Stop

Stop signs have frustrated me in life. I get up to speed making real progress going to a destination, when suddenly the sign looms ahead; ordering me to a standstill. The impatience is my fault. But perhaps warranted when I see no reason to stop. Oh well.

Oaxaca does not have stop signs, only traffic lights.  Instead of stop signs are “tope” (pronounced toe-pay). In the USA they are called speed bumps.  After several months living here am I accepting them without much of a grudge. I have learned to ease up just in time to roll over them before gathering speed again. A couple times I did not see the tope before crashing over with a thump. Amy and I have seen them on dirt roads too, where people make them to slow traffic. Amy counted almost forty between our home in the village and the nearest shopping center a couple miles away.

The other adjustment to life we are making is learning to live with insects. For more than four decades in Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, I often gave thanks for being free of mosquitos, flies and chiggers. That has changed and insect bites are common. And plants are eaten by pests—mostly ants. It brings back memories from my childhood in Illinois, and later Washington DC.

Just today I noticed some flowers gone we had grown from seed, called Jamaica, that make a nice tea. Yesterday 20 were about two inches high in a neat row and today only two were left standing. A similar attack occurred on rose bushes. I had to dig up denuded plants and put them in pots where I can keep an eye on them as they recover. We joke that they are in the hospital.

Standing at our back door this afternoon I remarked to Amy, “Oh well, there is so much to be thankful for. Look at our marvelous plants, and how happy the earth is now.”

A Dog's Life

Most dogs in America do not have a “dog’s life”. If they came down to Mexico, they would go running back home with tails wagging. Dogs’ in Mexico mostly have to fend for themselves, and rarely get to have owners that tend lavishly to them. 

Amy and I see dogs wandering around, flea bitten and bedraggled, with wounds from fights or collisions. Our village has many. Many people live in little more than tin shacks. Unfortunately veterinary care is out of the question and the mongrels have multiple litters. 

The poor creatures tug at Amy’s heartstrings more than mine. “At least they are not being eaten like the dogs in China,” I told her. Then I added, “It might be better to be eaten.” 

We have property that is mostly fenced, but dogs’ have come in. I chase them out and have patched some entry points. One dog is acceptable—“Benito," who we learned belongs to a neighbor. He comes several times a day for treats, and has taken to barking at intruders. I have to say, I really like him, and Amy adores him. I joke and call him “Freddy the Freeloader," and Amy calls him “Loki”.

The thing about Benito is we cannot touch him. He will snarl and snap. As a companion he is good if I simply acknowledge him. He occasionally licks my hand and a couple times jumped up to hug me. But touching him is not allowed. Same with Amy, who is his major benefactor. No touching, though he will lick her hand. 

Little hungry mongrel

We have noticed animals sometimes are slapped or kicked, so maybe if that has happened, the dog will be defensive. The other day we went for our second covid vaccination. A young dog came to us and stayed by for a couple hours. It was raining lightly. A group of ladies was behind us and one swatted the dog with her umbrella, and kicked it once. It stayed with us until the end. We felt like taking it home but maybe it belonged to someone.

Recently one of the neighbors’ dogs came on the heels of Benito to our back door. He was thin, just little more than a puppy and looked at us so hopefully. Amy gave him some dog food. (She buys dog food now at the grocery store.) He ate it quickly and looked around for more. I warned her, “If you start, soon packs of dogs will arrive at our door.”

We have heard of a dog sanctuary in Oaxaca, started by Americans who doubtless felt sympathy and had the time and resources to make the humanitarian gesture.

We have Loki; or Benito, or Freddy the Freeloader . . . whatever his name.

Phoenix Rising

 Lluvia is the Spanish word for rain. Now that the wet season has come to Oaxaca, the rain falls most days—and it is sweet. The dry, brown landscape so brittle, hears the thunder and opens its arms to embrace the downpour. The earth has softened and breathed again, changing from brown to green.

    

Typically, the rain arrives with the clouds that roll in during late afternoon and evening. Temperatures are cooler, and water cleanses all it touches. I like it. The sun always come out again but the earth is rejuvenated and never gets bone dry. Plants that I thought were dead are showing verdure and unique beauty. It is like a phoenix rising from ashes.

THE PHOENIX

By Hafiz

My phoenix long ago secured 

   His nest in sky-vault's cope; 

In the body's cage immured, 

   He is weary of life's hope. 

Round and round this heap of ashes 

   Now flies the bird amain, 

But in that odorous niche of heaven 

   Nestles the bird again. 

Once flies he upward, he will perch 

   On Tuba's golden bough: 

His home is on that fruited arch 

   Which cools the blest below. 

If over this world of ours 

   His wings my phoenix spread, 

How gracious falls on land and sea 

   The soul-refreshing shade! 

Either world inhabits he, 

   Sees oft below him planets roll; 

His body is all of air compact, 

   Of Allah's love his soul.

DreamCarver

Book making is a wondrous and beautiful process. The best efforts are preserved for eternity, but most fall into oblivion. The book Amy and I are working on, called DreamCarver, has already proven to be an enduring work of art. It was first published in 1993 and became a traveling opera, visiting cities across America.

Diana Cohn and Amy collaborated on it. Publishers Weekly wrote: “Inspired by the life of renowned Oaxacan woodcarver Manuel Jiménez, newcomer Cohn and Córdova (My Land Sings) tell of Mateo, a young woodcarver who bravely breaks with a generations-old artistic tradition. The subsistence farmers of the boy's village are known for their juguetes, tiny carvings of wooden animals "so small they could fit in the palm of a hand," carved by men and boys, and painted in fiesta-bright colors by women and girls. But Mateo dreams of carving life-size animals, with surfaces that tingle with vibrant, improbable colors and surreal patterns. "I see animals so big and bright that I will need to carve them with a machete!" he tells his disapproving father. When Mateo ultimately produces a glorious wooden menagerie—including a quetzal with majestic feathers—he wins over not only Papa, but the entire village, and a new way of carving is born. Cohn captures the boy's pursuit with straightforward eloquence, whether describing a child's heady experience of a fiesta or articulating the imaginative forces that set apart and drive a true artist. Córdova chronicles Mateo's artistic development in radiant, double-spread tableaux, setting off the text with festive decorative borders. She borrows the highly stylized characterizations and flattened perspectives typical of Mexican folk art, but she animates the compositions with big, bold shapes and electric, saturated colors. A fitting tribute to the energy and power of an artist's distinctive vision.” 

From our perfect vantage point in our home in Oaxaca, just a village away from Arrazola where the woodcarvers make the “alebrijes” magic animals carved of wood and decorated with complex designs in a riot of colors, we are remaking the book with new illustrations and bilingual text.

Amy said, “Back in 1992, my dear friend, Diana Cohn and I visited Oaxaca with the intent of creating a children's book about the origins of the fantastical, colorful alebrije carvings. We visited Manuel Jimenez , who is attributed with starting the entire movement. As a result of our love of the art form, we created the book Dream Carver, which was published by Chronicle Books, San Francisco. Since then , our agreement has expired and we requested the return of rights. 

Fast forward, rights granted ! Since then, I have spent the last many months reworking and creating new images, with the goal of enhancing those images and creating a bilingual edition. Diana and I have revised the text, so that the format of two languages is not compromised. Steve has spent hours photographing and doing incredible layouts of text and image. Pages now look breathtaking! I am still painting. A labor of love, for certain.”

The Dream Carver tradition is alive and thrives today. The original artist, Manuel Jimenez, now deceased, passed his tradition to his sons, and one of them, Isaias, continues with his family to produce marvelous works. He opened the DreamCarver Museum and had students create murals based on Amy’s illustrations. He is very eager for the book, originally in English, to be published as a bilingual.

Our goal is to have books in hand for a big celebration at the Museum during the Dia de Muertos festival November 1 and 2, 2021.

A Life of Its Own

The great jazz player Louis Armstrong said, “Musicians don't retire; they stop when there's no more music in them.” I have always thought artists don’t retire.

Amy and I have slowed down our usual pace of making art. The huge project of moving to Mexico and into our big house on a fairly large property absorbs us. The number of hours we work has not changed much. 

I enjoy the grounds. We arrived at the end of the dry season and it seemed many of the plants were dead. Not so. It has begun raining and they are all turning green. Below our home, down a hill I spied a clump of yellow flowers all in a heap. On further inspection, they turned out to be what was left of a tree cut down many months ago. The limbs had enough life that they were blooming. Kind of like a chicken that has its head cut off continues running around. I brought many of the limbs home and stuck them in our pond that receives the waste water for the house. It has aquatic plants that clean and filter the water. That was a few weeks ago and the blooms have continued. I dug holes and planted them this past week and they are showing signs of growth. This magic occupies my imagination and inspires me.

As for art, Amy is working on making a bilingual edition of the book she illustrated called Dreamcarver, (El Tallador De Suenos) by Diana Cohn. Some of the images are reworked and the text includes Spanish. And she has begun work on a painting of Tonantzin: the original mother deity of ancient Mexico who predates Guadalupe.

Painting in progress. 50x50 cm, Frida Kahlo, oil on canvas.

I am at work on an image of Frida Kahlo that is taking far longer than usual for me. I made a few mistakes early on and had to go back and fix them. Paintings have a life of their own. Some children are born in a wink of the eye, others seem to take forever.

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.