Here Be Dragons

 

          Here Be Dragons

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Here be dragons on my mind map.

I think. Therefore I am. Am I? Until I’m not. Will the me that I am I go on thinking? This is 4:00 in the morning when my mind leads me, willingly following, down strange pathways. Not often. I treasure my sleep, laying up storerooms of good dreams, a few uneasy dreams, and, way, way back in the dusty corner, a couple of old nightmares whinny.

Now and then my mind wakes me up, grabs my metaphorical hands and dances me onward.

What started last night’s dance was a length of fabric. Our neighbor Janet had been cleaning out cupboards. She had given a piece of cotton goods to Crin who brought it over to me a few months ago with the suggestion that maybe it would suit us both for outdoor cushion covers. I put the fabric, colorful, obviously a piece of decorator fabric made for a specific purpose, evident by its narrow width, on a shelf for later.

Every single piece of clothing in my wardrobe, long pants and tunic tops, I stitched with my imagination and a sewing machine. Most of my clothing began as used discards, teardowns and remakes, sheets, odds and ends and finds.

Fabric stores in town sell synthetics suitable for weddings, dancing, quincineras and such. I wear natural fibers, so find cottons and linens when and where I can. With time, a most useful commodity, and thought, my finds gradually reveal to me what they want to become and I make it happen.

This is not a hardship. I live frugally. I live creatively. I own a dressmakers form. I like figuring out how to make wearable clothing from things not meant to be worn. My clothes look nice, are unusual, colorful, and are comfortable.

Now and then I would pull this length of cotton, fuscia with gray ribbon stripes, off the shelf and sit with it a while in silence. It remained mute.

Yesterday, Crin, here for a three-week surprise visit, came over to ask if our fabric would be good for covering two couple kitchen bar stools. Perfect, I told her, and there will be plenty for leftovers to make a matching table cloth. Or place mats, she countered.

At 4:00 in the morning, awake with my thoughts, a quite simple tunic began to design itself. They do that sometimes. First, I saw the front and back take shape. Then a scalloped neckline showed up, giving the severe lines a softness. Once I got to going down that pathway, there was no return. How about a slender cap sleeve, with the stripe going horizontally rather than vertically. Oh, yes. In my mind, I saw the shirt cut, pinned on the dress form and stitched together.

I dragged myself out of bed at the usual time, early riser that I am, went to my sewing room out in the bodega, measured enough fabric for the tunic with a few added inches for any changes that might need to happen, folded the fabric and set it aside for putting together later. The design that has unfolded is so simple and so obvious that I am amazed at myself, that I never saw it earlier.

I folded Crin’s portion, plenty for barstools, a large tablecloth and several placemats, to give to her when she comes over this afternoon.

That is how I spent part of my time. What did I use for currency? I paid attention. My wallet of time is thin. It seems to me that I spend more time than I save time, yet, there always seems to be enough time.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Lo, the Dancing Mountains

                Lo, the Dancing Mountains

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I live at the foot of mountains. Each direction from my house, I see mountains. Some mountains march in a row. Some island mountains stand alone. Mountains are so changeable. I like that about mountains.

From my evening reading chair, I look onto an island mountain, not a great distance, juxtaposed against a far roofline. Sometimes the mountain edges off into the trees. Sometimes the mountain hugs closer to that house. Sometimes the mountain stands tall, sometimes snuggles the earth.

The mountains do not stand still. They dance about. Some days the mountains arise, tall like giants and some days the mountains hover, soft and low. The mountains change color too, but, we all know that. Sometimes the mountains disappear altogether, but they always return. Mountains are reliable like that.

I know there are rational scientific explanations for these things, maybe to do with atmosphere and the angle of light and such. To me science does not take one iota from the magic of dancing mountains. Science adds dazzling ingredients to the magic.

Today above the island mountains, those to north and east of me, huge narrow, upright columns of pure white cloud loom, climb high into the sky. The columns appear much like volcanic eruptions, although these mountains have been dormant for a few years. I like watching these columns lift and grow and change and climb the sky.

I don’t own a television, but I’ve never had a problem entertaining myself.

At my age, one gets to be introspective with no apologies. I’ve been pondering Eleanor Roosevelt’s words, making them mine, that I am here in these times to be a witness.

For years, I’ve always said that in my next life I want to be a tree. I’ve changed my mind. I want to be a rock. I like trees. I like the pulsing life of a tree. However, a rock also has pulsing life, just softer and lower.

Building on the idea of being a witness, if I get to return as a rock, I’ll be around longer, will see more. Maybe my rockiness will emerge from volcanic activity, maybe otherwise, maybe I’ll live on one of the dancing mountains, here or there, maybe along a singing river.

I want it all. I want the burning sun to bake me. I want the freezing ice to crumble and crack my surface, to create crevices for the unknown to happen. I want the wind and rain to whittle away and burnish my surface. I want to see what life comes next. I want a dropped seed to find home in one of my crevices, to bloom and grow, maybe a tree.

Sondra Ashton         Looking out my back door

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Parsing the Weather

 

Parsing the Weather

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

If you know me at all, by now, you know I’m obsessed by weather.  Blame my Dad. He instilled the trait in me that day we stood side-by-side on the ditch bank, scanning the sky for the least wisp of cloud, in that dry, dusty summer when I was so young. Once instilled, the weather virus flourished.

I, of all people, know that the only real way to tell weather is to step outside, look, listen, smell, poke your hand under the elements, and feel. Predictions are seldom reliable.

Take yesterday. I sat at the computer and the little tease at the bottom left screen said, “cooling trend the next five days”. I opened the weather tab to check the details. It showed warmer temps for the following five days. Probably another AI glitch. AI is good at glitches. Probably meant to say, “cooking trend the next five days”.

Rain is falling, listlessly. Has been for the last couple hours. Barely sprinkling. The sky is getting lighter so I predict the sprinkle will end soon.  There is no wind. Temp this morning is 68. Humidity is extreme. UV is extreme. AQI is good. Air pressure is up and down like a yo-yo, which for me, translates to an Arthritic Pain Index of extreme.

In an hour, all the above will have shifted except for that final measure, which I call the API. In other words, normal.

Me, I’m having a good day. The house is reasonably clean and tidy. I’ve freshly baked bread on the counter, a tray of cookies in the oven, a slab of salmon thawing for dinner.

I’m also having a sad day while a little rain falls down my face. Two good, close friends recently have been diagnosed with cancer. At our ages, this is common, right? That doesn’t make it any easier because I’m selfish and want to keep my close friends close as long as I can.

 I’ve become more consciously diligent lately to tell my friends that I love them, to let them know I care.

It’s your turn. Most of you know me better than I know you. I read the obituaries. Some people I know well, some names I know. I’m aware the names unknown to me were neighbors, that perhaps we passed by one another way back when at the library in Chinook or on the street in Havre or at the car show in Turner or driving on the highways. Each Passing Beyond gives me pause for respect and honor and caring.

I believe there are variations in degrees of loving, similar to the air quality index, perhaps. I may not know you well enough to know your moods and desires, that you love lilacs and can’t stand the smell of brussels sprouts, that your heart has been broken and that you are a Cubs fan.

On my Love Quality Index, I can always say I love you and I don’t want to lose you and when you hurt, I hurt too. So, here it is. I love you. I care. I give you honor and respect as the human being you are.

In this short time, rain has stopped, the temperature is rising, clouds are parting for the sun. I love you.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

To State the Obvious.

 

To State the Obvious.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Life is hard.

I’m fortunate. I never had to go through the shock of ease ripped away. Life for me was always hard. I thought that was normal. I still think it is normal. I’m aware of how easily we rewrite our own histories, making them fit some drama-trauma of excuse. I try to hold myself to standards of emotional honesty.

I’ll give a hard life credit for my ability to find beauty and peace and love in small moments. Ease and comfort have never been my goal. I’m quite capable of choosing the rockiest road all by myself.

Having said all that, I’ve never faced a tsunami of mud or experience my house shatter around me in a tornado or live with fear of Eboli or live in a cardboard box under the bridge, although I’ve had the fear of being under the bridge in the cardboard box with starving children.

I used to pace the floor, telling the Great Mystery that if the box under the bridge was next, okay, but I’m not going alone. I told the Great Mystery, whatever that means, that he-she-it would need to be there with me. Somehow, some way, a job popped up, rent got paid, the power wasn’t shut down, we had food to eat and work to see us through to the next bridge.

See, I’m fortunate.

For me, life is winding down. I’m in my 80s with all the pains and age deterioration that goes with waking up another day.

Life is hard.

I just got word that another close friend has cancer. First, I told him, as I’ve told others, “No. I forbid it.” Sure, that helped a lot. Then I wrote a long letter letting him know how important he is in my life and how much I’ve always cared for him.

Life is hard.

We just got ripped with a destructive hailstorm accompanied by wind from four directions and two inches of rain in two hours. The part of Mexico where I live is lush with vegetation, greenery abounds. Amazingly, here on the rancho, none of our houses were seriously damaged. No trees were uprooted.

Everything was shredded. Thick skinned plants such as my Madre plants, succulents, my pineapple, the papaya, all look like they contracted small pox. The papaya fruits which are close to ripening look like they are bleeding with small pox. Tree and plant debris cover the ground.

The following days, every morning, my back yard hosted sixty or seventy birds, foraging through the grass and debris, searching out goodies all kinds.

For some reason, the ants proliferate. All kinds and sizes and colors of ants. The leaf-cutters have obliterated my oleanders and dancing-skirt plant and crepe myrtles, among others, leaving naked stalks and branches. I feel itchy crawling on my skin and generally find the culprit to be one or another of the ants, which I crush without a qualm. No Zen from me toward ants. Having said that, I let three different kinds of spiders live, with a shrug of kindness. I don’t claim to understand myself.

Life is hard.

I hurt. My insides are a mess. My outsides are rusting, broken, missing parts, falling apart, out of gas. I could bore you with physical complaints, but, they bore me more. I figure I’m past eighty years so I should hurt. I do.

I’m fortunate. I woke up this morning, got out of bed, had coffee, measured the night’s surprise of rain fall, let my dog slurp all over my hands, baked a batch of cookies.

 Life is good. Hard doesn’t negate the good. I learned in my early years that I could choose to find goodness or to live in despair. To me that choice is a no-brainer.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Even the Earth Cries

 

               Even the Earth Cries

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

For me here in central Mexico, the week has been extraordinarily quiet and peaceful.

I am well aware that all around me is a world in flood, beset by fierce winds, on fire, people, families, entire communities lost, wars and rumors of wars.

My friend Sandy wrote me that one of the greatest joys in life is savoring good food.

Instead of an article, I’m sharing a photo taken in one of my favorite markets, Etza Fruts. Pepe, the proprietor, always has a smile and a good word for every person who passes through. His market is filled with fresh fruits and vegetables, grown locally and throughout Mexico and Central America.

Sometimes I like to simply stand in the middle of an aisle, just for a moment, close my eyes and inhale the various scents, especially of the exotic (to me) fruits. The vegetables have their own earthy scents. I am a fortunate woman, indeed.

Looking Out My Backdoor

Sondra Ashton

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Family

 

               Family

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I was hanging laundry on my rotary solar dryer when I could hear the phone ringing in the house. I don’t carry that thing around with me. When I went inside, I checked to see who’d phoned and called Leo back.

“Would you like to go for breakfast?” I’d had oatmeal/avocado cookies with coffee an hour earlier. “Of course, I’d love to go.” I figured I could fit in breakfast and call it lunch.

I didn’t even ask where. Leo headed out of town toward San Marcos. My mouth, which knows its own mind, prepared itself for lengue. I told my mouth not to get so uppity. Lengue is a specialty and they run out early. Sure enough, Leo pulled into the roadside eatery.

This place must have a name but I don’t know what. It’s built like a three-sided shed with the open kitchen at the back, tables, large and small, at the front. The floor is shale gravel.

Leo is a pleasure, always respectful, with a full bag of stories of family, friends and community. We both are weather worriers. We care about our land, our surroundings.

After rain nearly every day through June and July, we turned the corner into August, historically the month with most rain, and August became October. October, with morning cloud fogs, winds, tall grasses browning. No rain. It’s a worry. A big worry. Even the quality of light shouts, October!

This is a beautiful morning, too lovely to bury ourselves in worry. The sun is shining, quickly burning off the foggyf cloud cover. The breeze is light and pleasant. The mountains are still lush from July rainfall. What’s not to like?

Leo’s tamales, rich with pork and red salsa, a side of frijoles, looks good. My lengue, smothered in green tomatillo salsa, tops a cheese-filled gordita. Two versions of heaven on plates. We dig in. I know my face mirrors my satisfaction.

Halfway through my meal, I sat back a moment and started laughing.

“What?” Leo asked. “This is so perfect, Leo. Just look around us. Look at the mountains, the view, the fields across the highway crowded with corn taller than any Oklahoma elephants’ eyes, in full tassel, perfect food in front of us, surrounded by people having fun.

“Leo, the family sitting behind you, three generations, talking and eating and seeming to love life. You don’t fake that. The couple beside us over there, same thing. The older couple just came in, greeted and hugged the family behind you, squeezed the baby, and now, look, they are hugging the couple next to us. That’s pure community, good neighbors.

“This is a perfect morning for me. I know I’m not part of the families but I feel like I share with them anyway, even out on the perimeter. Thank you for bringing me, Leo.”

“What would you be doing if you were still at home?” Leo asked.

“Mopping my floor,” I replied. “Of course, I’d really rather be home mopping than here enjoying the great day, great company, great food.”

This is where I live. This is my life.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

Still dry in August

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Living With Lizards

 

       Living With Lizards

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Last night when I swished back my bedcovers and hoisted my legs into bed, a small creature slithered from top to bottom of the bed on the other side. My immediate fear was of a scorpion. My fear was immediately relieved by my astute scorpion knowledge. This critter was too skinny, it didn’t attack and the outline shape didn’t fit. Whew!

The part of me which wanted to ignore my bed partner was overruled by the part of me which had to know. Out of bed and around. Oh, cute. A baby gecko, about two inches long. I left the child perched on the lower corner and climbed back into bed.

I know an adult gecko lives in my bedroom. I’m familiar with it, used to her presence. She’s lived with me for months, perhaps years. I give it no attention except an occasional, “Nighty night.” She likes to hang onto the window screen, hoping a mosquito will slither through the mesh, which happens. It talks to me most nights. I don’t speak lizard, so I’ve no idea what she says. In the daytime, the gecko hangs out behind a picture frame.

When I first moved to Etzatlan, whenever I would spot a lizard, any lizard, seen because they move so quickly, I would startle. You know. The involuntary jump, heart in throat, squeak response. Lizards come in several sizes, colors, styles. They blend into their backgrounds so well, you hardly know they are around until they move. Those little guys are whip fast. In short time, lizards became background to me. I see them everywhere, and now I hardly register that they are present.

Of course, there are iguanas too, a different creature entirely. I appreciate lizards, including the geckos, for eating ants and flies and mosquitoes, of which, there are too many. Iguanas are vegetarian, favorite food being my hibiscus blossoms, preferably each eaten in a whole gulp. I’ve considered making iguana soup, or iguana on a stick. Tastes like chicken, right?

Back in bed, my mind wanted to play a game: If a mama gecko hatches one egg, how many eggs might a mama gecko hatch? I told my mind, “Shut up and go to sleep. I’m too tired to play.” Sometimes that works. Do they lay eggs? That started a whole new train of thought? Where is papa gecko? Is the gecko I heard outside my living room window really inside my living room? Soon the boxcars began lining up on the siding.

I’m tired and a tired mind makes up its own stories. Do we need a daddy gecko? How many geckos live with me? Do they go outside? How do they get inside/outside? Chug, chug, toot, toot. I recalled picking up two kernels of gecko, uh, evidence, from beneath my coat rack by the door. Finally, the train motion lulled me to sleep.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________