I Went Back

Playa de Ventanilla, Mexico

I'm settling into my fifth night back in Zipolite. It is hard to believe I have already been back with the sea for five nights. But that is how this place goes. Being here is a long embrace. The kind that suspends time and space and demands complete surrender. I am staying at Lo Cosmico again. I am watching sunsets and eating tacos. I am doing yoga with my favorite teacher. Still, it is different than the first time. The waves are more ferocious. The tide is higher. My cabana has a porch. There are less nudists on the beach. Jen and Steve from Australia are not here, but Jen and Bruce from Portland are. George (and) Michael are no longer playing chess, but Tomas is here from Norway and Elena and Daniel have come from Spain. The taco vendors are now old friends; we greet each other with kisses and end the night saying, "hasta manana." Antonio and I get on like family.

This time in Zipolite has included new adventures, like my trip to Ventanilla, an ecotourism project that protects the turtle population and rehabilitates animals. There, I climbed in trees, saw crocs, and released baby turtles into the sea. It was incredible to watch the baby turtles in the first day on earth so valiantly march toward the waves. The same waves that earlier made a very clear statement to me that they did not want any visitors. The guide said that only 2-3 out of 100 turtles survive their first days. We each got to choose one and cheer it on. Below is mine.

The Survivor, Ventanilla, Mexico

Five more days in Zipolite was perfect. Now, I am moving on tomorrow to meet up with my friend Nikki and find the Lagunas de Chacahua for three more nights on the beach in what is said to be paradise. Only a pick up truck, small bus, big bus, collective taxi, and boat ride away. Just a normal trip "to the end of the world" as my family loves to embark on. Then it is back to Oaxaca City for my two final days in Chicago. The trip is winding down, but my love affair with Mexico has certainly just begun.

Dear Spanish

Querida Español,

As of last Friday, I had decided I would write you an official break-up letter. Resigning from my position as a Spanish learner, and retreating back into a proud uni-lingual American. Quite frankly I had had enough of you making a fool out of me. The constant struggle to find the word, la palabra, to match my thoughts, mis pensados. The inability to understand, entender, the majority of my interactions with people, only ever getting a brush stroke of their life stories, the details trickling through the cracks of my synapses. The mush-like substance you have been turning my brain into. The muteness with which I greet most social situations. Like any relationship, como alguna relaciõn, where one partner is constantly feeling inferior, I felt it would do both of us a service if I just let go, solto. In the past seven weeks, siete semanas, you have built walls in my brain and my heart. You have teased me into thinking I was getting you and then just as suddenly left me all alone. You have made me doubt, me has hecho dudar, whether it is true that I am a good student who learns quickly and with ease. After years of conquering many difficult subjects, my academic ego has built a healthy self-perception. Then you come along, and shove me to the ground. You have built multiple identities in my heard, so that in any conversation I am actually having three… I am thinking in English, I am attempting to speak in Spanish, and I am simultaneously telling myself I do not know shit, no sabes nada, and I should probably just stop trying, para tratar, and what the hell is that person thinking I am saying when they give me that confused look, estas estupido?! But, as I said, my intent to resign, was just that, an intent. One thing you have taught me, una cosa me has ensañado, is how not to succeed at my intentions. And so, once again, otra vez, you win.

Instead of resigning, I have decided to change, he decidido cambiar, the terms of our relationship. When I planned to come to Mexico, you were definitely one of the reasons I came, but you were not the whole reason. I told myself, me dije, I would be looking outward and inward on this trip. That I wanted to practice my Spanish, practicar mi Español, but I also wanted to do yoga and write and relax. I wanted to have a casual relationship with you, more of the friends-with-benefits type. Yet, at the same time, I wanted to learn you, aprenderte, to understand you, entenderte, to walk away from this experience feeling like we had built a solid foundation. I realize now, that my expectations did not meet my commitment. I do not regret the approach I have taken to our relationship, but I do recognize that this approach has limited my ability to fully grow with you, crecer contigo. I realize that what I have gotten out of this relationship is casual returns. We have hade some great flirtation, but not a budding partnership. Everyday, I feel a click in some new sentence structure, but just as soon the one from the day before retreats. I have given you just enough of my time to continue to matter to me, but not enough to change me. So here we are, entonces aqui estamos.

I refuse to break-up with you forever. I still want you in my life, todavia te quiero en mi vida. I still want to understand you. But, my expectations have changed. I know now that if I really want to embody you, I must fully commit to you. I must dive in and give you all my attention, and even then, you will be hard for me. Some people say that when they learned a language, it felt like a past life was coming back to them. I am not that person. You exist nowhere in my past lives, no existas en mis pasadas vidas. I also understand now that if we are going to find a way to live together, I have to get a lot more comfortable with being wrong. I thought art would be the beast that would most challenge the perfectionist in me. But, I was wrong. It is you, estas tu. Words are my medium, and knowing that when I use your words I almost always, casi siempre, do not express my ideas as I intend silences me. I think this is going to be a long process. Slowly, slowly. Poco a poco.

I do not know what our relationship will look like when I leave Mexico., no sabes que nuestra relacion va a mirar como cuando salgo de Mexico. Will I give you any time in the states? Will I bury you deep within and reject any progress that we made? Will I plan a future getaway just for you? No matter what, you have taught me something about myself and about you. As all relationships do. So, no, I am not breaking up with you, no estoy rompiendo contigo. I am humbled by you and am willing to accept a bit of a defeat this time. But, luckily we still have more time, pero, afortunadamente, todavia tenemos mas tiempo. Maybe, by the time I am 80, I will finally know you, ya voy a saberte. Meanwhile, you can expect many confused love letters as our relationship continues to grow and change, continua crecer y cambiar. I hate that I know that many of my Spanish translations in this letter are even wrong. You really irritate me.

Muchas gracias por todo mi amor,

Jessica

Art

As a kid, I enjoyed art camp and musical camp. I wrote plays with my friend Roxanne. I painted rocks and sold them to my neighbors. The norm. Then, when I was in 6^th grade, I overheard Ms. Gross refer to my artwork as “junk” with a dismissive flit of her hand. Our relationship had already been tense, but with that comment, art became the first class I plotted to skip. I would find myself called to my duties as student council president when art day would arrive or I would conveniently have to leave school early for a skating event. Being a straight ‘A’ student since I arrived in this world, art and creativity became my nemesis. Since the day my work was labeled junk, I built an identity around my non-artistness. Friends of mine hung up pieces of my artwork, not for their esthetic beauty, but instead for their comic value. My artistic talent had notoriety. I stood by as my singing, acting, flute phases slipped away. I wanted to take creative writing in high school, but that would have hurt my GPA, so writing even went to the side. Figure skating was the one area I held onto, but I would label myself an “athletic” skater, not an artistic one, and then I tore my ACL and that was gone too.

So, when I walked into Armando’s studio last week to do art, I really had no idea where to begin. He had a long list of many different types of art I could try out. I decided to start with the most basic, drawing. He sat me down at my own table, propped up a picture of a Mexican woman holding a baby upside down, and told me to draw it without looking at my paper and without lifting my pencil. I twiddled the pencil in my hand and looked to my right where an older retired Canadian woman was sculpting a woman’s body to be a candleholder. I listened as she babbled to her brother on her cell phone. She had to work all day last Friday with Armando because the clay was drying too quickly. And now the sculpture seemed to be cracking because she had made it too top heavy. She worried it would not survive the kiln. Beside her was another older woman lost in her painting. I began to think maybe I should just come back in 40 years. Playing artist could be a project for another time. But, I had my station set up.

After about 15 minutes, Armando came back to check on me. I was quite proud of my upside down Mexican woman. She really resembled the image. But, Armando let out a sigh and gave me a disapproving shake of the head. He knew. I mean did he really want me to not look at the paper at all? And, lifting the pencil was necessary to draw the face! Fine, I admit it; I cheated. That straight ‘A’ student was afraid of failing, and hence failed. He turned the book around and put my pencil in my left hand. He told me again, with a serious tone I could not hide from, to draw it with my left hand, without looking at my paper, and without lifting the pencil. I obliged. This time when he returned he was extremely pleased with what to me looked like a jumbled mess of lines made by that same 6^th grader whose artwork was junk. When I finally got to draw it with all my faculties in order, a decent image appeared on the paper in front of me. I walked away from day 1 feeling a flittering spark and a small bit of shame, vowing not to cheat the next day.

Mexican Woman and Baby, Left handed, No Sight

On day 2, as Armando was getting me situated, I asked him, “Tengo una pregunta, Creas que todas personas pueden dibujar y estar artistas?” In english, “I have a question, do you believe that everyone can draw and be artists?”

Without hesitating, he replied, “si.” I contested, but he said that is probably because someone told me I could not be an artist. Hmph. He said that the majority of his time teaching art is spent fighting the demons of artists’ past. Really he is more of a therapist than an art teacher. So, I guess I was in therapy. Day 2, I did the same exercises without cheating creating some of the most ugly works of art I have ever made. Then, I was granted the honor of using oil pastels. I copied an image of a naked woman hung upside down. I got lost in the drawing, enjoying the smooth nature of the medium. I was excited to turn it over and reveal my great work. In the end, the woman had thighs the size of Texas and Rhode Island for a head, but I still loved her.

Naked Woman, Day 2

On Day 3, I had been beaten up by Spanish pretty badly, and was not really feeling like doing art. I sped through my warm-up exercises, excited to get to my pastel time. I worked for an hour when one of Armando’s apprentices came over, a big guy with dreads who listened to big headphones and was tearing apart a computer for a piece in his upcoming exposition. He complimented my work and showed me how to layer my colors. I felt like we were colleagues. The space that Armando has created in the back of a Spanish colonial courtyard manages to simultaneously inspire, ease, and challenge those who enter it. I only did 3 days with Armando, though I considered staying in the city another week just to do more time there. Still, in three days, I felt that 6^th grader’s junk drifting away from my identity. On Friday, I bought a sketchbook and my own set of pastels.

Woman Washing Clothes, Day 3

It is no coincidence that I took art classes in Oaxaca. Oaxaca is a place that oozes art and culture. You can hardly walk down a street without taking in original artwork, a handcrafted textile, and crowds of sculptures. Try not to be inspired. Through the weeks I have spent in Oaxaca, I have been trying to take the art in little by little:

Whether it has been in my walks down graffiti covered lanes, stops into museums with Mexican painters new and old, the exquisite photography gallery, the anarchist print gallery, 

my day trip to San Bartolo Cayotopec where they have a fantastic art museum showing local crafts and the famous barro negro (black pottery), 

or my amazing afternoon participating with Nikki’s Theater of the Oppressed workshop for teenage girls. People are unapologetically artists in Oaxaca, and they seem to be celebrated for that. On the walk from Nikki’s apartment to Spanish school, I would pass an artist’s gallery that offered drawing classes, a dance studio with salsa classes for young and old, a small studio offering singing classes with the appropriate screeching “ooooo” emanating from it, and without a doubt some group of friends gathered around a guitar singing “Rolling in the Deep.” And somehow, all this art exists in a way that is not pretentious, but inviting.

I am not the best artist. I will never be. But, most people will never be. And, art is not really about being the best, is it? I am constantly in admiration of the courage it takes to be creative. It is much easier to do what we are told and follow paths tread before us. To risk failure and ugliness and embarrassment is all part of what happens when you embrace creativity. But, I am starting to feel like there might be no other way to really live. For years, I rejected being “artistic” because I could not draw or sing and I did not do theater. Now, I am seeing, that being an artist or maybe more easier to own, being creative, is so much more than any one skill set you possess. As Joseph Chilton Pearce said, “To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.” And then I would add, act on it. Maybe that is all it is. 

Weeks 5 and 6 in Photos: Around Oaxaca

Caving Ecoturismo, Calpulalpan

Night Landscape, Calpulalpan

Cafe Americano, Oaxaca

Mi Maestro Espanol, Oaxaca

Inside Santo Domingo, Oaxaca

Barro Negro, San Bartolo

Colorful Street, Oaxaca

Hotel Construction, Oaxaca

Hiereve El Agua

Sulfur Spring, Hierve El Agua

Hierve El Agua

Hierve El Agua

Swimming in Sulfur Springs, Hierve El Agua

Elementary School, Outside Oaxaca

Woman's Day, Oaxaca

Street Art, Oaxaca

Maestro de Arte, Armando, Oaxaca

 Just a little street side entertainment

Upheaval and Commitment

Traveling is not all fun. It puts you in situations that are new and unknown. It throws challenges at you that would be difficult in the comfort of your own home, but are amplified by a foreign context. Often once overcome, those challenges fill you with a sense of accomplishment and usually a good story. Still, traveling is not all fun.

These past few days have been those days. It is a combination of things, as it always is. I am entering into my final couple of weeks of travel, finding myself drifting a bit more often into "the future," stressed a bit by how to "make the most" of my last two and a half weeks, frustrated that the peace of the beach is already so hard to keep present, oh and the bed bugs or fleas that invaded my deeply personal space. Sometimes, it is just a bug bite that you need to push you over the edge...

So Friday, I moved out of my friend's apartment, my planned base for my remaining time in Mexico and cried a lot. I cried walking down the street. I cried in Spanish class. Every emotion that had just poked at the surface over the last several weeks, was ripe and ready to flow. Maybe it was all the scratching of my bites. More pores for feelings to flow through. Whatever it was, I was off-kilter, tripping on sidewalk cracks and stumbling down stairs. By the end of the day, I moved into a hotel that was recommended to me by a few people, and was starting to feel a bit more at ease. That is until 7am the next morning.

I woke up to drilling and nonstop hammering above my head. And there the tears were again, as if they had been waiting at the door for just that knock. When I asked about the construction, it became clear it was not going to stop any time soon. I had already paid two nights, but I would have to move again on Sunday. I sat down to eat breakfast in my hotel Saturday morning, obsessing over my bad luck, when I looked up and saw Regula eating her breakfast. Regula is one of the owners of Lo Cosmico, the hotel I stayed at in Zipolite. What were the chances? We caught each other's eyes and quickly embraced. She was on her way back from dropping her daughter off at school, and was staying a few nights in Oaxaca. Maybe this was a sign I should go back to Zipolite before I leave, or a reminder that even when you feel really bad,  you are never alone, or just coincidence. Regardless, it pulled me out of my misery momentarily, allowing one of those smiles from deep within to emerge. The kind of smile that you try to deny, but is just too strong and persistent. The kind of smile that connects us to our humanity.

I got through Saturday with some church sitting, market going, and delicious food. Then, Sunday was the day that really brought me back. I reconnected with a friend I had made on the beach and we went to Hierve el Agua. A 2-hour adventure to get there, making friends with Roberto, a farmer from the Mixtec region, and two teenage couples taking the opportunity to get away from the city for a day of making out and photo ops. It was well worth it. As trite as the words can be, Hierve el Agua is truly a beautiful and magnificent place. There are two sulfur springs you can swim in on the edge of a mountain with water the color of paradise. And all around the springs have created unique rock forms known as petrified waterfalls unlike anything I have ever seen. We hiked around all the petrified waterfalls for hours taking in the vistas, the birds, and the water formations forever stuck in mid-drip. There was something marvelous about the idea of a frozen waterfall. Waterfalls are usually in such a hurry to get down from the mountain. The defiance of these structures against being what they are supposed to be was inspiring for a YOOTer like me. The day culminated with a swim on the edge of a cliff. The sensation of swimming in fresh spring water while looking at 270 degrees of mountain is etched deep into me. Elation does not even begin to explain what I felt.

Now, I am staying in a youth hostel. It is the first time on my trip I am fully doing the youth hostel thing. I am cozied into a bottom bunk of a 4-bed dormitory. So far, no other women traveling alone have showed up, so at this moment it is like I have a single room. Despite my natural reprieve yesterday, I still awoke today feeling a bit consternated. Not knowing if I should stay in the youth hostel, try and find a home stay, move on from Oaxaca. So far this trip, I have prided my self with maintaining a clear and decisive inner compass. This morning, I felt the needle spinning in every direction.

Then, I heard the words of one of my favorite college professors, John Riker, in my head. He often lectured on the idea of the "freedom of commitment." I was feeling afraid to commit, afraid to make the wrong choice, and in that place of choice, felt trapped. So, I went and paid for 4 nights at the hostel. I am here. For better or worse, I committed. I am not going to say that the emotional storm passed the instant I committed, but it did start to retreat. I am excited to do the youth hostel thing for a week. I am excited to keep working on my Spanish. I am excited to go to an art class tomorrow. I am here. For at least 4 days more.

This brings me to a mantra that came to me on the beach in Zipolite and has done a lot to keep me present through my travels. When I am here, I am everywhere. When I am everywhere, I am never here. O en espanol, Cuando estoy aqui, estoy dondesea. Cuando dondesea, nunca estoy aqui.