The Way of Water or What to Do with My Anger

My anger seethes. In theory, I know it is not healthy, yet I seek out what produces it. It’s an addiction. My anger came to a peak after watching the movie “Welcome to Sarajevo.” Critics claimed it was not accurate and that there are better movies about the Bosnian War. Still, it brought home to me the horrifying consequences of war, particularly for children. I immediately thought of the ongoing suffering of the children of Syria. These tragedies are happening now, in the present and, yet, the current American President wants to build up the military and reduce the budget for diplomacy and the environment. There is the root of my anger – a Presidency that foments anger, hatred and fear and mocks the values of honesty, tolerance and compassion. I recommend that the current Administration be locked in a room and shown “Welcome to Sarajevo,” the current documentary “The White Helmets” and Al Gore’s “The Uncomfortable Truth,” exposing them to the raw truths they choose to deny.

    What to do with my anger? I found a positive answer in the latest blog by writer, Ursula LeGuin. The current political climate also has her asking the question: What do I do? She says: “I am looking for a place to stand, or a way to go, where the behavior of those I oppose will not control my behavior.” In the thoughts of Lau Tzu she finds an answer: the way of water. Water is a metaphor for nonviolent resistance, for it is adaptable, changeable, passive, yet unyielding, always going the way it must go. It is a thirst-quenching glass of clear water; it is the persistence of the ocean currents; it is a stream wending its way to the sea.

    I will be a part of the resistance, but I must now break my addiction to CNN and Face book if I intend to follow the way of water, 

Tough Lessons

Perspiration streams down my back. The air is ash-laden; another day of record-breaking high temperatures smothers and oppresses.  Is this what an apocalypse feels like? An apocalypse of global warming.

 In my garden I watch honey and bumble bees darting about, alighting on the lacey fragrant flowers of my ilán-ilán tree, their favorite right now. I wonder if this heavy air interferes with their orientation and sensitive sense of smell.

The televised scenes of forests and fields, farm animals and homes being devoured by raging flames feel unreal, more like a Hollywood disaster movie – pine trees converted into flaming torches, unidentifiable carcasses littered on the ground. A farmwoman laments her losses. “Everything,” she cries. “Everything.” Behind her, a scorched washing machine perches atop a pile of rubble. Veterinarians treat the wounds of a horse with a singed forelock. Beekeepers point to their blackened hives and scorched fields.

 Firemen, forest rangers, soldiers and townspeople work together to control the flames with hoses, shovels, rakes and chain saws. Those without tools attempt to smother flames with leafy tree branches.

Relief is on the way. The 747Global Super tanker, thanks to a single donor’s generosity, roars low over the heads of cheering country people, releasing its cargo of water and repellant onto the flaming forest.  It’s the star of each night’s newscasts. To my surprise I notice painted on its fuselage the words Spirit of John Muir, the naturalist responsible for the naming of California’s Yosemite as the first U.S. National Park.

 I feel a renewed faith in humankind watching scenes of hundreds of cars and trucks lining up to take aid to the people of Santa Olga, a town left in ashes. Television and newspaper advertisements provide information for making monetary donations. Beekeepers beg for bags of sugar to make a solution that can keep the bees from starving while their owners search for safe areas.

I know that my garden bees, like all of their species, are well-experienced in cooperation, each performing its assigned task in benefit of the whole hive. Those foragers pollinating our apricot and avocado tree blossoms guarantee our summer harvest. They will return to their hives with their pollen-laden baskets, dance their waggle dance or wave their antennae to inform the others where to find the sweet pollen. I wonder where they’ve established their hives in this city neighborhood. I’m amazed to learn that in winter they instinctively know to crowd together tightly, each bee rotating through the cluster from outside to inside so no bee gets too cold. In hot weather, they fan their wings. Such efficiency. No carbon footprint.

Yet, against wind-whipped wildfires, bees have little defense. They depend upon our care, which we must recognize as a mutually beneficial arrangement. Chilean beekeepers look to move their healthy hives to new lands temporarily, and I wonder how long it will take for the native foliage to recover. One year? Two? Ten? Already a winter of little rain is predicted.

Danger exists that complacency will set in now that the crisis is past. It is easy to forget lessons learned as television and newspaper headlines devote more space to political frauds and the day’s robberies. Yet, the homeless are still homeless; the farmers have no suitable land to farm, and the bees no fields and trees to visit. When will they return to their buzzing, bumbling, pollinating and dancing the waggle as only honey bees know how to do? 

This morning I look up to the wonder of an almost true blue firmament. Lightness fills me after the weeks of a grey, smoke-filled sky. I observe the bees’ velvet touch on the delicate blooms, their patient precision, and feel pleased they find nourishment in my garden. 

Chile in Flames

The devastating scenes on television are heartrending. Forests aflame in vast regions of central and southern Chile.  They resemble war scenes: people fleeing with the few possessions they can carry; a pickup truck loaded with a refrigerator; a mattress, a stove; tables, chairs, sofas clustered in the middle of the road. The pueblo of Santa Olga – homes, stores, schools, the firehouse – all reduced to ashes.

            Firefighters with soot-covered faces struggle with heavy hoses. Neighbors and volunteers wield shovels and electric saws removing brush to create a firebreak. But the wind is wily, changing directions, trapping forestry workers and firemen. Ten deaths reported thus far.

            Rumors abound regarding the causes. Several fires seem to be man-made. It is clear that the vast plantations of pine and eucalyptus trees are particularly flammable especially in drought years with continuous high temperatures. What I hear is that native vegetation is more resistant to fire but was clear-cut long ago, probably initially by the Spaniards, in order to plant wheat. But timber was esteemed more profitable, and now Chile has vast tracks of land planted with non-native species.

            As with the tsunami, once again the country has been caught unprepared. Help has arrived from Colombia, Brazil, Peru, Russia. A Chilean woman in the States rented and sent a Global Supertanker to douse water over broad areas. Television shows images of firemen connecting hoses and tanks to supply the plane with water. Residents cheer and laugh when the supertanker flies over their land releasing showers of water.

            This disaster is bringing people together: firemen (who are all volunteers in Chile), soldiers, carabineros, civilians work side by side. The examples of solidarity are heartening: a fireman feeding water to a dog from his water bottle, another cradling a fox pup with burnt paw pads, a newsman comforting a woman who lost everything, neighbors helping neighbors.

            I pray that lessons will be learned from this: the need for preventive measures; the urgent task of dealing with climate change; the recognition of our responsibility as stewards of this fragile Earth.

Unexpected House Guests

An email from my friend, Laura, who left Chile with her four children twenty years ago, announces that she and her daughters are coming here for a funeral and need a place to stay. We have plenty of room, I tell her. Since her last visit thirteen years ago, we’ve only been in touch sporadically; our lives seemingly full and complete with family and work.  I remember her girls as children; now they’re grown women.

We set up dates to meet for dinner, lunch, coffee with other friends from the past, all Americans married to Chileans and who figured we’d always be here. It has been a time for reminiscing the days when our children played together. We wonder, “Whatever happened to….? Do you keep in touch with…?” We arrived in Chile at a time of social and economic turmoil. Oil, meat, basic necessities were in short supply. Protests, terrorist bombs, nighttime curfews were our daily bread. But we were resilient and prevailed in spite of a coup d’état and eighteen years of military dictatorship. Laura and I met at a Lamaze class while expecting our first children forty-three years ago. Doctors and relatives were puzzled by our preference for natural childbirth.

Expat friendships, formed on foreign soil, are particularly vulnerable. Some friends returned to the States. Some divorced or were widowed; others went in search of better economic opportunities. Some of us are still here decades later, sometimes drifting apart when children attended different schools or we settled in different neighborhoods or work left us little time to socialize.

Seated with two of our old gringa group, I am struck by the wonder of this encounter. “Look at us! Grey-haired grandmothers now! Did we ever imagine back then that decades later we’d be sitting around remembering the days when we were young and energetic and hopeful for the future?”

What impresses me is how quickly and easily we reconnect. The basis for friendship is still there. We feel the sorrow of a mother for her deceased child and sympathize with another over the difficulties of dealing long distance with an ailing, aging mother.

“Let’s start up our group again!  Maybe for birthdays?” I suggest.

Another day, four of us meet for lunch. More laughter and questions. We ask about the children we knew as toddlers and now want reassurance that they are doing well. We update each other on our jobs and families and share photos, names and ages of grandchildren.

Laura is the center of attention.

“I remember the cookies you were always making!”

“My Nicholas remembers your old house and the big apricot tree in your backyard.”

“It’s really amazing how we can seem to pick up the threads from when we were last all together.”

Laura’s eyes turn watery. “It’s because we lived through some emotional times with each other.”

Laura has gone. The house feels empty. She texts when she arrives in Texas: the trip went well and her heart is full. Although she came for a funeral, she received an unexpected gift: the opportunity to reconnect with old friends.

Her visit sheds blessings on me as well. I’d let some friendships lapse. Yet this is the stage in life when time is my frequent companion. Writing at the keyboard and cutting dead flowers don’t completely fulfill me. I resolve to nurture these renewed friendships. A round from my Girl Scout days comes to mind:

Make new friends, but keep the old;

One is silver, the other gold.

I open my address book and update phone numbers and addresses. Laura and I are now connected by Whatsapp.

Things I Do When I Don't Know What to Do

December twenty-seventh.  The anticipation and excitement of Christmas and New Years are past. So ephemeral. The Christmas tree in the living room looks superfluous and lonely. I feel at loose ends. I want to write but nothing sparks my interest. The only thing that occurs to me is to write down my thoughts as I wander about in this limbo state.

Tendinitis in my right hip has hindered my usual activity for several months. I’m frustrated with not being able to take my frequent walks through the park to the canal and back. This inactivity drives me to eat, dangerous when Christmas cookies and my Scottish shortbread call to me from their tins. The combination of little activity and sweet-gorging is the perfect recipe for an expanding waistline. Each morning I awake with the intention of this being the first of many no-sugar days. But my willpower flags.

            Today I finish the book my son gave me for Christmas, “The Dark Road,” by Mai Jian. It leaves me perplexed. There must be some symbolism or underlying metaphoric threads I just don’t get. The graphic descriptions of how the Chinese suffered under the country’s One Child Family Planning Policy are deeply disturbing. But why can’t the author grant his main characters some peace or grace as their story comes to a close?  I turn to a book of short stories set in Rumania. Again the tale I read leaves me wondering. Not a glimmer of hope for the two main characters and no hint of resolution - a maddening technique of many writers.

            Determined to find meaning in this day, I move to my study. Maybe if I sit in front of the computer and just start writing?

First I reach for the round brass pen and pencil holder on my desk. On the back of a bill I try out each pen. Five are dry. This is my feeble start to my resolution for a less cluttered 2017.

Before I write, I’ll call Ann. We haven’t talked since before Christmas. But her husband says she’s out and won’t be home until late.

I’ve been tossing around the idea of writing about New Years. New Year’s Eve and the prospect of a new year don’t excite me. I can’t relate to the crowds of people cheering, dancing and hugging in the plazas. During this week of amorphous time, I do reflect upon the past year. I enjoy following the television news and newspaper reports summing up the year – the good and the bad.  I’ll leaf through my year’s agenda book to remind my aging memory of events that marked my year: birthdays, doctor appointments, travels. My year has been a good one and I am grateful. As for the upcoming year, I will begin each day as I always do with prayers of thanksgiving and petitions for blessings for my loved ones, along with the determination to say no to sugar and to clean out at least one drawer. In urgent need of downsizing is my collection of tee-shirts.

These unstructured days I enjoy observing bee activity in my garden. Bees have their favorite blooms. The native Llaupangue was the main attraction a few weeks ago. Now they harvest the pollen from the deep purple blossoms of the buddleia or butterfly bush and the dainty white flowers of the ilan-ilan. Such industrious little guys.

I stop to examine my heirloom tomato plants, poking my nose into the leaves. Such a distinctive, pungent scent that evokes visions of red, juicy, savory tomatoes at summer’s end, not those wimpy, tasteless greenhouse specimens we buy at the supermarket.

I welcome birds into our garden; even sprinkling about Christmas cookie crumbs in the grass. But, now, the ripening apricots are the source of contention between me and the austral thrushes. The greedy fellows spear the not-quite-ripe fruits with their pointy beaks knocking them to the ground. I shouldn’t fret about it; there’s plenty for all, including for Speedy, our tortoise.

Today I take time to read some of Maria Popova’s Brain Pickings newsletters that have accumulated in my Inbox. The rich essays and book reviews overwhelm with their weighty thoughts. So much to absorb and reflect upon, and I’ll retain very little. But I pick out one small jewel. Hermann Hesse: trees “are the most penetrating of preachers.”

One end-of-the-year pleasure I look forward to is opening my new calendar of Molly Hashimoto’s block prints, portraying peaceful scenes of birds in their natural habitats. I love calendars and the promise they hold for the next year. Each month a different vibrantly-colored feathered friend will greet my days.

The doorbell. I see a figure standing outside our gate and open the door. It’s Ann! We retreat to the back garden with glasses of cold water and samples of my Christmas baking for her to try. Naturally, I have some, too.

Kitchen Blizzard

Clic. Clic. Clic. My sandals sound as I walk across the kitchen floor. We’ll surely win first prize for The Absolutely Stickiest Kitchen Floor. My black pants wear white smudges. Flour. Powdered sugar. Blue food coloring adorns my fingers. Cookie dough has worked its way under my finger nails.

            I give each of my three granddaughters a job.

            “Who’d like to measure the flour?” I show Manuela how to bang the measuring cup on the counter to settle the flour.

Colomba flings her long hair in wide circles for several minutes. Then volunteers to separate the egg yolks.

Oh-Oh. Two yokes. Oops, the yokes break into the gooey whites along with pieces of shell. I demonstrate with the second egg. Again, two yokes. Tricky.

Pascuala has her hands on the glass sugar jar. I’d best give her a task with the sugar.

“We need one-and-a-half cups. Up to this line.” Crunchy sugar grains join flour on the floor.

They correct my Spanish. This is a first, but I don’t mind. I tell them, “It’s a deal. You correct my Spanish and I correct your English.”

Our first attempt using their great-grandmother’s cookie press is a disaster. Butter oozes from the press. An 85 degree day is not ideal for achieving the right consistency of cookie dough. We manage to pop one tray of cookies into the oven. The rest of the dough goes into the frig and we take a time-out for lunch. They wolf down spaghetti. Pascuala demonstrates her skill at counting from one to ten in Mapundungun, the Mapuche language. We devour the first batch of cookies for dessert.

Colomba suggests we start again, forget the cookie press and make patterned cookies with fresh dough. I send them off to put some ornaments on the Christmas tree, while I make a new batch of dough.

Manuela calls from the living room, “Sue, what’s your password?”

“For what?”

“Your computer,”

“Why?”

“We want to show you something on YouTube.”

“Please! Let’s get the cookies finished first.”

  They return to knead the dough into a compact ball and take turns with the rolling pin while Pascuala sings a song in a squeaky voice over and over again.

While they cut out the patterned cookies, I snap photos. Cookies in the oven, I get out the ingredients for the glaze. Pascuala yelps, “I burned myself!”

“Where?” I grab an ice pack from the frig and apply it to her elbow.

“We need Ziploc bags and rubber bands for the glaze,” says Colomba. They clearly have more recent practice with patterned cookies than I have and work well without my supervision. Soon the table, chairs, clothes and hair are dotted with globs of blue, red and green frosting.

While I’ve dropped my guard, they managed to take a dozen photos with my cell phone, photos of elbows and headless cooks.

“Damn! These cookies are stuck to the pan.” I pop broken chunks into my mouth.

Grandpa arrives and surveys the scene. The cookies are finished, and we all drift into the dining room. Pascuala trips and lands on the Christmas tree, her arm tangling with the tree lights. The girls want to play a new game with us, Mannequin Challenge, which requires us each to hold a body position while one films us. When the video maker sweeps the camera in another direction, we must change positions. No talking. No moving. Someone giggles. Then another. Soon all of us are laughing. Video maker gets frustrated. Try again. After five or six takes, we’ve had enough.

We sit down in the back yard, and I pass around chocolate ice cream bars. Manuela and Pascuala smear melting chocolate ice cream on their faces.

 Don’t know if I’m capable of standing up again.

            

My Days

Tendinitis in my hip has me in the dumps. I’ve had to slow down, limit my walking. But the days go on; things happen to me or I make them happen – good and not-so-good, expected and unexpected.

My favorite moments are the good and unexpected. My neighbor-friend, Isabel, rings the doorbell. She holds a covered bowl in her hands.

“I’m hoping you’ll receive this.”

Is she bringing me food?

“My cat was about to kill it.”

An injured bird?

“Come in,” I say, “What is it?”

She removes the cover. “It has the most beautiful colors.” In the bottom of the bowl lies a multi-colored lizard – chartreuse, yellow and cyan – with part of its tail missing.

“I’ve seen these before,” I say,” but never here in the city. In fact, I’ve never seen any lizards in my backyard. Let’s check my “Wildlife Guide to Chile” to see what it is.”

We identify our visitor as a thin tree lizard “… females are always found within the confines of a colonized tree or fence.” This brightly painted fellow appears to be a male.

“Isabel, he may feel lonely in my garden. There must be a mate where you found him.”

“I’ll watch for another, if the cat doesn’t get to it first.”

“Shall we name him?” I ask. “How about Iggy? He is related to the iguana.”

I go outside and release Iggy into the shrubbery, wishing him luck.

The next day my clothes dryer breaks down. Oh, oh, is this the start of a chain of bad luck? A Chilean superstition has it that bad things occur in a series of three. The bright side of this incident is that I have a reliable repairman. The problem is just a disconnected wire, but… (isn’t there always a ‘but’?) the fan belt is about to break. He brings the part the next day, and charges me the minimum. Bless him.

Since I’m in the fix-it mood, I decide to take my car to be washed.  (Its last bath was about six months ago.) Opening the driveway gate, I notice a semi-flat tire. Sh--t. The tire has a faulty valve so I can’t put air into it. Off to the tire repair shop. The helpful man replaces the valve and inflates the tire, but…there’s a nail on the inner wall of the tire.

            “We can’t fix it here. It has to be vulcanized.”

“Where?” I ask.

He describes a place a considerable distance way, which I spot amidst road work and mall construction. I pull up to the open air garage.

“You’ll have to wait while I fix that lady’s tire.”

She has driven in RIGHT before me. I’m glad I remembered to bring my I pad.  I turn the ignition on and off to get some AC. Did I mention it’s noon by now and a very hot day?

When it’s my turn, I sit in a greasy, grimy red plastic chair trying not to touch anything. The fellow tells me it will take about half an hour since he must apply heat. My eyes tired,  I close my I pad and study my surroundings: advertisements for motor oil, an old calendar page of an Alpine scene, oil stains on the concrete floor and assorted tools scattered about.

At last, it’s ready. I zip home and gobble down a salad, just barely to making it to my physical therapy session – a wonderful, painful deep massage. Ricardo knows all the key points on my half-exposed butt, reassuring me that we will beat this.

Back in the car, heartened, I think maybe I can still make it to the car wash. It’s 5 p.m. Friday, a very busy time, but, what the heck, maybe I’ll be lucky. There are five cars ahead of me, but I decide to wait it out. At least, I’ll have accomplished what I started out to do in the morning. Two of the young workers at the car wash are Haitians. I know this because an influx of Haitian immigrants is adding some diversity to this insular country at the bottom of the world. Outside a building construction I spot two signs reminding the workers of the safety measures – one sign in Spanish, the other in French.

My week ends with a joyous occasion – a reunion of my husband’s family, fifty-three including twenty four children ranging in age from 6 months to 21. Two sons can’t make it, including our New Yorker, Nico. Several of the smaller cousins barely know each other but a swimming pool and water pistols break the ice. The day is recorded with a plethora of photos.

            In the waning light we all agree that we’ll have to do this again next year.