Jul 082018
 

The Templo de la Concepción in San Miguel de Allende is a dirty and battered little church nudged up against an old convent that’s been converted to an art school. The convent’s courtyard has comfortable chairs and avocado trees heavy with fruit.  We read there most of a morning. The church though is a dreary spot.

Or would be if not for the shade tree that stands just beyond the thick wooden doors. People gather beneath it when the sun beats down, and that tree, reaching up around them, rings with the divine.

 July 8, 2018  Moments Tagged with:
Jul 082018
 

I stare about me, trying to etch into this journal the sense of Shey that is so precious, aware that all such effort is in vain; the beauty of this place must be cheerfully abandoned, like the wild rocks in the bright water of its streams. Frustration at the paltriness of words drives me to write, but there is more of Shey in a single sheep hair, in one withered sprig of everlasting, than in all these notes; to strive for permanence in what I think I have perceived is to miss the point.

—Peter Matthiessen, The Snow Leopard

Jul 012018
 

The last time I was in Mexico was in 2013. Presidential elections were underway, but I didn’t really pay attention, reducing them to a funny story about being refused a beer with dinner because of the dry election laws. Now five years later, I’m back, and Mexicans are again voting for their president. This time though it’s hard not to think about the people heading off to the polls and impossible to see it as funny.

The Beav and I are in Guanajuato this Election Day. The late morning sun is bright, the sky clear, and the houses stacked in twisting rows across the mountainside shine with color. The streets are busy with buses, taxis, cars and people heading to work or mass or the market. The smell of roasting meat and charcoal fill the air. So little of what I see of the life here seems to depend upon the American Dystopia to the North. Yet back home, we generally take it for granted that Mexico will face north.

I don’t know anything about the politics here, don’t know what’s possible or best. The fact that the peach I bought at the public market came from the States makes me think I’m ignorant even of the extent of my ignorance.

Yet sitting here I wonder if (and blindly hope that) the people voting around town might say “enough” and look south, leaving their northern neighbor to play the racist fool by itself.

 July 1, 2018  Reflections Tagged with: