Generosity: Gratitude in Action … Feria Maestros del Arte

Artist from Chiapas

 After practicing gratitude for a year and a half, I began to be pulled to something else. At first, I thought it was my old nemesis, inconsistency, raising its ugly head again. After awhile though, it felt like something else was emerging, and it seemed to be coming from my new home here in Mexico.

One of the first things I noticed here was the overwhelming generosity of the immigrants to this beautiful but poverty challenged country. I’ve met people from the US and Canada who have started orphanages, medical programs, tuition support programs, food programs, art mentoring programs, language programs and dozens of other helping projects. Most of the people I talk with are so grateful to be living in this amazing country that they want to give back and they are finding thousands of ways to do that.

Artist from Puebla

One example is Marianne Carlson, founder of the Feria Maestros del Arte, an annual event which, over the past 16 years, has become known as the premier folk art festival in Mexico. Most of us are familiar with arts and crafts fairs, but this one sprang from a different source. 

Marianne was traveling around Mexico, finding amazing crafts that she had never seen in stores or galleries. She began to fall in love with the crafts and the artisans and to understand the difficulties they faced in selling their art in order to support their families and continue making their crafts which had been handed down for generations. 

Woodcarving from Oaxaca

Chiapas textile artist

 Marianne founded the Feria to support the artists and to introduce their crafts to a wider audience. The financial arrangement for the Feria is designed to support the artists. Artists pay no booth fee or commission. The Feria raises money to help pay for transportation costs, often renting buses to bring artists from remote villages as far away as the state of Chiapas in the south of Mexico. Artists are housed by local residents, another piece of the generous nature of this event and a cultural interaction that might never happen otherwise. A modest fee is charged visitors and artists donate one piece of their art to help support the event. 

So many colors!

Ribbon hat

Huichol Pompoms

They may look like bright bits of fluff but the making of pompoms are an important Huichol craft for celebrations. Pompoms,  resembling roses in full bloom, signify “the way.” 

Bujo Nahual

While I was taking photos of some wood carvings, the artist handed me the one above. I was struck by it for many reasons but the price was way out of my range so I walked away ... only to come back again, and again. Finally, rationalizing to the nth degree, he'll come home with me tomorrow.

The Feria was born in the cauldron of generosity and I was thrilled to sample just a bit of it today.

This the first in an ongoing series around generosity.

Late into the night we queue ...

Perhaps it was coincidence.

Maybe several people called in sick leaving two hundred weary travelers, men, women, babies and the elderly, inching their way toward three customs agents in the wee hours of the night.

Maybe the two-hour passport-checking process was just a fluke, bad timing, a one-off. Surely, all the empty agent booths were an unplanned happenstance.

Everything else was on time. The plane arrived even a bit early. The luggage could be seen circling the carousel, waiting for owners. It seemed like a normal night and a normal flight with only the last step somehow gone awry.

Two hundred people quietly, tamely moved through the winding maze. No one complained, at least out loud. No one demanded better service. We simply funneled like sheep through the gates of power. 

Nothing dramatic occurred. The customs agents were polite and, presumably, efficient, just doing their jobs.

Surely, it had nothing to do with being a late night flight from Mexico. 

Surely, it was just one of those things: an on-time, scheduled flight being met with inadequate resources.

Surely.

Three geographical gifts: the United States, California, and Mexico

Papel picado in San Antonio

My word machine is on overdrive. Some sort of dam has burst, flooding me with ideas and words that demand to be freed. I’m supposed to be packing for my trip to California, but my brain refuses to focus on suitcases and such.

Morning after in San Antonio Tlayacapan

As I was walking home from breakfast watching men taking down the colorful papel picado streamers that had decorated the streets for the Day of the Dead celebration here, it suddenly hit me how incredibly gifted I have been geographically. I also realized I’ve never expressed my appreciation for these gifts. It’s time to fill this gap.

United States: I am so fortunate to have been born in the United States. (Of course, being born white to kind, hard working parents who valued integrity also gave me gifts that have taken a long time to fully recognize.) 

The US is a deeply beautiful and resource-rich country that has given me opportunities unknown in other places on our planet. I’ve had access to affordable education, a variety of interesting work situations, and endless places of natural beauty.

While this country has a deep shadow side that pains me to examine, it has also tried to live up to the democratic values expressed by its founders. It’s that yearning for equality, justice, and freedom that makes me love it, even when it falls short of its intentions. (I refuse to make any comments about our current state of affairs.)

 

z

Mesilla, New Mexico

Grand Tetons, Wyoming

California: My first husband’s tour in the Marine Corps took us to California in the mid-1960s. It was love at first sight as we settled into a tiny, flood-plain house about a mile from the endless, blue Pacific. It didn’t matter that we were almost immediately flooded in one of the occasional, extremely wet years. I knew California was home and for almost all of my adult life, it cupped my heart in its hands as I explored its mountains, deserts, lakes, rivers and ocean. California gave me a beauty that seeped into every cell.

Owens River outside Bishop, CA

San Francisco Magic

Mexico: California also gave me Mexico as we lived so close to its border. My first crossing was a psyche-jolting experience as the land remained the same beautiful coast, but a human-drawn line in the sand made all the difference. Even after years of crossings, I still barely comprehend the differences, but, somewhere along the way, I realized I was in love with two countries.

Water Dancer: the face of Mexico

 I had forty years to learn the nuances of California. I’m sure I won’t have that long to get to know Mexico, but I’m going to try. It has things to teach me that I will only learn here in a different culture, in a different language.

Wall art, Ajijic, Mexico

 We’ve just finished the Day of the Dead celebration here in Mexico. One of my insights during that time of sorrow and joy was that I have moved from head to heart. Only time will reveal what that really means.

Off to pack.

42/100

Gratitude Roses for those thorny problems, issues, challenges, set backs

No, it's not a rose

Funny how things come together. This morning I read an article about gratitude that made me stop and think. For about a year and a half, I have been consistently keeping a gratitude journal. (Not bad for someone who has been consistency-challenged her entire life.) 

I believe passionately in gratitude and my journal has served me well. Recently, however, it has become something of a chore rather than the delight it was in the beginning. (Of course, the fact that I decided to smush two things together and write it in Spanish, probably didn’t help.)

As I was syncing the article to my Evernote folder, I came across something I wrote several months ago when my life was, somewhat unexpectedly, turning upside down. I was feeling stressed and uncertain about my decision to move to Mexico, so here’s what I wrote and what I did in hopes that it might help some of you who have made a life-altering decision and are now wondering about the wisdom of it. 

This morning's article and finding this writing is bringing me back to gratitude and how to make it fresh, delightful, and powerful again.

March 11, 2017

This came to me in a dream, waking me up at four am. (Which, of course, reminds me of John G. Rives great TED talk on the subject … https://www.ted.com/talks/rives_on_4_a_m?language=es).

I have been practicing gratitude now for 40 weeks.

 

That sentence needs to stand alone because I have never, ever practiced anything consistently in my life (other than teeth brushing, etc.). But, yesterday, I wrote my 280th consecutive entry in my gratitude journal. You may not be amazed, but I am.

A few weeks ago, I was reading Pam Grout’s books recommending that we notice the absolutely awesome things that happen to us every day. I decided I needed to add that to my gratitude practice and, because some experts recommend writing three gratitudes per day, I started a 30-day Facebook process of writing three gratitudes and recognizing one absolutely awesome thing every day. I finished the first 30-day process and am now half-way through the second.

So, what has this practice done for me? Who really knows? This is not a double-blind study. There’s no way to know if my life is one whit different than it might have been without the gratitude practice. All I know is I’m as happy, healthy, and contented as I’ve ever been. My life is an adventure and I’m meeting interesting people, following the passion of writing that called to me as a child, making art that I never dreamed of making and about to change my life in a way that excites me and brings me joy. Not bad for a 71 year-old woman, I’d say. With all the gifts I’ve been given, not to be grateful would be ridiculous.

So, which came first, the chicken or the egg, the gratitude or the gifts? All I know is that being grateful calms me and reminds me of just how fortunate I am. And, what is this four am thing? The idea that woke me up was about creating Gratitude Roses around a particularly complex, stressful, challenging or thorny (sorry!) idea … a deep dive into the gratitude of something that looks more like a pain, trouble or discomfort.

I’m excited about my upcoming move to Ajijic, Mexico … the color and beauty, the weather, the culture and language, the walking lifestyle are all things I’ve wanted for a long time. However, it means doing one more really deep downsize. I’ve done three major downsizings in the last ten years. I like to think I’ve trimmed most of the fat. Now, I have to go even deeper and get rid of almost everything. I have to look at everything around me and ask if I need this thing, this bright bauble, this memory artifact, to bring me joy.

 

I’ve been stressing out about this a bit. Sometimes more than a bit. I’ve even waffled about the idea of moving. It would be so much easier to stay where I am. I have a comfortable home in a lovely part of the country with good friends and interesting volunteer opportunities. Nothing is making me move … except whatever it is in my core that calls to me to live in Mexico.

The image that was in my mind as I awoke was like a flower with all the gratitudes for why I’m making the move on one side and all the gratitudes for the challenges and discomforts on the other side. The number 12 came with the image. I opened Scrapple, my favorite, simple mind mapping tool, and created the map below. It may not be a pretty rose, but I now feel much calmer and ready for the challenge ahead of me.

I'm going to print this out and stick it on my refrigerator to remind me why I’m doing all of this and how grateful I am to have the time, energy and resources necessary to free myself from stuff and make an international move in this new stage of life.

Gratitude Rose about moving to Mexico

Plug for Scrapple … any form of mind mapping stimulates ideas and helps bring order to your thinking. At only $15, it’s a deal. Great for writers and project organizers as well as all the rest of us just trying to make it through the thorns.

41/100

Day of the Dead #12: Beauty, grace, and an unexpected hollowness

"If nothing saves us from death, at least love saves us from life."

I am beginning to think I might possibly know why I’m here in Mexico. 

Looking through U.S. eyes, there are many things that fall short here. It is not a place designed by a rational person, perhaps not even a place that cottons to the term design but rather more nearly resembles evolution with it’s relentless drive toward diversity.

Street altar in Ajijic

Trying to find a metaphor, I waffled between rabbit warren and ant colony, but finally settled on the mound-building termites which build complex structures several times taller than an adult human and are now being studied for their ability to maintain a constant temperature in the mound in spite of the harsh African conditions. (If you have never read about these mounds, this article will bend your thinking.)

While the mounds lack blueprints and building codes, the individual termites follow their own paths and, somehow, build a complex, effective and, in its own way, beautiful structure that supports the colony and plays an important role in the surrounding habitat.

Another Ajijic version of an altar

This is somewhat how Mexico appears to me. People each doing their own things, living their own lives, raising their families, painting their houses whatever color strikes their fancies or budgets, and, in the process, creating a village, a town, a culture, a country.

Here in Mexico, fireworks are illegal, yet they are also deeply ingrained in the culture. Yes, some people get hurt, some are even killed, but each person makes his or her own choice and everyone else makes space for those choices. Which means we put up with a lot of rockets, barking dogs, middle-of-the-night crowing roosters, and lots of music ... loud, throbbing music. Apparently, this is the price of freedom: tolerance of individual differences and eccentricities.

Here in the lakeside villages, cars seldom honk at each other. So what if you’re driving the wrong way down a one-way street or stopping to talk to a friend or unload a pickup truck full of stuff? And, only the gringos seem to carp about the piles of trash that come and go on a schedule none of us comprehend.

Here in Ajijic, we live in a boundary land: two cultures swirling together like a river running into the ocean. US/Canadian expats accustomed to rules and regulations, law and order, as well as smooth sidewalks, yearn for peaceful perfection while the locals grab onto the gritty imperfections of life, revere Church and family, help stranded strangers, and mock death with endless color, noise and skeletal costumes.

Mexico is a feeling place. With a long history of death, destruction, and devastation, it trusts only family and has few expectations of government. It would rather dance and sing and make each moment of life as colorful as possible than worry about potholes, killer speed bumps or keeping up with the neighbors.

Having lived a thinking life striving for perfection, expecting the world to be a rational place, and willingly ceding personal freedom to the lure of safety and predictability, I am now looking through completely different eyes and what I see baffles, charms, startles and delights me. Living in this feeling world is changing me.

Halloween morning was announced with endless rockets and church bells. By evening the plaza was full of families, excited children running high on sugar and adrenalin. A parade of devotional neighborhood floats, musicians and Aztec dancers proceeded The Virgen as she was carried through the streets to an open mass and back to the old church, followed by music (loud, of course) and then the lighting of the giant castillo (castle of fireworks).

A quiet morning in Ajijic

Today dawned quiet and peaceful. It’s a day for altars, reflection and honoring of the lost loved ones. Later today tour groups will pass through the cemetery, but I wanted to see it before it was crowded with visitors having no connection to the people buried there. I went early thinking it would be empty, but it was already bustling with families adding decorations to the graves, arranging additional flowers, visiting quietly with each other. 

Early morning at the Ajijic cemetery

Walking through the narrow paths between the graves, my heart felt the sorrow, but also yearned for the sense of family and connection that pulsed through the bright flowers, decorated crosses, and murmured prayers. I was clearly an outsider, accepted but not part of the family. Beyond the wonder and grace of the beauty, there was a hollow feeling of having missed something somewhere along the way. 

One of the grave decorations.

All of this made me wonder: who would I be if I had been raised in this very different culture?

Caveat: As someone who has been here a mere six months, I do not expect these musings to represent the truth of an entire country or culture. This is only my current take on what I’m experiencing. I’ll try to do another post this time next year and see how much my understanding has changed.

Día de los Muertos: Romerillo, Chiapas

Beauty, color, family ...

Note: this was my first experience with Day of the Dead in Mexico. November 1, 2014.

How do you describe the indescribable? 

Beautiful … touching … colorful … raucous … reverent ... creative … disturbing … overwhelming … chaotic … charming. 

Maybe all you have to say is ... Day of the Dead in Mexico.

Outside of the village of Tenehapa in the Chiapas highlands, about 40 minutes by taxi from San Cristóbal, is Romerillo, a cemetery that was the center of activity for several thousand mainly Mayan celebrants of el Día de los Muertos today ... the day when the spirits of the ancestors are honored, wined and dined, and welcomed back to this world if only for a brief period.

Here are just a few word and picture glimpses into this most amazing day which was also shrouded in a cold cloud of mist  ...

Part wake, part carnival, part fiesta.

Glimpse: a woman pouring Coke onto the
grave of a loved one and
another one pouring “posh."

Incense burning on top of a pine-needle
and bright marigold-covered graves.

Glimpse: Heavy black wool skirts and tunics that are very labor intensive and stiff as well as beautiful, colorful hand sewn textiles.

Glimpse: 5-gallon containers, hundreds of used liter bottles and it seemed like thousands of single-serving soft drink bottles all filled with posh, the locally brewed rot gut.

Blue and green crosses
rising out of the mist at the top of the hill.

Well-worn wooden boards on top of graves
provide a “threshold” for the spirits
to come and go.

Ingenuity.
Click here for a musical moment.

Glimpse: a borracho (drunk) handing out peanuts to strangers.

Glimpse: Food … sold and shared … hundreds of vendors of peanuts, fruit, sugar cane, roasted potatoes, cake, tamales, pizza, and, of course, cerveza.

Back pocket "posh" bottle.

Glimpse: Being looked at in wonder and fear by children as if I were another color … but, of course, I am. I was one of the very few gringas in the crowd.

Glimpse: what happens when an event of several thousand people involving a lot of drinking does not provide porta-potties.

Colorful roving musicians.
Click here fora musical moment.

Glimpse: a hawker of bedding who sounded like an auctioneer and

went non-stop for over 30-minutes while my taxi-driver looked for one more passenger to round out his fare back to the city. Unfortunately, it was a young man who had obviously been participating in the celebration and wanted to smoke (I said "por favor ... no"). He also had to stop on the way back to town to relieve himself.

I wonder what the spirits
think of all this beauty and festivity?

A seven-year-old child drinking
“Sol” (cerveza) and offering it
to his playmates while adults stood about. 

This morning when I contemplated not going to Romerillo today, I thought I knew what to expect. I didn’t … and I’m so glad I went. 

I also added my 70th "-ería" word to my list today. When I snapped the photo from inside the taxi on the way to Romerillo, I didn't know how appropriate it would be.

Rejection, fame and fortune and the question of why we create

What was said to the rose ...

I didn’t want to write this. I really just wanted to whine. However, whining doesn’t make me feel better, so … 

There must be a million of us sitting where I am this morning … probably many millions. What should I call us? Cast aside creatives? Unpicked flowers? Rejects? Losers?

Galleries around the world are filled with unsold art. Computers near and far hold unpublished poetry and manuscripts. Etsy is crammed inch to blistered pixel with hope and expectations of recognition and compensation. And, it’s not just today’s living and breathing creatives; history is filled with unappreciated artists.  Van Gogh, Gaughin, El Greco, Toulouse-Lautrec, Seurat, Monet, and Vermeer are among the many artists whose work received little to no recognition during their lifetimes. And, for each of them, there are probably hundreds (thousands) of unsung artists who we will never even know about.

And, of course, it’s not just artists. The writers who have been severely rejected range from Beatrix Potter to Agatha Christie to J.K. Rowling. And, it’s not just the women. The long list of writing rejectees includes Louie L’Amour, Dan Brown, J.D. Salinger … and Dr. Seuss! Other creatives such as Walt Disney, Oprah, Madonna, Elvis … even Thomas Edison … were all soundly rejected before being recognized as the geniuses they were.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that all of us who have gotten our fair share of rejections … such as mine this morning … are geniuses. Most of us in the unrecognized mass of artists, organizers, writers, designers, poets, parents, dancers, cooks, singers, gardeners, architects, teachers, musicians, and so on, are simply people trying to express our creative natures. 

The creative urge flows through all of us. However, some of us have linked recognition and money to the products of that urge. And, that intersection of creativity and commerce is where most of the fender benders happen, like the one that showed up in my inbox this morning.

I love writing and making art. It feeds my spirit, engages my mind and, touches my heart. I love the process as one might love a person or a furry companion or a place that expands our very being. Which makes me contemplate my reaction this morning when a bit of pixels announcing the winners of a gallery contest did not include my name.

Silly though it may be, my first reaction was to question my place in this world of creativity. Maybe I don’t belong. Maybe I’m not good enough. Perhaps I should just quit.

Fortunately, I’m old enough to have gone through this before and have studied the creative  process enough to know that the response to a work of creativity has little to do with our inner need to be creative. Which bits of that creative urge get recognized by the world in the form of prizes or money are subject to the whims of the external standards and styles of the moment.

We create because that’s who we are. To stop creating because someone else (or millions of someone elses) doesn’t appreciate our results, is a form of self-destruction. What we create is neither “good” nor “bad.” It is beyond judgment since it is simply a piece of who we are … like a fingernail or a smile. Others may like or dislike that piece of us, but that has nothing to do with who we are. To try to pretzel ourselves into their mold would mean destroying the essence of our true nature.

If what we are creating represents who we are, that’s about as much as we can ask for. The process of creating means bringing our “self” into an external form, regardless of what the world around us appreciates or thinks appropriate. Creativity is a self-discovery process. Why would we ever want to stop discovering who we are?

Okay, that’s the end of my lecture to myself. Back to work. There is more of me to discover and no time to waste in whining about things that are beyond my control.

38/100