No time to the right time

I miss writing. The words rolling off the tip of my fingers onto the keyboard. The blissful feeling of capturing a whole thought and expanding it, for it to blossom into something meaningful, even if only to me.

But creative expression needs time, not something I have large excesses of these days. Taking a full-time job, indeed, one that requires me to travel as well, means that writing has swiftly arrived at the bottom of my priority list, below rather more important things like spending time with my daughter, eating, and sleeping. Being out of the house 10 hours a day, five days a week has meant that even things like chores and exercise are mighty challenging to pull off.

This is where I make my perfunctory statement of awe and respect to working parents worldwide who manage to have not just one but even more children, hold down full-time jobs, and manage to still do things like throw birthday parties and get up at five in the morning to run or meditate or what have you.

Mind you, I am not complaining. Not even venting. I love my job, and the role I play is something I have been wanting to be able to commit to for quite some time. Circumstances and my daughter's age have led me to finally be able to do so. It's just that it's been a reeeaaally long time since I was in the full-time flow.

When I left the U.S. in 2006 with Margo, my professional trajectory came to a standstill and it has taken me all these years south of the border to re-cultivate it to a level that can not only do justice to my education and experience and support my family. Nothing is forever, everything and anything can change in the blink of an eye, but I am proud of how far we have come as a family—how far I have come personally—and I am so happy that this time in my life is finally here.

The trick is making it, the feeling, the moments, stick. So as to not blow by in the blink of an eye, as often happens in my memory-span of a fly. That is what writing has always done so well for me. From the time I was twelve up until now, taking time to pause, write, and externalize has allowed me to realize, reflect, evolve even.

The outside, professional world, and my movements in concert are working wonders on my self-growth and that of my family's. But those subtler, sweeter sides of life—things like writing, gardening, crafts, spending time with dear, dear friends or just sitting and thinking—are getting shaded out in the meantime.

But the gardener in me knows that seeds, though lying dormant, are faithful to the stirrings of life, and will spring forth at a moment's notice. They just need a little light shone into dark corners and new leaves will emerge when the time is right. It might not be this spring, but a growing season is something we can always count on.

Una nueva cara de las despedidas en mi vida | A new side to the goodbyes in my life

It's unusual to have 4 despedidas in a span of less than a month.

When I think of despedidas, I think of the one we had in September 2006 in Half Moon Bay just before we left for Mexico. We had already said goodbye to part of my family in NY, and to my parents, brother, and now sister-in-law who'd come to say goodbye to us in California.

That was the last time Margo has seen my sister-in-law.

Or some other despedidas that invariably began to occur when I started making friends with expats who, after living in Mexico for a year or two, moved back to their homes in any number of countries with relatively better economies in other parts of the world. Those goodbyes stung unexpectedly; I was surprised by a rupture of attachments that I hadn't even realized I'd made. I mended my heart in those moments and then resolved to not "get so close" to the ones "who wouldn't stay."

Time passed, things changed, my social circles stabilized, and I focused my attentions closer to home, became a mother. The focus drew more deeply toward my immediate family. I found steadfast friends close to home. With the arrival of a baby began the ritual of closer touch with family. I began to write. I went through a transformative therapy process. I published a book. Raised thousands of dollars and descended on Congress. Became part of myriad online networks working to give some "home away from home" to those exiled worldwide. Became much, much more comfortable sharing my, once perceived unusual, now clearly commonplace, political situation with acquaintances, strangers.

In the process, I unearthed some of the power that I had been missing since that first major despedida.

Coincidentally, or maybe it is that swell of approaching summer, three friends are departing Mexico within weeks of each other. I regret that I will not see them anymore and that I will not be able to afford to go visit them. It is very likely that our relationships will go the way of Skype calls and Facebook chats, when what I'd much prefer is a face to face glass of wine on a breezy mid-spring afternoon.

But the goodbyes don't feel as threatening anymore. Have I invested less of myself? Perhaps I have cast my net of affections more widely. But I haven't found myself holding back as I once thought I might. As they say, love begets love, and I think this goes for friendships as well.

When I talk to my friends of their feelings upon leaving, it's with a knowing heart of the mixed emotions. I can empathize with their ambivalence about what's waiting on the other side; as well as their steadfast knowledge that despite the fact that the unknown is fast approaching, now is the right time to fly.

I think of the words I shared with the delightful Rin of the Shambala-tradition retreat center Casa Werma in Patzcuaro, where I stayed during my last book talk sponsored by the Patzcuaro and Morelia book clubs.

One of the things we talked about was that the only real place we can find as home is in ourselves, and this is one of the things I have slowly discovered more and more to be true as time goes by. I can hug my friends tight, and not feel jealous of their departure. I can feel fully grateful for the time our paths have crossed. And when I wish them well I know that they will be, and so shall I—no matter how many tears get shed in the meantime.

As for my own fast-approaching despedida from the offices of Peace Corps Mexico in less than 2 weeks, that represents another story. It's a story of an unrequitted quest to find long-term satisfaction, in my profession, in a way that can fulfill my family's needs and my happiness. That is a continuing saga, to be told another time.

P.S. Buen viaje, Mahli, Annie, and Krystal.

Bonfire Anxiety

We have this family tradition of having bonfires on the solstices and equinoxes, and with the spring equinox coming up you'd think I'd already be inviting friends and family over to toast marshmallows this week. But we're just getting over being sick (the baby still is, technically), and I'm more overworked than usual. Normally even those factors wouldn't make us shy away from a shindig—sometimes celebration's the best medicine—except that we experienced an unusually traumatic fire just over a week ago—one that puts all previous bonfires to shame for its scale, timing, and impact.

Almost everyone's lives have been touched by fire, if not literally then remotely. The mass media has brought the regular forest fire seasons that have threatened arid landscapes in the Western U.S. into people's living rooms, and many know someone who's been personally affected. But fewer have actually experienced a unplanned, urgent, uncontrollable fire for themselves. Lightning strikes are the sort of thing that causes life-threatening damage so infrequently that mention of them goes the way of the mythical. You see trees on the trail that have been hit by strikes, you hear of far-removed stories but they hardly ever touch our lives.

But both finally hit home (literally) for me last week when, after having been struck by lightning at approximately 11:30 pm last Saturday, 1500 of my suegro's (father-in-law's) hay bales burned down to the ground in one night. With my baby daughter and I and several family members looking on (ironically, at first, in the rain), my husband and his brothers attempted, in vain, alongside the city fire department and several good Samaritan neighbors, to put out an enormous fire that started with too much force to ever really have a chance to be stopped.  Luckily, the fire was totally contained—the only other damage was an underground electrical register box that got crushed by the trucks that approached the fire, and they did manage to save some alfalfa and sorghum. But the once imposing mountain of baled corn stalks was brought down—a year's worth of work and harvest reduced to a paltry pile of sodden and ash stained compost. I've been recalling the incident ever since, and I don't think I'll ever see a weenie roast again in the same light.

As traumatic events always do, the event and its aftermath resulted in drawing people closer together. Memories are made. Others are recalled by the elders. My suegro's stories of people he'd known who were actually killed by lightning in the cornfields they worked decades ago. My grandmother told me more of her own personal tragedy of her family losing their barn when their house and barn were struck by lightning when she was eight years old...a story I had an inkling of, from a poem she'd written, but never heard many details about. In a chilling twist to the pre-lightning strike part of the story, my two brothers-in-law (cuñados) told us that they were atop the pile of bales only minutes before lightning struck, on a ladder and crawling around up top struggling to cover the bales with a tarp to protect them from the rain. It was perhaps the only silver lining to this particular incident that they themselves were not the victims.

Outside my house this moment, nine days later, a water truck is pumping 5,000 liters of water into the water tanks that our families share that are housed in our shed. The tank was drawn down from my husband's valiant but pathetic efforts to counter the fire with garden hoses before the fire department arrived, and the city's supply hasn't been enough to top it back up. My cuñado, a man who I once got along with famously in the States, but since moving to Mexico has been a tougher pill to swallow, is also there, recounting the story of last week to the water truck man. Even though we've had our differences, they're transcended by the sadness of tragedy, and one memory from that night rises above the rest for me. The four brothers had finally given up trying to fight the fire and were standing shoulder to shoulder facing the fire, watching helplessly as the fire trucks dumped countless liters of water on the fuming bales. Everyone present had been drawn together by forces of nature, and were completely forced to relinquish all control, as part of us all went up in those flames.

One More Step: Healing What Ails Me

This post has absolutely no relation to what I set out to write about this chilly morning, but that's the nature of the artist's pledge to follow their inspiration. It produces things you least expect. In my case, for more than the last month, I was inspired to find out what was causing my back pain.

And now, just like that, it's gone. After plaguing me non-stop for a month, with constant hip pain for almost 7 months before that, my back pain simply disappeared. I don't mean all little aches from overdoing it or sitting in a chair too long, but the inability to carry my baby or bend over and brush my teeth without spasms...no more. Such is the nature of that type of pain. I wrote a few posts about it and what I believe its root to be (unrelieved tension), but I didn't really note what the specific day was that it stopped. Oh well, it's not important—the good thing is it's gone for now.

The funny thing is, I remembered that when I got up early this morning and carried the laundry basket downstairs. While my back was hurting, my husband would have had to do it for me. All I did this time was peek over my shoulder to see if he or the baby had stirred from slumber while I hauled it up and off the floor, reveling in the fact that less than 2 weeks ago that would have been impossible. And how great that felt. It's funny how little you appreciate certain things until you don't have them anymore, like simple physical abilities. Of course I would be amiss if I didn't reflect at least a LITTLE on what I think might have been the key to getting it to hit the road.

A full acknowledgment that it was stress-related tension was the first step—realizing that not just the back, but the hip was involved was also key. That way, when it started to switch back and forth, I didn't get too worried that something was wrong with me, which I think perpetuated it over the last several months.

A sincere effort to get into a regular exercise routine was also important—one that I haven't even started yet, mind you, but plans are laid—I signed up for swim lessons at the local pool that will start next week. And I also got my bike fixed up and out on the road after collecting dust for almost two years. I'd been walking a lot until my hip started hurting, and that really put me out mood-wise. Just knowing that I'm getting back on track with physical activity makes me feel better about myself, which spreads like ripples.

Regular journaling, and reflective time, whether it be in meditation, affirmation, or prayer, seems important also. Writing gives me an opportunity to process and externalize things that well up inside. The reflective time allows me to either "let go" of things out of my control, or recognize things that I can influence.

There were also a couple miscellaneous things I had to deal with internally, like my mindset about some things. The closest I can come to summing this up is along the lines of the "God give me the serenity" adage. Or, something I believe the Dalai Lama said, which to paraphrase, goes like "If something is in your control, why worry about it; and if something is out of your control, why worry about it?" In other words, don't pretend you can't do something about a situation—have the courage to change it if you can. And if you really can't do anything about something, try to let it go. This is really hard because we get into habits of truly believing something is out of our control when in truth it's in our hands. Indeed, we have quite a bit more power than we think we do, and even that acknowledgment can be frightening because it means we have no choice but to act. The converse is also often true—we attempt to change things that are really outside our influence. Perceiving the difference between these two things is truly a life skill honed with time and intention.

For non-believers, this last piece might be the hardest part to embrace, but I also think that a little daily prayer (to whatever spirit you decide on) is wise in order to align your perspective to the greater context of the universe. Tapping into that source of universal power can be of great comfort... it's not just you who's holding the reins of your life in this world, and you can't always know what's waiting for you on the other side of a struggle.

Fall and Change: The End of a Cycle

If I had to pick a favorite, it would probably be fall. I just remember so many delightful things about it growing up, like going into the orchard to pick apples, raking and jumping in piles of all the multi-colored leaves, the holidays that come with it—Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas right around the corner. As an adult, I look forward to harvest season, the nice weather, and more social and family get-togethers.

Today it dawned on me that there's something even more noble about fall: an undeniable beauty and peace at the end of a cycle. The seasons are a rhythm of increasing and decreasing sunlight and life on Earth. In the northern hemisphere, the winter solstice marks the moment renewal begins—the return of the light. Spring is a time of flourishing.  Summer is rich decadence, and Fall is of harvest and decay. It's a natural pattern, one that we can't resist, and why would we want to? We know this is the way things are meant to be.

Yet during day to day life we have a more ambivalent relationship with change (at least I do). Sometimes we say, "It's time for a change," or, "I needed a change." But sometimes we're not so psyched about the idea: "You mean you want me to change?" or, "I can't change the way I am..."  As for our attitude about change, it's almost as if it depends on our perspective: we resist change we take to be negative, but embrace change we deem to be positive. It's a very subjective perspective, that depends on many things—our culture, profession, gender, our experience, our age, even our moods.

Perhaps the changes that we feel more passionately about have to do with our own selves. However, since we often don't notice changes going on around us (or do, but choose to ignore them), it can be difficult to even notice a shift in ourselves. It's funny to me that our culture clings so insistently to an identity that defines us as individuals, when in fact we grow so much throughout the course of our lives. In fact, physically, comparatively few of the original cells we were born with are still with us as adults! In essence, we replace ourselves over and over as we age.

For me, it's frustrating that, despite knowing that change is a necessary and healthy part of life, that I overlook its role so often. It's satisfying when I can slow down, appreciate the moment, and not get too caught up in the past—i.e. what we could have done differently, or the future—the what ifs of a situation.

Observing my daughter is a prime example of how important it is for me to stay focused on the present. So much is happening with her today—her development is so rapid that if I look away even for a few hours, I might not catch the first time she says "duckie" or even her first steps by herself. That's not to beat myself up over the hours I have to spend working, but a reminder to fully appreciate the moments I have with her.

The growth of a human and the cycles of the seasons are expected changes, that we're fairly prepared for. But then there are unexpected changes that take a bit more attention to notice when they are first happening. Mood swings, for example. A good friend moving away. An ant infestation on a plant in your garden. An ill pet. It pays to stay aware so you can catch these changes as they occur, and that way you won't be so surprised when their results affect your life.

Completely unexpected events catch us completely by surprise—they can either delight us to no end, like a friend dropping by or calling out of the blue, or winning a contest. They can throw us off balance, or even do harm, like serious illnesses or acts of violence. But we also have the opportunity to see some seemingly random events as not so happenstance. For example, in the American culture of my birth, death is a very difficult subject, but in my host culture, Mexico, the end of the life cycle is embraced at this time of the year, in the Day of the Dead celebrations. Or on another topic, no one really predicted when the Occupy Wall Street movement would occur, but many people were starting to get fed up with the course of our country's evolution, and so it should come as no surprise that the day would come when people would demand a change.

By seeing occurrences as part as the natural cycle of cause and effect, maybe we can relax into the feeling that; either we did everything possible to positively affect the outcome of events, or that we did everything possible and it's out of our hands. That must be where the phrase, "God give me the courage to change the things I am able, and the serenity to accept that which I cannot" came from.

It would be an omission on my part were I not to acknowledge the role of reading Buddhist books, such as those authored by the Dalai Lama, in influencing my thoughts on the subject of impermanence. Reflecting on the momentary (and cyclic) nature of things helps me to appreciate the little things that I might otherwise overlook in my daily life. If that gives me just one more iota of peace, that's a change I can embrace.