A Warm Embrace

I was surprised to see Amy crying, because it is rare. She broke down while reciting the poem, Cultivo una Rosa Blanca, by José Martí, (Cuban,January 28, 1853 – May 19, 1895). We had welcomed guests to our house for an unveiling of art, and birthday celebration. Ten people stood in front of a covered iron railing in our front hall, anticipating the unveiling to occur shortly. Expressing gratitude for the diverse friendships that Amy and I have forged in Oaxaca, Mexico, I acknowledged the special qualities our friends bring. 

Amy spoke next—to the people who showed us such loving kindness. Delivering in Spanish the poem she learned as a child from her grandmother, tears began rolling down her cheeks:

Cultivo una rosa blanca

en junio como en enero

para el amigo sincero

que me da su mano franca.

 

I cultivate a white rose

In June as in January

For the sincere friend

Who gives me his hand freely.

Mayolo, the artist who made the railing, finished the ceremony by unveiling his work while explaining the symbolism he instilled in his creation. Two globes at either end represent the sun and moon, also alpha and omega. The twisting curves of iron with delicate leaves attached repeat a design throughout, and represent spiraling universes. Two deer heads with horns are fused to the railing. They represent Amy and  I—the “Dos Venados” of which our house is named. They are inscribed and one, directly in front of our entrance doors has the hand of Fatima facing out for protection.

Hiram, son of Mayolo and Marta, is a famous Oaxacan chef. He began preparing food for the gathering many hours in advance at his restaurant, and then came to our kitchen and served everyone seated at our big dining table.

Mayolo, Frida (grand daughter) Marta, Hiram

Our lovely home filled with happiness as it gathered us all together in a warm embrace.

(The full poem by Martí:)

Cultivo Una Rosa Blanca

Cultivo una rosa blanca

en junio como en enero

para el amigo sincero

que me da su mano franca.

 

Y para el cruel que me arranca

el corazón con que vivo,

cardo ni ortiga cultivo;

cultivo una rosa blanca.

I Cultivate a White Rose

I cultivate a white rose

In June as in January

For the sincere friend

Who gives me his hand freely.

 

And for the cruel person who tears out

The heart with which I live,

I cultivate neither nettles nor thorns:

I cultivate a white rose

 

A Party Is In Order

A party is in order. An artist has completed his masterpiece—an ornate railing for our stairs—and for that there must be an unveiling and celebration. Coinciding with this is the arrival of my birthday, so our home will be set for a “fiesta” this Friday. A small affair with people who have made our move to Mexico a happy one. Mexican folk with a few Americans sprinkled in. Our realtor John, an American who was instrumental in our purchasing the house is very busy with sales activities on the coast and had to beg off.

Several guests of note: Manuel Omar Rito Cortes moved some of our essential belongings from Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA to Oaxaca. He speaks fluent English and also helped us to buy our car here in Mexico. His wife is a dentist and the couple have two children. Omar owns Oaxaca Exprience Tours, but when business slowed drastically because of Covid, he stripped his tour bus of the seats and made it into a moving van. 

Mayolo Martinez Galindo is a gem of a person, and very talented artisan. He says he is happy we arrived because we are intellectuals and artists. He bonded with us immediately and we are soul mates now. Mayolo does not speak English and neither do I speak Spanish, but we bonded nonetheless. Thankfully, Amy knows rudimentary Spanish. Mayolo helped us register and receive our first Pfizer covid shot. He helped us put the electric service in our name. He has made us arched curtain rods for over our arched windows, has made window screens, and most importantly created a magnificent railing for our stairway that is at the center of our home. He imbues his work with spiritual imagination. We have named our home Casa Venado, or “Deer House” because we live on Camino Cuatro Venados, or Four Deer Road. Mayolo put deer heads at the top of our curtain rods, and very special ones in the design of his ornate railing. They have symbols that are meaningful to us. One deer head is inscribed in Spanish “Amor, Steven and Amy," and the other is inscribed “Por Siempre,” or, Forever.

Salomon Garcia Moreno has lived in our house as a caretaker over the years. He had a special relationship with the German agronomist woman who owned our property. He is married with four children. His village is about three hours away, where he is head of an agricultural cooperative that grows coffee, and special herbs and spices like vanilla, cardamon, ginger and more. He brings us delicious coffee, "miel," or honey, and sacks of compost. Today he brought me a container of earthworms. 

When our house sold, Salomon received a parcel of land where he is building a small home near ours. He shares with us everything we need to know about surviving here. He speaks only Spanish, but we get by, and are able to make sense  with each other. Entirely honest, he has a big heart and is gracious, even going to the TelMex offices with us downtown to register the internet service in our name. 

I am a plant savant and so is he, so we are symbiotic from the start.

Bird in Flight

I followed the bird in flight. It came from where the sun had risen along craggy cliffs at Mazunte, Mexico on the Pacific coast. Breakfast had just been served. Amy and I sat on a patio overlooking the sea. The air felt soft in early morning, heating up moment by moment with a playful breeze caressing everything it touched. Thunderous ocean waves crashed below, rushing in and out along the coast while making bellows from the deep.

The blackbird, just a few meters away and close to where we sat, soared gracefully on the currents and took my eyes with it sweeping across the sea vista. The bird settled on the top of a post jutting from sand further from our cabanas. My eyes continued to where waves crashed on rocks, casting white spray in the distance. I could see a couple of dogs playing tag, happy to frolic early in the day—before the heat. A family walked together, scampering to evade the rushing waves, laughing when someone was knocked over by the force of roiling water.

I took a sip of fresh squeezed orange juice in a tall glass carafe, Amy beside me, and simply gave in to the perfection of the moments.

A funny thing happened last night. This is the story leading up to it: We had arrived in the afternoon from the Sierra Madre Mountains where we spent a night in chilly fog among the clouds in a village known for magic mushrooms used to alter consciousness. Hippies still go to San José del Pacífico. Most of the time clouds float among mountain peaks. The town sits above them. We needed jackets to walk after dinner in the cloudforest and slept under heavy blankets.

To get to the coast, we drove on a small winding road, called highway 175. At the start, we spotted a village with brightly painted church. It had stunning views and Amy pointed out in the distance a cemetery high up. We went there and walked among the graves. Many of them, even old ones had fresh flowers.

Highway 175 has so many sharp curves that we were warned in advance to bring medicine for motion sickness. We both got dizzy, and after a couple hours, I really wanted to get free of the snake.

We arrived at the ocean—and it is hot. From the road I could see the ocean, and stopped the car by some beach shacks to take a look. Amy and I walked to the beach at Zipolite, and soon engaged in a conversation with a man named Israel, a Mexican who offered to take us out in his boat to see dolphin and turtles. A man walked briskly by, stark naked. Then a few more, followed by a woman with her bare boobs bouncing. I thought, “We must be on a clothing optional beach.” Ten minutes later we were at our hotel to stay two nights and three days.

It is hot and humid. Typically around 90 degrees during the day and near 80º at night. We like our room. It is high up, with a king sized bed, nice bathroom, big sliding doors with screens that go out to a terrace that overlooks the ocean and beach below. Last night, we set a fan by the open porch screen and directed air currents in the direction of our bed, then lay naked and watched a movie. Lights out to go to sleep, even with the fan we sweltered. I managed to fall asleep. Amy flipped directions so her head was closer to the fan. She flopped around uncomfortably, but noticed a wide, squat box over our bed, easily missed because it is white like our walls. “Is that an air conditioner?” she wondered.  She did not want to wake me up, but fortunately I woke anyway. “I think we have an air conditioner over the bed.” 
Indeed.

The Delight

 

The shop is set back from the main street of Atzompa, a village on the outskirts of Oaxaca, famous for its pottery. A broad parking lot in front of the squat building is at a landing that opens into a big room with rows of clay crafts.  Upstairs is a café.

When Amy and I walked inside Mercado de Artesanías de Santa Maria Atzompa, it immediately became a favorite place for us—somewhere we will return to many times. All the clay pieces are hand made. Pots, sculptures, vases, lamps, cups and saucers, plates, mugs and more. 

Furthermore, the village has many such "tiendas", little storefronts selling wares of families of artisans.

Artisans have their own sections to display work exhibiting unique characteristics. The prices are such that several times I felt like buying everything.

Another immediate favorite is Viveros Santa Rosa; the plant nursery midway between our village and Oaxaca centro. Outdoor, indoor, exotic, aquatic and seasonal plants, with a great diversity of ornamental plants to use in a garden, and plenty of variety of fruit trees. Everything is nicely laid out, and looks vigorous with health. We have already bought six blooming rose bushes—for USD  $1.50 each. Part of the delight is not having to think about if something is too expensive. Here it is not.

I am painting now. For several months I have not. Amy and I have room to work and set up our quarters for creativity.

My last painting is of Emiliano Zapata, a revolutionary figure, “muy famoso” for his activities in southern Mexico trying to bring land reforms to benefit dispossessed poor people. 

Surfing A Big Wave

 

It is like surfing a big wave, moving to Mexico. I have been swept along, thrilled to be in each moment, feeling I could fall dangerously, having to concentrate, realizing life has momentum and it is necessary—not looking back.

Oh boy, I wish I could speak better Spanish. Yet people make an effort to help understand. I have been in many countries for lengthy stays while not being able to speak Arabic, or Italian, or Thai or Vietnamese etc… somehow happiness happens. 

There are inconveniences that are actually small things which I notice because I am spoiled by privilege. The house has a cistern that needs refilling regularly. Once a week water pours in from the city, but twice we ran out and had to have a “pipe” truck, (pronounced pee-peh) come pump potable water to our home. If gas gets low, we have to listen for the gas truck come by . . . listen, because he announces himself driving through villages with the sound of a mooing cow blaring from his loudspeaker.

Then there is the traffic in Oaxaca.  Streets fill with cars and trucks going nilly-willy with a mix of motorcycles, buses and taxis added in. We bought a car we like but Amy won’t drive in the city. Good thing I was a taxi driver during my student days in Baltimore so I know how to hug bumpers like the best of them. Sometimes vehicles almost brush each other . . . yet, I have told Amy several times, “We haven’t seen a single accident yet!"

I like that we are having a beautiful iron railing made by a master craftsman and artist who can also make mirrors, screens, lampshades, coat racks, just about anything. And a couple days ago, we had a furniture maker deliver two tables and two cabinets for our art studio. The cost of materials and services is easy to afford. Our water bill for the entire year is about USD 25.00. So for any problem there appears to be solutions . . . just different.

Years ago, when my mother learned I planned to travel to sub-saharan Africa, she begged me not to go, saying, “Oh Steven, don’t go, you will be killed for your shoes!” I went and loved my experiences on safari, being with Masai tribes people, and going “clubbing” with newly made African friends in Nairobi. 

I brought to Mexico a painting by my mother I inherited. I like the title—called “Go Jump in a Lake". It hangs outside our guest bedroom. That sums up a lot.

The wave is big, and has its own life and requirements. The trick is to stay in the moment and enjoy the ride to the journey’s end. 

Fear 

by  Khalil Gibran

It is said that before entering the sea

a river trembles with fear.

She looks back at the path she has traveled,

from the peaks of the mountains,

the long winding road crossing forests and villages.

And in front of her,

she sees an ocean so vast,

that to enter

there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.

But there is no other way.

The river can not go back.

Nobody can go back.

To go back is impossible in existence.

The river needs to take the risk

of entering the ocean

because only then will fear disappear,

because that’s where the river will know

it’s not about disappearing into the ocean,

but of becoming the ocean.

No Address At All

It is one thing to move and find a new address to receive mail, and another to have no address at all. My brother was incredulous when he learned we had not an address. He was against me moving to Mexico from the start—for several reasons but especially crime that he imagined and also climate change studies. Brent is my “survivalist” brother. He married a woman from Mexico about five years ago. Last we spoke, he said he would be coming down soon, “Well, how am I going to find you?” I replied that I can give him a GPS location. Actually, it will be easier to meet him at the village church, next to the mayor’s office.

There are inconveniences we face everyday here in San Pedro Ixtlahuaca, Mexico. But because of the house, and having each other, along with a few good people we can call friends, we are hopeful and happy. The house is the most comfortable I have ever lived in. It has further possibilities—and is paid for in full. Cost of living is a fraction of what we were spending in Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA. We have all we need.

I can’t speak or understand Spanish. Amy does to some extent. The climate is indeed hotter . . . with only two seasons: wet and dry. We are now at the end of the dry season, and have had a couple rains. Thank God because the landscape has been brown. Now some leaves are coming out on trees that I thought to be dead. 

The other surprise is insects. I have been spoiled by Santa Fe where there is hardly a fly to speak of and no mosquitos—only some garden pests, yes. But here I have killed three scorpions in the house so far. We have both been bitten by mosquitos and maybe some other critters. Oh well, I remember coming home to a rattlesnake coiled up in my front hall in Santa Fe.

Another thing is some inevitable culture shock. The main one being poverty and a sense that beautiful surroundings are not necessary. I have experienced this before in world travels. People have little to satisfy basic needs. Homes outside the center of Oaxaca are often merely pasted together sheets of tin, or unadorned cinder block houses without adornment or beauty. 

There are trees blooming here now that are simply divine. Especially the jacaranda. We have two—one in front and the other out our back door. If I were to make a painting of them, I would use a color called cobalt violet light. It’s my favorite color.

All THE WAY

Our house is magical; it drew us into itself. All the way from New Mexico USA to Oaxaca, Mexico, near Central America. 

We have met neighbors who know the history of this place and of the couple who built it. Everyone in these parts knows it as a landmark. Standing around a bend, on a hillside—unlike every other house for miles.

A Mexican architect designed it and his wife financed construction. Alfredo Figueroa was married to a German agronomist. There are stories about him. It seems he was a tall man with a long beard and something of a mystic. Our neighbor, who is a talented artist and craftsman, knew Alfredo and said that he made this house as if designing a sacred cathedral. And this is the way we feel living in it.

Our art work now adorns the walls. The neighbor Mayolo, has designed a magnificent wrought iron railing for our stairs rising from the front entry to the flight above. He built us curved curtain rods to go above the vaulted windows in our bedroom. We can see Mayolo’s house down below the hill—convenient because he can do so many artistic tasks for us, and knows how to help us with our new culture. The problem is he only speaks Spanish; like almost everyone.

We live among poor people. Dwellings are very humble compared to ours. Mexico reminds me of other developing countries I have lived in, like Egypt or India. Infrastructure is problematic, and being surrounded by manicured beauty is an unaffordable luxury. Amy commented that not many of our friends would like the conditions apparent in our village—i.e dusty roads, hardscrabble little dwellings that are hastily built . . . lack of sophistication.

I like that we often hear singing from the neighborhood evangelical church nearby. There are birds in the trees at our home that make remarkable songs . . . the best I have ever heard. Days are hot but nights are sublime. People are friendly and many have gone out of their way to insure our well being. Our magnificent cactus is beginning to bloom and attracting hummingbirds. We have bought a sturdy comfortable car—a Honda CR-V four-door with plenty of space.

There is a large paper wasp nest outside our bedroom window. It is at eye level hanging from an eve. To me, a thing of beauty—and I respect wasps because they help control insect pests.

The house is built of adobe blocks. Adobe consists of earth and straw. It is excellent at insulation and moderating temperatures. That is why it is commonly used in countries that are typically dry. We knew beforehand that this home has no heating or cooling systems. It is self modulating. We installed a ceiling fan in the bedroom and it is perfect.

Poco a Poco

Oh boy, what a wild and crazy ride it has been for the last three months. And now we are in Mexico, living in the house that brought us here. Many years ago I came to the conclusion that one has to accept the chaos that is part of life. Certainly in our experiences moving, there have been surprises that felt like setbacks. The big truck we thought would take our belongings turned out to be much smaller. Many of our possessions had to be sold or stored away and left behind. The ever present covid-19 pandemic made everything more difficult. The border between Mexico and USA is the busiest and most frequently crossed international border in the world. When our belongings reached the border, an official said our paperwork was not correct. Our driver paid the fee which seemed to be a bribe—and got through. Meanwhile, we flew ahead. All the while, our house beckoned us.

Moving to another country is far more difficult than finding a home within the boundaries of one nation. Amy and I applied for “visas permanente” and Mexico granted them to us based upon mostly financial factors. The little green cards with our photographs on them are protection and privilege yet do not ensure everything always goes smoothly.

We live in a little village of San Pedro Ixtlahuaca, just outside of Oaxaca. It is rural, and lively in its own way. The drive into town takes far longer than we would have dreamed. 9 miles takes up to 40 minutes.The road is two lanes both directions and marked with frequent speed bumps called “tope”. The closer it is to the center of Oaxaca the more traffic becomes snarled. 

Mexico is also the largest consumer of bottled water in the world. Amy and I cannot drink the tap water, fortunately purified or filtered water is readily available in large quantities.

In our short time here we have met wonderful individuals who are eager to make friends with us. I only wish I could speak and understand Spanish. "Poco a poco."

Our house was built lovingly by a couple who were international. The woman was German and married to a Mexican architect. All the corners inside and out, are rounded. All the finishes are organic. I feel we are here to carry forward creatively. We have already begun.

Change In the Weather

 

A change in the weather is sufficient to recreate the world and ourselves. —Marcel Proust

Santa Fe winter

Of a sudden, the weather here in Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA changed from almost balmy to sub-freezing. The forecast for the next couple days is for cold, with blustery snow showers and temperatures below freezing. 

I drove this morning for my ritual Sunday coffee, slice of walnut banana bread and New York Times. Usually I eat at a table indoors, but since covid restrictions I have been outdoors. Since the weather changed, I have been sitting in my car, reading the paper and drinking coffee.

On the way home I thought of the changes occurring in my life, and especially our move to Oaxaca, Mexico soon. We will be going from four seasons to two: wet and dry. 

All my life I have enjoyed summer, followed by autumn, winter and spring. Winters are the most difficult. In the past, I took to the mountains to ski and it helped make the season more enjoyable. I have sold all the winter landscape paintings I have made through the years. Yet, as I write this, I am shut indoors with the furnace blasting, dreaming of spring. 

Front entrance

A couple weeks ago, we flew to Oaxaca to buy our future home. During those six days, we never wore our coats, and at least once I regretted not having shorts and sandals. 

Looking through windows to the front entrance

The first time we saw the house, last August, the surrounding corn fields were full of tall, green stalks. Our property had green plants and grass. This time, most of the colors were brown. I wonder what it will be like when the rain comes . . . for sure, I look forward to living in our new home and experiencing the afternoon rains. 

Back side of our home

For Amy and I, in our new home—a house made creatively with love—we will recreate our world and ourselves.