San Pancho Vida

In One Year and Out the Other

I was where I was and I am where I am and I'll be somewhere else tomorrow. That's my theory and I'm sticking to it.

Here we are, at the end of 2010 already. Seems like it was a long one to me, except when it seems to have flown by. My memory being what it isn't, it's difficult for me to remember where I was half a year ago, much less way back at the beginning. The good news is, I have pictures.

January 9, 2010:

December 9, 2010:

January 10, 2010:

April 1, 2010:

May 22, 2010:

December 9, 2010:

Is that fun? Shall I do some more?

February 21, 2010:

December 9, 2010:

December 27, 2009:

April 23, 2010:

June 8, 2010:

December 9, 2010:

February 16, 2010:

April 20, 2010:

December 9, 2010: 

February 15, 2010:

May 15, 2010:

December 9, 2010:

Ah, if only all change were as easy to see. 

Some years, the progress of our lives is evident in our accomplishments. A house built, a story finished, a case solved, a gallery opened and filled with people.

Other years, the difference of 365 days can only be discovered in a child's new maturity, in the gradual evolution of a relationship, in the sweet flowering of a friendship.

And then there are years whose course is yet more subtle, when our movement through time seems nearly imperceptible, unless we take into account what we've learned just by being here.

If only we could look at ourselves and one another and see immediately how time has painted us with her colors. She always does, although sometimes we don't notice.

Last year at this time (and unusually, for me), I made a New Year's resolution. I resolved to create this place to tell stories. I'm glad I stuck with it; it's fun in every way. The truth is, I wouldn't have continued if it hadn't been. I'm not all that good at sticking with things I don't like doing any more.

I'm making another resolution for Twenty Eleven. It seems easier, but it may not be. Now that my giant project is complete enough to just play with it, I want to stop moving so fast.

So here is my resolution: I resolve to slow down and pay attention. I would like to become aware and present in every moment, to notice the changing colors in you and in me and all around us.

And -- as no resolution is complete without equivocation -- I resolve to begin the moment my foot touches down once more in that little pueblo by the sea.

                                       HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

 

                                                        ☝

And To All a Good Night!

‘Tis the night before Christmas

In Washington State.

The family is gathered,

We all stay up late

Playing word games and Hold ‘Em 

And Rummikub, too.

The weather is gray

But the Christmas ain’t blue.

The stockings are hung by the chimney with care,

The cookies and presents all ready to share.

Mama in her fleece robe will join us tonight,

 

Her Panchito’s tee-shirt is all wrapped up bright.

‘Tis the night before Christmas down Mexico way

Where Tyler and Alfie and Tracy G play.

(They went to a party and stayed up ‘til five.

It’s a very good thing they did not have to drive.)

Tracy, in her hot pants, refuses to nap.

She prefers to spend Christmas atop Santa’s lap.

She wants to sing carols but can’t sing a note

She’ll stay by the fire as she don’t own a coat.

 

And down in San Pancho

Where half my heart stays,

They’ll celebrate Christmas

With sunsets ablaze.

With lizards to water,

Iguanas in trees,

With long festive dinners,

Palapas and breeze.

With sunshine and colors and unabashed joy

With music and laughter

For each girl and boy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And where ever you are --

In sun, rain, or snow --

I hope you’re enjoying a Christmassy glow.

 With family, with friends,

With your fine favorite treasures,

With interesting food

And the Christmassy pleasures.

I thank you, dear readers.

I love you, dear friends.

There’s just one more thing ere this Christmas blog ends:

I know that we’ll all be together ‘fore long,

And so until then, I leave you with this song.

¡Feliz Navidad!

 

(Tracy photos by A. Pool in Ajijic)

In Case of Gray

"It's gray, it's gray," as Los Bravos sang in 1966. (Did you know they were Spanish?)

The shades of gray are innumerable, of course. Blue-gray. Gray-blue. Mushroom gray. Stormcloud gray. Steely gray. Grayish green. Whitish gray. Wettish gray.

Maybe I've become over-sensitive to the gray and the wet, but with the clouds settled in right above my eyebrows, I feel most of the time like I'm inside a big leaky culvert. Bed feels good. Lots of covers up to the chin, the rain spattering the windows through the night. I come awake now and then in the dark and don't know where I am.

Yesterday I took the ferry to Vashon Island to visit Queenie and my sister Denise. Queenie glows and bubbles when she talks about her visit to San Pancho. Mostly, she remembers sitting on the veranda of her bedroom watching the polo ponies, and The Bar. That darling couple ("are they married?") behind "the counter".

Her bar time in San Pancho was the longest Queenie has ever spent in any bar at any time in all her ninety-five years. She drank Sprite.

She told me she liked sitting up at the counter best, next to that nice girl, what's her name? Allyson. "Allyson? Are you sure?" Here, I'll show you a picture. "Yes, that's her! She's so kind. And beautiful."

She remembers Thanksgiving when I show her the photos.

After I showed pictures to Queenie for a few hours and talked with her all about her adventure, Denise and I took her to dinner. Afterward, I retreated to Denise's cabin in the woods for our customary sleepover. I drove through the rain and long dark tunnel of fir and cedar trees, plowing right on through the pond-sized puddle in her driveway and avoiding steering into the real pond beside it, as instructed.

Denise's handmade jewel-box of a cabin is the best place to be when it's gray. Right now, it's all decorated for Christmas.

We talked for hours, then I curled up in cozy covers on the couch beside the woodstove, watching the glow of the coals and listening to the rain tapping on the cabin roof. When I was still, Monkey the cat jumped up and snuggled in on top of my legs. Monkey is not a small cat, but her weight and warmth felt good. Bunny the cat may have joined us; we don't know. We were asleep.

At 6:20, there came a precise scritch-scritch on the front door. Monkey and I yawned and woke a little. A few seconds later, another scritch, still polite but becoming impatient.

I knew who it was, so I didn't get up. Then came a firm triple-scritch, more insistent. When no one came to answer the door, the cat door eased open and Ruby the poodle bounded in, wet and full of kisses, leaving little muddy footprints on the edge of the pillowcase.

Ruby lives in the house below. She weighs half of Monkey. She is tiny and coal black. She looks and feels more delicate than she is: she is actually brave and smart and independent. She asks to be let in through the front door only because she has been ambushed by the cats more than once upon pushing her nose through the cat door.

But she risks it if she has to. Ruby knows all about risk and reward.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by A. Forest

Denise and I made our tea, bundled up, and went outside to sit on the front porch with the cats and watch the light arrive, a whiter shade of gray than yesterday.

In case of gray, it appears there are remedies: woodstoves, fat cats and fuzzy poodles, photos and stories shared, long talks, moments remembered. Strings of Christmas lights. The smell of the forest at dawn. Dreams brought into daylight, even graylight, and played with. 

I know where my dream is becoming reality. I know what I must finish before it fully comes to life. In the meantime, there are memories of colors and a respite, here inside shades of gray.

 

                                                ☂    ☂    ☂

 

Hasta Pronto

Good morning. I'm packing. Getting ready to fly back to Seattle today (brrrrr...!) for two whole months, where I'll finish that old house and prepare it for market.

My heart is a little heavy, having to leave San Pancho and friends and Casa Luz de Luna. But I'm leaving the casa in good hands and I'll be back soon. Sixty days will fly by, won't they?

Will you stop by in a few days, when I've had a chance to settle in and download the photos on my temperamental new camera? I'd like you to see the casa as it is today, and to tell you a story or two.

Adios for now. Hasta pronto.

xo

C

                                                                   Photo by T. Ashby

 

 

The Little Coconut Who Could

Once upon a time, there was a little coconut who dreamed of growing into a tall and elegant coconut tree swaying gracefully in the sea breeze.

The little coconut had spent quite a while hanging around in the top of its tree, and so had had a good long time to watch all that had gone on around and below its perch.

It had some neighbors who, due to the vagaries of architecture, had found a place to rest early on, and were spared the occasional vertigo of a passing windstorm.

Our little coconut started life as part of that sheaf-of-wheat looking thing on the right, then became a plum-size seed. Eventually -- feeding off of water and sun and soil -- it had grown into a plump and happy and full-grown coconut.

During that time, our wise little coconut learned about all the things that coconut palms can do, besides just making coconuts.

They can protect chairs, for example.

They can hold signs.

Or electrical outlets.

Their leaves can offer shade to drinkers or surfers (or drinking surfers), or look very cool at sunset.

All of which are fairly noble aspirations for a little coconut that would someday (maybe) grow up to be a giant and stately palm.

But still it held on. Because there were choices to be made. Some of which were scary. 

It didn't go well at all for some. Choices, for coconuts, have consequences.

Apparently, those two-legged creatures wandering around far below -- some of whom were a startling shade of pink -- had plans for certain coconuts.

So the little coconut held on tight. It held on for a very long time, even after most of its brothers and sisters had disappeared in the night. 

Until, one day, although it was still holding on as tight as ever it could...

...it felt itself begin to fall.

And it fell...

...and it fell...

...and it fell ever so far!...

...from its comfortable and convenient position way up in the top of its friendly palm...

...all the way (PLOP!) into the dirt far below...

...where it sat for a bit, with dogs and roosters nosing and beaking about in uncomfortably close proximity...

...until it was picked up by a nice fellow named Archi, who brought it to some lady who went into virtual convulsions of joy at its cuteness and coconutosity.

She even took a picture of it.

And then she and Archi went on down to the Eventual Orchard and picked out a perfect place to plant it.

Then Travis went down and took some more pictures of it.

It turned out that there was a mushroom growing nearby that was nearly as tall as the newly-sprouted coconut and that would be excellent company.

(For a couple of days.)

The little coconut, who was now a teensy palm, knew it had found its place. Somewhere, in its little heart of palm, in its palm kernel soul, it was sure it would grow to be a graceful and elegant palm one day. It had left its secure and comfortable home...but it had found its destiny.

Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant. Robert Louis Stevenson

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