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.

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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.

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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.)

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