Despite the hole in one glass panel, this lamp still shines.
This was to have been the day that I went to the children’s home to see what, if any, arrangements could be made for me to teach English.
But I woke up to a power outage—in my apartment only; none of the others were affected. By the time electricity was restored five hours later, it was too late for me to keep my appointment. (I needed the microwave to cook breakfast.)
After the repair people left, my neighbors downstairs invited me to visit. I hadn’t seen them for two years, so for the next couple of hours we sipped tea, told stories, and laughed uproariously.
Ever since I left the United States on Saturday morning, I have experienced one setback after another. So little has gone according to plan, that I’ve just about given up on planning. An unexpected invitation was just another bump in the road.
After I left my neighbors’ apartment, I walked out onto my terrace and noticed a hole in one of the protective glass panels of the lamp. Despite the hole, the light still shines.
The time with my neighbors was like the lamp on the terrace: It wasn’t perfect (the couple disagreed with each other several times), but all in all the conversation was light enough to help dispel some of my darkness.
On an uncertain journey, even an imperfect lamp will do.
What is the meaning,
blackbird, of your long silence,
and the brooding stones?
Zapopan: The Rosary
Handmade rosaries can often be found in open-air markets in Mexico.
When you’re in Mexico, you head to the local open-air market and look for a rosary, because, well, why not?
A jewelry vendor greets me in broken English. I reply in fractured Spanish, and ask for a rosary.
The vendor is puzzled. “Rosario,” his wife chimes in.
Alas, all the rosaries on display—silver, gold, stainless steel—come straight from the factory. Lovely, but no soul.
Desperate to make a sale, the vendor tells his wife to pull out a display rack hidden under the table. The items on the rack are a tangled mess. The vendor untangles them. Two hand-knotted rosaries stand out. One is red, the other a rainbow of colors.
“How much?” I ask, fingering the rainbow rosary.
“Fifteen pesos.”
A bargain! I fish in my pocket for fifteen pesos (about 80 cents), when the vendor’s horrified wife cries out: “Fifty!” (Apparently the vendor has gotten his English numbers mixed up.)
Even at fifty pesos ($2.62), the hand-knotted rosary is a bargain.
After shaking the vendor’s hand, I walk away with a smile on my face, and the prayers of the saints in my pocket.
my meditation:
the sacredness of water
flowing over stones
Another Journey Begins
The iconic Guadalajara sign in Plaza Independencia attracts locals and tourists alike.
A year ago, I dreamed of returning to Guadalajara, where for two summers in a row, I taught English as a volunteer. I didn’t go, and my dream crumbled to ashes.
In All the Wild and Lonely Places, Lawrence Hogue writes about the power of returning to familiar places, in this case California’s Anza-Borrego Desert:
“By returning again and again, I can gain new strands of the story, weaving in stories of my own, making this place part of my internal landscape, making it part of my home.”
But the call to return to a place again and again is not limited to deserts, or oceans, or forests. Sometimes even a city can tug insistently at your heart. You resist the tug at your own peril.
My flight leaves early Saturday morning. Stories are waiting.
Into emptiness
that no ringing bell can fill,
a blackbird enters.
Poetic Mexico 