May 11, 2012

Ode to Modern-Day Mothers

Categories: Family-Style

For the sleeplessness that began when you single-handedly nourished a seven-pound being from the extra fat and limited energy reserves of your own body and which continues when you wake up in a panic, imagining your absent teenage daughter in the back of some loser’s car, potentially setting herself up to single-handedly nourish a seven-pound being.

For interrupted thought processes, essential work-related phone calls and three-quarters of all conversations, toilet time and love-making.

For repeated cleaning of feces, paint, vomit, play-dough, yogurt, gum, mud, unidentifiable moldy liquids left in sippy cups, fingernail polish on family heirlooms, silly putty from carpet and sticker-burs from the matted, waste-length hair of your hungover 15-year-old daughter (thanks Mom).

For the hours of fruitless attempts to organize closets, crayons, cabinets, couch cushions and chaos.

For the stretch marks, the cracked nipples, the varicose veins and the scar over your left eye from the time your toddler stabbed you with a finger nail file in a fit of rage (as thanks for trying to save him from injuring himself.)

For the countless unappreciated meals, painstakingly prepared with attention to dietary restrictions, personal preferences, a standard of health, environmental consciousness, a limited budget, and without burning the baby on your hip when she reaches for the boiling pot of vegetable soup (no dairy, local veggies, broth on sale, pureed for the picky).

For the hundreds of times you’ve bent over to sort through the dirt pile while sweeping, removing puzzle pieces, plastic pinata prizes, ponytail holders and Polly Pocket pants. Also for the times you swept them up and tossed them, guiltlessly, chalking it off to natural consequence.

For your zen-like nature, as is evident by your ability to completely ignore the baby crawling under your down-dog and the two kids running through the living room with water grenades while you do your daily yoga.

For maintaining your composure while your children offer details of your digestive dilemmas to the guests at your dinner party or explain your weakest moments of parenting as if they happen every day.

For the hours you spend diverting the attention of your confined baby with repeated ridiculous noises and expressions while pushing the shopping cart, driving down the highway and taking care of essential business in quiet, un-kid-friendly buildings.

For the times you take your preteen to mall with her friends (despite your preference to be enjoying your Saturday), follow her around (just out of sight) and swallow your disdain for what she’s wearing, the way she’s pretending the broken cell phone she carries is actually activated and the disgusting display of sexual images aimed at impressionable prepubescents.

For the removal of broken glass, the rapid assessment for severity of bloody wounds, the countless reminders not to hit windows with mallets, sticks or hammers and the hours spent in ER waiting rooms.

For enduring long-winded and half-true explanations over who is responsible for letting your neighbor’s now-missing 15-year-old dog-child out of their yard, spilling an entire quart of yogurt between the stove and the counter top, or using your new shirt in an attempt to wipe away chapstick drawings from the bathroom mirror.

For the bonding moments over ice cream AFTER your 12-year-old’s rude comment strikes a cord from some unresolved sixth-grade insecurity and – bruised – you proceed to respond as if you, too, were back in middle school.

For attempting to maintain the near-impossible balance between helping but not enabling, protecting while still allowing a few hard knocks, disciplining while honoring their humanness, receiving repeated hateful treatment but not reciprocating, keeping them healthy without turning them into deprived, junk food-obsessed, closet Pop-Tart bingers, encouraging them to be kind but not without a backbone, and talking to them about sex without making it sound either appealing or forbidden, as both may very well back-fire.

Share on Facebook Pin It twitter Email

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE:

How We Ended Up In Mexico
Before You Buy Your Thanksgivi...
Making Christmas Our Way
My Christmas Tree is Still Bar...
The (Potentially Contaminated)...
What Is Truly Worthwhile, Agai...
 
May 4, 2012

Why I Prefer to Live in Community + a Reluctant Farewell to The Cousins

Last November I returned to the states for a rare, unhurried week with my mom’s side of the family. Though the circumstances surrounding my trip were somber and the fact of my grandmother’s passing surreal, our time together was sweet as Mema’s plum preserves – I got to know my family a little deeper.

One 22-year-old cousin took a particular interest in our Mexico experience. Maybe – just maybe – she would convince her dad to let her come down for a visit. “Yea, right,” I thought, fully aware of my uncle’s stubborn stance against this death-wish of an idea.

A few days after returning south, however, I received an email from Lexi. Not only was she coming to visit, but she was bringing Chloe, her 21-year-old sister, and staying for three and a half months!

First of all, anyone who steps out of their comfort zone, instigates an impromptu semester abroad and buys their tickets on a whim meets my minimum criteria for pretty awesome. But for two (bright, charming, talented, attractive) young ladies to ignore the forewarnings of the fearful and head south despite all misguided, media-molested Mexico malarky? That takes some serious ovarian gonads.

My two cousins and one wasted Chamulan.

Their time here came to an end just yesterday (though I suspect they’ll be back before too long). I can’t begin to tell you how much fun we had. The kind of fun some people go for years without experiencing because they’ve either forgotten it was possible or they’ve told themselves some bullshit about being too busy or they’ve become accustomed to taking life real seriously (been there, done all three). The kind of fun amplified by a stepping out of the ordinary, a letting go of expectations and a willingness to be vulnerable to whatever life has to hand you (from private surf instruction to public village shit holes). The kind of fun accompanied by utter contentment, a total lack of want and fits of laughter more therapeutic than all the finest counsel combined.

The three of us unleashed at a costume/dance party.

So naturally, I’ve given a good deal of thought to what it is that encourages such rich and pleasant living. Are my cousins really just that awesome? Well, yes, actually they are, but that doesn’t explain the incredible weeks and months we’ve spent with other long-term house guests during our time here (there have been many).

I think the answer is just about as basic as being born…we are creatures created to live in community. While I could write a book on this singular subject (and I just might), for now it seems most important to share my recent experience of communal living (when did this beautiful term acquire a negative connotation?), while it’s still fresh on my mind and has hold of my heart.

What I Love About Living in Community

  1. Life feels lighter. I’m pretty sure that we made a joke out of just about every difficult, absurd and overwhelming situation that came up while they were here. Considering how many such experiences are inherent to raising children, living in a foreign country, speaking a new language and fighting parasites, that’s a lot of weight lifted.
  2. Empathy is abundant. No matter how deep my capacity for empathy, four daughters and an overtly attention-loving husband manage to dry my well from time to time. So when one kid is sobbing over her cereal about the stain on her new skirt and another is melting fast over her present pre-pubescent plight, it’s SO NICE to be able to continue chopping my chard while someone else offers a shoulder to cry on. And frankly, sometimes a 21-year-old has more wisdom to offer her 11-year-old cousin than a 34-year-old mama whose own pre-pubescence is 13 years more distant a memory.
  3. Many hands make light work. While I can’t say our house is any less disastrous when we have company, it sure is more fun washing dishes while someone’s drying, prepping a picnic while the laundry’s being folded and managing the morning meltdowns with a dork-out dance party.

    The girls on their morning walk to school.

  4. There is wisdom in every age. For whatever they gained from me and my maternal madness, I can say with all honesty that I gained just as much from them and their uninhibited enthusiasm. We are all simply living and learning as we go. There is no less wisdom to be gained from one age than another.
  5. I like it real.  There’s nothing like seeing folks as they first roll out of bed, or curled up in a fetal position with amoeba-induced stomach cramps or yelling at their kids or fussing over some self-perceived body image issue to remind you how real people are. I don’t know how many times I heard or said, “Would you shut up. Your butt is not even big – not that it matters.” I think we need constant reminders of reality in the face of so much societal distortion. Equally important, there’s nothing like helping run a household to dissolve any notions about how dreamy it would be to settle down and have a mess of babies. They’ll not soon forget the insanity, I assure you.
  6. Women need women. I haven’t always known this, or admitted it. For many years, I clung tight to my perception that a woman’s strength was determined by how well she handled things on her own. Today, I couldn’t disagree more. Women have always raised children together, washed clothes together, shared stories and anecdotes, songs and sorrows. Pretending that women are intended to handle it all alone is like saying mother wolves are better off separated from their packs. We are no less mammal nor solitary a species.
  7. Men are pretty neat, too. Though Hunter was hilariously outnumbered these past few months (even more so than usual) there were no shortage of opportunities for reflections about (and admiration over) boys, men, marriage and “mistakes” worth learning from. I think young 20-somethings need perspective regarding relationships from thirty-somethings. Likewise, there’s nothing quite like advising someone not-yet-committed to make me take an honest look at my own decisions through the years.
  8. It takes a village. For real. It’s ironic how often this phrase is used and yet how un-village-like we’ve grown accustomed to living. Our three month experiment, combined with years raising kids in a society that promotes independence over community and most recently, the examples I’ve seen in both indigenous and modernized Mexican culture have solidified a hunch I’ve had for years…community is cornerstone to the formation of healthy individuals, families and culture. Try as we may to fill the void created in its absence, our energies may be better spent assessing the ways we’ve become disconnected, determining our natural-born gifts and using them to build community wherever we are. Some things need not be improved upon, only preserved and revered.

“What should young people do with their lives today? Many things, obviously. But the most daring thing is to create stable communities in which the terrible disease of loneliness can be cured.” – Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

Share on Facebook Pin It twitter Email

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE:

How We Ended Up In Mexico
An Invaluable Video with a Sim...
One Year's Growth and the Rela...
Four Kids. Four Daughters. For...
A Week of Reflection and Farew...
Evidence of Springtime, Both I...
 
April 17, 2012

Let’s All Compare Our Perfect Lives, Then Try To Enjoy Our Day

A perfect bookshelf that would NEVER look this way at my house.

The other day, a friend sent me a link to this clever blog post written by a mom who’d been struggling with inadequacy. The source of this empty emotion? Her slacker-style parenting and inferior homemaking skills. Believe it or not, this woman doesn’t decorate her kids’ grilled cheese to look like ice cream cones, she hasn’t bothered to alphabetize her spice rack and she doesn’t even mold the family’s soap into flowers.

(Insert eye roll) I know, right!?

I guess I could give the lady a break — even empathize a little. After all, I too, have wondered what I was doing wrong as homemaker through the years. I’m creative. I can cook. I even know how to sew and knit and decoupage dresser drawers. So why aren’t my kids adorned in hand-knit fair isle or their lunches properly packed with smiling sunshines?

What’s this Little People-loving mama got that I don’t?

I’ll tell you what she’s got – one of four things. Either a great big vintage mess to reorganize every time her kids play, a daily sense of defeat over the fisher-price fail on the floor, live-in help, or OCD. Thanks, but I’ll stick with my slightly-more-primitive method of mess management – the few toys we have, we toss in a tub and push into a corner.

This is our makeshift playroom in its usual lived-in state. An unintended bonus created when we nailed up plastic in the courtyard to keep the bedrooms warm(er), it has proven the perfect corridor for chaos. Worth noting: that mossy structure (front right) is last year's nativity scene - repurposed into a house for the Calico Critters, the girls hung my favorite embroidered table cloth in the back to play tienda and they recently decided to rip the plastic sheeting for a clever escape route during hide and seek.

I can’t say I’ve always felt this way. I used to try hard to keep the house all cute and the crap creatively contained. But through the years, these things have become less and less important to me. And why? Because they don’t feed me. And they don’t feed me because they really don’t matter.

I’m not dissing those of you with affinities for prettifying your possessions. I love order and beauty and old-school toys. If I had all the time in the world, I might even embroider vintage-y vegetables on all my kitchen linens. But what I don’t love – in fact, what I loathe, is that our culture places so much value on show and appearance and image. That everywhere we go, we are bombarded by reminders of the things we don’t have, the experiences we’ve not provided our families and that someone, somewhere does something better than we do.

Fortunately, we have choices about what we allow into our experiences. And while it’s hard to avoid the billboards between ourselves and the starry skies, many of the influences that increase our sense of inadequacy are part of our lives because we invite them to be there. Magazines depicting the “perfect” home, the “perfect” body and the “perfect” parent, the dozens of seemingly-innocent home and image-improvement shows, and – as the previously-mentioned blogger describes – internet influences like the all-popular Pinterest have more influence over our perception of what’s important than we realize.

Don’t get me wrong – I rather like Pinterest. I could spend all day pining (and pinning) over off-grid minimalist dwellings or two-person outdoor showers or letterpress prints of ferns and Japanese maple – but I don’t.

We tried this level of minimalist living. It wasn't quite so cute.

And I read blogs – about experimental homesteading and curbing candida and ghetto guerrilla gardening – every once in a while.

I appreciate access to information and ideas at the click of a button – but enough is enough already. And while it’s nice to have that sock-darning tutorial handy, more often than not I get so distracted by something woolen or whitewashed or wilted with caramelized garlic that I waste a freaking hour and still have a hole in my knee-high.

Whitewashed brick, minimalist design and a that charcoal wool rug? Be still, my heart.

I’m not encouraging you not to read blogs (clearly), nor am I suggesting you give up anything that truly inspires you. What I am saying is that we’ve all got to check this shit. You decide what serves you and your family. You decide what’s worth your time and emotional investment. You decide whether pixilated poppies satisfy your soul’s longing for beauty like discovering them growing wild on a Sunday picnic.

And most importantly, only you can decide whether you could have lived without knowing that this can be done with noodles and wieners…

Happiness grows at our own firesides, and is not to be picked in strangers’ gardens.

- Douglas Jerrold

Share on Facebook Pin It twitter Email

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE:

An Invaluable Video with a Sim...
Today is My Husband's Birthday
A Week of Reflection and Farew...
Headed Out to Build a School f...
How To Make Natural Easter Egg...
Why I Prefer to Live in Commun...
 
April 9, 2012

How To Make an Effective Fruit Fly Trap In Less Than 5 Minutes

Wow. Nothing says Happy Easter like the hatching of a few hundred million fruit flies. I kid you not – Saturday, there were none. By Sunday morning, they were everywhere.

Our compost pile - the obvious reason we attract so many fruit flies.

Fortunately, this is ain’t my first rodeo. Given that we are devoted composters (I have a hard time throwing organic matter in the trash even when composting isn’t an option), and that we don’t refrigerate most of our produce, fruit flies are a springtime norm at our house (no matter where we happen to be living). Luckily, the brain size of fruit flies makes for an easy solution. These simple DIY traps work great and cost you next to nothing.

How To Make a Fruit Fly Trap 

You’ll need:

A jar from the recycling bin (mayo, jelly, whatever)

Tape (masking or duct work best)

A sheet of paper

A bit of rotting fruit and/or a few tablespoons of sweet fermented liquid (wine, beer and balsamic vinegar work great)

Directions:

  1. Make a cone out of the sheet of paper, leaving a small opening on the pointed end (a little bigger than a pin head and a little smaller than an eraser). The opening of the wide end of the cone should be large enough to rest on the edge of the jar with the cone tip a few inches from the jar bottom. Tape the cone to secure.
  2. Place rotting food and liquid in jar.
  3. Tape the cone to the jar securely.
  4. Set the trap near your compost or fruit bowl. You will be shocked at how many fruit flies you collect in a day.
  5. Release them outside, away from your house by removing the paper cone. Reassemble and reset as needed.

Word to the wise: Unattended fruit fly traps become maggot breading grounds in only a few days. Unless you are looking for an interesting science experiment, be sure and release the captives every day or two.

Share on Facebook Pin It twitter Email

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE:

Perspective and Preparation fo...
Graveyard in Rural Chiapas on ...
Fast-Paced Nation: Part II – H...
My Solstice Girl Is Seventeen ...
The Ways in Which We Limit Our...
Making a Huge Mess, I Mean Bir...
 
April 3, 2012

How To Make Natural Easter Egg Dye (and a Pot of Soup for Dinner)

Before I begin, I must admit that I enjoyed this project even more than the kids. Actually, during one of my many exclamations of delight at such wonders as the vibrancy of blue attainable from a pointedly purple cabbage, or the mottling effect that vinegar has when mixed with beet juice, Taos – with her new pre-teenagerish look of disgust proclaimed, “Wow Mom, you are like totally dorking out on this whole Easter egg deal. You’re kinda scaring me.”

My favorites - beet, hibiscus and cumin, each left to soak overnight.

Okay, so I’m total a dork (as is apparently evident anytime natural foods meet science meets practical family project) but it really was fascinating! Who’d have thought that hibiscus flowers would leave a royal purple stain after 10 minutes, but a muted, matte gray when left overnight? Who’d have guessed that the deepest green spinach or freshly unearthed carrots would prove about worthless as egg dye?

Needless to say, when I mentioned my intentions for the dye-extracted, boiled veggies (soup, what else?), my bright idea was met with gagging noises, puking gestures and a whole day of laughs at my expense.

What else was I to do with all these lovely, still-nutritious veggies?

So my pleasure was all the greater when – enticed back to the kitchen by the aromatic coupling of root vegetables and savory spices – they were begging for a bowl, apologizing for their crude critiques and singing my praises for their dinner of Easter Egg Dye Soup. I may be a total dork, but my kids are growing up to appreciate the wonders of natural foods, and that’s one compromise I’m willing to make.

The results of our experiment…

They were prettier and a little brighter than the photo captures. Cool mottled effect.

The biggest surprise and overall favorite color.

The lighter colored eggs were left in hibiscus overnight. The darker ones for only 15 minutes!

The spinach and carrot dyes didn't really take at all.

Directions for Making Your Own Natural Easter Egg Dyes

  1. Collect dye ingredients. This is the most comprehensive list I’ve found of natural egg dyes, though some are much more effective than others.
  2. Wash as many eggs as you’d like in warm, soapy water to remove any film or bi-products of the farm-to-table process.
  3. Bring eggs to a boil and cook for 10 minutes. Allow to cool.
  4. Chop veggies into pieces.
  5. Place 4 cups of water and a generous amount of one dye ingredient in a pot or saucepan. There is no set rule for how much to use, but I used enough fruits and veggies that the water just covered their tops and ½ to 1 cup of spices, tea and coffee.
  6. Boil for 15-30 minutes, checking the water for color intensity. Keep in mind that the dyed eggs will not be as bright as the liquid.
  7. Strain the solids from the liquid and set cooked vegetables aside for soup. (I used carrots, beets, cabbage and spinach.) Compost the rest.
  8. Pour dye into narrow, tallish containers (raid your recycling bin – yogurt containers work great) and label them. I wouldn’t have known what was what without the labels – the colors are often surprises.
  9. Add 2-3 tablespoons of vinegar (white or apple cider) to each container. Stir.
  10. Place clean, boiled eggs in dye. Make sure they are fully submerged.
  11. Wait. Check after 20 minutes. Leave in as long as overnight to deepen the color in the fridge). Some dyes begin to eat away at the outer shell when left overnight, actually producing a more muted (and sometimes beautiful) color.
  12. Rinse eggs or just allow to dry on a dry towel. The effects can vary greatly by leaving the dye film to dry (and crackle, fade or give a tie-dye effect).
  13. Store in the fridge until Easter.

Easter Egg Dye Soup – Our New Spring Tradition

As inexact as the dye-making process, creamed soups are forgiving and simple to make. Here was this year’s version…

6-10 cups boiled veggies from the Easter egg dying process

6-8 cups vegetable or chicken broth or 3 cubes of bullion dissolved in 6-8 cups boiling water

2 onions, chopped

8 cloves of garlic (or more, but then I love garlic), diced

4 T butter

thumb-sized chunk of fresh ginger, peeled and grated

2 T apple cider vinegar

½ tsp salt

½ tsp cinnamon

¼ tsp cumin

¼ tsp curry powder

bay leaf

pinch nutmeg

pinch cayenne (optional)

1 c heavy cream (optional)

salty, crumby cheese such as cotija, (optional)

Saute onions in butter over medium heat until transparent. Reduce heat. Add garlic and spices except bay leaf. Squeeze juice from grated ginger and add, discarding the pulp. Saute 2 minutes more. Add vegetables. Stir and remove from heat. In several batches, blend broth and vegetables together in a blender until all vegetables are smooth. Add broth/vegetable mixture back to the pot. Depending upon the consistency, you may want to add a little more water or broth at this point. Add bay leaf. On low heat, allow to simmer for 15-20 minutes, adding heavy cream toward the end if desired. Serve hot and top with crumbled cheese.

Share on Facebook Pin It twitter Email

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE:

We Need Not Wait for Wall Stre...
Fast-Paced Nation: Part II – H...
Adventures in Thrifting - Seco...
Street Life and the Virgin of ...
The Maya + Me: Story #1 - Cook...
Why I Prefer to Live in Commun...
 
March 27, 2012

Evidence of Springtime, Both Inside and Out

It’s springtime, alright. Even within the walls of our citified concrete compound, new life is being born as if in defiance of every cement surface keeping soil from its rightful place saddled up against the sky.

A six-foot tomato plant that grew from compost turned chicken shit in our backyard coop.

It’s springtime, alright. The sun – with so much to accomplish – dries our clothes in half the time. How else would it manage to conduct the song of sparrows, bathe my kitchen in perfect morning light and still have time to ensure the miracle of photosynthesis all in a day’s work?

Notice the songbird?

It’s springtime, alright. Granadas are back in season — slimy and sour, seedy and sweet. So are tuberoses. That same bunch you buy at Whole Foods for $18 is grown in the hills outside our town and costs me about a buck fifty. If you’ve ever smelled tuberoses, you know that their beauty is really just a bonus.

It’s springtime, alright. The dry and toppled stalks of last year’s harvest are being unearthed, swept and tidied (like Mayan spring cleaning), then mounded in the milpa for some lucky cattle or crow. Mothers pause the season’s cultivation for a picnic of tortillas and beans. Seems suitable – even sacred – considering the two crops they are preparing to plant.

It’s springtime, alright. I’ve been instructed to crack our eggs just so (“Yes, Mom, cascarones on Easter are totally worth a few egg shells in your breakfast”).

It’s springtime, alright. Tender, young shoots of understanding are emerging from my compacted, contemplative winter. And so it seems, the answers to the complex and disconcerting questions I’ve been asking are being shown to me in the smallest of details, under the simplest of circumstances and in stillest of moments…


It’s springtime alright. At the urging of the songbirds, inspired by tomato vines birthed from chicken shit, and in the interest of everything worth caring for, I’ve begun to relax the furrows on my brow — to allow for a change of season. I figure that if nature bears witness to every known injustice and still manages to set the trees in bloom, I need not worry over injustice. And if the perpetuation of life is spring’s reaction to disparity, then maybe I ought to determine which of my own reactions encourage growth.

Last season had its purpose, as do furrows: they allow for a depth and strength in the rooting of seeds. Seeds of understanding are really no different, I think — in which case I need feel nothing but hopeful, I need change nothing but my focus and I need do nothing but tend my seedlings and trust in the springtime.

The loveliest little bouquet - picked from a garden, surrounding a shack and given to me by a single mother of six. I'm always amazed at the generosity of people who have so little.

No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn. – Hal Borland

Share on Facebook Pin It twitter Email

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE:

For the Love of Pumpkins and t...
Graveyard in Rural Chiapas on ...
An Invaluable Video with a Sim...
Reprioritizing, Again.
The Ideal Mother
Making a Huge Mess, I Mean Bir...
 
March 15, 2012

Making a Huge Mess, I Mean Birthday Piñatas

My youngest, Estella, turned five on Tuesday. A firm believer in keeping birthdays simple (at least in theory), my plan was to invite a few friends to the park, do the piñata thing, let them run off the candy buzz and call it a cumpleaños.

Despite my purest intentions though (and consistent with my usual actions as opposed to my theories) I managed to complicate matters for myself as if it were my job. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve pulled off a simple birthday yet. And why? Because apparently even more than ‘simple’ I value ‘homemade’.

In all fairness, Hunter called it. “Why the hell do you want to make piñatas when there are at least a dozen professional piñata makers in our neighborhood alone?”

It’s not like I hadn’t thought it through. I had four good reasons — make that five.

  1. I’ve never made piñatas with my kids.
  2. Estella is my last and I’m secretly trying to cram in all the PITA projects I’ve been putting off all these years.
  3. All the piñatas I’ve seen here are sorry excuses for popular U.S. TV characters (with elongated, yellow faces and stickers for eyes) and I’ll be darned if I’m going spend our hard-earned pesos on a life-size, jaundiced Dora la Exploradora.
  4. I’m convinced that the candy sold at piñata stores might actually kill you if your immune system were already slightly compromised by say, a head cold or old age or a UTI. Chili-covered gummy invertebrates, plastic toilets with aquamarine Clorox sugar bowls, and gooey tongue paint whose most-likely-unregulated food dye stains your mouth radiation-green for at least 48 hours? I’ve laxed my standards a whole lot since my first years of parenting, but not quite that far.
  5. The piñatas in this part of Mexico are made with clay pots inside of them, the kids lined up to whack them are no amateurs and we’ve witnessed more than one bloodied body be peeled from the bottom of a pinata pile-up amidst candy, sponge bob parts and ceramic shards. Not even kidding.

So, we made piñatas. For four days. It may have been the single messiest project in the Berry family to-date (and believe you me, we’re no strangers to mess-making).

Do I think piñatas can be made without destroying the house, ruining the mixing bowls and compromising the sewage lines? Probably – though such a tidy outcome would have required my total engagement, and why would I spend four days managing a paper mache project when I have an industrious, resourceful and good-natured 11-year-old who happily volunteered for the position? I’ve earned the luxury of minimal engagement, dad gummet. You’d better believe I’m willing to pay the price of two hours of clean up for four days of occupied children.

It is with a sigh of relief, dry and prune-like hands (I did help, in the end) and many thanks to Taos that I can now check piñata-making off the list of family memory makers and try again next year for that ever-elusive goal of simplicity.

Share on Facebook Pin It twitter Email

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE:

Adventures in Thrifting - Seco...
An Invaluable Video with a Sim...
Candy Land of Consumption and ...
Making Christmas Our Way
The (Potentially Contaminated)...
Why I Prefer to Live in Commun...
 
March 7, 2012

What Is Truly Worthwhile, Again? And By the Way, Which End is Up?

I’ve had a hard time writing lately — though not for lack of trying. I’ve started draft after well-intentioned draft but end up drifting hopelessly off course or paddling upstream so long that my brain hurts, I have little to show for my efforts and it’s time to pick up the kids.

Yesterday, while pressing my morning coffee, I finally realized why. My worldview — the foundation upon which I’ve built my thoughts, values and priorities — is in a vulnerable state of transformation. Illusions are dissolving quicker than they’re being replaced with anything half as easy, my comfort zones feel unwarranted, lavish and indulgent and the curtain of denial that once allowed for permissible passivity is now a tangled pile of weft threads at my feet.

My daily life is steeped in a question I thought I had long since answered: What is truly worthwhile?

(If you’re new here, this post might not make much sense without a frame of reference: In short, I’ve been visiting an impoverished village of indigenous Mayans in southern Mexico once a week since December. Doing so has shifted everything I thought I knew about poverty, oppression, necessity, even truth. You can read more about what I’ve been up to here.)

A typical kitchen in homes I have been visiting. The cook fires blacken the ceilings and walls with sticky tar.

I suppose I didn’t fully understand the emotional contract I was signing when I asked for this perspective (because I did, indeed, ask for it), but my heart is now committed to a precarious balancing act between three entirely different cultures. They may as well be different planets for the energy I spend trying to make sense of them all…

One of the hundreds of fruit and vegetable stands at the outdoor market where we shop.

Culture number one: The 500-year-old town we live in — which has refueled and fed and inspired me. It’s confirmed my longtime suspicion — that local living, walkability, a slower pace and more family time really do make for a healthier and more pleasant existence (and are well worth fighting to reclaim in the states). I now have a perspective on what the US must have been like before big business took over — with local hardware stores, bakeries, laundry ladies, key makers, shoe repair guys, fruit stands, meat markets, taco carts, seamstresses, milk stores (fresh cheese and yogurt made in-house, are you kidding?!) and every other imaginable family-owned business on any given city block. We walk or bike or take a two-dollar taxi anywhere we need to go. We pass our friends in the street, stop for brief greetings or deep conversation (well, not so deep in Spanish), and often duck into a local cafe for an impromptu Chiapan dark roast and a flaky French pastry just because we can. Here, we’ve learned that life can be even richer with less money. That obligations and conveniences are overrated. That the media is painting a wholly inaccurate picture about the majority of life in Mexico.

Our eldest daughter, Sigorni. Reason enough to move back.

And yet, our time here is limited. We’ll likely move back home to the states — culture number two — sooner than later (can we squeeze in one more year?). Where we have access to better secondary education and jobs with benefits (and camping and fishing and live music and IPAs). Where speaking isn’t exhausting and depth of conversation isn’t limited by my weakness in the past subjunctive (though I hardly mind). Where our nearest and dearest people live including our eldest daughter who starts college in just one year. Where every imaginable thing is available to meet every imaginable want at the click of a mouse and like it or not, we’ll be supporting big box and big oil on a daily basis. Where weekends mean home improvements and soccer games and farmers markets and BBQs (every bit as scheduled as the weekdays), and where — if we somehow manage to maintain a slower pace than we lived before — we will be true anomalies. It isn’t better or worse, it’s just so very different.

A year ago I could have stopped the comparison there, or elaborated in flowery language about the beauty that exists in both places. But now there’s a third culture…

Corn and Coca-Cola, two of the main food groups of indigenous Maya. And yes, the diabetes rates are off the charts.

Culture number three: the Mayan village that I visit every week. Where I’ve seen more untreated birth defects, handicaps and scary-looking scars in three months than my whole life combined (Next time your life feels rough, imagine having been born without legs OR arms, sleeping on a wooden platform every night of your life and never having access to a shower.) Where the arrival of a new baby is not celebrated with fancy finger foods and pretty party cups and a good excuse to shop, but earnest prayer for a normal labor, humility in the all-too-familiar understanding of the alternative and the acceptance of yet another mouth to feed from already insufficient rations and dirty water. Where, heaven forbid (though it often permits) that something serious happen to a child, there’s about a 50/50 chance of finding a doctor (and good luck getting help at a hospital without any money). Where I’ve been offered newspaper, crumpled sheets of homework and a used up wide-ruled spiral notebook upon entering outhouses, but never once toilet paper.

While squatting over the hole in this outhouse, I was simultaneously surprised by two visitors. The first was a little boy who opened the blanket and tossed me his old homework for toilet paper. The second was a curious old ram who stuck his head through the slats like it was his job to keep an eye on the gringa.

Toilet paper is a luxury, my friends, and one that millions of good people do without. What does that say about the hundreds of thousands of other products that we think we need and invest our time working to acquire? What does it say about our priorities (as individuals, as organizations, as the most affluent, influential nation in the world)? How do I reconcile what I’m experiencing (as I wipe my arse with wide-ruled spiral-bound) with the image of thousands of supermarket isles neatly lined with value-packs of ultra-soft jumbo rolls? What does a healthy reaction look like?

I’m learning, slowly and clumsily how to guard my heart enough to hold all three worlds and still function without constant confusion. How to hop back and forth between homework and dishes, malnutrition and muddy shacks, Facebook statuses and my virtual contribution via the blogosphere. How to sit by Lucia’s fire and watch her prepare dinner with a machete by morning and plan our summer vacation at a lake house by night. How to make peace with disparity and friends with poverty but resist the default emotions of anger and cynicism.

Because you know what? There’s nothing revolutionary about anger or cynicism. They are cop-outs, they are easy roads — both well-paved and highly congested.

Here’s where you come in. Those of you who’ve been here before, I could really use your perspective. Those of you immersed in the world’s harsher realities and who choose not to turn your backs, how do you still your mind?  Those of you with hearts for humanity, where do you draw the line between building enough callus to function and still honoring the sensitivity that made you care in the first place? Would someone please remind me which end is up again?

Maybe this is just what happens when you live a lifetime of relative ease and affluence — when the truth hits, it hits hard. Maybe this is my daily hardship — the price I pay for the gift of perspective. Every night I lie down on a mattress and curl up with my down comforter, I now pay a price. It costs me when I step in my steamy-hot shower. I pay in heartache. It is my new burden, and it’s got to be nearly as heavy as their loads of firewood.

I know that at the end of the day, beating myself up over social injustice is not going to solve a darn thing. I come from where I come from, the world has forever been wrought with tragedy and I’ve got to stay positive in order to fight the good fight (or better yet, to resist fighting altogether). And because of where I come from, I don’t have to help alleviate injustice, but I get to.

Corn is dried in the sun and then ground into grain.

The laundry room and kitchen of my friend, Crecencia.

The one thing that keeps me hopeful in the face of all the hardship is that I also see the riches they possess. Among these is that they never have to question whether what they’re doing is worthwhile. Because there is no question that it’s worthwhile to collect wood to build a fire so your kids can eat. Or to hand wash the only shirt you own aside from the one you are wearing. Or to harvest the corn that will feed your family for the better part of the year. There’s no question that it’s worthwhile to tend the burns of your eldest daughter, or to mourn her untimely passing — as much the fault of injustice as infection.

You started this, Luch. You changed me forever. If and when I am able to replace the curtain you unraveled, I will reweave it loose and shear so as not to forget you.

This is Luch (with my friends Dennis and Andrea). She was a woman exactly my age who died two hard months after falling into her cook fire (during a parasite-induced seizure). I met her and her family, we tried to help and were unsuccessful. Luch represents the beginning of a new chapter of my life in which I have seen shocking injustice and been helpless to prevent it.

“The world is just the way it is. The economy is just as it should be. The people who are behaving ‘badly’ in the world are doing what they’re supposed to be doing. You can process it in any way that you choose. If you’re filled with anger about all of those ‘problems,’ you are one more person who contributes to the pollution of anger.” Wayne Dyer

Share on Facebook Pin It twitter Email

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE:

Blog Post Number One - You Got...
Graveyard in Rural Chiapas on ...
An Invaluable Video with a Sim...
Candy Land of Consumption and ...
Headed Out to Build a School f...
The Maya + Me: Story #1 - Cook...
 
February 20, 2012

The Ways in Which We Limit Ourselves

Photo of me -- because I'm talking about my own limitations and because it's hard to pair photos with abstract concepts. I also like that my first round of wrinkles have made their impressions in places affected by smiling.

I wrote the following piece for a blog that no longer exists. A year and many eye-opening experiences later, I find myself needing to revisit this idea of self-limitations – to pull a few recently-rooted weeds, repair a broken boundary fence or two and give the boot to a couple uninvited guests who crept in slyly through the backdoor of my subconscious. I’ve added a few perspectives that this year has offered me (in darker text)…

12 Ways in Which I Limit Myself (That May Also Apply to You)

I am convinced that the greatest obstacles standing between us and the attainment of happiness or the fulfillment of our dreams are nothing more than unexplored, self-imposed limitations. For a wide variety of reasons, the mind tends to divert attention from its part in creating misery and has a heck of a time admitting its responsibility for undesirable emotions. It seeks outside factors upon which to place blame and is constantly storing up excuses with which to justify its less-than-ideal state of existence.

Both to better process these ideas for myself, and to offer my thoughts to you, I will sort through a few of my own limitations and evaluate them for truth. Some I have made peace with and grown from already. Others still require work and consistent reminders to keep me from revisiting them out of shear and stubborn habit.

I will be happy when I have more money and therefore less financial burden.

Throughout my adult life we have nearly always struggled to make ends meet. We have fretted and scrambled and worried and stressed, convinced and convicted that what we had wasn’t enough. Then a few years ago, through a series of humbling experiences, I came to realize that it’s not so much the money as my thoughts about money. A scarcity mentality – in which I tell myself there is not enough in this moment – feeds fear, causing me to worry needlessly and create stories about a hypothetical time in the future where my happiness is waiting for me. An abundance mentality, on the other hand, recognizes that I always have just enough as is evident in any given moment by the food in my pantry, shoes on my feet and unlikelihood of starvation as my fate (not to mention the thousands of other incalculable daily blessings I take for granted). I started to notice how many wealthy people still struggle with discontentment, and how the happiest people I know invest not in making money but living according to their purpose (somehow not a one has yet to starve). Money is just another exchange of energy — one that has been misused and abused and blown out of proportion (as are so many things rooted in fear). This year, I have met many happy people whose financial security amounts to a pile of dried feed corn and a three sheep tied together by their mud-caked ankles. People without shoes who have no pantry (much less extra food to fill one) and for whom the likelihood of starvation is just a crop failure or a landslide away. Happiness has nothing to do with money, my friends. No matter how many convincing, convoluted lies you’re fed every single day.

I will be happy when I build a successful career and can contribute my gifts to the world.

This is an unfortunate, common misconception of many a parent choosing full-time child-rearing over career development. The way I see it, there are actually few greater gifts you could give the world than healthy, loved and valued children. Furthermore, success is relative, and you have no idea what the future holds of the happiness you seek. Contribute your gifts now, from wherever you find yourself. This season of your life will pass before you know it. Wow, how about that. This year has taught me that it’s possible to be less content once you find your dream job and realize that you must fragment yourself even further in order to juggle your passion for work and your family. Careful what you ask for. And careful about society’s twisted messages that imply that you must have it all at once in order to be content. Your contribution to your family is worthy beyond measure, and life is too good to be lived in a hurry.

I can’t be myself in _____situation because I will be judged and rejected.

The greater truth here might be… “I am afraid to be myself because I judge and reject myself.” Yep.

I can’t follow my dreams, I have too many children or an inflexible job.

Moving to Mexico blew a crater-sized hole in that lie! However – this year has shown me a new layer to this dream-following bit. I’ve decided that the idea of “following” your dreams is of limited use. It implies that what I seek is always a few steps ahead of me, requiring want and striving and a constant expenditure of energy focused on the future for fulfillment. I suppose you could say we “followed our dreams” to Mexico, but if so, now what? I’m supposed to keep following something – as if the gift of this dream isn’t enough? I much prefer the idea of living my dreams. This slight shift in perspective curbs that empty and insatiable sense of longing and frees me up to fully appreciate the here and now. (Besides, what could be more dreamy that a life without want!?) Logan Smith sums it up nicely, “There are two things to aim at in life: first, to get what you want, and after that to enjoy it. Only the wisest of mankind achieve the second.”

My life right now is not as it should be. It should be some other way.

Can it be? Right this very moment, can your life be different? Not until you do something to make it different. There is no good that comes from dwelling on how it “should be.” The truth is, it shouldn’t be any different, because IT ISN’T! Instead, an embrace of what is allows for an opportunity to be fully present and more attentive to the beauty of now. This is one of those limitations that I’m still very much in the throws of. These days it manifests itself as, “I should be doing more – I should be writing more, cooking more, studying more Spanish, investing more time in my kids, the Maya, my parents, my friends, my grandparents.” It’s a pretty awful feeling and one that I intend to conquer, as long as it takes me. When I catch myself, I can see the fallacy in my thinking, but its roots are deep and stubborn and consistent weeding takes some real discipline.

In college, 12 years ago already, I vividly remember feeling the exact same emotion…that I was always somehow lacking — never doing quite enough. One day a man I barely knew told me something simple that’s stuck all these years. He said, “You do enough. You have enough. You are enough.” Thank you, Man Whose Name I’ve Long Since Forgotten. Your words have helped recenter me time and time again.

I have to do _____ to be a good parent.

I have to read to my kids every night. I have to bake cakes with them and teach them to garden. I have to serve only organic food, make every birthday present, and shelter them from all injustice. The truth is, there are billions of ways to raise kids, and thankfully, kids are quite resilient. There is more value in them seeing you happy and whole than in all the perfect experiences you attempt to provide for them at the expense of your sanity. As for this year’s realization…these illiterate Maya mamas who strap their babies to their backs, sing to them while tending their fires, feed them mostly corn and Coca Cola, don’t own a book and have no way to shelter them from the harshest injustices known to humanity, are some of the best mothers I have ever seen. Take that, doting, guilt-laden, idealized U.S. parenting paradigms.

If so-and-so stopped (or started) doing _____, then I could be happy.

Again, a great way to dump your personal responsibility on someone else instead of looking at your part in finding happiness for yourself. What if person X did stop? Then you will be happy? Really? I daresay tomorrow will bring a new set of circumstances to prove you otherwise. If there really is a person creating experiences in your life that are not consistent with the life you want, you can either chose to do nothing and continue in the same manner (though expecting different results is the perfect recipe for insanity), eliminate (or change) their influence in your life, or change your perspective of them. The only thing I would add to this one year later is that the more I work on myself and take responsibility for my actions and reactions, the more other people in my life seem to do the same. (It’s really rather amazing.) Also, perspective shifts can be pretty powerful.

I am not creative, smart, talented, organized, athletic or experienced enough to _____.

If this is how we view ourselves, it is likely others see us this way, too. How many opportunities do we close ourselves off from by labeling ourselves (and/or other people)? Maybe you’ve defined yourself in a certain way your whole life based on a past judgement you received. You can chose to reject the labels of other people and redefine yourself however you want. On the same note, I am not a slave to my potential. The fact that I’ve been given capabilities does not mean I must find ways to utilize them all, all the time. Everything in its season. All things in due time.

I can’t be who I want to be because others depend on me.

It is because others depend on you that you should be who you want to be. Otherwise, you’re selling them short, too.

If only I had done _____ in the past, my life would be better today.

This is perhaps the greatest lie of them all. What can you change of the past? Absolutely nothing. That means the past was supposed to be exactly as it was…because it was! What a waste of energy to regret or wish we’d made different choices. The whole point of our memories is that we might learn from them, enjoy them, and have a frame of reference from which to create our future. Exacto.

 

And here are a couple of sneaky ones who’ve found their way into my thinking this year…

Now that I’ve seen some of the world’s harsher realities, I am responsible to help alleviate them. How else can I live with myself? How dare I remain passive or pensive with so much work to be done?

Whoa. Heavy load. Too heavy for my petite frame, I’m discovering. I’m going to save my thoughts on this subject for a separate post. It might be titled, “Fellow Humanitarians, Please Tell Me You’re Out There,” or “How to Stay Hopeful on the Front Lines of Social Injustice.” What I feel is a combination of passion, isolation, enthusiasm, hope, skepticism, cynicism, inspiration and overwhelm. I look forward to opening up a dialogue. I think I need not go this alone.

Taking care of myself is negotiable.

Until about a month ago (and for the better part of a year) I had slipped out of my daily yoga and/or exercise routine. Though I’m not proud of the reason I let it go, I am sure of it. No one cares what I look like here. It’s likely no one in Austin cares either, but it always seemed so important to stay fit and presentable in a swim suit. But here? It’s almost always cold (meaning your parts are always covered) and there’s virtually no emphasis on how people look. It’s been so refreshing not to care that I let go of my workouts willingly almost as an “f-you” to my old ways. Well, uh, that didn’t really work out so well. Essentially, one year with no exercise and I started to feel like a different person. Like a different and much older person — with backaches and shoulder stress and a grumpy disposition. Not cool. Not cool at all.

So, I’m back at it, and only 5 weeks in, I am amazed at how much better I feel. Early-morning yoga? You better believe it. Nightly salsa lessons? Four times a week. The cool thing is that this time around, my motivation has shifted. I’m doing it for me. I’m doing it because it makes me feel alive and strong and positive. I’m doing it because I refuse to feel old until I’m like 90, not 34. Life’s too short, life’s too sweet and I’ve got about 10,000 too many things I plan to do to be limited by my body. My mental limitations are quite enough on their own.

Tu sabes bailar salsa? Vamos entonces!!!!

Share on Facebook Pin It twitter Email

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE:

Perspective and Preparation fo...
An Invaluable Video with a Sim...
Shameless Self-Promotion and a...
Today is My Husband's Birthday
Before You Buy Your Thanksgivi...
My Christmas Tree is Still Bar...
 
February 9, 2012

The (Potentially Contaminated) Water Under My January Bridge

An impromptu family-style dip in questionably clean (though refreshing) waters on a trip to Sumidero Canyon. The whole lot of us got horribly sick within days of our adventure. Coincidence? Who knows.

So, I could just pass over the fact that I’ve not written in a while as if January were water and I the metaphorical bridge, but to say nothing about The Month That Both Kicked My Ass and Blew My Mind? That would mean I’m some kind of phony fair weather blogger who wants the world to believe she’s got it all together, and frankly, that’s a load of unicorn shit. The very least I can do is offer you a list of excuses as to why I’ve not been writing. After all, I might as well play a good hand while I’m holding.

Primary Excuse (for having neglected my blog for the better part of a month). Written about a week ago.

I am sitting upright today. I’ve even managed to leave my bed for more than a periodic fever dream-induced psychedelic journey to the toilet. Following days upon days of some (unofficially diagnosed) exotic highland jungle bird flu that so generously embraced each member of my family before flying me on areal tour of the valley of death, “upright” is definite and welcome progress.

Happy new year? Probably — I am generally optimistic — though so far, life’s taken one look at my pretty little resolutions and brand-spanking-new year intentions and snickered at my naivete, “Oh no you don’t, young lady. Productivity and a centered mind? That’s asking way too much. Now go get back in bed.” Then it sent an exotic bird flu to make sure I stayed put.

So now somehow it’s February, I’m back on my feet, the house has been scoured (again) and I’m ready to make some headway, for real – to play catch up on all the things that fall to the wayside when you’re The Mom and Your People get The Flu. And then what happens last night? Estella comes home from a friend’s house looking like she’d been run over by a train, Taos returns from her school camping trip burning up with fever (see footnote #1) and Hunter is diagnosed with Salmonella – again (footnote #2).

What is the deal!? Why is it that despite my best intentions, there are days that turn into weeks that drag into months when accomplishing anything beyond keeping my family alive is downright laughable? (I mean, awake-cleaning-vomit-at-3am-for-the-fourth-time-that-night kind of laughable.) Is there some major life lesson I’m missing and thus being forced to repeat until I get it? Probably. Probably some hugely important one that requires a total surrender to infirmity and servitude in order to be fully realized. But I’m entirely too exhausted to reflect on life lessons right now, and if I did, my level of cynicism would shed light on parts of mind that I reserve for only my closest friends and family. So that’s that – The Great Berry Bird Flu, Winter, 2012. I’ll keep working on those life lessons.

Secondary Excuse

We’ve had (and we currently have) downright covetable house guests. Have I mentioned that our family loves house guests (particularly those who also happen to be amazing people)? There’s nothing quite like sharing space with good folks whose paths cross our own for a short, sweet moment (whether it be a night or a year). I believe we are a species designed to live in community and given the total lack thereof in modern (American) culture, house guests feel not only natural but totally refreshing.

So, our first guest of the year? A most amazing young woman named Sara who spent 10 days with us before resuming her two-year journey south to Brazil. Sara’s incredible and intentional life currently includes participation in a movement called Social Circus. In short, she’s traveling Latin America, meeting other talented and dynamic folks, hosting acroyoga and areal dance workshops (for mere pocket change), creating entire circus acts among marginalized youth in communities that have generally never even heard of such things, increasing social conscientiousness and documenting her travels through cartoon drawings on her blog. This girl showed up just when I needed her most, helped me release some unwanted baggage, and reintroduced me to my yoga mat (my refuge, my happy place). If any of you have a few bucks burning a hole in your pocket, seriously…buy my friend a taco. She’s living on next to nothing spreading goodness all over the planet. I can’t think of money better spent.

And our equally incredible second and third house guests of the year? My 20 and 22-year-old cousins, who are living with us for the next three months!! Lexi and Chloe are the daughters of my mom’s brother, who has so generously (if reluctantly) allowed them to venture all the way down here for a taste of life abroad. What a total honor to get to watch them discover life and language anew. What a treat for my daughters to have such amazing young women as everyday roll models. What a treasured gift to be able to introduce mis primas, of all people to my beloved life in Mexico while swapping family stories and remembering our grandmother. My heart is so full I can hardly stand it.

I could stop there and I think I’d have met my excuse quota, but there’s more. Believe you me, the list goes on…

Getting to know the stoves that we installed in the community.

Tertiary Excuse

I have been charmed to the point of paralysis by the Maya. I’m beginning to think they’ve cast some some super fuerte 2012 spell over my mind that’s rendered me hopelessly hungry (figuratively speaking) and utterly unproductive (speaking quite literally). In fact, if one of my new year’s resolutions was increased presence (and it was), then I guess I should have clarified that I meant increased presence here – meaning wherever I am – not there eating tortillas and mesmerized by cook fires and round-faced babies.

The truth of it is that I’ve dipped my toes in the most exciting, complicated, soul-enlivening work I’ve ever experienced (aside from raising my own family, of course), and now I’m constantly Jonesing for another hit. I would spend all my time in the indigenous communities if I had nothing else to do, but my reality couldn’t be further from the truth. So I’ve found myself filled with discontent and longing like an estranged new lover, and I’m realizing that unless I want my family to kick me to the curb and allow me that inside indigenous perspective I (not so secretly) dream of, I’m going to have to get a grip, hold my horses and let this thing grow slowly. The Maya are not going anywhere, and somehow, they’ve managed to survive for this long without me.

Quaternary Excuse

I have a lot of kids over a large age range and multiple countries. There is no way (that I’ve yet figured) not to be constantly fractioned between their needs, wants, frustrations, elation, adorableness and drama. I also have an extremely extroverted, attention-loving husband with whom I share a work space. Need I say more? (In all fairness, this excuse is not January-specific, but considering its significance in every waking hour of my existence, I think I’m justified in counting it.)

A Bunch of Other Minor Excuses That Add Up to At Least One More Category

  • Someone knocks or rings at our front door approximately once every hour. If it isn’t a friend who just happens to be passing by, it might be the guys who deliver our weekly drinking water, the garlic/peanut man who won’t take “no” for an answer because he knows just how much garlic we go through, the barefoot kids with two kilos of tomatoes for ten pesos and free toothy grins, the Jehovah’s Witnesses whose watchtowers are all over this town, the shy and dependable trash kid (footnote #3) who still blushes every time I answer the door, the occasional drunk guy with a story about being stranded away from his family and needing money to make it home to his village, a herd of little gringos hoping my girls are home to play, the upstairs neighbor (who shares our cistern) wondering if we, too, are out of water, or Jesus, who really needs a girlfriend but will settle for my company (footnote #4).
  • There’s always something happening in the streets that’s more exciting than whatever’s happening on my computer screen. And it’s all pretty hard to ignore when announced by frequent fireworks, church bells and chanting processions.
  • The school day seems impossibly short. I’m not sure why this is, exactly, but I do know that the likelihood of creative thought with wild children running through the house drops way below the likelihood of absolute domestic destruction due to me trying to squeeze in another work hour once they’re home.
  • And last but not least, our U.S. phone line rings at least once a day with the heart-swelling promise of a loved one on the other end of the receiver. And when you don’t see your favorite people in the world but once or twice a year, you’d better believe we drop all semblance of work like a hot-handled skillet, make a mad dash for the phone like middle school girls, then guiltlessly justify the next hour or two of sweet, sweet soul food.

Footnotes:

#1 – I wonder how old she’ll be before Taos recognizes just how cool it was that she went to a school that not only took camping trips, but at the base of ancient Maya ruins?

#2 – We are learning that Salmonella is heavily over-diagnosed here and often confused for its persistent single-celled imposter, the amoeba. This is of little relief, however, to its doubled-over victims offering prayers of “take me now” to the vengeful Montezuma.

#3 – Not all trash kids have proven so reliable. Some have been known to dump our garbage just out of sight around the corner and make off with our pesos. It’s never fun to see your undesirables strewn throughout the street and picked apart by skinny packs of street dogs.

#4 – Jesus is my Spanish tutor and the catalyst for daily hilarity. “Jesus is on the phone,” “Jesus is back in town” and “We need to find Jesus a girlfriend,” somehow never ever cease to be funny.

Share on Facebook Pin It twitter Email

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE:

For the Love of Pumpkins and t...
Fast-Paced Nation: Part II – H...
An Invaluable Video with a Sim...
Before You Buy Your Thanksgivi...
Reprioritizing, Again.
How To Make an Effective Fruit...
Page 1 of 512345