Amor Espinado

Love is where you find it.

Happy (belated) Valentine's Day!

Blessing of the Animals

The Blessing of the Animals at the Oratorio in San Miguel on January 17th, the day of San Antonio Abad.

Several years ago while sitting on a bench outside a church in Michoacan I saw a man leading a cow adorned with a wreath of flowers towards the entrance of the church. A few minutes later he was followed by an old woman wrapped in a rebozo carrying an enormous bird cage containing a squawking parrot. Now what? I thought, and turned to watch, waiting to see another of Mexico’s mysterious traditions unfold. A boy tugging at a goat on a frayed rope came next, followed by what appeared to be his little sister, clutching a speckled chicken to her small chest. Then another cow, a spindly legged lamb, a canary in a small wooden cage, a basket full of kittens, and a dog of questionable breed with a bright pink ribbon around it’s neck, lead by an old man bent over a gnarled walking stick. Patiently, the small contingent of humans and animals stood at the church door as if awaiting a small arc. Finally the door to the church opened and the padre appeared in white robes with a bowl of holy water, which he began to sprinkle onto the heads of the beasts, each one in turn. And so I it was that I learned of the blessing of the animals that takes place on January 17th, the day of San Antonio Abad, at churches all over Mexico.
Here in San Miguel the scene is slightly different, with poodles and chihuahuas leading the pack, along with a few reptiles and birds as well as a pair of ferrets. All of which are outnumbered by camera toting gringos as they weave among the faithful with their point and shoots and imposing telephotos. Two picturesque small twin boys carrying little bird cages become a prime photo op are surrounded. The ferrets are released from their cage and the cameras click away. A teenage girl with a yellow snake entwined on her arm waves it proudly for the cameras. The Mexicans in their seemingly infinite tolerance don’t seem to mind, however, and neither do the expats, strutting their finely quaffed poodles and miniature chihuahuas, adorned with crocheted little outfits, some of which designed to match to the outfits of the proud owners themselves. To them it is a chance to show off their precious bundles of joy. Faith and meaning mingle with pride and ego, and the humble padre does his job, reminding us of how grateful we should be for the gifts that these animals give us with their companionship, loyalty and song. Reminding us that all of God’s creatures deserve His love and blessings. Including gringos, I presume.

Into the Heart of the Desert

Cactus in the Botanical Garden at the Charco de Ingenio, San Miguel

Perhaps it is the very barren nature of the desert, the dry clear air, the spiny tortured plant life that sprout miraculously from the dry dust, that make me feel alive, something fragile that can whither and perish in the harsh sun. You have to have thick reptilian skin to protect yourself with in the desert. You have to pull nourishment from a deep well and hoard it. Life depends on resourcefulness and tricks to survive.
We are hiking through the Charco de Ingenio, a desert botanical garden and preserve, amidst 30 foot high organ cactus and round spiny barrel cactus large enough to crawl into. Nopal leaves shaped like hearts and laden with red prickly fruit called tunas that symbolize the sacrificial heart in Aztec codices. “Ixtli in Yollotli” in the Aztec language of Nahuatl, meaning the face heart, signifies the emotional balance one must achieve to live a good life. They say that the goal of this life is to match the heart with one’s outward expression or personality, to find harmony within. We pick the white fuzzy cochineal that is sticking to the spines of the nopal leaves and watch as it drips crimson between our fingers, like a tiny miracle.

And then of course there is the Agave, the source of the lifeblood of Mexico, reaching its sword like arms up towards the sun like a silent green explosion from the dry desert sand.
Not really a cactus at all, but a member of the lily family, it flowers only once in its long lifetime, sending out a long flowering stalk up into the sky, filling it’s heart with precious juices to nourish its seed before the whole plant withers and dies.
The Otomi Indians in central Mexico harvest the Agave or Maguey, as it is also called, to make the mildly fermented drink called pulque. They have ancient names for every part and every stage of growth of the plant, and use it for food and drink, to make a fiber for clothing, needles and tools, and even use the dried leaves to build their homes with.
The goddess of the Maguey is Mayahuel, who appears with 400 breasts spouting the precious white liquid with which to feed and nourish her many children.

In the making of Mezcal the heart is smoked in mesquite before fermenting. At the Mezcal tasting bar in San Miguel, Maurice has a passion for every nuance of the brew and is happy to share with us the entire process. We sample the pure mezcal base, and then a rose colored mezcal that has been cured in wine barrels. Another that tastes a bit like scotch because of the part of the plant that it is fermented from. After several samples he offers me a special glass filled with a type of Mezcal called Sotol that comes from a the Yucca plant and is not available commercially. This one is for artists, he says, because it makes you have magical visions. I munch on a little dried worm sprinkled onto a fresh orange slice to clear my palate and ease the burn as I suck it down, feeling a dizzy rush of heat that sends my head spinning. For a moment the only vision I have is of myself passed out on the floor. But then I am enveloped by delicious warmth and feel the spirit of plant inside of me, as if Mayahuel herself were whispering sweet secrets for my ears alone. At least that is how it seems, as I am the only one nodding my head. Everyone else is watching me with raised eyebrows that for a moment look peculiarly like arching worms.
Now the Agave begins to appear in my paintings in silvery greens and dark blues. The overlapping patterns of spines and thorns slowly unfolding to reveal a protected heart that is ready to blossom at any moment.

Happy New Year

Festive Chihuahuas in the Jardin

Well it's new year's eve and the town is abuzz with people- lots of Mexican tourists and visiting gringos.Tonight there will be fireworks and music and of course lots of noise. We are learning to listen selectively, which is really an art in itself. The morning begins with the announcement of the trash truck by a man banging on a piece of scrap metal with an old spoon, which triggers the barking of the roof dog that lives 2 doors down. Then the scratchy music from the propane gas truck and the clinking of tanks as they are unloaded. Church bells clang, calling people to daily mass. And amidst it all is the cooing of doves.
I can't say that it does not get annoying sometimes, but mostly I find that I am glad to know that life is happening all around me, that I am not alone. That we are all a part of this chaotic cacophony of sound.
May this be a year of inner peace, of profound discovery and and of the sound of hearts opening everywhere.

Feliz Navidad

Here's wishing you all a very special Christmas and New Year, however you choose to celebrate it. Here in San Miguel, Santa and Jesus are getting equal time. We have followed posadas behind Joseph and Mary seeking lodging down narrow streets with inflatable snowmen looking down at us from the rooftops. Christmas trees and mangers adorn the town and music is everywhere. No shopping frenzies here, and we haven't missed it one bit.

La Virgen de Guadalupe

On December 12 Mexico celebrates the Vigin of Guadalupe, the spiritual mother of Mexico. Everywhere there are shrines to celebrate her- in the markets, on street corners, churches, shops. Here are a few of them.

In the Jardin

Una piedra en el camino me enseno que mi destino

Era rodar y rodar, rodar y rodar.
Luego me dijo un arriero que no hay que llegar primero,
Sino hay que saber llegar.*

In the Jardin, the central plaza in San Miguel, the still point in the midst of this bustling town, a blind man wanders slowly and aimlessly amidst Mexicans and gringos alike, tapping his cane on the stone pavement, against the iron legs of the park benches, scattering the pigeons as he moves along,. He is clutching a small box of Carlos Quinto chocolate bars. “Cuanto?” I ask, as he stands before me. “Cinco pesos”, he says, and I place a coin in his hand and take a bar of chocolate from the box. He does not move on but stands there, as if waiting for his next cue. “Donde estoy?” he asks. “Where am I?” “You are in front of the Parroquia” I say, pointing ignorantly towards the towering dusty pink ornate church across from the plaza that serves as the town anchor . “Ah, si. La Parroquia.” He says, and shuffles his feet, turning tentatively in the opposite direction. No, I say, and touch his sleeve to steer him. Finally a young Mexican man comes up and takes his arm, and together they walk towards the church, slowly and patiently.
I unwrap the chocolate and take a bite. It is bittersweet, and tastes of dust and longing.

Coming to Mexico has always felt like kicking off a pair of shoes you didn’t know were tight and putting on a pair of worn and comfortable old tennies. Stepping out of an exhausting world of ambition and consumption to just stop and sit on a park bench, pondering whether or not you should wander over to that little cart for a coconut ice cream cone. It takes a while to slow down.
The first day I arrived in San Miguel I did what most gringos do. I walked down the cobblestone streets past old Spanish colonial buildings painted pink and ochre and rust, dodging busses and taxis and cars and street dogs and children, to come and sit here in the Jardin. To watch life happen around me. To turn my face up to the glorious Mexican sun and smile. Sometimes a parade or procession will pass by with blaring musicians, or a little cart will roll by selling popsicles or steamed corn or balloons. An old man will wander by, singing Mexican corridos. Fireworks will explode in the sky for no apparent reason at all.

The iron benches are scattered with people. Mexicans, tourists, expats.
Here are the retired couples from Texas fondling real estate brochures, the single middle aged women with poodles in their arms. Ex corporate types who have shunned their salaries for a simpler life. Artists and writers and wanabees.
Some have names you would recognize. For various reasons we have all come here to San Miguel.
The beauty of being an expatriate, of living in another country like Mexico, is that after awhile you are no longer a part of the American culture, nor are you a part of the Mexican culture. And so you have a sort of a freedom to be yourself.
Already Mexico is teaching me the things I need to learn. Charity. Patience. Tolerance. My heart begins to open it’s rusty hinges. Donde estoy? it asks. The church bells begin to clang and clang. Aqui! Ahora! they shout.
You are Here! Now!

*A stone in the road taught me that my destiny
Was to roll and roll, roll and roll
Then a mule driver told me that one need not arrive first
Rather one must know how to arrive.

Winter in Mexico

So here we are escaping the cold and wet northwest winds and living the good life in San Miguel de Allende. We are renting a little house near the bustling town and spending our days sitting in the glorious sun listening to church bells, barking dogs, crowing roosters, fireworks, traffic. Eating spicy food, exploring the narrow cobblestone streets and high desert countryside. All of our senses assalted and awakened. What's next? Who knows, who cares? I am just beginning to feel the tingling of new creations and will be writing and painting them soon. So please keep checking in.

Relative Seasons

September 2007

My dad calls me from his house in the southern California desert and asks about the weather.
“Cold, I say. “Rainy.”
“What?” he exclaims. It’s the middle of August, for chrissakes!”
“I know that, dad. I have a calendar.”
“Hell, it’s about 80 degrees here. I’m standing in front of the air conditioner right now.”
I can’t help feeling that he gets a secret thrill from telling me this. He’s been doing it all year long. Ever since we moved to Whidbey he has been exuberantly comparing the weather, and offering detailed descriptions of how he has been enjoying the warm balmy breeze, swimming in the pool, basking in the warmth in the lawn chair on his patio, etc. He’s not usually such an exuberant guy, but this has become like a sport to him. A game he can always win. Now that he has had to give up racquetball in his late 70’s I guess he needs other forms of competitive entertainment, and this is it.
“What’s the temperature?” he wants to know.
“Oh, around 58 degrees, I guess.”
“Wow! That’s cold! Unbelievable! And here I am in nothing but a pair of shorts! It’s gotta be about 75 at least!” (Goal!)
I won’t say I’m not an avid participant in this game. There is a somewhat perverted sense of satisfaction in reporting these harsh conditions and sharing my suffering, hoping for sympathy. Not to mention priding myself on the extremes that I am able to endure. The cold! The rain! Snowstorms and hail! I may like to whine about it, but at the very least I have survived.

Now it’s September, and the Indian summer we were promised has not manifested. No doubt it is vacationing somewhere in southern California after a warm but short summer season, while here we don our sweaters and jackets once again and watch the leaves fall from the trees, bright yellow and rust against a slate blue sky. Honestly, I am as tired of talking about the weather as I am hearing about it, but it certainly has been a main character in our lives this past year. It is true that we moved here during the worst year anyone has ever experienced. The long harsh winter followed by a tentative and too brief summer, and now this arctic chill again as the days grow shorter and darker every day. We can feel our old familiar friend winter waiting impatiently in the wings, smiling his cold and icy blue grin.

My father and I are different in many ways, but we do share this annoying restless urge to move and try out new places, like some kind of wild gene, that has been both a curse and a blessing in our lives. Ever since I was a child I remember him taking off on trips, or moving us from one place to another, always with that hope and enthusiasm of the new home being better and more exciting than the last one. Before I was 5 years old we had lived in four different states and three countries. After we moved to California, however, it became the place we always returned to. The place we eventually called home.
“Dad, we want to move back.” I say.
“I know, honey. I know exactly how is.”

My dad and I, we disagree on a lot of things. Politics, art, books, lifestyles. But when it comes to travel and moving, we share a deep rooted bond, a knowing, if you will, that places have energy, and they call to you. Sometimes they spit you out, but you still have to try. At least they give you stories to tell. And you can’t beat that delicious satisfaction and magic in discovering and exploring them, even when it is only in your imagination. We can pull out our mental maps at any given time and we are there, sharing our dreams and our memories. It makes us feel vital and alive and connected. It ties us together as accomplices in something other people don’t necessarily understand. It’s an odd game, perhaps. But at least for that moment, we’re batting on the same team.

Endless Desire

Yesterday at an art fair in Anacortes I found a print from an artist named Yukie Adams who was married to an Alaskan Tlingit man and paints her own designs based on northwest Native American legends. The piece is called “Endless Desire” and has the image of a stylized raven carrying the sun in its beak and a salmon in its talons. The story goes that Raven kept the sun captive in it’s beak until one day it became hungry and asked a fisherman if he would trade his catch for the sun, secretly planning not to hold up his end of the bargain. The fisherman agreed to the trade, but when the raven opened its beak to eat the fish the sun flew free up into the sky, where it remains to this day. The fisherman, seeing that the raven no longer had anything to trade, took back his fish. So the raven that wanted everything for himself, ended up with nothing but his own humility.
This is a state of mind I can relate to, and because the raven feels like a totem to me, I bought the beautiful print and took it home, where it sits on the mantle and reminds me of my tendency to constantly live in a state of endless desire, instead of, say, gratitude and grace.
Here is what I am grateful for this summer. The way leaves sprouted from the dry twigs of bare trees into a myriad of colors and formations that I am just now starting to recognize. The drooping hemlock tree, the sweet smell of cedar, and a snow of birch seed scattering in the wind. The mother deer and her two newborn fawn that wander by my open garage/studio door and watch in blank curiosity as I paint. The gnarly twisted lichen ridden trees in our back yard that are suddenly sprouting cherries and apples and pears. The little black lambs born to white sheep at the farm down the street that are miraculously growing plumper and lighter by the day. Little miracles. How many different ways a flower can grow, a plant can send its seed into the world. The other day we sat in a dirt path in silence, listening to the seedpods of the scotch broom rattle softly in the breeze, then snap and click as they explode and twisted into perfect twin spirals under the heat of the sun.
We have seen cedar waxwings snap up dragonflies in their beaks just a few feet away from our faces, heard the deep bellowing of bullfrogs in a pond at the Earth Sanctuary. Seen eagles peer down from an enormous nest perched high on top of a telephone pole above the highway. Watched the huge bulge of a freshly caught fish work its way down the throat of a great blue heron as it stands motionless in a pond teaming with life. Dozens of crows wake us each morning with a raucous cawing and squawking and lurk in the trees like clumsy shadows or pluck ripe plums for their endlessly hungry offspring. Bats squeak and fill the night with eerie silent flapping of velvet wings from the bat house above the Bayview store. Barn swallows that perch like a row of commas on the telephone wires, then slice through the air in swooping arcs. Scarlet tanagers. Electric yellow goldfinches. The rambling briar of blackberry bushes that skirt our back yard and house the countless bunnies that feed on our lawn every morning and evening. The blackberries are almost ripe now, and each day we go out to check them, dreaming of pies. No, not yet, but soon.
Then there is the surprising realization that I am no longer just observing all of this, but that I too, am being observed. Every animal I see is acutely aware of my presence, and possibly plants as well. I am a participant in the great miracle of life, changing and growing and ripening with each passing moment.
All of this has been a gift, and I am nothing if not grateful for this oozing abundance of nature on my front doorstep. Who wouldn’t be? But is it enough to quench the Endless Desire? So far I have not been able to make a living in this place, not been able to sell a single painting. After all, even with the sun in my mouth, won’t I still get hungry?
There is also this: The solid experiential knowledge of just how temporary this moment is. Knowing that winter will come again, bringing with it all of my fears and discomfort of the cold and rain and snow and long dark days, lurking just a few precious months away.
We are hoping to spend the winter in Mexico, to find solace in the sun and lively culture. How we are going to manage this logistically remains to be seen, but the desire is there, and we are exercising our faith muscles daily….
In preparation for our trip and because I slipped it onto his bedside table, Mark is reading “Rain of Gold”, by Victor Villasenor, a fictionalized history of modern Mexico. He tells me that during the Mexican revolution when people were starving at the borders trying to cross over to the US and scraping by for their survival, they still managed to find gratitude for what they had: life, family, a sun that rises every morning and a sky of stars to sleep under. The gift of hands to work and pray with. The less you have, it seems, the more you have to believe that there is something to be grateful for.
Sometimes you just have to let go of what you are holding on to, and let it fly free.