major hills and mountains. Driving it on the narrow highways is exciting if not down-right dangerous. Alej drove like a maniac around the narrow, hairpin turns. Occasionally, Berta would say, as we headed into a tight, blind curve “Not now. Too close.” Or I would see her little hand squeeze his leg as we drove up a steep hill, passing a diesel. But, by the first afternoon, we made it to the small town of San Ignacio where I had stayed for a couple days before with my friends.
They looked for and found a local resident who is a 7th Day-er. They delivered more books and a stack of nice men’s Chino slacks. Earlier that day they had delivered a device to check blood pressure and more bibles to a woman at a tiny, clinic. Their mission is pure; their hearts are, too.
We left San Ignacio after grabbing a couple of snacks from one of the countless tiny stores in any Mexican town, and we headed for the north Pacific coast. It was beautiful as is all of what I saw of Baja. The countryside is amazing with the most interesting flora imaginable: huge sahuaros, strange elephant trees that look like muscled human limbs covered in small green leaves, and tall organ cactus with brown beards. All of the above are sprinkled over distinctive hills and mountains that tumble down into the Sea of Cortez on the east and the Pacific on the west.
And it is a barren and sparsely populated terrain! We saw several sites where someone was selling gasoline on the side of the road for those unfortunate souls who might not make it to the next gas station. In Mexico, one must improvise to get by and/or profit by shortfalls in the economy and the infrastructure. (Baja is not cheap, however. I was surprised at the prices for food and lodging. I don’t know how the locals afford it.)
After we arrived at and spent the night in San Quintin; we made it to the US border and Tijuana the next afternoon. The border crossing was quite distinctive from the crossing at Presidio, Texas with which I am so familiar. As we sat in my hosts small sedan, creeping toward the customs booths, we were surrounded by food vendors, kiosks with folk art, garish t-shirts sellers, little ole’ beggars with grandkids trailing alongside, and the cacophony of vehicles, vender shouts, and even a group of mariachis. We were still in Mexico even on the cusp of the cooler and quieter US soil. Berta had brought along a big bag of sweet Mexican oranges that she distributed to others around us. (You can’t carry citrus into the US.)
Back in the USSA
Asked we made it past the Border Guys, I was delighted to be “home” even if Mexico is my second home. I knew that within two days, I’d be back in my own town, even if not in my truck and bed. We drove directly to the hotel that I had booked on line so that I could spend the night and catch the train the next day. I bid my dear friends of two days adios, and they drove home through the San Diego afternoon traffic.
I spent that night in an America’s Best Value Inn which is top-notch for price and as well as necessary travel features. A huge benefit is Balboa Park which is astonishing and only two blocks from the hotel. I “killed” twenty-four hours in the enormous park that was the site of the 1915 World’s Fair. It has amazing architecture and gardens and is worth several days of exploration. One day, I hope to return to the same, nifty hotel and the park.
Onward and upward! Arriba y adelante. I was in the Amtrak station by 5:00pm on Wednesday. The station itself is special with ornate early 20th century architecture, a vaulted, beamed ceiling, and intricate tile work. By 6:00, I was on a quick commuter train to LA, traveling along the Pacific Ocean with its oodles of waves and even a few surfers. My heart longed to be on the final train, the final leg of my journey. I wanted to be in my train seat, reading a book, enjoying my trajectory toward Alpine and home. Home! Home! Just get me back to my ordinary, extraordinary life with a bed and my truck and my own coffee pot and yoga mat and meditation cushion and post office and friends at the library and so forth and so on. I know how Dorothy felt when she clicked her heels together in “The Wizard of Oz.”
Of course, the irony of it all was that I had rented out my house for several more days to a couple from New York State. So, in truth, I couldn’t go home for a couple more days. Fortunately I have a friend who saves me from myself from time to time, so I knew I would have a soft landing. Even when I’m home, I can’t always go home.
The Cajun Car
The ride on the Amtrak was very cool. I was given a seat on what I like to describe as the Cajun car, or even the Coon Ass car, in my father’s vernacular. Amtrak assigns seats according to where the passenger will depart, so I was on the long haul to New Orleans, New Iberia, and parts east. It was dark-thirty by the time we settled into our seats so things were quiet; the only noise was from a fussy baby about six feet away. (Teething?) I had ear plugs and a Benadryl tablet to help me sleep, and I did manage to drowse off for a while.
Daylight the next morning found us in Tuscon, Arizona. We all got off for a stretch; and I was surprised to see men with dogs sniffing around. (The men and the dogs.) Reportedly, the train is a common way to transport illegal stuff. They had snagged someone on the periphery of the train. Even more amazing was the story I heard about the man who had been put off our train earlier in some remote stop; he had been smoking in the train which is a major No No. Do not EVER light a cigarette on an Amtrak. You will be tossed out to the mercy of the sahuaros and coyotes!
Then El Paso and, finally, only a few hours from home. By Thursday afternoon as we left El Paso, several of us were in the lounge car, drinking beer and playing dominoes. That’s what happens when you’re on the Cajun car. This is not to cast aspersions toward my friends from the southeastern USA. We had a good time, became fast friends, and went our separate ways many laughs later.
It was a strange experience to be sitting with my new friends, looking out the train window, watching my Marfa hometown as it came into view, and then explaining to my friends that the train would not slow down to let me off, to walk the three blocks to my house. I pointed out the regal courthouse across the street from my house as we whizzed through town. It was like something out of a Borges novel. Woman spends four days trying to get home and then watches home disappear. Of course, the next train stop was only twenty-six miles away so I couldn’t get too upset. I was almost there, almost there, almost there, then I was there! Home at last. My good ole’ friend was waiting for me at the Amtrak Station in good ole’ Alpine.
Hindsight
What did I learn from my travels and travails on my Baja adventure? I learned to ask more questions before signing on with others on a journey. In hindsight, I could have ascertained that my mode of travel would not correspond to my friends’ way of doing things. I was too optimistic; read Polly Anna. Furthermore, I learned that Mexico, specifically, Baja can be very safe; I had to hitch several rides from people I met, here and there just to get around. I also learned from the 7th Day-ers that you can trust the “kindness of strangers” and see into their hearts most of the time but not always. I was reminded that life is frequently confusing and one must always keep one’s sense of humor and patience because the next thing that happens may well change your situation making it OK. Curiously, I learned that Mexican men think older American women are universally, highly-sexed. I learned that my life is always and adventure, sometimes it’s fun; sometimes, scary; always, it’s a gift just to be alive.

Stuck in Paradise

The tiny pueblo of Mulege, Baja California rests in the arms of the Sea of Cortez, tucked into the gentle grasp of Concepcion Bay. It is simple and quaint with no great churches or historic plazas. The residents are friendly and laid back. Within a good bike ride are some of the most beautiful beaches you will ever know opening onto turquoise waters that provide a good livelihood for the local fishermen.

I happen to be in Mulege, staying in La Hacienda Hotel, because I have been abandoned by three friends with whom I arrived a week ago. They have gone south, leaving me to my own devices, as they drive their big Ford F-150 toward Cabo San Lucas and across to the Mexican mainland. I have felt a pretty strong impulse to slash the tires of the big truck since I received an email explaining that they are not planning to swing back and pick me up later in the week as promised. Adventure calls and they are responding. Of course, I can’t and won’t do damage to the big truck or to them, but I have been left in a pickle here, approximately 1600 miles from home in the middle of Mexican nowhere. As they pointed out in the email, I “can manage” as I am a seasoned traveler in Mexico and fluent in the language and ways of the country.

I guess they are right. At this moment, I am sitting on Coyote Beach, about 12 miles from Mulege, and surrounded by so much beauty that I can only rejoice. For whatever reason I am still here, and I am privileged to look out across the vivid blue waters of the Sea of Cortez with small islands punctuating the horizon. From the island rocks tall sahuaros erupt impossibly. Small boats are sprinkled along the shore, having returned from the morning’s harvest of fish, gulls, pelicans, and frigate birds, all of which dive or fight aloft for each other’s catch. I have a towel, hat, sunscreen, and a good book. Paradise.

I am stuck here because I jumped at the chance to “do” Baja with three people whom I hardly knew. They came well recommended as persons who had done dozens of guided tours for college kids into northern Mexico. Due to the reputation created by the Mexican “druglords,” field trips are a thing of the past, but they wanted to do Baja anyway. I have traveled in fourteen states in Mexico but never Baja.

It sounded great. We were taking sleeping bags, ice chests, and beach chairs. It was to be a great trek from the top to the bottom. I visualized camp fires, Tecate beer, and howling at the moon. Maybe great conversations about the geology, fauna and flora of the area. While a bit of that did happen. I learned about the rocks from the geologist; we saw the whales in Guerrero Negro; but basically, we spent our days looking for the next place to eat or a hotel to stay for the night. Two of my three companions are actually unable to walk moderate distances at a normal pace. The other member of the party is a Mexican American who appeared to me to be a person of considerable rancor especially toward his fellow Mexicans who work in the hotels and restaurants where we were spending much of our time. He seemed to be incredibly rude and astonishingly demanding. He was, ironically, a great tipper. After he had totally discomforted the wait staff, he would leave a big propina, Hopefully that made it all OK.

I am trying really hard to not feel pretty stupid about undertaking a trip which will end up costing me a lot of time, money, and some anxiety as I try to figure out how to get out of Paradise. This nagging feeling that I have made a terrible mistake is characteristic of us humans. Disappointment is a part of the human condition. We tend to see things dualistically as if upon getting richer, more powerful or attractive, we could solve something. As if we wouldn’t still feel dissatisfied. The glass is always half empty for North Americans. Our society and our economy are based on the drive for bigger and better.

Meanwhile, I sit on this ring of sand and shells. A snowy egret walks slowly in front of me, lifting his long, stilt-legs very carefully, searching for prey in the surf. Moments ago the guy who took me horseback riding a couple of days ago drove by. We laughed and chatted; it’s a small world. He told me about a party happening later at a beach spot for the “snow birds” who are still in the area, soon to return to Arizona, California, Nevada, and Canada.

So I’m good. I have to forget about my half full or empty glass, the friends who left me stranded, the hassle of getting back home 1600 miles. The real problem is having a glass at all. No glass, no judgment, no next thing to do. Just Paradise. I am grateful to the people who placed me in this position so that I could have a reason to be on this beach and so that I could study my own reaction to their actions and realize that whatever happens, it’ll be OK.

Prologue: I left the beach, hoping to catch the bus that I had taken to get to the beach. It usually stops for travelers waiting in front of Bertha Chicken Café. I had tried to stop it once before without success so I was concerned. The way to “catch it” is to see it coming and run to the other side of the street to flag it down. As I sat at Bertha’s drinking a Tecate, a truck pulled into the drive. Previously I had been told that people hitchhike a lot around Mulege due to the primitive public transportation system, so I walked over and asked the men in the truck, “You guys headed for Mulege?” “Yes.” “Gimme a ride?” “Sure.” I hopped in.
They were headed into town to deliver the sea cucumbers that they had caught that morning. I learned that they had boiled them (alive?) and were soaking them in a strong brine solution before drying them and sending them to Japan. That’s how they make their living. Fascinating. I made it back to Hotel Hacienda safe and sound. Now just back to Marfa, Texas.

Tepoztlan Faces “Highway” Assault

Find Freedom from the Illusion…of Rain

Last summer it was announced that the Mexican Federal Government, with the collaboration of the State of Morelos and the City of Tepoztlan, would expand the two lane highway that has served to unite the small city with the adjoining Cuernavaca since the 1966. It will become a four to six lane toll road to accommodate the semi-trailers that currently have difficulty negotiating the small mountainous highway and the increased number of cars bringing more people to Tepoztlan as it becomes more of a commercial center and less of a Magic Pueblo.
The apparent purpose is to create a conduit for the merchandise that arrives in the western port of Acapulco and neighboring Pacific ports; it will be possible to deliver goods within eight hours to the City of Veracruz on the Gulf of Mexico. The expanded highway will serve as a Panama Canal made of asphalt. Most of the products are reportedly Chinese, and many Mexicans will be glad to have cheaper products available to them.

Curiously, the small city of Tepoztlan is not an ideal passage for the 4 to 6 lane freeways. It’s a winding route and actually out of the way with a more obvious highway located near Cuernavaca, but according to Manuel Contreras of Tepoztlan, “… the other (much shorter and more environment friendly routes) are not “toll” roads and the government will not be able to build “toll stops” (“casetas” en español mexicano). We have official information that states that in a period of 74 months, from Cuautla to DF* (where you have to cross 3 casetas and pay around 15 US dollars to reach from Cuautla to DF) the government has got an income of 6,700 million pesos (558 US million dollars) and it has spent in maintenance only 1,500 million pesos (125 US million dollars) , so the revenue is about 433 US million dollars. With the lane expansion the toll grows as well. Good business, isn’t it? Of course the expansion opens possibilities to big chain stores, massive tourism and other extra gains for investors. “
*Mexico City

This reasoning would make the Mexican federal government a major financial winner in the highway/toll road expansion. I have also heard that the larger government bodies want to compromise the cultural richness of the Tepoztlan community which has resisted strongly any incursions of Big Business. The introduction of various chain stores and small factories might be desirable to the current population which no longer cherishes ancient traditions with the same enthusiasm. This may sound preposterous…that powerful political forces would want to shove Walmart down the throats of a highly unified and proud pueblo, but the current governor of Morelos, Graco, was party to the construction of a Walmart very near the precious ruins of Teotihuacan. That he would encourage the development of another one should not be surprising. There were also indications of corruption within the Mexican Walmart management at that time.

In 1995-1996, the community of Tepoztlan became famous throughout Mexico and even other parts of the world when the people of the pueblo, resisted the construction of an enormous resort and golf course which would have included box hotels and veniculares (cable cars) up the sides of the gorgeous mountains. The strong resistance then engaged much of the population, reportedly including grandmothers who physically blocked the main highway to stop the construction. Although there is considerable, similar resistance currently in Tepoztlan the road crews and their enormous machines have already downed several centennial trees in the wide creeks and destroyed the pasture lands near the roadways.
Again according to Contreras, “The government has done lots of work to misinform the people. The government is corrupted and it has economic interests in the expansion. (All the authorities of all levels are involved in the corruption). The recently TV Cable (there are no TV broadcast in this area) with all its rubbish has helped to keep people quiet. The system has made people to believe that “progress” means wide roads, TV, and supermarkets.” There was a type of community referendum lately in which several thousand people “voted, ” mostly in favor of the expansion. However, for weeks previously, the municipality of Tepoztlan had been handing out food as a type of incentive to vote for “progress.” And, as mentioned above, many people desire changes in the simple Tepoztlan economy; they anticipate greater economic opportunities.

Tepoztlan is beautiful. It is a federal nature conservancy, and the expansion would seriously impact it. Perhaps the word conservancy is used very loosely in Mexico. Apparently the presidential decrees that established the parks are being ignored by officials.

All of these developments are probably related to the Huexca Thermoelectric plant that they are building less than 20 miles from Tepoztaln. The government and private investors involved in the massive undertaking are unknown because the Mexico’s laws allow this kind of anonymity. In other words, it is hard to trace the money behind the projects to its source.

I will try to send post more information as I get it and understand it.

If I Were a Dolphin…

If I were a dolphin, would I have “thoughts?” Certainly, I would sense…the temperature of the water, the whereabouts of other creatures, my appetites at the moment, including that for the cute dolphin up ahead. But would I have actual thoughts that tugged at me from the past and the future? Would I be a victim of my prior conditioning or would I slip through the warm salty seas immersed, literally in my perfect milieu?

If I were  dolphin, at hand would be my no hands, that were hands millions of years ago, the mammalian paws that once padded the Earth, grabbed food and paddled across streams, finally slipping into the stream and, finally, the sea. My ex-hands would propel me rapidly through the sea-air as I sent my siren song, connecting me with my kind. We would raise our voices in a tapestry of sound, like liquid linen, weaving our world of water into a community as tight as any earthly cloth, to share and, occasionally, to rend.

If I were  dolphin, my thoughts would be the sedate and wordless with the cords and textures of sights and tastes and touches surrounding me with little or no sense of “I” and “Other” but much of me and us. An enormous sense of everything would swell within me as I became lost in the lake of my senses.

But, alas, I am a human, a quadruped with a big brain and bigger ego. The complex milieu that is my reality grabs me sending dusty reams of thoughts, long strips of conditioning. Indeed, to flow with my feet and hands and boxy brain is no easy task. But within my boxy brain are countless, colored bags which imagine a world without limits, a place of the sublime.

(Essay, inspired partly by Loren Eisley’s essay “The Long Loneliness” in The Star Thrower and partly by my continual exploration of the nature of the mind.)

Hello to Tepoztlan

It’s easy to let go once you don’t know you’re letting go.

Hola amigas y amigos. It’s been so long since I have checked in with you. Still I see your faces or read your words, either on line on through Facebook. I miss you and am always delighted to hear of your endeavors and joys. I especially like seeing your names on my Skype pop-ups and, in turn, seeing your faces. It’s a very nifty Pavlovian response, a smile.

I have tried to stay abreast of the crisis with the highway expansion through Tepoztlan. It would be truly horrible to radically invade such a beautiful pueblo. It would seriously damage the environment and disrupt the tranquility and traditions of our Magic Pueblo. I gather, from what I have been able to glen from the postings and links on Facebook, that there is an enormous resistance from within the community, that there will be a referendum, and that, as I type, there is a conference of organizations from all over the State of Morelos to address the potential damages and benefits of the highway’s construction. Here is a beautiful link in case you have not seen it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GjwiSfmz0X0 (Y tu, en que crees?) I can only hope that the Tepoztecos fight the destruction in the same way they fought and defeated the imposition of the golf course in 1995-96.

Of course, we are all celebrating the President’s re-election. His last term was problematic, but Romney could have been disastrous, especially for women, pacifists, and environmentalists. Let’s just hope that Obama decides to kick ass this time around and turn the tide of damaging practices that the entrenched super-wealthy and self-seeking have generated over the past twenty years. I hope this especially for my sons and their children.

I am OK, busy with my business and trying hard to not try too hard to decide what to do next in my life. I have been engaged with repairing my houses, renting them, and cleaning up after the vacation rentals that occur occasionally with my own home. I have also visited with family a lot, gone to a couple of Buddhist and yoga workshops, and so forth.

I have decided not to return to Tepoz during the holiday season as I will have time with my own family this year. Furthermore, the last time I made a thirteen hour trip from Tepoztlan to Marfa, it became clear that I could only afford to do that if I planned to stay a couple of months in Tepoz. The trip is just too long, exhausting, and costly. So I hope to return in February and to stay for a couple of months. Really that’s not so far off.
What else? I finished my book: Let Go of the Rope ,finally; and I am sending it off to the publishers. Wish me luck. It has been a great project, but I am tired of thinking so much about me. Next time I’ll write Sci-Fi or romantic fiction or anything that does not involve my life, angst, and epiphanies. I will bring a few copies with me when I come down so that you can have autographed copies!!

Please keep me in your hearts until I see you next time. I will try to translate this to Spanish soon for my less-ingles-hablante buddies. Hugs all around.

HOMEFUL, HOMELESS PERSON

I know that I should slap my own face!

With a large homeless population in my own country, how can I say that I am homeless? I know that I should feel ashamed that genuine and profound feelings of homelessness and displacement have plagued me my whole life. Yet for the past several years, I have found myself on the move, almost constantly, while owning three houses in the area of Big Bend in Far West Texas. The irony: I have always tended to feel homeless or as an outsider; I own three homes; I have decided that it’s OK, being slightly homeless.

Being single, over sixty, and with few family responsibilities, I am free to roam to Mexico, to Central Texas, to various retreats and resorts. I can go when and wherever my mood, the weather, and my finances permit. Of course, I have to take care of my houses and their residents (occasionally while griping and groaning about it); but it is how I survive, financially.

Case in point, I just returned from a great Buddhist retreat in Colorado; and my own Marfa, Texas house (the one in which I sleep most of the time) was rented out to visitors in my absence. I returned home expecting to spend the first night at a friend’s place then return to my own kitchen, washing machine, pear tree, and so forth. Unfortunately, my lovely guests had had serious car problems: their big Mercedes had, in a fit of pique, decided that it couldn’t go over 25mph under any circumstances. The guests live in Oklahoma City which meant they wouldn’t be driving it unless they wanted to spend four days driving home.

What was I to do? Of course, I told them they could stay a couple more days to await the car part and the repair. I could almost suggest that one shouldn’t visit Marfa in a Mercedes or a Volvo or any other seldom-owned car. Marfa mechanics and part stores are regular guys. Think Ford F250.

The status of my guests’ meant that I had to do some serious couch surfing! I had already been away for ten days; I had no clean socks; I had used up my multi-vitamins and hair-conditioner; my truck looked, rightfully, lived-in; and I was dying to get home, and watch my favorite TV series (“Reggie Perrin” and “30Rock’) on my own couch on Netflix. So I was homeless, and I had to rely on friends to put me up. Fortunately, two of my good friends were in Italy. They offered me their casita in Alpine for a couple of days. After that I knew that I could bum a bed from my friend and yoga teacher in Fort Davis. Then HOME?

This “sleeping around” thing is common for me recently. When I travel (a lot), I leave the isolation of my home and neighborhood for the social richness of places and homes where people either know and love me or are willing to know and love me. I may be deluding myself into thinking that my friends and family actually like to have me crash in the spare room, but it is usually such an enjoyable experience for me that I have to assume that my hosts also like having me visit.

My own home is an official vacation rental: VRBO #384654. I rent it to strangers online. They pay me; I make sure that the place is very clean and tidy; when they leave, I clean up or have someone else clean up. It’s simple. It means that I only make money when I leave so I leave a lot. People love my house! Just love it! So do I.

Since I couldn’t go home anyway when my guests sent their Mercedes off to Midland, I decided to do some work on my Alpine rent house. I was staying there anyway, and it would be ideal to re-do the incredibly funky screened-porch which had been ravaged by rambunctious two-legged and four-legged creatures for years. “Shouldn’t take that long;” I told myself, “I am already in Alpine. I won’t have to drive back and forth at almost $4 a gallon.”

Historically, my forays into rentals and home-repair have become a major part of my financial security. With the aforementioned screened-porch project, I tried to get some help to do the deed; but the lowest hourly rate I got was $30 per hour. My instant, internal, knee-jerk reaction (which is actually felt above the ears and behind the eyes) was “Good grief, replacing screens can’t be that difficult. Maybe I can do it.” I have had this type of reaction countless times over the past decades of landladyship. Sometimes it is justified; sometimes I cry. I only weigh 107 pounds, wet; and I never hung out with my dad as a child, learning how to drive a nail. I am strictly self-taught in the handywoman school of life.

Oh! And I do feel incredibly sorry for myself at times. I remember that “girls” aren’t supposed to do this kind of work…screens, simple plumbing, etc. I wish to have a man in my life who will say, “Hey, sweety, let me do that for you.” That would be cool, but it’s not happening, and the helpful male fantasy is much richer than the reality of most of my past relationships. I’ll just pretend that all my past husbands and boy-friends have gone off to an imaginary war (paint ball), and I am Rosie the Riveter.

As of today I have done most of the porch project! I exhausted the local supply of screen lattice trim before I could finish, but the local supplier promises to have more “soon.” I have also exhausted me which is why I sit here and type. My right hand, which did most of the screen stapling, keeps wanting me to lean into my laptop to get better torque, but I am restraining it so far. I consider cutting and hanging the screen a marginally heroic feat. Not exactly building the pyramids but tough work. Here! Here!

Now, I return to the vacation rental question: “Why is it acceptable to me to allow people to rent my own residence in Marfa, short-term?” Number one, I am well-paid; number two, the guests are on holiday and are vibrant with enthusiasm for Marfa and my house; number three, most of the visitors I meet are friendly and kind and grateful to me for renting the house; number four, I am lonely.

It is almost like a relationship to the extent that I AM the house. Seriously. For obvious reasons, I have had to store away my prized possessions, but I am still ALL OVER THE PLACE! Furthermore, the house itself has great character with tall windows and wood floors. It’s simple and lively. Like me. I think most people could say this about their own home. Your house reflects you.

I’m going to go off the deep end here and quote the Buddhist teacher Thich Nach Hanh who said, “You ARE your own home. “ He means that we carry our true value and truth within us without any need for possessions and projections. I am, of course, twisting his words, but perhaps our homes are more like metaphors for ourselves. If you are a clutter-bug, some part of you reflects the surroundings. If you are cautious, you will have clean window sills. This theory may seem dubious, but I like it.

In my case, ironically, because I travel a lot and leave my home for the use of others from time to time, it’s almost like I have surrogate companions. I can let others sit at my kitchen counter and enjoy them in my absence as they enjoy “me.”

Occasionally I get real cool comments like “We absolutely love your charming home-full of the most wonderful art, literature, and pottery, very comfortable beds, WiFi, and even two bikes. We weren’t here long, but we’ll be back!” I confess that this helps my self-esteem, and I like that people are having a great Marfa experience. It gives me a sense of community which I often lack.
My most recent, out-of-commission Mercedes, guests actually rearranged my paintings (with my permission, of course). She is quite schooled in art display as she owns a gallery. She suggested that a certain painting on Wall A might look better on Wall B and offset the heavy bookcase on Wall C. I said she should change it and handed her a hammer and picture hangers. When I returned days later, she had done that and moved a couple other ones for a wonderful effect. She was my art fairy.

The down side…there are major sacrifices such as couch crashing for an additional four days, not remembering where I am when I wake up, having to give away my sweet cat due to extended absences, not having access to my favorite jacket or coffee mug, or simply thinking that I am out of my mind. But it’s a lifestyle…the lifestyle of the homeful and homeless.

Ya’ll come back!

AT THE AUTOCYCLE ICEHOUSE WITH FRIENDS AND FAMILY

It’s a small space, seats maybe twenty, just outside of Bastrop. Think of a hand and heart-crafted cantina with an odd collection of comfy chairs, interesting art, old signs, and a make-yourself-at-home vibe. Dee Czora, the proprietess, with her husband Gene and his son Alex, have accomplished their dream of creating a spot for locals to drop by and have a brew or two, visit with friends, and listen to music.

On Friday, I met there with friends and my sons for a “soft opening,” and it was swell. My singer-songwriter son, Jake Riggs aka Jake Riggs and the Grown-Ass Band, entertained us with his songs and wonderful voice even trying out some new materials for our approval. The night was cool, the games were fun, the songs were wonderful. Of course, as his mom, I can’t be objective; but it was powerful to hear lyrics that I and others could relate to, even historically. Younger son Jordan was also at my side.

(Go to http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/hugesally1 to hear music cuts. I like “Emily.” Jake is also a member of Huge Sally.)

The day before the gathering, Jake, Alex, and I had attended the funeral of one of the boys’ old buddies, Cedric Thompson, who died of heart disease on Sunday. We had Cedric in our hearts as we sat within a couple miles of Shiloh Cemetery where he had been buried on Wednesday. Cedric was a great fan of Jake and his music. His untimely death is a tragedy for those who knew him.

But back to Autocycle Ice House, I have watched Dee and Gene build upon it for several years. It was not easy to convince their neighbors that it wouldn’t be a regular bar but rather a stopping off place for folks. Now customers can enjoy a nifty, intimate spot surrounded by trees, vintage motorcycles, and even ferns (though it’s hardly a fern bar.)
Dee Czora is one of my oldest friends, from the 70’s, the old Space City News in Houston and Space City Video in Taylor, Texas, where we resided in the old Taylor mansion with a motley crew of hippies and puppies. Those were the good ole days. In the interim we have managed to give birth to five children and bury two. It has not been easy for either of us, but life and joy continue, and sometimes you just have to build a place that people can enjoy and share it with them.

Visit the Autocycle Ice House 426 Highway 21, half a mile south of 71. You will like it. My son with the Jake Riggs Grown-ass Band will be performing on Saturday night at Shiners Saloon in Austin, corner of 5th and Congress, gather early, performance at 9:00. The James Watts Band performs at 11:00. Hope to see you there!

DREW BIRD AND GIZMO, THE PARAPLEGIC POSSUM

 Gizmo is a possum, a paraplegic possum that my friend Drew Bird rescued when it fell from the roof of Hotel de Arryan, the one she manages in Tepoztlan. Presumably the little critter fell from momma possum’s pouch and onto the patio below, as it was a little, tiny creature, only days old. The bad news was that the fall caused paralysis in the hind legs; the good news was that it had fallen onto Drew’s hotel patio and into her life. And it fell into my life as I was living there at the time.

Where to start…with the possum or with Drew? Drew I guess. She is a tall, shapely mid-fifties woman, she shaves her head and wears amazing couture EVERY DAY OF HER LIFE. She’s also an extraordinary hat and clothing designer and a consummate exhibitionist which is “part of her act” in an rather unusual sense of the phrase. Her web page is http://www.hatmosphere.com

I have spent weeks, twice, in the small hotel that she manages in Tepoztlan, Mexico; therefore, I have seen a lot of her. However, I have never seen her without a hat on her shiny, bald head. Even when making the morning coffee or feeding her many cats, she has something on her head. Sometimes it’s a small beany with a tail hanging off it.  I am not in a position to know if she sleeps in the beanie, but I’d be willing to bet.

Her hats (except for the beanie) are not ordinary but rather exotic. They are graphically complex networks of leather or feathers or wire or ribbon or flowers or artifacts or all of the above. She has a great sense of form and movement in her designs, and the human face remains the focus of the hat’s shape and texture. Her hats look good on her, of course, and always go well with the unusual clothing that she designs for herself. When Drew dresses to go to town in the morning, she is strikingly coordinated, so much so as to strike the eye of anyone she comes across. Oh! And she also wears odd shoes, usually heels, giving her gait a bit of a bump as she bumps over the already bumpy streets of Tepoztlan in her lively hats, with her big smile.

Pretend that you are in Tepoztaln and visualize a tall, pale women in a strange outfit which is tailored to her curvaceous form. She’s wearing a green and tan feathered tomahawk type hat on her bald head and hopping lightly on espadrilles down the rocky street. Visualize the several heads that turn to watch her and the big smile that she flashes as she says, “Buenos dias,” with an odd accent.

How did Drew happen?

 How has it worked out for her to be so willingly odd in appearance? Is she a fake? An exhibitionist? Did she come from outer space? Her life started out pretty simply in Wisconsin, then it got more complex when she left home at sixteen. She proceeded to struggle for a decade or so, working her way in and out of the world of acting and theatre, then clothing design, later forays to New York, Dallas, Los Angeles, continuing to be a creative force in the life of those with whom she came in contact.  Sometimes she experienced success, making good connections and some money, usually she just got by with hope and determination to continue to be Drew.

To explain how she arrived at Tepoztlan to manage a small hotel will explain her excessive generosity. It seems (to me) that she is seldom compensated properly for her creativity; therefore, she has had little financial security. She was tired of the struggle and decided to look for something less difficult after all those years.  Sometimes you just Let Go of the Rope.

(see my blog: http://howtofindhappinessinyourself.wordpress.com/)

Her “exhibitionism” probably started out appropriately as she promoted her designs in the theatre and fashion worlds. Then she became it. In the same way that someone likes to wear black or denim or whatever, she grew into her own projection of herself and became it. So now she is genuinely the woman with the odd hats and bald head. No fakery left. However, it’s hard to get paid for creativity. It’s the sixth lucky truth on my How to Find Happiness in Yourself wordpress blog: “Don’t sell yourself short. You deserve a return on what you are and do.”

The fact that she is in Tepoztlan where she stands out like a sore thumb rather than in L.A. or New York where she would draw less attention is simply happenstance. Tepoztlan was the place where she landed when she Let Go of the Rope. In her new, Mexican reality, she tries to sell a few of her designs with little success. There’s not a huge market for her haute couture. I have suggested that she implement her plan to do a series of form-fitting dresses with a large image of the Virgin of Guadalupe on them. No kidding here.

Another major facet of her character is her compassion for animals which is where Gizmo, the possum, comes/drops in. Only Drew would have a new-born possum drop into her lap. Fortunately Gizmo is pretty for a possum with nice facial markings. He even demonstrates a particle or two of possum charm, wriggling his pink nose with great gusto when near a new smell, pulling himself into Drew’s jacket with his tiny front paws that do work, imagining that he is back in the pouch.

AND miracle of miracle, Gizmo was ten weeks the last time I inquired and has regained much of the use of his hind legs, although he’s “not out of the woods yet.” Or, I should say that he’s “not into the woods yet” since that should be his destination. Drew is rehabilitating him, very methodically, forcing him to drag himself about on the rug, not allowing him to climb back into his wombic possum nest after he has had his meal of dry cat food soaked in milk.

What will happen to little Gizmo? Hopefully he will fully recover the use of his legs and be returned to the hills and dales of Tepoztlan. There’s not much hope of finding his mother,and she probably would not recognize him, having abandoned him at birth, more or less. The real threat is that he might think that he is a hat designer and try to recreate himself in his surrogate mother’s image. A bald, almost paraplegic possum with attitude might not make it in Tepoztlan. He might have to move to Berkeley.

About Drew? Well, make she glow and prosper. She is an amazing creation/human being with a bit of luck she will find her creative dreams as a hat designer, movie producer, animal rescuer extraordinaire.

SENDING RAIN TO MARFA

This Was Once Rain

Find Freedom from the Illusion…of Rain

I woke up in Tepoztlan this morning and decided to hike up the mountain. An hour later, as I sat inside the cliff shelter known as Los Corredores, above the town, I thought about sending rain to my hometown Marfa. To reach the cliff face, I had walked up the steep street of Aviceto to the barrio of Tierra Blanca and then up the muddy trails behind the neighborhood’s confines. It’s a good trek up, about 700 feet above the elevation of the posada where I am staying.

Everything is green and wet here! Everything, even things that shouldn’t be green and wet. It’s the rainy season, and water has returned like the huge white butterflies called panuelas, or hankerchiefs, that float around this time of year. By the time I reached the shelter, my pants and shoes were soaked, my heart was pounding, and I was in another world, again.

As I looked down from my perch on the smooth shelter floor, I became lost in my surroundings. In front of me were the green, copper-filled mountains, shrouded in mist; the sun was making a valiant effort to break through to them. Below lay a thick ring of woods; below and beyond that were the red roof tops, green gardens and quiet streets of the magic pueblo, Tepoztlan.
Suddenly, I could see or sense, anyway, the actions and the energy of the occupants of the town. Beyond the obvious roof tops and still tranquil streets, I could “see” the women sweeping the stone patios or kneading the masa for tortillas and the men feeding the animals, preparing to head for the corn fields outside of town. The kids were looking for lizards, and the teenagers were on their cell phones, texting a buddy for the day’s entertainment. (It’s summer.) And I was a part of all of it but at a tremendous distance. This seemed appropriate, all things considered.

Then I noticed the rain drops. I thought, “%^&*gow!” which is Spanish for “%$^k!” I realized that I hadn’t brought my umbrella as the sun had promised me to stay out. I decided that I would wait out the rain. After all, I was in the dry shelter, I was not in a hurry. I would meditate and play my recorder which I proceeded to do. Occasionally, I’d watch the rain, deciding whether it was letting up then I’d meditate and play my recorder. I have learned a Dzogchen approach to meditation which is called non-meditation. It boils down to simply taking it all in, all of it, even the thoughts and emotions swirling around the smells and the sights. I decided to non-meditate for a while longer.

Finally, I thought, “I’d better just go. It’s not raining that hard, I’ll get wet regardless. No big deal.” So I left the over-hang of the cliff to discover that IT WASN’T RAINING AT ALL It wasn’t rain but rather water spurting from the over-saturated cliff face and mountain that surround the shelter. The water was literally flying out of the rock and creating a delicate curtain of fat drops. The rain was an illusion that I had spent an hour waiting for it to stop. By giving up, I finally saw it for what it was, and I stepped through it. Amazing.

Just as life is a manifestation of the primordial energy that propels it, the drops were a manifestation of rain but really only water. I laugh to think that I probably fail to see a lot of things for what they are.

Anyway, I’m sending my illusion of rain to Marfa. May it manifest there.

Marie in Tepoztlan