Thursday, July 16, 2020

This too shall pass and coffee


            This too shall pass and coffee
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Last week I forbade, with wagging finger, I forbade Leo, our Rancho gardener who mothers all of us oldsters, to get sick. The next day Leo landed in the hospital. No, he does not have the virus. But we all had a frightening couple days while Leo was sent to a specialist in Guadalajara for advanced imaging. That’s doctor-speak for a second guess.

Leo’s got the rocks, as they say it here in Mexico. The doc said it will pass. The gall stone giving him such pain is tiny and should pass soon.

Leo is in pain and he is justifiably terrified. For several days he’s suffered. He feels okay, comes to work one day and does not show up the next.

Many of his family have died of cancer, so every twinge scares the young man. Every pain makes him think immediately, “It’s the Big C--I’m done for.” That alone is a heavy burden to haul around. 

People here are matter-of-fact about illness. When Leo does show up, he both whines and laughs and makes jokes about the stone being a slow traveler. He dreads the pain of passage but dreads the thought of surgery even more.  

Yesterday was one of Leo’s good days as opposed to the day before when he stayed in bed all day and described to me in vivid detail that I shall spare you. Perhaps the rock moved on down the line.

In an economy measure, I’ve begun making cowboy coffee in a clay olla rather than my usual French Press method. I add a piece of stick cinnamon to the coffee grounds for sparkle, boil it, and let it settle. I’d stack my coffee next to the best.

You have to know I’m a coffee snob. I like a good coffee. I’ve been buying coffee beans at Costco in Guadalajara ever since moving to Etzatlan. In these dire times, trips to Guad are a dream of the past and a vague hope for the future. My good beans are gone.

Before he collapsed last week, Leo brought me coffee. Coffee is coffee, right? Wrong! This was nasty bitter stuff, sweepings from the factory floor. So I asked Leo to find Marino, which is tolerable. The beans are roasted and packed in Mazatlan so I’m familiar with Marino.

So when Leo came around noon, laden with fruits and veggies, he also had a bag of Marino coffee, found after vigorous searching at Michoacana, a corner tienda. Like any addict, I am happy with my fix.

Leo worked yesterday, mowing and yard clean up at Pat and Nancie’s, John and Carol’s. I said, “You must be feeling better.” He said, “Much medicine.”

Before he put away the mower and weed whacker for the evening, Leo told me the farmers around were complaining about not enough rain, the fields should be soaked by now. I thought, when do farmers not complain there is not enough rain?

It’s true and strange that the Sahara dust blanketing us makes for spectacular sunsets. I thought nothing can equal Montana sunsets, several of which I recall vividly. I’m wrong. Last night the entire 360 degree sky lit up with pink-bronze-golden fires.

Out over the Pacific Ocean, in the night, an unnamed depression formed into Cristina, pushed clouds inland which dropped rain the entire night. This morning is dark as any night. In my house of windows I seldom switch on a light during daytime. I turned on lights in the kitchen and the light over my desk.

My garden plans flew out the door where they lie soggy on the ground. Farmers complain they cannot work in the wet fields. It’s a good day to bake bread. My coffee is brewed. It’s a good day.

Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
July 9, 2020
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Tuesday, July 7, 2020

In defense of denial


            In defense of denial
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Sometimes it is better to not know
Uncertainty is caustic
There is no escaping
The pain of knowing

I remember this when night
Visitations of every dread
And shame and mistake
Come calling with rigid certainty

Once I peel off my blinders
I discover there is no adjustment
To put them back. Pretending
Not to know no longer serves

Is truth what we want
Peel off one layer of unknowing
Another takes its place
Equally implacable
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On a rain day


            On a rain day
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I want to die
On a rain come down day
Rain to wash me
To wash my memories
Like baptism. Clean.

I want to die in the monsoon
With air soft as promise
Or when the sky talks up a storm
Wild with electric snap rap tap
Wet wild empty the sky

Rain be my tears
Tears for me, for those I love
For those who love me
For those I never loved
Especially for those.
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At first light


At first light
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At first light they sing

The sun breaks through the horizon
A time of silence, as if in reverence

One by one they fly
With occasional chirps
Doing bird business
To chorus again at sundown

Rumi says birdsong mirrors my longing
Let my silence be my song
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Early Morn


            Early Morn
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I lay in bed listening
The click of the refrigerator
A flock of yellow-heads swish the sky
An avocado falls through tree branches
An iguana scrabbles across the roof tiles
Josue starts his truck, off to work
The silence of sunlight burns off the fog
I lay thinking how content I am
It makes me feel kind of sad.
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Rumors


            Rumors
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Clouds whisper rumors of rain,
Whisper wisps into puffs whitely
Smatter with dark, lower blackly,
Heavy promise to come. Wind
Picks up rumor, knits it into mumbles,
Weaves stories of remembered storms
Through each leaf and spine, quiver
Tales of green renewal, awakening
A season of uplifted throats, dry,
Gasping into song as first drops pitter.
I stand in speckled sun, mute,
Able to hear only a hint
Of the chorus sung.
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One Might Think


            One Might Think
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One might think
God hated women
The way we are treated
In this Righteous Religious
Powerful Man-country.
They say
God made man and woman;
God made man to rule,
Woman to serve. Powerful man,
So powerful that when he can’t keep
His pecker in his pants, it’s the woman’s fault.
So we serve. We bow and scrape,
Clean up his messes. You know
How men are; they have strong needs,
So turn your head and forgive him.
And for God’s sake, never let him know
You might be smarter than him;
That would be woman’s unforgivable sin.
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Holding Water Moon


            Holding Water Moon
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Sea otter on its back
Floats the world
In a clam shell.

Moon
A sliver of praise
Upturned in its palms.

Walk across the skies
Never spill a drop
Holding water.
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Hard to Be Me


Hard to Be Me      
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It’s hard to be the new girl
In school, on the block, at the office.
Doesn’t get any easier when we get older.
Here we are, strangers, in a tiny colonia
In a village in Jalisco, a dozen
Gringos. That one has long history here,
Others have family connections,
Some hold long-time friendships. I’m
The New Girl, the unknown element.
Someday I’ll have my “place”; I will know
Where I fit. But today, I’m new.
The hallways are confusing.
I’m not sure how to find
My classroom. On what street
Is my new house? All the cubbies
In the tall office building—am I in the right
Building?—confuse me. I feel alone
Like that big-eyed girl in third grade
Who moved to town from South Dakota.
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You’re So Strong


            You’re So Strong
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When tragedy strikes
Even quasi-tragedy,
Such as divorce,
Friends line up,
Smug in their safe roles,
Say, don’t worry,
You’ll get through it,
How wonderful
That you’re so strong.

Sub text:
I saw that one coming.
Thank God I’m not you.
If only she’d been . . .
            Fill the blanks . . .
                        More understanding, sexier, compliant, nicer . . .
Nicer? What the hell does that mean?
And the friends fall away like water.

That’s why you grit your teeth,
Feel like you’ve been patted on the head,
Given a plastic bone;
Go lie down in your corner.
You’re so strong.

What about him?
Doesn’t he have equal blame?
He gets sympathy, casseroles,
Comfort in many guises.

What you want to hear:
I’ll help you.
Go ahead and cry. Tissue?
Wanna go see a movie?
Let’s hang out.
Dinner at five—my house,
No excuses, bring your soggy self.
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Woman


Woman
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I am drunk with summer sun.
My petals, open, reach
Into purple night while stars
Settle into a blanket. I sleep
Smelling your sweat on my skin.

I am fruit, ripe, skin bursting.
I paint dripping juice colors,
Write life-lived harvest, play
The full moon low and slow,
Catch tarrying notes in tangled
Hair to store for later.

Winter lingers beyond allotted days
And though I’ve had babies born
And die in winter, I’ve learned
To settle into the quiet
Beneath fallow snow where grass
And flowers make ready to push forth
Erasing the cold with fresh truth.
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This too shall pass and coffee

            This too shall pass and coffee ___________________________________________________________________________________________...