Tidings of Comfort and Joy

                                                                Tidings of Comfort and Joy

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            For two weeks the words of that Christmas song floated through my mind. The chorus won’t leave me alone. Think about it. The whole thing is a strange set up. First angels show up. Then they say, Hey. Dude, chill. Don’t be scared.

            Think about it. If angels showed up at my door, I don’t care what words they used, I’d be terrified. Typically angels might say they bring good news. But what generally comes into play, at least before anything good happens, think about it, long travels, confusion and travails. Wandering the desert, birthing a baby in the barn, trips to Egypt by foot; that kind of thing.

            What does an angel look like? How would I know? Do I really think angels are tall, Hollywood-good-looking men with gigantic wing spans made of white eagle feathers? Think about it. That kind of angel won’t fit through my door.

            Or maybe angels are like six-year old girls, dressed in ruffled white dimity, heads bowed and hands folded in prayer, walking down the aisle for their first communion ceremony. We say the words, Oh, look at the sweet little angels. (Sigh and smile.) Oh, we and our imaginations, equating seeming innocence with angels. What about the little boys in the other line, like the red-head, the one with cowlicks in his hair and the slingshot sticking out of his back pocket? At him, we might frown. He’s innocent too, isn’t he? The little “devil”. (Grin and giggle.)

            About a month ago a stranger knocked at my door. He came afoot, a small pack slung over his shoulder. My Espanol is not good enough for a full blown conversation. But I get by. He asked me something, perhaps directions. I explained that what he asked was beyond my limited comprehension. So we proceeded to have a small conversation, the kind typical between two strangers. Sure is a nice day. Hot though. Yes, very hot. Been walking all day? I still have a long way to go. Sure is a hot day to be out walking all day. This is not an exact translation. But you get the idea—small talk. Comfortable.

            Eventually the man asked if I would bring him a drink of water. I felt foolish that I had not thought to bring him a drink. He was obviously hot and, no doubt, thirsty. I scurried into the kitchen and filled a large glass with fresh cool water.  The man drank the water without pause and thanked me. Would you like more? No, that was perfect. Well, I’ll be on my way. Thanks again. You’re welcome.

            I stood in the door and watched the man continue up the street. I never knew his name. It might have been Gabriel for all I know. He looked like an ordinary man. He had no feathery wings on his back.  Maybe he was my angel, a temporary blessing.

            I wonder about that man now and then. He let me be an angel; let me bring him a small glass of comfort, a simple drink of water on a hot day. When I turned to go back into my house, I felt better. I think that is what is known as joy. So between that man and I, we acted out comfort and joy.

            This morning early as I swept my front patio, a whole family of angels rounded the corner. Mom and Dad, brother and sister and baby in the stroller. They wore Santa hats. In Mexico, all the angels are musicians. Dad played the Saxaphone and brother did an outstanding job on the drum. This angel family walked along the street, playing Christmas hymns, for the comfort and joy of all the people along the way. 

                        Maybe that’s the way it is supposed to be. I’m no philosopher, no theologian. When I look around me, what I see is that we all want to be comfortable. I want comfort. Nothing wrong with that. But if I turn my usual idea of comfort around—set the noun comfort aside a minute and pick up the verb comfort, follow it into action, the result is joy. And I am the one who gets to feel the joy. It’s an inside job.

Me, I’m neither saint nor winged angel. But with all my heart I wish you tidings of comfort and joy, today and every day. Feliz Navidad.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 24, 2014

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Finding My Inner Pole Dancer

Finding My Inner Pole Dancer

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            Dance is different things to different people. To some, dance is pure joy of movement. To someone else, it is forbidden sin. Dance is exercise, artistic expression, communication, a route to seduction. Dance is children cavorting on the lawn in summer, cowboy jitterbug at the Elks Club on Saturday night, the Senior Prom, the formal ball, the shindig. It is the butterfly flitting flower to flower.

            For me, at this time and place in my life, dance is my doctor’s prescription.

            Don’t laugh. I’m serious. Six months ago I couldn’t walk and had a pain level of twelve on a scale of one to ten. I began treatments with a sports medicine specialist and progress has been steady, but evidently slower progress than Dr. Epifanio wanted to see. He sent me off to get an X-Ray and Ultra-Sound, to check there wasn’t a hidden problem, I guess.

            That was in the morning. In the afternoon I delivered the pictures to him at his University office. He scanned them. Nodded. He told me I needed to work harder. I can have life or I can have good life. That is my interpretation of what he said.

            My hip joint feels cemented into place. We knew that. The pain discouraged me. I moved  that joint as little as possible. Dr. E said I needed to move it as much as possible. All directions. “I want you to dance,” he told me while he grabbed a five-foot pole and rotated his hips in front of it, “twenty minutes a day.” “Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked. I shook my head in the universal negative. “You should get one.”

            In the spring, should I live so long, I will be seventy. Nevertheless, I blushed and giggled. “You want me to pole dance?”

            What makes this story woo-woo strange, is that two months ago, my friend Kathy and I were walking south on Avenida Gaviotis. In front of a corner building with two-story window walls, we stopped. For years the building was home to a high-end jewelry store but with the downfall in the economy, the building has stood empty. Now it looks like a low-end dump, windows cracked, filled with trash, walls enhanced with graffiti.

            “This would make a perfect pole-dance studio,” I said.

            “I can see it. Repair the windows, paint the walls, the right lighting, perfect,” Kathy agreed. “We’ll hire street bands, live music.”

            “There are plenty of beautiful girls to teach the moves. We’ll sit in the back room and manage the joint, rake in the money.”

            “Let’s call the landlord and get started. When Richard gets here, we’ll have him write a check.”

            Over the years Kathy and I have created a hundred fantasy businesses and solved most of the world’s problems. Some ideas are flash-in-the-pan. Others, like our pole dance studio, live on for months. We keep adding details. Richard just laughs and grips his wallet.

            In the early morning reality, as the sun peeks over the hills, I don my baggiest shirt and head out the door for my walk, hips subtly swiveling as I go. Emphasis on subtle. Only the tiniest movement, anything more is too painful. But mostly, I don’t want to be a spectacle.

            Oh, I know I am marking time. Hip surgery is in the offing. Dr. E and I talked about it in the margins of our discussion. Meanwhile I follow his directions to keep strengthening my leg muscles.

            In the privacy of my own home, I get creative. You should see me sweep and mop. Housework is an event rather than a mundane chore. I’m rather amazed what is possible with imagination and a broom. Or even the swish of a dust cloth. Twist and turn. One, two, three, side-to-side, slide forward, slide back, promenade left, sashay right,  circle those hips, around the broom and around the room.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 18, 2014

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Dear Miss Manners and Other Stories

                Dear Miss Manners and Other Stories

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            Know thyself. I am the first to tell you that I am selfish and self-centered to an uncomfortable degree. I would take a melon scooper and remove those traits if that were possible. I don’t have impeccable manners; I know that. I like to blame my imperfect childhood. I never had a mother to teach me the niceties. To compensate, I became hyper-vigilant. I watch you to see how you do it. Imitation is a form of flattery.

            Unless it isn’t. Unless I see less than desirable traits. The particular trait I would like to isolate and stomp to death is “the sense of entitlement”. Where does this come from? I see it in rich and in poor, in healthy and unhealthy, in high class (What does that mean?) and in every other strata of society.

            The horrible thing, that which makes me cringe, is that just by being American, I know I carry pieces of this seemingly un-erasable cultural trait. The Ugly American is alive and well. The Canadian is no different. So I hang onto my hyper-vigilance, hoping to nip any actions of mine before they offend another person, of any culture.

            By living in a foreign country, it seems I view ugly features like entitlement through a different magnifying glass, one with few smudges.

            Case in point. Kathy and I were on the beach, lounging under a resort palapa. Yes, we exhibit entitlement just by being there. A group of young people on holiday, corporate workers from a company in Chicago, spread out on the stretch of sand next to us. These fellow tourists, I’m sure, are all good folks, nice people, hard workers. Maybe they had begun celebrating a tad too early.

            Jorge took food and drink orders, one man, on this busy day, running his legs. He turned to go up the stairs to the restaurant with a fist full of orders. Oh, but wait just a minute. Mr. Chicago and company wanted three buckets of beer, shrimp platters, chips and salsa for the group; get the picture. Chicago’s arm swung in circles, fingers snapped, and he screamed, “Hey, Taco.”

            Jorge heard the call, reversed stride and took the order. I mentally dug a hole in the sand and buried myself. Later in the afternoon, I cornered Jorge and apologized for the behavior of the Chicago group. 

“We’re not all like that,” I said. “I know. It’s part of the job.” Part of the job. Sad, that.

            Entitlement rears its ugly head in various ways. Same resort. A couple from California scooted down to the beach every morning before six; the sun not even up. They secured four lounges, two tables and a couple chairs, dragged them beneath a palapa, laid out towels, books, shoes, and lotion: the message—we’ll be back soon. Most days, they never showed up. The new message—we want this particular area reserved for us, just in case. Yep, we’re pretty important.

            This is Mexico. There is a cultural ethic here of manners, of politeness, even in situations which would strain any one of us. Mexican people are inherently polite. Because of that, our inherent rudeness looks nastier. But place is irrelevant. These incidents could have happened anywhere, anywhere in the world.

            So a woman from my neighborhood, happens to be a Canadian woman, went to a ball game a couple days ago, her ticket in hand. A man sat in “her” seat. The seats are numbered, so you could say she had a point. The stadium is huge. It’s a baseball game. There were empty seats next to, in front and behind.

            “Shoo, move.” She waved her arms in get-out-of-here motions. “You are in my blankety seat. You. Go. Get. Get the blankety out of here.” She used language that I never heard in the corral at branding time.

            The man was rather stunned. He indicated she could sit in the empty seat next to him. “Senora, do you know who I am?”

            “I don’t give a . . .” Well, you get the picture.

            What I know, and I know with my knower, is that she could have graciously sat down next to this gentleman and had a conversation, like, “Which team are you rooting for? How about a ten peso bet. I’ll take the team from Culiacan. Good game so far, eh?” And I would place a hundred peso bet, with perfect assurance, that the woman would have been invited to the after-game party, a guest of the Mayor of Mazatlan.

            Dear Miss Manners, Please help me remember that I am human. You are human. We all are human. Nothing else much matters. Sincerely,

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 11, 2014

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Three-Week Evelynda

                                                Three-Week Evelynda

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            We met in Mazatlan several years ago. Evelyn is also from Harlem—not Montana—the Harlem in that Big City eastern seaboard state. A world traveler, Evelyn takes trips every year to different countries. She is an intriguing, well-read and versatile woman. She annually spends three weeks in Mazatlan at the same resort where I stay with my friends, Kathy and Richard.

            As we came to know Evelyn, we realized we like to do many of the same things; we diverge from the usual tourist paths and explore new territory. Evelyn is a master at nosing out new adventures. She is the one who found us the Christmas Tour Bus trip to Guadalajara just a few years ago, the trip where we were stranded along the roadside several middle-of-the-night hours after the bus broke down, one of our favorite experiences.

            We kept missing connections this year; didn’t spend as much time together as we intended. So we crowded as much of ourselves into Evelyn’s last few days as we could. The four of us would meet at my casita before heading off to our destination. It was Richard who first posited the question, “What would it take for you to stay longer than three weeks, Evelyn?”

             Hold that thought. Evelyn side-tracked the question skillfully but earned the nickname Three-week Evelynda. She flew home. Two couples, long-time friends of Richard and Kathy, flew in, along with the returning hummingbirds.

            Now I have not met these four persons, but I am happy to join with Kathy in planning a range of activities they might enjoy during their introduction to Mexico. Being who we are, with excitement and anticipation, we compiled a list not found on any tourist map.

We headed the itinerary with a trip to Cerritos, where we enjoy the most succulent fish prepared in huts without basic amenities such as electricity, where ice and water is trucked in by barrels.  Gleefully, we added a ride with Carlos, by pulmonia, out to the docks where the shrimp boats tie up for the day. Bring cameras for a primo photo op. A swing past the little tortilla “factory” for tortillas fresh off the rack, warm and delicious with nothing more than a sprinkle of salt.

Oh, we must take them to the tienda out on Santa Rosa Boulevard where the furniture from Concordia is sold—and the best panaderia in Mazatlan along the way, just a couple back streets to the north. Don’t forget an evening with our other friend Carlos, at his restaurant for the most unique cerviche and pescado empapelado. Our mouths were watering.

Do you think they would enjoy a massage with Elena? We must show them the fighting cocks at El Quilete. We could rent a van and take a day trip out to Tiacapan, with stops at Esquinapa and Rosario along the way. Oh, the possibilities.  Oh, the fun we can have.

What we had forgotten, in our excitement, is that this is the four friends’ first trip. They had not tasted all the tourist things; sights and activities we had done our first years here. They were not interested in leaving the “golden zone”. They were not interested in wandering off the map.

Rejection felt personal, like when a friend doesn’t think your child is cute. Kathy backed off, suggested a list of the usual tourist activities, and let her friends be tourists, slowly and gently.

Return to the question Richard asked Evelyn: What would it take to make you stay longer than three weeks? Evelyn is quite happy to come to Mexico every year. But she is also quite happy to go home to New York City at the end of her three weeks in Mazatlan.

If Evelyn were to turn the question around to Richard, Kathy and I, we would have to answer that it takes a love affair. We three have fallen in love with Mazatlan. Long ago we tired of the well-trodden tourist pathway. For us the resort is simply a bedroom, a place to return at evening after a day exploring Mazatlan, learning the city, talking with its people. For us, three weeks is a flirtation. For Richard and Kathy, two months is not long enough. For me, living in my casita near the beach and the bus line, six months is not too long. 

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 4, 2014

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Thanksgiving in Mazatlan—More Than a Word

            Thanksgiving in Mazatlan—More Than a Word

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            There is a man who sits on a low trolley at a certain intersection roadway along the Malecon, a broad walk next to the seawall which runs about six miles around the harbor. I suppose one might call him a beggar. He is not homeless. I call him a dispenser of blessings, a beamer of joy. I don’t know his age, maybe in his forties. He looks like the Smiling Buddha sitting on his platform, useless legs twisted beneath his body.

            The first time I actually “saw” him, and I still don’t know his name, was several months ago when I was on my way to the specialist I see for Regional Sympathetic Dystrophy, which has made walking extremely painful the past two years. What made me catch my breath, made me really see the man, was when he looked straight into my eyes with a look so full of love for humanity, I could hardly breathe. My immediate thought was, I have legs. I had been so caught up in the pain that I forgot that I have legs, forgot that I can walk.

            Sometimes I stop to shake his hand and leave a small thanks offering, not nearly enough for what that man gives me. Always, he looks straight into my eyes and smiles with his entire face, smiles with his entire being. If there is a secret to living in gratitude, that man found it and shares it daily. When I don’t stop, he waves and beams me the same glorious smile. If I could have a brother, I want that man for a brother.

            And the strange thing is that, with a brother like him, I can’t help but look around me and see my world differently. I can talk only about my own world, a beautiful but also frightening place. There is no real security. Sadness and loss can happen at any time. So can goodness and love. I could be wrong. This is what my life says so far. I’ve learned to collect small joys.

            Last Thursday Kathy’s husband Richard flew in to join her at the resort. I returned to my little casa. I’m back in the comfort of my ordinary routine, spiced with small trips to Cerritos, Juarez and El Centro with my friends.  

Kathy phoned, “Let’s get one of those wonderful whole grilled chickens and celebrate US Thanksgiving at your casa.” Kathy and Richard are from Pender Island in British Columbia. Kathy and I already celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving. (Richard had to enjoy it vicariously, via our report of dinner at the Marina).

The chicken, the best in Mazatlan, on the authority of Carlos, my pulmonia driver, is grilled at a street stand near my doctor’s office. You have to taste it to believe it—even better than southern fried chicken when the bird is farm raised, clucking around the chicken house just this morning. While Kathy and I will chop ingredients to make the fixings, guacamole and salsa, Richard will walk to the Panama bakery to get a guava pie. I’ll press the tortillas. Add fresh cucumbers, sliced tomatoes, and rice. We’ll have a proper feast.  

We three friends have known one another many years. We have no secrets, no forbidden subjects. We trust each other. We’ll fill our afternoon with talk and laughter and sharing troubles and thanks along with the good food. Sharing troubles lightens the load. Sharing thanks multiplies them. Mathematical fact. I am rich to have friends like these.

I think about the man on the trolley, my brother. How did he learn that? How did he learn to find the joy? How did he learn to do more than stand aside and observe the joy, to watch it pass by? Somehow, somewhere along the way, this man who never walked, invited the joy inside. I’m not trying to make him into something he’s not. I’ll bet he’s human, he’s real and he has his bad days too.  

Yet, in some mysterious way, just knowing he is there, despite all the rocks in the road, beaming from his corner of the world, makes me feel this is a good life. In fact, the smile on his face is just like the shape of the moon tonight, smiling across the dark sky.

Happy Thanksgiving from me to you, my friend.  

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 26, 2014

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A Typical Day In The Neighborhood  

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            Take the other day, a typical day, as typical as any day can be when home base is a beach resort on the Pacific coast of Mexico. We’d eaten tropical fruit and sweet rolls, in a café overlooking the beach. Then we pulled lounges beneath the palm fronds of a palapa and watched the waves rolling, fish jumping, shrimp boats trolling by the islands, and the ferry from La Paz smoking up the horizon. That activity easily consumed a couple hours.

            We lamented that we have so few days left to do things together. Over the past year we made plans to do many things, go many places. Our list never made it on paper and just as well. Kathy and I have not marked off half the items in these five weeks hanging out with one another. Our intentions are good. Follow through mediocre. Distractions great. See above.

            “You know what we haven’t done?” asked Kathy.

            “Almost everything,” I responded. “What do you have in mind?”

            “Massage with Elena.” Elena is my magical wise woman massage therapist, with whom I began therapy on my hip and leg but hadn’t seen in weeks, since I started treatments with a sports medicine specialist.

            I picked up my phone and asked Carlos, my friend, interpreter and pulmonia driver, if he were free to take us to Elena. “You be ready in fifteen Mexican minutes,” Carlos responded.

            We dashed upstairs (via elevator—19^th floor), and in almost fifteen minutes were outside the lobby to meet Carlos. But Elena was in Cabo San Lucas where she had been called to help out after the devastation of the hurricanes. Elena is famous in Mexico, by word of mouth. I doubt you can Google her. She was flying back that same afternoon. We arranged to meet her the next day.

            Meanwhile, since we had peeled ourselves away from the beach, since we had a driver, since we had time and opportunity. .  .  “Plants,” I said. “Carlos, por favor, can you take us to a neighborhood nursery. I want plants.”  I had three beautiful clay pots I’d bought in San Marcos, a year ago. When we painted my apartment a couple weeks ago, we had moved my camp chairs, a coffee table and my easel into a covered part of the courtyard to create an outdoor “room”. Filling the pots would make me feel truly nested and satisfy my latent farmer. 

On the way to the plants, we drove by a tortilla “factory”.  “Stop!” Kathy shouted. “Can we back up so I can see this.” “This” was a ten by ten meter room with an open window to the street. A man plunked a huge ball of dough into the hopper of the machine. Out the other end the machine spit perfect tortillas which progressed on a moving rack through an oven and continued rolling to a platform where a woman stacked them for sale. We were invited inside to watch. Before we left we bought a dozen tortillas for four pesos, sprinkled them with salt, and ate them warm.

We zipped down a couple side streets to the nursery. I wanted everything. This happens. I get this urge to have a house, a yard, a garden again. Then I think through the process, remember how much work it requires and the want fades. I focused on greenery suitable for my shady courtyard and picked three plants more than my pots could comfortably hold. But, truly, I didn’t take half what I still wanted.

Carlos lugged my bags of soil and my boxes of plants through my apartment and back to the courtyard for me. Blessings on that young man. Kathy and I filled pots, created beauty, washed our dirty hands and walked the long way around, back to the resort, a few blocks south.

Tomorrow is a big day. In the early morning we go back to Elena’s for “yesterday’s” massage. Kathy’s husband Richard is flying in for his three week vacation. They will kick me to the curb. My bag is packed. I’ll return to my apartment to enjoy my newly painted walls, my corner courtyard “room”, my small pot garden, and resume my own routine of typical days. Today we celebrate Mexico’s Revolution. That must be a good omen.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 20, 2014

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            Music Knows No Borders

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            Kathy and I peeled ourselves out from under the palapa on the beach, changed into street clothing and took a pulmonia down to the Plazuela Machado. We had two things in mind. We like to experience the monthly First Friday Art Walk at least once each year, to make the rounds of several favorite galleries to see what is new in the art world.  Best of all, Jim Morrison and The Doors were performing at the Teatro Angela Peralta.

            Okay, so Jim Morrison, poet, songwriter and lead singer, died in 1971. Hector Ortiz brought Morrison back to life in an outstanding musical tribute. Using his own band, Ortiz has personified Elvis, The Bee Gees and Morrison. This night Ortiz and the band performed with the Camerata Mazalan, an orchestra of musicians of international prestige performing semi-classical and popular concert music.

            The Teatro Angela Peralta, a formal concert hall, is one of the beautiful restored historic buildings in Mazatlan. When we entered the open-to-the-skies lobby, elegant with marble floors and walls and sweeping staircases, we quickly forgot the elegance. The stage was set for a trip back to the 1960’s. On a center dais perched a chromed and sparkling, tricked out Harley, surrounded by small tables set up to create the atmosphere of a typical hippie coffeehouse.

            Kathy and I had purchased tickets for the cheap seats, in the nose-bleed section, in the center of the last row of the third balcony. We had the best seats in the house. We sat “front row” for the theatrics all around us.

The moment the musicians began playing, Morrison, in signature leather pants, concha belt and velvet shirt, bounded onto the stage. The entire theatre rocked with an explosion of energy that never abated throughout the entire concert. Ortiz is an outstanding musician and actor. He “became” Morrison. It was uncanny.

            Picture the orchestra at the back of the deep stage, The Doors in center stage, and Morrison in front swaying and dancing with the microphone. From the orchestra all the way to our last row of seats, feet tapped, hands clapped, arms waved. With the first bars of intro music to each song, a roar of excitement and recognition, lifted to the ceiling. People sang along, belting out the words. The Teatro has narrow aisles, yet, many people found a way to dance, if only at their seats, even in their seats. Many youth, and a few not so young, stood, swaying and bouncing, through the entire doings. Stage lighting was exceptional. A screen lowered behind the orchestra showed clips from Morrison’s films. The entire production flowed without a glitch.

            The audience, with a sprinkling of Americans and Canadians in Mazatlan on holiday, a small number of young Mexicans and an overwhelming number of Mexican persons of a “certain age”, like me, all “rocked” to such songs as “Light My Fire”, “Riders On The Storm”, “People Are Strange”, “LA Woman”, and a touching “The Unknown Soldier.” The joy was infectious. It was “our” music.

            The woman next to me, with broken English and mucho body language, asked me if I had gone to Morrison concerts in my youth. “Nada, back then I only rocked babies,” I answered, my arms held in the universal position of cradling a newborn.

            How fortunate I felt to be able to hear Jim Morrison sing through the artistry of Hector Ortiz. I felt especially blessed to experience this concert at the Angela Peralta Teatro with this night’s particular group of people. Truly, music knows no borders. No borders of age. No borders of language. In music, we all wear the same skin.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November 13, 2014

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