72

When I think of 72, I imagine an old person. That’s not me. Until, of course, I glance at a mirror, and then it’s kind of a sudden surprise. Every time. Yup, it's me, alright. 

I’ll be getting a consultation later this month about cataracts. My eyes are one of the things that are slowly failing me, and it’s irritating, knowing how well they have stood in my stead for all these seven+ decades. I thank them for all the things they have helped me see well in my lifetime. An eagle flying over our boat in a nasty storm, guiding us to port. The birth of my first grandchild, who entered the world blue and with raging eyes of her own, turned pink, and has been watching us all with great contemplation ever since. A panoramic view from my house in Mexico, Villa Margeaux, and the beach below, where I met some influential people in my life. Mount Rainier from a plane window, pink with the rising sun. Mount Rainier from every window on the south side of my childhood home. Thousands of women marching down Pine Street, Seattle, led by indigenous women in traditional dress, carrying signs and singing songs. From balconies, seated in large auditoriums, close up and far away, some in intimate settings: Joyce Carol Oates, Paul Auster, John O’Leary, Desmond Tutu, Timothy Leary, Mara Liaison, Bill Gates, Tammy Duckworth, Ann Patchett, Gary Trudeau, Wally Lamb... and so many others. Hale Bopp Comet. A mare foaling, a cow calving. Whales breaching, dolphins following us in huge pods, manta ray flying over the water's surface, octopi swimming under the surface. The Charles Bridge, Prague. Hamlet's Castle, Denmark. Glacier Bay, Alaska. Pyramids in Mexico. Volcanos in Hawaii. Mt Rushmore, Grand Canyon, Paul Revere's house. The statue of Barbara Jordan at AUS, Texas. Cenotes in Tulum. Brooklyn Bridge. Sequoias, redwoods. 

    With some good people at the Villa                     Room that got well lived in at the Villa

 

Sights, yes, and sounds, as well. I’ve had difficulty hearing since about 1985, so over half a lifetime. I’m looking forward to the infrastructure bill getting passed and my ability to afford hearing aids that work for me. Aside from the list of notable sees, my list of hears may be impressive to some: Beatles (twice). Don McLean, album debut of American Pie at Doug Weston’s Troubadour in Santa Monica. Ravi Shankar. Dexter Gordon. Mel Tillis. Pearl Jam (several times, for an old lady). Carly Simon, album debut of Anticipation, also Troubadour. Toots Thielmanns, Mose Allison, Maceo Parker, Kurt Elling, John Hammond and many more at Jazz Alley, Seattle. Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Mamas and Papas, Beach Boys, Keb Mo, Taj Mahal, Turtles, Animals, BJ Thomas, Judy Collins, Neil Diamond…the list goes on and on. The latest Herbie Hancock at The Paramount, Seattle. The precious voices of Mila and Coco, Luca’s cello, their various instruments, sounds and productions. On stage I’ve had the immense pleasure of viewing Maggie Smith, Anthony Hopkins, Patti LuPone, Samuel L. Jackson, Lily Tomlin, Kate Hepburn (twice), Richard Chamberlain, Lawrence Fishburne, Tom Skerritt, Judd Hirsch, Harold Gould, Cleavon Little, Tom Hulce, to mention a few illustrious talents. My god, I miss live theater so much. 

Other body parts. Knees are 72. That’s for sure. Hips catching up, too. Too many accidents, skiing, biking, boating. I guess it's my brain that I've had issues with for most of the 72. I've gone in and out of deep depression all my life, from about 10 or 11 years old. Sometimes it's bad, suicidal a couple times but too smart to put my family and friends through something so awful. I don't talk about it but heck, 72...it's a good time to let some things out of the closet. I'm sure many have been vaguely (or not so vaguely) aware of this. I've tried therapy but it has never gone anywhere for me. I'm much better now, healing with age, I assume. Of course, there are life events that've had an impact but sometimes the boogeyman shows up for no reason whatsoever. When I'm feeling good, and I call that my sense of well being, it's like a pink sunset that I wish would last forever and I always acknowledge it, knowing how lucky I am. 

Boating is one thing I miss. There’s something about being on the water, fresh, river, lake, ocean. I’ve seen a fair share of the Pacific coastline and a bit of the Atlantic, Baltic, Bering, Caribbean, Hawaiian Islands, but if I had one wish and a shitload of money, I’d buy a boat and sail around the Salish Sea. I could man (or should I say woman) the helm as long as the weather didn’t get too rough. I only need a good crew and a somewhat steady set of legs, from the ankles on up.

                                                                Some lucky bastard on Lake Union 

The one big change in my life was at the beginning of the pandemic, when I adopted Penny Lane, the sweetest dog in the world. I got her in June of 2020, but it probably took a few months for us to completely  adjust to one another. Penny gets me moving, which I think is probably the primary thing a person of 72 needs. Some of those hip-and-knee-involved accidents over 72 years have caused joints to seize up and refuse to obey brain-to-body orders, so first thing out of bed in the morning, we are on the trail, rain or shine (and sometimes snow, which is awful, but tolerable). She is a rescue from Puerto Vallarta and after spending months alone during Covid, she made semi-isolation a lot nicer. She is full of character and keeps me smiling.

                  Penny Lane  

I’m glad I had kids. My daughters have been a real comfort to me. They got me through a nasty bout of Covid in January 2020, and I never want to be that sick. Ever. Again. I thought I’d die. So did they. I fell ill on January 24, exactly 26 years to the day that my husband was admitted to Swedish Hospital and our lives were changed forever. The past 24 years I’ve been a solo act. In the beginning it was not easy making decisions on my own. I got brave one day and went to a movie (Shakespeare in Love) alone, something that seemed so odd to me. It broke the spell of alone-fear and after that, I didn’t mind living, eating out, traveling, going to movies and plays, jazz clubs, meetings, and so many other places, on my own. I learned to enjoy my freedom and now I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I look forward to many more years… I have plans. I have a legacy to leave. I have places to go, things to do, people to meet.

Thanks for reading.

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The Curandero April 27, 2010

Today's prompt was to write a poem about "hope."
After today there are three more days/poems. I would like you to vote on your favorite FIVE and will tell you how to do that in the next couple days. I will then be submitting them for the possible honor of Poet Laureate of the PAD Challenge. I appreciate your comments and support. Thank you SO MUCH for reading.

The Curandero

The curandero knocked on my gate.
I heard the little bell tinkling,
Set down my pen and my worries,
Received them with kisses and closed the door.
Maria Leticia led him by the hand
Through my kitchen,
While the cat followed them with her cobalt eyes,
Curled into a ball
Pulled one paw over her ear
As if to shut out any disturbance.
Chima was the curandero’s name.
His arms held fragrant bundles of
Basil, marigolds, coriander and pine sheaves.
On the bare tile floor
He lit a fire and stood me in its ring;
The heat flamed me in all places
And I hardly dared to breathe.
Maria Leticia made crosses in the air
With delicate fingertips dipped in scented water.
Candles burned at the edge of the circle
Where the greens and flowers lay in a pattern,
Smoked by the fire and sheltering its outer rim.
Chima spoke quickly and quietly
But I could hear his words
“Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos,”
With many “amen’s,”
Repeated countless times.
Mingling Magic with the Lord and Nature,
The chants pulled me into their spell,
And what wickedness dwelt in my house
Was banished, sent back to my enemies.
I was left with the scent of heaven
And hope.

April 12, 2010 SAYULITA

Robert's post this morning: "For today's prompt, pick a city, make that the title of your poem, and write a poem. Your poem can praise or belittle the city. Your poem could be about the city or about the people of the city. Your poem could even have seemingly nothing to do with the city. But the simple act of picking a city will set the mood (to a certain degree), so choose wisely."



Sayulita

I have forgotten
The black shiny sand stuck to my bare feet
Always came home with me
Ending up on my shower floor day after day.
Mosquitoes attacking me
When the sun went down and
In the early damp bittersweet morning.
“Your blood so sweet,” you said.
It was long ago and so I have forgotten
You,
Unsaddling the horses
After a long day;
The pungent scent of their toiling sweat,
How they swayed,
Neighed;
Your tender care to every detail
Without a notion of the time.
Cicadas screamed in the jungle
As you sang in your strident voice
A song about “Only Once.”
The yellow flame of candles
Flickering under the smudged glass of hurricane lamps.
But this, too…I have forgotten.
Dusty streets and rutted roads
Rusting buses rumbling through the town,
Never early, never late.
Old men playing dominoes in shaded doorways;
ClickClackClickClack
As their knobby fingers shuffled tiles.
Vendors in the square
With sleeping babies in blankets strung from palm to palm;
Children sucking on tied plastic bags full of flavored water,
Sticky;
Bees buzzing
Around tacos stands;
The odor of sizzling chicken, roasting pork,
Chiles, cilantro.
Ice cold Modelo. In a can.
“You wanna beer?” you would say.
This…
Before the surfers took over.
Just the brown skinned local boys
Out on the waves, bobbing, fingers fluttering
Waiting for an early morning curl;
Gone by afternoon to jobs that required white shirts,
Leaving the ocean empty with nothing but diving pelicans.
Before the realtors came and brought internet
And cash machines,
Paved roads, bridges, rich women.
Since I have forgotten,
I can accept with no regret that
Time erases memory,
Closes wounds and doors,
So that I no longer recall your
Big laugh and your little laugh,
Your childish jokes,
Your cousin’s house,
Your sister’s café,
The street in your father’s name: your name.
Our long drives over the mountain,
To and from,
From and to.
But it no longer matters,
For Sayulita has changed...
And I no longer remember.

April 5, 2010 La Tentación

Today's prompt was to write a poem about TMI. I took an old poem that had been waiting for some redemption and re-worked it. I think it falls into the TMI category.
Thanks for all your comments, emails and support. I really appreciate it.

La Tentación
(Temptation)

Walking up the shadowed hill
With a bucket of live lobster balanced between us
We stopped to listen. The music
Drifting thru the iron bars of a dirt floor café
Captured us;
We… moths
To the flame.
The horn player leaning back in his
repose, Spied us with a single eye
Knowing us
and our contest.
We slipped in the doorway and
slowly settled the tin bucket
‘til it found the floor;
(clacking sounds of claws clambering
ignored us with intention to escape.)
Your fingers, still wet with the sea
Wound a nest in my hair.
You held me in sway
And bit my bare pink shoulder
Your damp hair, your bare feet, your white teeth
still linger in my present senses.
It wasn’t really dancing what we did
Intoxicated by Scent and Sound.
Damn that smiling waitress
Beckoned
And offered us her room.

GOODBYE

Today’s prompt from NAIWE is:

“If you had to eliminate one word or phrase from the English language, what would it be? Why?”

Goodbye

What’s the one thing I hate to say? Goodbye. The times in the past I have said goodbye on both sides of the border blend into a mix of waving arms, blown kisses, tears, laughter, hugs and kisses, ending in a barrage of hellos.
Goodbye quite often results in hello, with an interlude between. I prefer hello.

When I left Mexico permanently, after more than ten years, a series of farewell parties that lasted over a month’s time saw me off. They began with a surprise birthday party

in a gorgeous cliff-side villa, celebrating with nearly thirty friends. Only one person realized it was a swan song party: me. It was a tough evening, bringing me back to the location I’d begun so many years ago. I was surrounded by loving friends and family, all whom I realized with each greeting, I’d have to tell I was leaving. I’d misplaced my glasses that evening and couldn't see well, which added to an imbedded angst that would simmer within me for weeks: the knowledge that I was truly saying goodbye. (Spanish says it so much better…Adios…with God.) There is rarely anything good about goodbye.

Over the weeks, as I prepared my move, I was cast into a role of comforting others who cried at the thought of my departure. Party following party stretched the agony of leaving in a manner not unlike bloodletting; little by little, a few drops at a time.

The week before I flew away, like a bird migrating in the wrong direction, not looking back, I attended seven dinners, six lunches, a breakfast, three parties and on the final day, a coffee klatch. I must have said well over a hundred goodbyes. One last trip up the coast to bid farewell to my old lover, my ranchero, my melancholy Mexican sealed the omen that I was now finished and this was, indeed, the last goodbye. I would never again linger in the mind of hellos with this man, who was the essence of Mexico for me, the fountain of my youth.

My daughter doesn’t like to say goodbye and sometimes refuses to, disappearing at the last moment. “It’s just so final,” she says, as she verbalizes what I feel, declines hugs, turns a sad face. She has inherited my aversion for goodbyes along with my distaste for spiders. When I was a child, I hid under tables and bushes, depending on the season, when it was time for friends and family to depart. My daughter shared this habit and I see her daughter developing the same manner.

Maybe we can be like the fish that live on the bottom of the ocean who no longer have eyes because for so many generations they didn’t use them, so their eyes ceased to exist. If we just stop saying goodbye, perhaps we can stop thinking of it, too, and survive without it.

Thank you for reading.

Satisfied Mind Thanks to Bobby Dylan

I’m supposed to be at a Bobby Dylan concert tonight in Seattle. I won tickets from KPLU, my favorite radio station in the NW, when I was there this summer. It was painful to realize I would need to leave the US, returning to Mexico and miss seeing live, at this later stage of both Dylan’s and my life, my teenage idol. The guy who told us to lend a hand or get out of the way, ‘cause the times were changing.
How prophetic, as I listen to, via internet, an interview with Rosanne Cash, singing her father’s List , hearing her talk about Johnny, Dylan, American folk music and singing songs that I love. I’m lucky to have Terry Gross to entertain me tonight, keeping my mind off the thrill I would’ve experienced at the WaMu Theater this evening.
My times are changing right now and there are wistful, melancholy feelings along with the excitement of knowing that I am opening a new chapter in my life. I listen to 500 Miles and North Country Girl, sung with a beautiful voice; not Dylan…but a woman who has gone through so many changes in her own life.
Imagine how I feel listening to "Motherless children have a hard time when the mother is gone." These lyrics strike so many chords.
I am making choices during this time as I have all my life. Making decisions and uprooting myself and sometimes my very own children to follow one dream or another. I am going back to Seattle to live with one child, be close to another who has seen far too little of me in the past decade and spend time with my 88 year old mother (who as spry as she is, is after all, eighty-eight). In that process I will leave behind my eldest daughter, her husband and my two youngest grandchildren, who followed me here to Mexico almost exactly two years ago.
Things we sacrifice, things we desire, things we face, conquer and win or lose…this is life. If life were not about change, it would be stagnant, close and so very meaningless. I tried to make light of missing seeing Dylan live. Aw, that it could have been Leonard Cohen that I had won tickets to see, I lamented.
I truly knew my loss, my chagrin, my tiny sorrow. Now that I am actually making this move and have sold all my furniture and dig through my collection of possessions (wondering why, over the past 13 years, I brought this or that), tossing, packing, storing, selling, I feel certain burdens lift and sense an anticipation regarding my immediate future. There will also be sadness, real grief and anxieties about making this change.
I’m going to wonder if he will sing this song tonight, an obscure one. But if I were there, and could write a little note, make a request and put a dollar in the tip jar, I would ask for this:

A Satisfied Mind.

How many times have you heard someone say
If I had his money I'd do things my way
Hmm, but little they know
Hmm, it's so hard to find
One rich man in ten with a satisfied mind.
Hmm, once I was wading in fortune and fame
Everything that I dreamed of to get a start in life’s game
But suddenly it happened
Hmm, I lost every dime
But I'm richer by far with a satisfied mind.
Hmm, when my life is over and my time has run out
My friends and my love ones
I'll leave there ain't no doubt
But one thing for certain
When it comes my time
I'll leave this old world
With a satisfied mind

Thanks for reading.

The Party

I was very happy to spend the day of my 60th birthday on a rooftop overlooking the ocean, dipping in the pool and playing cards, looking forward to strolling next door at sunset to join a group of friends for a celebratory dinner at one of my favorite beach restaurants. It would have been quite satisfying. I just didn’t expect too much, having made it clear that low-key was the operative word for this year’s commemoration.

My good friend Candace picked me up shortly before noon and with a bit of frustration, explained the errands she had to run before we could get to our first destination: the pool and card table. I told her it was fine with me, we had the whole day ahead of us. We drove out the coast highway and came to a lovely cliff-side villa, where she encouraged me to follow her while she conducted her business. My first inclination was to feel like an intruder, when we ran into a couple who were purportedly guests of whom we were disturbing. They nodded curtly as they gave us their permission to enter, then disappeared. We wandered down a grand staircase into the foyer and living room, with a sweeping view of the ocean and famous volcanic rocks Los Arcos.

There was a woman in the pool; her back turned, taking in the scenery. She looked vaguely familiar but then at my age, many people do.

We wandered into the kitchen area and dining room, me following Candace obediently. She had requested margaritas, which I thought was a little cheeky and even cheekier still for me to ask if maybe we could get them to go. Candace was the one complaining that all this running around was cutting into our card playing time. As we waited for our margaritas to be mixed, we wandered in the direction of the pool.

The woman who I had glanced at moments before seemed much more familiar to me and I stared at her, trying to understand what my good friend Shawn was doing there. She stared up at me and I stared back at her. Candace pulled her dress over her head to reveal a swimsuit and dove into the water.

Maybe my eyes popped out, perhaps my jaw dropped; I don’t recall but just then Shawn said Surprise! Happy Birthday!
What are you doing here? I asked.

I still wasn’t totally getting it.
It took me a while to get my bearings. I didn’t really understand at first until it dawned on me what my friends had done.

The guests, Patti and Gary, who we’d disturbed on our way in, turned out to be Shawn’s friends, visiting from California. They were great actors, playing up the disgruntled vacationers. I wasn’t expecting Shawn to attend my birthday at all, since it was her husband Greg’s birthday as well and he was flying in that day. The foursome had planned to spend that night in Yelapa, down the coast and only attainable by boat. Or so I thought. Greg was not privy to the plans, either, so there were more surprises in store for the day.

At some point, I watched tables being set and nosily counted the place settings. Twenty-four people would be joining us for dinner.

We swam. Played cards. Moved everything inside when the skies opened up. Relaxed. Read. I never really got over my astonishment. In our well appointed rooms, we freshened up and dressed for the arrival of others.

At the appointed hour, they began to drift in. I was overwhelmed by the generosity of my friends. We ate and drank for what seemed like hours. The food was divine. The company was delightful. When the evening ended long past the midnight hour, I retired to my room in this lovely villa and slept like a lamb, only to be awakened in the morning by a knock at the door and a breakfast tray. We didn’t leave Villa Luna Creciente until past 7 p.m., the whole day spent in absolute bliss. I cannot thank my friends and family enough for making this possible. Like a dream come true.

And reflections on turning 60?
It was more than I could have realized. More on that later. I promise.

Thanks for reading.

http://www.villalunacreciente.com/

Back Home

I am home again; arrived a week ago today. Not sure how it feels to be home. Tomorrow I will be sixty years old and as I consider the past decade, I have been very fortunate. We could say it is a matter of luck, but as Dad always said “It’s a good thing there are two kinds of luck or I wouldn’t have any.”
I am in the process of considering how my future will play out and realizing perhaps ten years in Mexico has been enough. I love this country. I love the people and the culture. My experiences here have been rich beyond what I could ever have imagined a decade ago. For the most part, leaving my Mexican friends will be what pains me most. To a person, they have provided me with an understanding of kindness and love. Certainly, I have met a fair number of rogues, but admittedly, one will find those types anywhere. Since many Mexicans are not able to travel to the United States, due to immigration procedures or lack of funds, I will be obliged to return to Mexico on occasion to be filled again with their affection, good will and chicken mole.
I am often dismayed when I hear my non-Mexican friends grumble about some of their problems, criticisms and complaints about the country they have adopted. Foreigners are so welcome in Mexico, which has a very generous and tolerant immigration policy. This is, of course, a part of what makes up the country’s wealth: her mixture. In the beginning, these were conquistadors, who themselves were welcomed by the innocent and vulnerable. From the slave ships that embarked on the eastern shoreline to the present day ex-patriots from all continents, Mexico has been enriched.
I don’t know exactly what happens next for me. That remains to be seen and I am anxious and willing to discover. Thinking that life would be very different at this time, I need to somehow devise a new plan. Getting through tomorrow is my foremost goal. When I am sixty years and one day old, perhaps I will be more enlightened than I am today.