Roof Dog Rant

Two doors down from our little row house in San Miguel a huge black Doberman perches on the edge of a flat concrete roof among the rusting rebar and dead potted plants, its dark ominous shape looming over the street below. Yellow eyes, a stray tooth poking out over its lower lip, one ear sticking straight up, the other bent at an odd angle. At any time of the day or night, motivated perhaps by a passing street dog, a running child, the gas man or the rising full moon, it lurches into a barking frenzy, overtaking any other activity such as conversation, reading or sleeping. It is a deep-throated explosion of sound, a thunderous dark bellowing, a bone racking howl and cry that echoes off of the walls and down the cobblestone streets below.

The Mexican roof dog. It is a phenomenon that is difficult to understand, especially by someone who comes from a culture where animal cruelty is frowned upon and peace and quiet revered. Aside from offering a sense of protection against crime, the roof dog owes its meager existence to a lack of space in a city where houses share walls and small patios and courtyards don’t allow for pets and the messes they make.
To complain to the dog’s owners would be futile, I am told. It would only invite bad relations and would not do anything to resolve the problem. What problem, gringo? So I have tried joking about it, forcing a laugh. I have tried listening to the barking without letting myself become irritated, attempted to hear it as mere sound without judgment. I have tried to feel love and compassion towards this poor wretched creature whose pathetic fate consists of several square feet of concrete under a hot sun. I will be like the Buddha, I say. I will practice acceptance and gratitude. But it isn’t long before my throat begins to tighten, my chest contracts, and I feel my jaw begin to twitch. Soon any semblance of spiritual progress I have made in my life shatters like a frail illusion as I envision myself shooting the dog in the head or tossing up a little meat injected with rat poison. ‘Just don’t listen to it,’ says my Mexican neighbor. But how? After all, you can’t close your ears as you can your eyes and mouth.

Years ago, I befriended a young Zapotec Indian man who invited me to spend a few days with his family in their village on the coast of Oaxaca. I spent the night in their one room house along with his parents, grandparents, children, cousins, and in-laws, all sleeping in hammocks strung across hooks in the walls. I remember lying awake for hours listening to the roosters crowing and dogs barking until I finally fell asleep from pure exhaustion, only to be jolted awake a few hours later by the sound of a screaming woman. I bolted upright in my hammock to see my friend’s ancient grandmother perched in front of a television set turned on full blast to a late night telenovela, in which an angry woman cursed and wailed through the worn speakers, mascara streaming down her face.
I must have shouted in my surprise because the old lady turned to me from across the room, smiling a toothless grin. “Que pasa, guera? She asked. “no puedes dormir?” “What’s the matter, blondie? Can’t sleep?”
Furious and confused, I looked around me at the dark room, illuminated by the dim blue light from the television. What I saw seemed impossible. Everyone was still fast asleep, snoring in their hammocks, sleeping children sprawled on a mattress on the floor at various angles, oblivious to the deafening noise. And that’s when I got it. It’s not that they learn to cope, because this is all they know. Raised in large noisy families in a cacophony of wailing radios, blaring televisions, clanging church bells, the barking and crowing and screeching of animals and honking of traffic, they learn to hear selectively, to listen only to what they need to hear.
Levels of tolerance to noise seem to be a learned thing that develops within a culture.
Once I met a man from Switzerland who told me that in his apartment building in Zurich a person could call the police on their neighbor if they took a shower after the 10:00 curfew, as the noise would be too disturbing.

When I lived in San Cristobal my friend Anie, a painter from Australia, rented an apartment above a restaurant in the center of town, where she would paint beautiful delicate gouache paintings of Buddhas and clouds. One day the restaurant began doing remodeling construction, and she was tormented every day by the sound of hammering and machinery below her feet. She would come over to my house in tears, unable to work or think. “Help me! She would cry. I’m losing my mind!” When she complained to the restaurant owner they told her not to worry, that it would be over in a few weeks. So she toughed it out, and after about a month the noise finally ceased. She was so grateful she spent the first day sobbing with relief. What she didn’t know was that what they had been building the whole time was a dance floor for their brand new discothèque.

And so it is. Mexico does not promise peace and quiet, only the incessant sound, color, and smells that constantly assault and entice the senses and remind you that you are never alone. The chaos of life is always present and abundant, buzzing and exploding with unpredictable energy.

Meanwhile the roof dog is at it again, and I wonder if I can possibly learn to find some semblance of peace amidst the discomfort I feel in the midst of its barking. If so, perhaps I can find peace anywhere. I practice “selective listening” as if it were yoga. And once in a great while I do succeed.
Meanwhile, I try to be thankful every day for the small miracles in my life. Like ear plugs, for instance.

The Burdens We Bear

In the chill of the morning, a string of black Ibis wind their way across a rosy pink sky over the high desert plain. Under a scrawny mesquite tree by the reservoir, two men are scooping rich soil from the shore into flour sacks and loading them onto the backs of two waiting burros. The smells of animals and earth and wood smoke from the nearby village fill the air. They work silently, the burros shifting under the growing weight of their load, their ears twitching among the flies that buzz lazily around their heads.

Finally, the bags are tied onto the animals with rope, and men and beasts begin the long climb up the hillside toward the clanging church bells of San Miguel. They walk past the bright green alfalfa fields and the small adobe and brick houses, climbing over the railroad tracks by the old abandoned train station to where the dirt roads turn to pavement at the edge of town. They lead the animals uphill towards the center of town, passing children in school uniforms carrying day packs full of books, their hair slicked back and shoes freshly shined. They nod to the housewives and maids in aprons and rebozos carrying their plastic shopping bags down to the market. Gringos weave past them on the stone sidewalks carrying yoga mats, Spanish books, sketchpads and laptops. Early morning traffic grinds its way up the narrow streets.

A dusty golden light peeks over the tops of the buildings, slanting across the ochre and sienna walls and meandering up the cobblestone streets and into the courtyards and gardens as a new crescent moon fades into the lightening sky. The hot, yeasty fragrance from the local bakery mingles with the smell of diesel fumes and wet stones. Pigeons coo and flap from various niches in the old stone and brick buildings. Doorways open and young women with plastic buckets sprinkle water onto the dusty streets as if bestowing blessings.

The men lead their burros into the nicer neighborhoods at the top of the hill, wandering the streets from door to door and offering their bags of earth for sale as fertilizer for the gardens that lie hidden behind the high walls of the big houses. They wipe the sweat from their foreheads as they unload the bags, the shadows growing shorter as the sun rises higher in the endless sky.

By mid-afternoon, they pass by an outdoor café where tourists and locals are having lunch under colorful umbrellas. At one small table, a middle-aged couple sip lemonade, circling real estate ads in the local English language newspaper. Having recently sold their LA condo, they have come to seek refuge and a simpler life in Mexico, where they hope to buy a colonial house near the center of town. Already they have signed up for Spanish classes, joined a few local clubs and made several friends. They have fallen in love with the town and the people, surrounded by such heartbreaking beauty, and are happy to have discovered this charming little place they are now calling their home.

The men stop to rest next to the café to water their animals at a fountain built into the side of a building. Two brown-skinned men in stained clothes and straw hats; two burros carrying mounds of white sacks, casting russet colored shadows against a terra cotta wall.

Across the street a man in khaki shorts, pale legs planted into white socks and sandals, canvas safari hat perched on his balding head, raises his Nikon to eye level. Squinching up his face, he makes a few adjustments to the camera, zooming in on the men with the burros. He can’t believe his luck. Last year, his picture of a beggar woman carrying a small child in a shawl had won him second prize in the county fair in his hometown. And now here is this perfectly quaint scene, presenting itself to him like a gift.

At the click of the shutter, the men with the burros jerk their heads up toward the sound. They watch intently as the man re-adjusts the camera for a second shot. Their faces take on a sudden look of desperation, and they thrust their empty hands out towards him.

The man with the camera blinks, as if surprised that the men are actually alive and not just figurines placed there for his personal viewing pleasure. What now? He tips his hat nervously, uncertain as to what to do next, uncomfortable that he has to acknowledge them. He begins to back away, the heavy black camera twisting awkwardly around his neck.

The couple at the table have looked up from their newspaper to witness the scene. They see the poor Mexicans with the overburdened burros. They see the clueless tourist with the enormous lens, lurking away. Suddenly they are both on their feet, the man pointing an accusing finger at the Nikon.

“Hey!” He shouts. “For chrissakes, give them a few pesos, why dontcha?” The man with the camera stops and turns to see where the voice is coming from.

“You can’t just walk around taking pictures of people without their permission, you know,” says the woman. She is standing with the newspaper clenched in her hand. Perhaps she plans to hit him with it. Instead, she shoves it into a plastic shopping bag decorated with an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe and crosses her arms, glaring at him.

The man with the camera stares at them, then back to the Mexicans, who are still standing with their outstretched hands. Their desperate faces soften unwittingly into confused and mild amusement as they witness the drama unfolding before them. The man with the camera looks sheepish, as if he has been caught stealing. He tries to speak, but he can’t imagine what he should say, and so begins to fumble awkwardly in his pockets.

Dark moons of sweat reveal themselves beneath the armpits of his Banana Republic shirt as coins tumble and clatter onto the cobblestones. He crouches down to gather them up, then stands up and steadies himself. He sees the two men talking softly to each other, nodding their chins toward him. He sees the American couple turn and walk away, shaking their heads. Then he moves slowly, nervously towards the men and drops a few coins into each of the earth-brown hands. He can smell the stench of the animals, the dust and the sweat. The men tip their hats and offer him their crinkled smiles. He nods his head and manages a nervous grin. The men pocket the coins, and then one of them holds out his hand again, his palm turned sideways. The man with the camera reaches out and shakes the calloused hand with his own sweaty one, takes a full breath, then turns and slowly walks away, down the winding narrow streets to the cool safety of his hotel.

The burros, their loads somewhat lighter now, gratefully lap up the cool water from the fountain, then stand still and silent in the narrow shade of the overhanging Bougainvillea, momentarily protected from the heat of the afternoon sun. They close their eyes and rest. As far as they are concerned, this is as good as it gets.

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.