The Fruition

Finally there is another ending….this one comes with celebration.  Breathe into the Knowing, a book of poetry with pictures of my collages interspersed is now in print. With the guidance and skills of Azalea Art Press, this slim volume is a realized dream.

I am simply amazed that I was able to accomplish the completion of this work of art while working 8 to 5 in a very demanding job at the University of Iowa.  There was an energy, and a sense of purpose that arose the September evening before my mother passed on to the other world…which had nothing to do with our last conversation, and yet, had everything to do with it.  The mystery remains, and I am truly thankful that my creative diligence has found a concrete form in this book of poetry.  My dream is that the poems will return the reader to a more profound urgency about the Earth and our need to be vigilant, protectors of Her beauty, and Her gifts.  

That said, the frigid embrace of a never-ending story of snow and ice in this now Iowa winter has made all of us a bit tense.  The need to walk carefully and find ways to secure warmth as we enter in and out of buildings keeps all of us a bit wary and weary at the same time.  Yesterday on MLK Day I curled up and read a whole book---something I have not done in a long while.  The book was about the author's bad brother who was suddenly killed and who supposedly communicated with her over a span of several months.  Lots of cosmic justice and energy plateaus abounded in The Afterlife of Billy Fingers, but the truth is, I wanted to hear more about the earthly Billy, rather than his post-mortem passage to sainthood….our human stories, the measure of our living, this is the great feast!

The Return Continues

Hola! Daughter of Corn is back!

It is close to Christmas Eve, and not only is the world inhaling a breath of change, but so am I:  new job, new house, and new book.  In about a month a compilation of my poetry, "Breathe into the Knowing", will be published by Azalea Art Press.  Several pictures of my collages grace the interior in black and white, and the book cover will display two of my most colorful works.  On the eve of my mother's death I determined that I must move to publish ten years of creative work and revision.  That was in early September, and with the collaboration of Karen Mireau, incisive reviews by three female poets, and an energy that burst from out of some hidden recess,  I hover on the horizon of finality.  Many mornings I got up early to revise, sequence, and correct, so I could get to my employment at the University of Iowa by 8 am.  In the process I realized that my stint at Garden Street was very productive--I have a second book!  Well, the beginning of a second book, which I will definitely call Garden Street.  Lovely name for a place that held so much controversy and at the same time comfort after two years in a tiny apartment on Church Street.

Where do I live now?  Well, in a bungalow on a very plain D Street.

Full Circle: Returning to Who We Are

We are edging close to the new Spring Equinox, and what a fantastic way to come full circle in this blog about returning.  Now the Maya and other spiritual souls are gathering near Queretaro, and there will be another Earth blessing. However, I am no longer writing in San Miguel;  instead I am living in the City of Literature, located in the Heartland.

To have been part of the revolving seasons of nature once more was enlightening and challenging.  We are now emerging from the deep sleep of winter's frozen stillness.  The other day I saw a male and female cardinal in a dance near my window, and my heart quickened.  The Earth is soft, receptive to the rain and blustery winds.  Stoic Midwesterners begin to sigh with relief, the curve of a smile threatening their solemn countenance.   In Mexico the sun has warmed its people with glorious light throughout the winter months, but we in the central plains have risen to gray skies for too long.  Our reward is the knowledge that after the darkness comes Light and hope.

This returning is what has made me acknowledge who I am:  daughter of corn, woman of the woodlands, prairie born and raised.  I am sad that my dream of redefining myself as a writer did not find permanence in San Miguel.  Yet when I crossed the border into the United States last May, I thought of the prairie in the throes of Spring and wept.

 I have the Iowa dirt between my toes, and a history of corn in my bloodline.  Throughout my life I have been redefining who I am, but have never changed the core of my being.  The Spring Equinox is about renewal and honoring the cycles of the Earth.  It is about returning to the Light, and being human in this ever-changing planet.  Most of all, it is about offering up our prayers of gratitude, for we have been blessed to witness the bold awakening of our land and hearts.

The Blessed Day

Bring the blessed day

   straight into your anxious heart.

Let no buzz, no hum

   no little plastic device

come between you and the day.

If you are trapped

   inside a cubicle of artificial space

and the outside world

   disappears into a minor beige

reach for the passion of purple

   as it whispers into dusk.

Inhale the smell of freshly cut hay

  scattered tenderly in the wind.

Then weep for the Woman who stands

  on the magnificent Earth

in a temple of white remembrance,

  

 Copyright Corinne J. Stanley 2011

Praying to the Earth

She explained to me that the overnight campers had participated in a nocturnal Bear ceremony, courtesy of a North American tribe.  "Very masculine energy," she added.  "Lots of chest-beating, if you know what I mean."

Gazing around me, I strained to imagine such a ceremony, for there was a tranquility emanating from the walkers of the labyrinth.  "Thirteen times.  The Mayan says you have to walk the labyrinth thirteen times,"  my friend noted, as I began to rise.

"I don't have time to walk it that many times. It's getting close to noon,  Personally, I don't see what the difference is."  Locating the entry into the labyrinth, I began my personal journey of silent meditation.  Close to my left I noticed the Mayan frowning slightly.  The clothes, I thought.  I don't suppose he approves.  But did it matter to God?  I knew the Mayan desired numbers and scientific credibility, but I had decided to simply pray for the earth as I walked.  Pray for the feminine Earth, whose being was wracked with exploitation and disregard.

 I walked seven times.  Seven is a good number, a holy number.  But, when we were poised to begin the official ceremony, and people were needed in the meditation center (thirteen people, to be precise) the Mayan wouldn't let me go.  "Caminaste el laberinto trece veces?" he demanded.  I shook my head, and stepped back while a man with a long braid eagerly entered the meditation circle.

The truth is, I wasn't sure why I had come.  Though I found the event fascinating, especially the champaign glasses that were ringing under the nimble movements of index fingers, I also felt a little out of place.  My spiritual life was usually much more solitary and personal than the Happening on the Hill.
However, people from all walks of life had come together to respect and give their energy to protecting the earth.  I wanted the Mayan's ceremony to work--I wanted to believe in the miracle of leaving a better place for the young people I worked with every day.  So I paced myself in the directed manner as I started the labyrinth once more, and blew into my pre-hispanic rabbit-shaped whistle. At twelve o'clock noon, when the Dakota Indian sounded the conch and another lifted his arms in an invocation to the Spirits, I prayed.

It was the Spring Equinox.  We were on a mountaintop and we were united in our efforts to bring goodness into the world.  My solar plexus once more caved in, and I felt my prayers were heard.

Spring Equinox Begins

We arrived to a plateau half-way up the steep mountain.  There were hippie-like people wandering around a house that looked like one Joni Mitchell used to own in the Sixties--- a round, peaked Berber hut, only set in sunny Mexico.  Since it was getting close to 11:00, we scrambled out of the SUV and quickly followed the owner of the House of Angels up a steep trail.  My friend Yvonne, who was in much better shape than I, deftly followed the man.  I had to pull on any available branches and sometimes crawl.

When we got to the top, an astounding sight greeted us.  The Mayan had chosen this particular place because of its pre-Hispanic history, and to the left, on a higher peak, I observed a stella surrounded by some ruins.  A few people were standing or perhaps meditating at its base.  However, what I wasn't prepared for was the whiteness of it all.  Almost everyone I saw was wearing white--white pants, white skirts, white tunics and huipiles.  The Mayan, in the far distance, was dressed in modest white as well.  I looked down at my green top and bluejeans, somewhat chagrined.

There were little stands selling pre-hispanic ceramic whistles and incense, as well as crystals and bottles of water.  Most of the people were silently pacing a large labyrinth laid out on the flat ceremonial space, but there were a few centers within the labyrinth, also.  One was a type of healing/purification center, where people were receiving treatments.  I noticed one woman smoking a large cigar, and blowing smoke into people's faces as she randomly shouted.  Another  center consisted of a small group of people doing tai-chi and other movements.  On one side of the circle there appeared to be people sitting in a meditation daze, and yet another group was making noises with whistles and drums and champaign glasses half-filled with water.  After taking this all in, I decided to sit next to a woman who looked like a middle-aged, well, Joni Mitchell in fact, with thick blonde braids, remarkably blue eyes and a cigarette stuck between her fingers.

Through the Tunnel

It was curious to me that I had never known of the mountain tunnel outside of the city of San Miguel. Then again, I'd often felt this energetic pull that kept me from venturing far from the city--though much of that energy had been devoted to scrambling for a living.

Using my intuition and a faint remembrance of online directions, I managed to locate the tunnel.  Along the way we passed the presa and I noticed a landscape that had simply evaded my attention all those years of living in the heart of the city.  Water bottles jiggled inside the car and I munched on my Tortitlan milenesa sandwhich as I observed a strange site.  Were those oriental structures sitting on the side of the mountain?  Apparently some religious group had built meditation huts that appeared to have wandered from the Tibetan landscape.  To our right a small group of men were pulling boulders and stones out of the mostly dry Rio Laja, and I wondered what that was about, considering the constant construction in San Miguel.

"Look! Here is the landmark!"  I called out to my companion, just as I was thinking we'd gone too far.  Amazingly, the owner of the House of Angels pulled up at the same moment.

"It's pretty rough on the way up,"  he told us, looking critically at my Ford Focus.  "I have four-wheel drive--do you want to just come with us?"

Later, when Sierra and I were climbing down the mountainside, I realized how serendipitous our encounter was.  Had I ventured up on my own, most probably I would have wrecked my suspension.

Some things are just meant to be.

Spring Equinox on the Mountain

I left the Casa de los Angeles before the Maya had finished his lengthly talk about sun spots and planetary alignments.  Primarily "A" was interested in forming groups of "human pyramids" to cleanse the planet of its humos, and to prepare for the influx of energy at the end of 2012.  His confidence disturbed yet fascinated me.  Because my year of 2010 wasn't exactly going as planned, I wanted to cling to his prophecy of better energies, better worlds for 2012.  Then there was the contracting feeling in my solar plexus area.  What was that about?  Once I had picked up the dirt at el Chimayo, the holy shrine in New Mexico, and the same thing had happened to me.

Later on in the week I got some emails from a group of people who were part of the Maya's concierge.
Apparently people were gathering from all over North America to prepare for the spring equinox in San Miguel.  Some tribe from Montana or the Dakotas had already arrived and set up camp on a mountain top outside the city.  Others were traveling from Oaxaca and the Yucatan.  I didn't think meditating on a mountain top was quite my style, but I admired their efforts to transform the world.  Driving down the increasingly polluted Salida a Queretaro was enough to make anyone desire ecological reform.  If the humos on that road could be cleared by the Maya's group of followers, I would be entirely happy.  Reflecting on their good-will efforts, I decided to enact a little good-will of my own, by returning to the House of Angels with a couple bags of groceries.  The tribes on the top of the hill needed food to sustain their mystical journey.

Curious as I was about the events which the Maya had planned---labyrinths, healing lodges and musical renderings on pre-hispanic instruments--I made plans to sing at the St. Paul's church as usual on the happening day.  However, suddenly my life became an unexpected venture.  My friend Sierra, the free-lance writer from Canada, called me and urged me to reconsider my plans.

"I would really like to go, wouldn't you?  And you do have a car.  Don't you think it will be quite the thing ?"

For some uncanny reason I agreed.  After the tediousness of my solitary writing life, an adventure through a tunnel to find the mysterious ruins on top of a mountain was quite  appealing.  However, I had discarded the map given to me by the owner of the House of Angels.  I only had this sketchy idea of where to go.

"Sure,"  I replied.  "  I will meet you in front of the church at 10 o'clock."

That gave us two hours to get to our destination, on top of mountain where  the Chichimeca ruins lay.

The First Encuentro

I was drawn back to the House of Angels because Chloe told me about the Maya giving workshops in San Miguel. As she related her experiences I observed radiance emanating from her face--she looked as if she were another person, full of tranquility and content with the world.  Was her DNA altering?  Did she also partake in the Jose-inspired massages?

I wasn't interested in the workshop, which for practical purposes was almost over.  However, I was interested in hearing the Maya talk.  Apparently the owner of the House of Angels was a friend and sponsor of the Maya, who was giving a platica at the house in one week.

How lovely to return to the gorgeous premises where I danced my heart out to los Beatles a few weeks before!  Now I was sitting on that same patio, waiting for "A" and the promise of peace that I had observed on Choe's countenance.  Being the good student that I am, I had brought pen and a little notebook to record any interesting facts he might share about 2012.

"A"  was a very scientific and computer-touting Mayan.  Right in tune with the Jose-massages, he spoke about changes at the molecular and atomic level within our bodies.  Claiming to possess sacred knowledge passed down to him from 2500 years of ancestral wisdom, "A" spoke about sun energies, angry people dying on the pyramids when the sun emerged, how important alegria or joy was to our well-being, and how there was a malignant "humo" which affected us negatively.  He stated that ultraviolet rays could activate the DNA changes, and sound could heal us on many levels.  Furthermore, the pyramids were built to clear this spiritual fog, and his mission was to build human pyramids all around Mexico,.  According to "A" planetary forces were going to be  particularly strong in this country.

Since I am now re-reading the notes I took almost a year ago, predominant in my thoughts is how and when my solar plexus began to tighten so greatly that I had trouble breathing.

"Poverty doesn't have to exist"  was the phrase.  How unbelievably interesting.....considering what happened to me afterward.

Feliz 2011 y los Mayas en San Miguel

Feliz 2011: San Miguel y los mayas How did I end up on the mountain top?  When I went to the Waldorf fundraiser party at the House of the Angels, I had no idea that my gesture of support would lead me to that mysterious day of el solsticio encima de la montana.  Now I am a Seventies Girl, so hearing that a Beatles signature band was playing  sent me off and going, money tucked inside my swinging purse, and dancing shoes tight with anticipation on my feet.  Upon arrival I attempted to keep my awe of the elaborate house with inviting balconies and spectacular views toned down.  Of course, I was now transported to the hills of San Miguel from the humble valley where the corn people reside; how could I not feel a tad out of place?  I once was considered a San Miguelense, back in the days when I danced in an improv group, as well as facilitated a translation workshop in the historical Museo de Allende.   I now felt like the foreigner I was.  Yet, amongst the several unknown attendees who were part of the "new wave" of residents, I discovered a few old-timers wandering the vast premises of the House of the Angels.  Evita, owner of la Calaca sat with me to eat the vegetarian deluxe spread included in the entry fee.  White hair flowing and dressed in a lavender huipil to match her stunning eyes, my lovely companion and I conversed amiably as I observed the milling crowd.  In the background on some distant balcony a few guitar sounds warbled in warm-up mode.  Time to get on my feet and discover the source of this welcoming sound, I thought--and that is when I discovered that Claudio had come back to town. When I previously lived in San Miguel, I was somewhat on the fringe of an interesting theatrical crowd, the people who formed the Teatro Anthanor group...Maria de Cespedes, Federico, Susana, Alina, Dan, Jeanne and Claudio, a French transplant with wild, curly hair and a rumpled, artistic look about him. I found him drinking wine on the balcony near the band, and speaking with him lightened my fear that I no longer belonged to my former home.  When he revealed to me that the Cafe Anthanor might be revived, my spirits lifted even more.  Later, I ran into Jose, who was in charge of the DNA-changing massages going on at the second level of the house.  Apparently Evita had already lined up for her free session when I had my first conversation with Jose in years.     "Recuerdas cuando nos bailamos con las mascaras en Xichu--do you remember when we danced with masks in Xichu?"  I recalled fondly.  "Que dias extraordinarios!" But even more extraordinary was the movement of DNA change going on above us. ......more later.

The Party Continues...Sigue la fiesta...

I remember joking with Jose about the massages that were supposed to alter one's DNA.  Then when I went upstairs to investigate, I discovered that he had trained all of the masseuses.  At this moment Evita was headed toward the table and I began to chat with the young girl who was poised to give her a massage.
  "No,  todo es gratis,"  she explained to me.  "Es que estamos cambiando el mundo, poco a poco.  Y si, creemos con certitude que provoca alteraciones en el DNA este tipo de masaje."


So it's true, I thought.  Not only do they believe that they are changing the genetic make-up of the people they massage, they are doing this as a free service.  Although I found this interesting, and it embarrassed me somewhat that I had joked about the DNA-changing, what really bothered me was that Jose didn't want to dance with me.

Now, I understood that his wife was there, with their sweet little girl, but the Beatles music was really pumping from the balcony below.  Besides, why would you be concerned with DNA transformations and not want to dance?  The energy one exudes in movement may not directly affect the genetic code, but it sure as heck lifts the corazon.   When push comes to shove, I am not embarrassed one iota to step out on the dance floor by myself, and raise my cardiac vibrations to a new level.  Hence, when "Get Back" began with the bass guitar thumping that danceable rhythm, off I went to set my soul free on the crowded dance floor/patio, solita, among the Waldorf new wave of san miguelenses.

Nothing spectacular happened after I danced to a few tunes.  I located Evita, who was ready to leave, also, and I left the House of Angels not realizing that both its gorgeous  surroundings and the DNA theme would draw me back inside within a week.  The Maya had come to town.

El fin de ano

As the end of 2010 approaches, I contemplate my year of recreating my life.  Last year I spent five months in San Miguel, and seven months in Iowa City.  My desires to redefine myself as a writer took some unexpected routes.  Yet this is what risk-taking entails:  you never know if that decision to leap will pay off in the way you perceived it might.  For instance, I didn't stay in San Miguel,  Did I imagine I would return to Iowa City so early?  I knew it was a possibility, but there were so many unimaginable occurrences in San Miguel that I had to re-evaluate my vision.  Am I sorry I returned home to the heartland?  No.

I could never articulate the whole of my fragility when I did come back, for I truly was alone and starting over.  Yet the investment of my time in Mexico is where the risk-taking proved its worth.  As in every time spent away from your home, I gained a plethora of information as well as an increase in writing as a discipline.  My dream of beginning a blog was realized in Iowa, but seeded in San Miguel.
The translations I did of my poet friend from Guanajuato, Juan Manuel, are to be published in a literary journal out of Austin.   In truth, I have gained a momentum, and increased my literary contacts.  After all, I now live in the City of Literature.  And, as a friend counseled when I was debating my return, I don't have to share my quarters with fleas!!

It is a great thing to live in uncertainty--and greater when you have chosen a path that facilitates this lifestyle.  But what if the soul really does expand when you choose to honor and respect its primary importance in  your life?  What truly happens to those who, like the Fool in the tarot deck, step over the cliff, and look up, not down?  Sometimes I observe closely my fellow human beings who have not chosen my lifestyle for the answers to that question.  I often see a kind of happiness which holds its roots in the certainty that they will never even approach that cliff.  Control and management constitute the thread of their existence.  Their happiness, however, does not encompass an expansive comprehension of "the other",  those whose circumstances do not equal their own.  We are in an age where the gap between such distinct lives, the secure and the insecure, is stretching to a point of consequence.

2010 was a significant year of changes for millions of people in the world.  The hope for 2011 is that we can live with those changes in hope and dignity.  That I can live with the changes in my life, with hope and dignity.

Art collage copyright 2010 Corinne J.Stanley

¿Cuando vas a regresar?

When my December trip ended, I gathered up some of my clothes and put them in a large plastic bag.  The area where I stayed was near an arroyo in a very humble neighborhood, and I had noticed one lady almost everyday.  She was the city sweeper for the neighborhood.  Dressed in a pumpkin orange jumpsuit, she shuffled along the path near the arroyo with a primitive, twiggy broom in her hands.  The woman looked about my size, so I approached her with my bag of pajamas and sweaters.,"Senora, tengo ropa que me gustaria darle a usted, como parece mas o menos la misma talla come yo.  Ya me voy a los Estados Unidos."  --Ma'm, I have some clothes I'd like to give to you, since you seem about the same size as me.  I'm returning soon to the States."

 The woman looked up at me with some confusion.  I suppose she wasn't used to strangers handing her a bag, much less speaking to her during her shift.  However, she took the bag and smiled just a little.

The following day I met the dignified empleada who cleaned the American landlady's sprawling house, including my tiny apartment.  Perhaps she had heard about the bag of clothes--news travels fast in these barrios--but the senora gave me a present of her own.

"¿Cuando vas a regresar?"  she called down to me from the upper balcony.  I looked up as if I had been summoned.  "Senora, digame, ¿cuando vas a regresar?" she repeated


"When are you returning?"

Those words haunted me for a year.  I felt like the woman was a spiritual messenger, peering down at me with her serious eyes and thick grey hair, urging me to respond to her call.

And, of course, I did return.  But the path of volver is often a tricky one.  I returned in order to honor the writer within, and to be in a place that I had loved dearly.  What I discovered, senora, was that this return  was the time for garnering information. Not necessarily was it the final journey. The groundwork for my future, perhaps, for now I have a blog and a poetry book about to be published.  I am waiting for some answers, here in my northern prairie.

Nunca se sabe.  We never know why we are here, really.  There are secrets palpitating within our hidden selves;  there are mysteries which refuse to be known until the right time....there are unexpected gifts to be had along the path, a look in an eye, an outstretched arm.

La navidad y San Miguel

The festivities in San Miguel during la Navidad are truly spectacular, though some traditions are fading fast.  Once I rented a room in a very humble neighborhood near the San Juan de Dios market. I loved going to the open stalls set up just for the season. Greenery and colored paper balls, as well as sparkling cardboard angels and stars--but most of all, the brightly painted nacimientos made from clay prove to be popular buys for the season.  I have purchased many a miniature shepherd and diablo, as well as the proverbial hermitano, or hermit, who stands firmly in the nativity scene representing the search for wisdom.   Frequently accompanied by a round cave situated behind him, the hermit can retreat from the sly, red devil found perching on the cave's rooftop.

To make my solitary Christmas more comforting, I created a nacimiento by placing the folkloric ceramic figures on a small table in my tiny room.  I hung a large, oval green and red paper ornament from the top of the entryway and draped strings of green and fushia foil garlands around the room. No baby Jesus yet, as el Nino Dios only appears in the Mexican nativity scene on la Noche Buena, or the night he is born, at midnite.

One evening as I arrived home a small group of peregrinos or pilgrims walked by my door, singing the posada songs, and carrying flat cardboard pieces with the holy family glued on top.  Younger children waved sparklers in the air, and one of them quickly handed me a sparkler with a grin.  Entranced by the sincerity of the procesion, as well as the devotion it represented, I smiled back, wishing I knew the words to the traditional songs.  Somewhere along the path the group would knock on a door and enter into a celebracion of  warm tamarind and guayaba ponche and pinatas filled with candies, oranges and peanuts. Contrast this image with my own culture's frenetic campaign to buy at el mall and it isn't surprising to discover that many Mexicans are uninspired by an American Christmas.

What I primarily noticed that December was the presence of human beings on the streets--for there were groups in el jardin selling tickets for Christmas events, other more lavish procesiones walking uphill, and pastorelas sprinkled at schools and traditional churches.  Once, in the distant past, I came upon a pastorela or retelling of the Christmas story at the Oratorio church near the main market. Shepherds arguing, little diabolitos attempting to sabotage the Christmas tale and St. Michael swooping down to save the day comprised a compelling performance.  So much life, so much vibrancy for a season brimming with glittering events for family as well as strangers weave a true spiritual celebration in the colonial city of San Miguel de Allende.

El corazon within the Darkness

Winter has placed her hands over the land and is keeping me in stillness, giving me time to contemplate the heart which marked my journey to San Miguel.  When I was writing my stories in the Apartamento Rojo, staring out the glass doors at the clear view of the Enchanted City, I never gave one thought to the Iowa winters.  Strangely, though the last few weeks have been largely focused on bracing myself for the cold with the purchase of scarves, boots, and pairs of gloves, I am not dismayed about enduring the long months of Iowa snow and ice.  Instead, I feel fortunate.  Indeed, I have never felt more fortunate in my life.

When I crossed the border into Laredo a year ago, I noted the startling change in ambience immediately. Though San Miguel is spreading out into the stretches of its outskirts, new complexes being built by mostly foreign bidding, the truth is Mexico continues to be a country where people are living on the edges of survival.  As I drove south, half-built or abandoned adobe houses the size of an American garage sprinkled the paisaje.  It wasn't until I reached the lush bajio of Guanajuato that I felt hope for the stricken landscape.

The turning point of my decision as to whether my stay would be six months or longer came through the search for reasonably priced and comfortable living space.  After leaving the Valle del Maiz I searched in vain for a place I could afford, and ended up sharing space with a colony of fleas.  And  although I did eventually find a very lovely apartment,  I became intimate with the chameleon character of fortune.

One of my favorite sayings is "There but for fortune go I" but in San Miguel I traveled roads I never thought to walk upon.  It took me a long time to comprehend that paying six dollars an hour to teach English at the Universidad de Guanajuato extension in San Miguel was average pay in Mexico. My heart collage, however, represents a particular "fortune" one finds in Mexico: vibrancy, colors which startle you into an aliveness that an office cubicle infamously disregards.  Why do people come to Mexico, if not for this?  Why did I return?  We want to be rocked into an awareness, to return to the sense of tactile and visual excitement.  And aren't we fortunate to participate in this culture? And are we aware of the level of poverty which so many Mexicans contend with on a daily basis?

Yesterday I ventured to the mall to find my last purchase: plush slippers to warm my increasingly cold feet at night.  I recalled what my students had discovered in interviews with Latinos, their sense that Americans were too materialistic.  I found myself feeling quite appalled at not just the intent to "shop till you drop", but the amount of meaningless merchandise for sale.  I thought about my students, working, one and sometimes two jobs, single mothers and young men in trouble with the law.  I thought about my friend who teaches first graders, and how one of them got a toy from Goodwill for his birthday.  And I went home, without my slippers.  Warm socks will do just fine.

Returning : Once More San Miguel

Taking a break from Winnie's story, I now return to the theme of returning....for precisely one year from today, I arrived on the doorstep of my dear friend Maria, in the colonia de Balcones, with my Ford Focus casi explotando with books, clothes, shoes, and boxes. It was a glorious Thanksgiving morning, and I had made the journey safe from Iowa--what more could I be thankful for?  Perhaps the fuchsia bougainvilleas gracing the stone walls of Maria's patio or the keen warmth of a southern sun.

I had no idea what was in store for me in the next six months, and my innocence allowed me to have a true adventure, one in which I encountered the unexpected sometimes with joy, but more often with pangs of disappointment and confusion, for this was a journey of a different sort than what I had planned.  This was a journey of gathering information, of finding my truth in ways I had not prefigured.  

And today, which is really, just another day in which gratitude awaits our acknowledgement, I can say with all my heart, that the Mexican people were the centerfold of my learnings.  Recently I had my Iowa Spanish students do a "cultural engagement" activity, in which they were required to interview a Latino in the community.  More than one student wrote about the concern their subject shared with them about our American culture.  It seems they viewed the United States as being too materialistic, and not the mecca most people imagine immigrants are pining for.  I was reminded of my experiences with my Mexican friends in San Miguel....listening intently to my words, speaking with great compassion and revealing a hidden philosophy towards life that brightened my own.  Once, when I fell down on the hard, slick sidewalk, two Mexican women gently picked me up, assuring me that they, too, had fallen.  They spoke with such gentility I have never forgotten their kindness.  When I was practically living in my car, because of reasons that now seem absurd, Amalia took my hand with tears in her eyes, exclaiming how at "estas alturas" we shouldn't have to go through such difficulties.  My memories are brimming with such tender encounters.  


In Mexico feelings matter and are greatly respected because the people are accustomed to living comfortably with how they feel. During my most precarious times I received  advice from friends that didn't seem like advice because it was thoughtful and caring.  Nowhere have I found the heart beating more palatably than in Mexico.  

Saksayhuaman

Sacsayhuaman

            When you come upon a scene that is completely unexpected and enormously outside your personal experience, incredulity rises to protest.  How can this be?  In the midst of your amazement, lies the small shape of your own world.  Sacsayhuaman, with rounded, eighteen-foot stones that meet the eye in staunch solidarity had stretching walls which undulated in ancient defiance. Uncannily, I thought of my father as I stared at the phenomenal ruins. 

            Miguel Ángel gave us a brief history of the site:  originally settled around 1100 AD by the pre-Incan Kilke culture, Sacsayhuaman was said to be a fortress.  “You can’t even slip a sheet of paper between the stones, they fit so tight,” he claimed.  Leaning against the giant stones, I sensed my own, tight self, yearning not just to make things right with Miguel Ángel and his family, but also to make something right deep within my soul.  Why was it that the image of my father was invoked at the strange, haunting ruins?  I thought for a moment about how Miguel Ángel had compared its spiraling shape to the ruins of Native American Kivas in New Mexico, each formation imitating the interior of a corncob when it is cut in two.  My father, the corn breeder, would have liked that comparison.

            After Miguel Ángel left, promising to send a taxi our way in an hour, Diane and I strolled through the countryside, each of us contemplating the pastoral scene set against the hills which rose up in green mounds behind the rock fortress.  A couple of children herding goats drifted by, and Diane chatted with them while I sat on a flat rock, gazing up at the scintillating sun.  Tomorrow we were planning on going to Machu pichu.  What would we discover in those ancient ruins, whose history has embodied the essence of Mystery since its recent, twentieth century discovery?

Por Fin, Machu pichu

            We took the train to a little town called Aguascalientes, and stayed in the largest youth hostel I have ever seen.  It reminded me of a big, cement YMCA dormitory.  Because we wanted to beat the tourist buses, Diane and I woke up at dawn and walked the two miles to the ruins, following the railroad tracks and the rising sun. 

            To be able to walk about in such antiquity alone, accompanied by the silky breath of wind and caressing sun, is an undeniable privilege.  Although I’ve been fortunate to visit several pre-Colombian ruins in Latin America, only a few have evoked a strong presence of God.  Machu pichu is one such place. Even though I’d read that the city was a sacrificial site where virgins were tossed off Huayna pichu, the jagged mountain that gazes down upon the ruins, I still felt a spiritual pull within. Machu pichu was the perfect place to contemplate the whys and the hows of my very presence in Peru.  I knew that my role as Winnie’s messenger to her son was only a pretext, a reason for looking at my own shakey relationship with family.  Why, for instance, had I decided to come to Ecuador in the first place?  Did my psyche require thousands of miles to feel safe from their understated critiques of who I was? When I sayed at the Santa Clara pension in Quito I frequently met young people who traveled all over South American, accumulating one amazing experience after another, stories of risk and danger and admirable feats. Was I destined to be such a person?  More importantly, is this where I wished to place my fragile self-esteem, seeking the approval my family would never render in the admiring eyes of a more pubic “family”?

              At one point I went directly to the most sacred area of the site, which was a kind of altar/sun dial, and, ignoring the knotty rope that warned tourists not to approach any further, I sat down in the center.  I did this not because I was trying to be funny or rebellious, but because an unfathomable force drew me to its core. It was as if I had been asked to enter into a prayer.

Challenge

            “Well, are we going to do it?”  I asked Diane, as we both gazed up at the towering Huayna pichu. 

            “Corinne, how can we not try and climb that mountain?  I mean, y’all know if we don’t, we’d always wonder what it would be like to stand at the top.”            I looked at Diane with open admiration.  She’d already explained to me about the weakness of her lungs, due to her mother’s history of smoking while she was pregnant.  The fact that she was so willing to attempt the climb inspired me greatly.   I already knew that part of the trip entailed holding onto swaying ropes as you pulled yourself up the steep side of the mountain.

            “Vamanos! “ I exclaimed, and we set off to climb Huayna pichu.  To this day, I am grateful for the adventuresome spirit of my colleague.  One of my most cherished photographs is of the two of us, grinning as we sit on the edge of that great mountain.  I am wearing and a red and white striped t-shirt, as well as a black felt hat, typical of the Andean natives, with a colorful band circling the rounded top.  Diane has a luminous smile that seems to stretch clear across the photo. 

            We took the train back to Cuzco that evening, and arrived to the Altiplano Holel exhausted but content.  I didn’t once think of Miguel Ángel during the two days, except to acknowledge, with some surprise, that he didn’t make an appearance.  However, after one more day in Cuzco, I began to think about him with renewed interest.

Lord of the Earthquake

Lord of the Earthquake

            Because we were traveling during Semana Santa, or Holy Week, Cuzco was brimming with festivities.  One surprising occurrence was the desfile for the Lord of the Earthquakes, a very ancient procesión that sat dearly in the hearts of the native people. I found it odd yet significant that the Black Christ statue, which was carried by solemn clergy, was preceded by a military band, and the mayor of Cuzco. Soldiers marched briskly at the end of the procession. The narrow sidewalks were crowded with human figures, straining to watch the parade, and the streets themselves were decorated with vibrant Easter scenes, spectacularly designed using flower petals and colored sawdust.   So intense was this particular celebration that when I needed to cross the street, people elbowed me disapprovingly for my interruption.  It wasn’t until later that I realized Cuzco was notorious for having frequent earthquakes.  In fact, a month after I left the city, an enormous quake destroyed much of the downtown area. 

            As I watched the passion of Christ being enacted with such personal investment, I found myself thinking about how mystery contains an element of danger, created by the very act of not knowing what’s to come; intrigues, and sudden twists to events, like an unknown man coming towards you out of a blanket of fog, calling your name. What unexpected scenarios had yet to unfold, in this mountain city, bursting with the colorful native dress of the Peruvian indigenas, and the languid stroll of llamas carrying firewood down narrow callejones?

            One morning Diane and I decided to take a tour of the Valle Sagrado,

a circular route around Cuzco that included several pre-Incan ruins and small villages.  Fortunately, we had a native guide, who told us leyendas and histories of the Inca people that weren’t found in traditional textbooks.  With animated gestures, short, stocky Dona Julia informed us that the ancient Inca lived with their prospective partner for a full year before getting married. During this trial period, the woman drank a special tea, which prevented her from getting pregnant.  Another informative story about Inca traditions was their dependency upon quinoa, a grain which can be found in health food stores today.  Quinoa is an excellent source of protein, our guide stated, and tradition held that after seeing how tall and strong the Inca were, the Spanish forbade them from growing the grain.   As a result, their health greatly deteriorated.  Though I found her stories captivating, I wasn’t convinced about the source of Dona Julia’s information.

            True to the series of serendipitous meetings we’d had with Guajiro, the very minute we stepped out of the van in the tiny village of Pisac, we noticed Miguel Ángel crossing the street with a young girl whose luxurious black hair rippled in the brilliant Andean sun.

            “Now this is definitely getting to be strange, Diane.  I mean, we are forty minutes outside of Cuzco! “  She agreed, her light brown eyes widening in disbelief.  And as we entered the Rincon de la Inca for our group luncheon, I began to remember, not without some trepidation, the numerous dreams that had been haunting my sleep….dreams about Miguel Ángel.

Dreamer

            Every night I was plagued by surrealistic images rattling my psyche. In one dream Miguel Ángel appeared deformed, like a shrunken, dwarf-like creature, flanked by both parents.  With tense faces, his mother and father were speaking but Miguel Angel acted as if they weren’t present.  In another dream Winnie appeared and spoke to me. “This is my son, Corina, “ she stated solemnly as she gestured toward Miguel ÁngeI.  I woke up, unable to fall asleep for hours.

            Thus, the Mystery became a painful, rather incomprehensible burden, as well as a spiritual mission.  How was I to convince Winnie’s son to return to the safety of his family?  For it became more and more obvious that all was not well in the world of Miguel Ángel.  For one thing, he seemed to incorporate the essence of his nickname, ubiquitously appearing in every corner of Cuzco and the surrounding area, shifting from one place to another like the restless wind that swept through the cobblestone streets.  He was a drifter, someone who yearned for his center, his eje, to give him future direction.  Then one afternoon Miguel Angel offered to take Diane and I to the great ruins on the edge of the city, Sacsayhuaman.  We rode in a taxi, Miguel Ángel in front, and Diane and I sitting in the back.  This time he wasn’t asking for any monetary remuneration for his services.  Instead, he kept turning around, and talking to me, with great agitation, about the ring.

            “Do you know the history of this ring?  Did you know my mother took it from me, without my permission?  She just smiled, and took it from my finger!”

His crystal blue eyes lit up, as he searched for an explanation.  “Why has this ring come back to me now?  Why did my brother send it with you?  Why now, Corina?”

            I looked at his anxious face, noting for the first time the hollowed cheeks and thin lines creasing his eyes 

            “I don’t know,” I replied, with some passion of my own.  “Truly I don’t, but maybe it has something to do with your family wanting you to return.”

            Miguel Angel paused for a moment, his eyes drifting.

            “How much would you pay me for this ring, Corina?”

            “What!” I exclaimed, just as the taxista swerved over a large bump in the road.

            “Miguel Ángel, I don’t want to buy your ring.  Why are you asking me this?”

            Seeing my distress, he quickly changed the subject.

            “Look—there are the stones!”  We followed his gaze, and saw a row of immense boulders that stood like mammoth, prehistoric beings, waiting for our arrival.  

The Ring

Dear Readers:

I continue to publish the excerpts of my cuentito, without knowing if anyone is really reading it, let alone enjoying the story! The Andes and Miguel Angel move forward in narration.....

The Ring

            A mist began to hover in the air, blurring the stars as we quickly headed toward the centro.  Diane wanted to have a bite to eat before we returned to our hotel, and I agreed.  During my conversation with Rodrigo, I’d noticed that the ring was starting to work its way out of the envelope.  Worried, I carefully removed the ring and examined it with interest.  Etched with strange figures of animals and people, the thick silver band exuded a primitive yet appealing energy.  After placing it on my index finger, and carefully folding the paper into my jean pocket, I followed Diane into the Casa Café, a restaurant she’d picked for our evening meal.

            Because of Peter Jackson’s masterful rendition of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, there’s hardly a person alive who doesn’t relate to the magical quality of a ring which can save—or destroy-- the world.  In 1986, though I’d read all of Tolkien’s work, the sensational act of delivering a ring to its rightful owner had not quite made an impact.  In fact, it took an hour or two before I felt the effects of carrying a piece of unknown history on my finger. 

            Whereas I never would have used the word “precious” to describe the piece of jewelry, I do recall becoming rather fond of how it looked on my right hand.  Something inside of me began to rumble, and here is where my confession enters into the forum.  In plain words, I wanted to keep the ring.

            “You know, Diane,”  I started up as we paid our bill, “I wouldn’t mind having a ring like this.”

            She looked at me strangely, then peered at my hand.

            “Corinne,” she stated firmly, “y’all need to remember what Winnie said about Cuzco—you know, that quest for her son? “

            I nodded vaguely, and we stepped into the drizzling fog, which had dampened Cuzco.  Bending our heads while we maneuvered on the cobblestone street toward the hotel, Diana and I forgot about the ring until we spied a dark figure emerging from the silver mist, about 20 feet away.

            “Corina!  Corina!” shouted a low voice.   We immediately halted.

             “Who in God’s name is calling out my name!”  I hissed.  “This is really scary...Let’s get out of here!”

            But the man continued toward us, and uttered with urgency, ”It’s me, Rodrigo!  Mira, Corina, Miguel Ángel is over there!”    He pointed toward our right, where a man stood about twenty feet away, waiting in silent expectation.  The elusive wind had finally arrived.

First Encounter with Guajiro

            He stepped toward us into the dancing light of a swinging farol, and I gasped.  In my mind I had imagined some scruffy bohemian who wore ponchos and huaraches, but before me stood a Greek God:  light-skinned, high cheekbones, with glistening black curls framing his profoundly blue eyes, Miguel Ángel possessed the faun-like beauty of his sister, Reyna, whom I had met in Lima. And he wasn’t wearing a poncho, but a knee-length, dark wool coat, which made the mystery as compelling as an Alfred Hitchcock movie.  Caught up in our nocturnal liaison, I raised my arm with my right hand facing his eyes, and dramatically asked, “Do you remember this, Miguel Ángel?”

            He stopped suddenly, and with a catch in my heart, I realized he was about to turn and leave.  Then he saw the ring on my finger. 

            “Your mother sent it with me from Lima.  My name’s Corinne, and this is Diane.  Can we talk in the café over there?”

Lost Hope

            Miguel Ángel listened politely as I explained the purpose of my visit.  What surprised me most about his reaction was a pronounced disinterest in talking about his family. He simply wanted to take the ring and leave. He didn’t even glance at the letter his mother sent.

            “I can’t believe that he didn’t give me a message for his mother,” I complained to Diane once we got settled back into our quarters at the hotel.  “What’s with this guy?”

            “Maybe he’s depressed.  Or maybe he needs time to think things through,” she suggested.

            I considered Diane’s comment for a few seconds, and concluded, “Yes, but he doesn’t even know where to find us!  He never asked where we were staying!”

             My concern did not prove to be the least bit problematic.  For the next five days we ran into Miguel Ángel everywhere we went.  If I decided I needed a cappuccino pick-up, I would walk into a café and there he’d be sitting, reading a newspaper.  Sometimes all we did was turn the corner and we’d see Miguel Ángel walking toward us from the other direction.  Soon he began to be friendlier, saying a few things other than the standard “Buenos dias” or “Que tal”.  With each succeeding encounter, Miguel Ángel lowered his defensive stance, until one afternoon he took us to an artesania store which a friend of his owned.  At first I was happy because he appeared so anxious to show us the store.  When I realized he was trying to get a commission from his friend for a sale, I felt differently.  After all, I was a friend of the family.  His scheming left me feeling as if he were taking advantage of me.  But then, I had yet to glimpse the true nature of Miguel Ángel.

Cuzco, City of the Andes

Cuzco, City of the Incas

            When you first fly into Cuzco, the red rooftops of the low houses engage you in visual delight.  The semi-round tiles are a dusky red, and form cock-eyed patterns.  Arriving by plane to Cuzco, with the mist still gently hanging in the gray morning sky, is like landing into a fairytale city.

            After living in Quito, which is 9,000 feet high, I thought my body had adjusted to high altitudes.  However, one can easily forget the magnitude of the Andes Mountains.  In some mining towns in Peru, the workers’ blood actually turns blue, because of the dazzling height of the Andes.  During my year in Quito, my period stopped coming for months at a time.  Now, after landing in Cuzco, I had another shock.  The altitude was at least 11,000 feet, and the effect was staggering.  After Diane and I located a hotel, the proprietor insisted that we partake of some special tea in the small restaurant next door. 

            “It is made from the cocoa leaves, but don’t be concerned about it being like a drug.  The Incas have used this tea for centuries, to help them adjust to such extreme heights.”

            Feeling quite light-headed, we took his suggestion seriously. Afterward we returned to our rooms to unpack and rest.  By then Diane had heard all about my quest to find Winnie’s son in Cuzco.

            “I just can’t believe this story.  Ya’ll are like some messenger out of a detective novel.”  Diane was from Mississippi, and her southern accent drawled attractively.  “When do we go to that hotel where Winnie thought her son might be staying?”

             I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling.  The last two days had been intense, and I just wanted to think things through a bit.  Diane was sweet but younger and more energetic than me.  “I say let’s rest some, then eat.  After that I’ll be ready to look for Miguel Angel.”  And then I quickly fell asleep.

Cuzco or Cusco?

            Cuzco is as captivating as the travel books claim.  Once the ancient capital of the Incas, the city retains several Incan structures, built with irregular blocks of stones that fit so tightly together one is urged to trace the thin lines where they conjoin.  Earthquakes are frequent in the Andes, and when they occur in Cuzco, it is a known fact that the buildings which still possess Inca walls miraculously stand firm while the more modern structures collapse.  Upon his discovery of the marvelous city, Francisco Pizarro is known to have written to the king about how remarkable Cusco’s architecture was.  Today more than 300,000 people live in the city, which is now officially spelled Cusco, not Cuzco—though both are commonly used.

            What was most remarkable to me about the city, however, was the food.  Back in Quito the basic cuisine consisted of either ceviche or huge plates of rice with bits of meat and vegetables tossed in.  Here in Cuzco the Europeans had left their mark, with meatier dishes and bakeries that sold scrumptious tarts, croissants, and pies topped with tasty whipped cream.  Diane and I happily dined at a corner restaurant after our afternoon snooze, and then decided to look up the elusive Miguel Angel.

            The first place we checked was the hotel address that Winnie had given to me, which was near the centro.  The attendant at the desk stared at us for a short moment, repeating Miguel Angel’s name, until suddenly his eyes lit up.

            “Ahora entiendo.  Miguel Angel es Guajiro!  Este chavo no ha estado aquí desde hace meses.  Si quieren ustedes encontrar Guajiro, pues, deben irse al zocalo.  A lo mejor esta alli, tocando su churango.”  The man began to chortle bizarrely.           

            “What did he say?” asked Diane, who didn’t understand much Spanish.

            “Well, he said that Miguel Angel hadn’t been here for months, and that he goes by this Quechua name, Guajiro, which means the wind.”  I began to giggle myself, reflecting on how we were trying to catch the wind in Cuzco.  “And then he told us to go the zocalo, because that is where Miguel hangs out, playing his churango.”

            “What’s a churango?”

            “It’s a small stringed instrument, like a tenor guitar, only the back is an armadillo shell.”

            “Really.”

            “Yes, really.  Let’s go, Diane.  Maybe we can catch the wind playing a concert in the zocalo.”

The Mystery Begins

            I had no idea what Miguel Ángel looked like, and there wasn’t anyone playing music in the zocalo that afternoon.

            “Let’s go to the pena Winnie was telling you about.  You know, the one with the strange name,” suggested Diane.

            “Good idea.  Let’s see, it was called the Kamikaze.  Who would have thought in the middle of the Andes there’d be a bar with a Japanese name for World War II suicide pilots!”

            “No kidding!”

            After inquiring about the Kamikaze’s location, we found ourselves climbing the steps of a building that looked like it should have been standing in the middle of the jungle. The bar appeared to be made from bamboo sticks, and sat on five-foot stilts.  By the time we climbed two sets of stairs and got inside, I was already tired.  Towards the back of a large room, some musicians were setting the stage with their instruments. 

            “Hey, maybe that’s him!”  I exclaimed, pointing at one of the men with long, wavy hair. “Con permiso, pero quisiera saber si usted conoce a un músico quien se llama Miguel Ángel, de Lima.  Su madre le mando una carta.”  I held up the envelope to show the young man Winnie’s letter with the ring inside.

            “Buenas tardes,” began the young man, reminding me of how I’d forgotten my manners.

            “Buenas tardes,” I returned, a bit chagrined.  “Bueno..yo”

            The man quickly switched to English and extended his hand.  “My name is Rodrigo.  Nice to meet you.  Sure, I know Miguel Angel.  He’s not here at the moment, but I believe if you come later, like around 11 tonight, you may find him.  Sometimes he plays during intermissions.”

            “My name’s Corina, and this is Diana.  Thanks so much, Rodrigo.  Does he play every night?”

            “Well, I am not sure about that.  But come!  My band is called El Tribu.”

            We agreed to come the next day, and thanked Rodrigo, shaking his hand once more.

            “Well, at least we know he’s still in Cuzco,” commented Diane.  “and it seems he’s graduated.  Instead of the zocalo, he’s playing in a bar!   Hey, changing the subject, that Rodrigo seemed like he was pretty interested in you, Corina.”

            I had noticed the same thing.  Though Rodrigo was quite attractive and notably polite, I had no intention of starting a romance in Cuzco.  Diane and I walked out into the cool, Andean dusk just as the stars snuck out, dressed in crystal splendor.  Inhaling the crisp, mountain air infused with smoky smells of distant fires, I thought of Winnie and her urgent words.  Though the Andean night reached out with seductive arms, only one thing was clear.  I had to find Miguel Angel.