* Untitled

The deep anger I experienced in order to get this house finished lingers.  It travels through my soul on dangerous mountainous roads full of hair pin turns and sharp shoulders finding other long buried pockets of anger which bubble and boil from depths and layers of history.  They surprise and shock me with their strength and determination to be looked at and dealt with.  It has left me open, raw and bleeding.  Not knowing what to expect next let alone how to deal with it.

I understand the grace in this.  It's a clearing house of the old anger and hurt, buried so deep in the past, only the strength of my current anger was able to dislodge it.  This too shall pass and dear Universe I pray I do not have to endure much longer.  It has robbed me of my joy, for there is no room for happiness.

As the anger is processed and emptied the joy will return ten fold for there will be space to fill.  Be with it, feel it, cry it and scream it and kick and vomit it.  Do what is necessary to cleanse.  This is the healing.  The magical healing of emptying old wounds and letting them soar into the wild blue yonder of eternity.  Surrender, accept and allow.

* Growing Pains

They disappear like dust in the San Miguel wind, scattering themselves so thin upon the surface of the earth I can no longer distinguish the difference between them.

As I grow, move forward, become stronger, continue to speak my truth, and set healthy boundaries, they leave  in droves, tripping over the egos they have been given to outgrow and taking everything oh so personally.

There is nothing I can do.  There is nothing I want to do.  Oh, I want to scream, my gut aches, there is a huge lump in my throat and I can feel anger as strong as the devil himself.  Tears stream from my eyes and obscenities pour from my lips as I attempt to clear my earthly body.  All in all, I simply have to be with it until we become friends and I once again begin to understand the depth of my journey here on earth.

* Finished

I thought I had finished the house.  After some contemplation about the state of my being, the house, in fact has finished me.  Nice turn of events, would you not agree?

I'm left, running hot,  like a vein of molten lava -  smoldering, bitter at what I had to go through to get here and still angry as hell.  I have been taken for so many rides since I moved,  I feel like I live at the fairgrounds.  All the rides are tempting, they call to me, they smile at me, they beckon me.  They look safe.  They look like fun. At the end, when they lurch to a halt and throw me off my seat I find myself reeling through unsympathetic crowds of onlookers as I seek a place to vomit.  Vomiting gives temporary relief, but leaves a feeling of emptiness with a lingering taste of bitterness I am not quite sure will abate of its own accord any time soon.

Today, I wandered aimlessly, not knowing how to use the minimal amount of energy I had left in my body.  I did a scan. Were the pieces all there?  No, of course not!  How could I find each and every piece after such an eruption. They had been blown far and wide.  It would take time to heal and grow the parts back slowly.  I considered accepting that.

I observed mindfully, taking in every detail of the finished work.   Detail and exquisite finishing were their forte I had been assured.  But the details, so important to me, have been ignored and defaced.  Paint, the wrong colour glaring at me from a patched piece of plaster, cracks ignored and left unattended after installing the now unstable railings.  All signs of a hurried getaway ... an I don't care getaway ... a let's just get out of here getaway.

It has left me grieving.  It has left behind a heartless uncaring energy lingering within my sacred walls.  It has left me shattered.

The anger which has raged in me for the past months is  a new phenomenon.  I've had glimpses of it before, but it has never come out in full force to stay, to be my constant companion for such a long period of time.   It comes from a place deep within, a place I did not know contained such power.   It comes from a deep inner wisdom, a place which knew I must love myself enough to stand up and fight, to stand up and be a bitch, to stand up and cause such hell my home would be completed.  The rage is lingering.  It's sticky and dirty.  It is not something which will dissipate quickly.  It has left me reeling and exhausted.  It has left me feeling empty and numb, desperately seeking some small thread which will lead me back to balance ... sacred balance.

From my place of higher knowing, I acknowledge the extreme joy I experienced planning, designing and building the first phase of this project.  It was honest.  It was true.  I grasp the thin air to bring back the memories through the dark halls of anger.  It has been the six month over run which has done me in.  It has been taking care of the accounts to make sure they are in order.  It has been taking care of the lists to be done to make sure they are tended to.  No one else cared enough in the end to do that.  It was the constant nagging and emailing, daily if not more than daily.  It's been the negotiating.  It's been taking the higher road of understanding because there was another side to this story which I completely sympathized with.  And finally, in the end, it's been the broken promises, the empty words, the complete abandonment of this project.  The rage finally rose within ... it overtook me.  I slept with it, I ate with it, every waking moment it was part of my body, mind and spirit.  It was new.  I didn't know what to do with it, except embrace it.

And so the house is finished.  It's complete.  The job is done.  It is over.  After fourteen months, six of which were hell, the job has been accomplished.  I too am finished.  I have been devoured by my own anger.  I'm not sure where to step next.  I know I need quiet.  My energy has been sucked dry.  I allowed it ... however ... I'm not sure I had an alternative method of getting the job done.  I don't want to be quiet.  I don't want to feel this horrible lack of energy.  How long will it take.  Has this been another year in my life which has forever changed me, for better and for worse.  LIFE .... the journey.  I'm definitely on it.

* Waiting for Caitlin

February 3, 2011
Restaurant at the Instituto, San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

I wonder what will become of me?
I wonder if I will be able to stay?
I wonder if all this pain is just a flair?
I wonder if it will heal?
I wonder if I will have to go?
I wonder if I will be an artist here ...
A 'real' artist who hangs things in galleries.
An artist who profits from her product.
According to a friend of mine, that's
who 'real artists' are.
Do I agree?
No, I do not agree.
I believe a 'real' artist is one who
creates art.
It makes no difference what
happens to it.
It is still 'real' and the artist who
created it is still 'real'.
It's all about the creating ... that's all
it's about.
Do I really believe that?
I don't really know if I do or not.
I wonder if it will all become clear?
I wonder when Caitlin will arrive?
I wonder what we will do?
I wonder if my legs will hold me up?
I wonder if walking will be painful?
I wonder if I can hide my pain?
I wonder if I'll be able to fake it?
I wonder about so much.

* The smell of leather

Suddenly I found myself back in the thieves market in Italy being jostled by the crowds, feeling uncomfortable, my hand clinging to my father's arm while he examined the beautifully crafted leather belts.

Britain.  The leather coat factory.  My father handing me coats, one after the other.  "Do you like this one?"  "Wow, you do something for that coat."

A market in Spain.  My father's hands picking up classic leather bags and suitcases, enjoying the grain and the quality.

Mexico.  My father choosing a hand made leather belt for every male member of the family.

Today, in an old colonial town in Mexico, I wandered alone in yet another market.  The rich pungent fragrance of leather hung thick in the air.  It took me to other split seconds of reality.

I remembered.  My Papa appreciated leather.

* December 2, 2010, San Miguel de Allenda, Mexico

It's 9:40 am.  I've completed my banking transactions and am sitting comfortably in my favorite restaurant on the jardin.  It's still chilly out.  Locals are bundled in shawls with scarves over their mouths.  I wear a sleeveless tank with linen blouse and find the air refreshing.  The sun is bright and inside the restaurant it's warm and full of quiet chatter.  The town is still snoozing.  Stores are not open, street vendors have not made their appearance and the jardin is to cold and uninviting for visitors to linger on it's benches.  From my seat I observe centro's stretching and awakening.  Second floor balconies are being swept and streets dusted off to prepare for the bustle of later.

Maria cleans my house as I enjoy breakfast.  She is an attractive woman in her 50's, black hair, sparkling eyes and a quick smile.  I tend to think she does not work for the need of money.  Perhaps for other more interesting reasons.  Her outward appearance is one of confidence, she carries herself beautifully and dresses well.  Her car is silver grey, new and shining.

The shoe shine men carry their chairs into the jardin.  Perhaps an early customer will reveal themselves if they are present and ready.

It's December 2nd.  A surprise to me most of the time.  The year has faded into a vague blur and as I sit here in review of my adventures it's a little daunting.  It seems to me, at least at this moment, a year of extremes when I have felt very happy and at peace and suddenly, WHAM!  A huge sorpressa hits me from behind.

I'm creating my little dream casita from scratch.  Such a wonderful exciting esperience.  I'm studying art with an accomplished teacher.  This was one of my goals.  I've been embraced by the community and never lack for things to do or placed to go.  San Miguel itself exudes culture of all kinds.  It's difficult to know which pool to dip ones toe into next.  It's 'easy' to be here.  People are helpful.  Service still exists and is very much alive and well.  Still a deep part of the culture.

My lack of the Spanish language is beginning to frustrate me.  Next year I must begin to learn.

The sun shines through my street side window and it's beginning to feel to hot.  I'm longing to feel the Mexican sun directly on my skin.  It's still too cool to ask for the window to be opened.  The locals in the restaurant would be cold.   Magnificent star shaped white and silver wedding pinatas walk by on a pole.

So, I have found some peace and happiness this year in my new home.  As I reflect back, the number of large blows I have taken this year surprises me.  I find myself still standing.  During construction, my house was broken into and robbed.  I've been physically locked out of my home when the previous owner protested his non payment by the real estate agent.  I've been conned and lost a substantial amount of money.  A very dear friend disappeared from my life.  Most recently I have been informed I require a knee replacement.  Discontinuing a heavy prescription drug has thrown me into a temporary state of ill health.  Last but not least, my architect has run out of money and work on this project has slowed to a crawl.  I'm frustrated.  I still feel strong, grounded and in pretty good balance.  I feel more 'me' than I ever have in this lifetime.  More important, I have grown.  I am celebrating my own company and enjoying being with me.  I am loving flying solo.  I enjoy doing things, almost anything, with me.  Sitting here in this restaurant feels ever so wonderful.  Best yet?  I know there is more.  I am absolutely aware at some deep level, the best is yet to be. 

* Total Freedom

And so we sit
naked in the late
afternoon sun
drying ourselves.
Habibi wrapped in an
orange towel -
me plopeed in all
my 64 years of glory
in a blue chair
on the back terrace.
Hair once on my belly,
fondly known as
my 'hair strip'
has found it way to
my chin.
I sit with a ten times
mirror, attempting
to rectify the invasion
if only termporarily.

The warm Mexican breeze carasses
my skin
and drys my hair.
I glance once or twice
behind and upward
to see if anyone
may be gazing
down at our private moment
from the nearby roof.

The shadows are long
and form exact shapes
on the courtyard walls.
Birds begin their even song,
cocks crow,
distant traffic makes its way
to unknown destinations.

The sun sets as
I will set one day
Always there
Always in existance
Only disappearing
from our limited view.

* About San Miguel

And I, my dear Rain Goddess, live in the land of El Sol and La Luna.  Where the land and it's people are warmed by day with El Sol's soft rays and dusted in La Luna's beams when twilight falls.  Where the land is high and the air is clear.  Where rain comes only when summoned to grow crops, wash the land, and fill the taps for her people.  Where fruit drips from trees awaiting a hand to pluck, eat and swoon.  Where flocks of birds wing there way by dawns early light to rest in  trees by day and fly at dusk to nest by  lakes.  Where the music of her people is so deep and rich,  there is no beginning and no end.  Where fountains softly let their water fall to sooth the tired soul and trees alight themselves at dusk to embrace you.  Where home is.  A distant home from some far away life.  Where I long to dig deeper and deeper until I find myself hidden in the layers of history.  A land where angles come to rest their wings and find peace.

* A little bit of Wisdom I am just learning

The Pen

Of course you could never understand why I would pay forty-five dollars for a pen.  Why is it I could never get that until this moment, sitting in a far away place, thinking of days gone by.

Nothing has ever flowed through your hand which was not part of number crunching or writing a proposal.  How could you possible understand the connection, the feeling of flow from head to hand through the pen and onto the paper.  Why would the feel of the instrument in your hand make any difference?

I am so sorry.  It was I who did not understand.

August 20, 2010, SMA, Mexico