Blank Slate

A blank slate. That’s how every page starts. Sometimes I think I’d rather leave a page blank than start blotching it with imperfection – I have always struggled with the idea that my potential is greater than my reality. That’s also why I haven’t necessarily written for my blog since, ohhh, November. It’s been four months since you’ve heard from me…or since I’ve heard from me, really.

Avocados and Aspirations (side note: I thank all you jerks who failed to point out to me that this aspiring writer’s blog TITLE was spelled wrong for its first 6 months of its life) was created as my Mexico blog. And now that chapter has ended. I like to think of it as a cliffhanger – I left before I was ready and consequently must go back to finish the story. Life here constantly reminds me of the life I left behind. I am living a double life of building community in Asheville, NC while daydreaming about sitting beside my failed attempt at a rooftop garden. It’s almost like getting over a bad breakup – every day I can still smell the bakeries and the burning garbage and hear the gas vendors’ stupid jingle, but every day it gets a little easier to wake up and live in the present. This new chapter was sort of like a blank slate, and I didn’t know where to start chiseling. It was almost as if I stopped writing for my blog, I could always come back to it again and pick up where I’d left off – in Mexico.

Do you think it’s just that I idealize wherever I’m not? Can it be that I’ve forgotten the corruption, the misogyny, the trash, the loneliness all in favor of placing the adventure on a pedestal?   Perhaps. But I’ve always been an idealist and a daydreamer and I don’t think that will ever change.  And more than that, something about that land and those people spoke to my soul. It was like coming home in a foreign body and I fell in love with the world all over again.

So. Here I am. Welcomed back to this home… for now. And I’m already starting the next adventure. After years of transiency, I am officially moved out of my parents’ basement. I mean, we will overlook the storage closet and garage, but I felt better trying to define what it means to be “officially out” when my friend told me that her mom still calls her 40-year-old brother trying to get him to clear shit out. But for the sake of argument and because, well, it’s my blog and I can say what I want, I’m out. I just moved in to a 3br/1ba in the West (the funky) side of town. There are so many hipsters that the air is just polluted with irony. And while I don’t tout thick-rimmed glasses and my low-tops are geriatric in nature, I still feel like I’m settling into the groove of being a West Ashevillian rather nicely. I have two fantastic roommates. One is a mediator whom I met through ultimate Frisbee, and the other came with the house – she’s a cupcake extraordinaire and a badass rock climber. We balance one another out quite nicely, and all LOVE to communicate. But there has been more cookie dough and glitter in this house in the last week than all of my Valentine’s Days combined. So I’m trying to get used to that (and either develop extreme willpower (not likely) or find 3 sports to compensate).

I am starting a business. It’s called WinnersWords (I’ll let you know when the site is officially up and running) and I am offering services of content writing for sustainable and socially-conscious business and non-profits. I’ll write their blogs, articles, print and social media content, etc. I actually started this through blogging with Community Links International  in Mexico and enjoyed it so much, that I realized I wanted to share everyone’s stories. Plus, it gets me involved in as many things as possible but participating through one specific medium to improve their outreach. I wind up getting my fingers in a bunch of honey pots without getting overwhelmed. I’m loving the process and berating myself for not taking any business classes in college. How is it possible that I am the only Jew in my family who considers putting certain wads of money in different parts of your sock drawer an acceptable means of money management?  The rest of them are financial planners, tax representatives, book keepers, accounting professors, etc. Sooo, I have a steep learning curve ahead, but I get bored when I’m not challenging myself.

Finally, I am starting a new part-time job tomorrow. I’ll be working with an amazing mentor of mine, Althea Gonzalez, as an administrative assistant at Hispanics in Philanthropy. So I get to learn from her every day, speak Spanish, network with (and fingers crossed, eventually write for) Latino NGOs and communities and get out of the house for a bit each week to do good work. Awesome.

I know that I really want to go back to Mexico – to continue in the same field to develop sustainable communities and connect travelers to new experiences and perspectives.  I’m so grateful for the opportunity I had with CLI and the path it cleared for me. But I just have to remember to be patient and that I’m on this path for a reason. From the roots I’m digging here will bud new lessons that will prepare me for what’s down the road. As I reread this, it’s dawning on me that perhaps that metaphor of a blank slate and unblemished potential that I have always used isn’t necessarily accurate – you get to the blank slate, the fresh page, on a trail tainted by blood, sweat, tears, cow shit, litter, spilled ink, worn down patches of grass from others who’ve already beaten down this path. So the inaccessible potential is a façade we create to cater to our insecurities and call it quits before we even start. Damn - that’s a pretty solid breakthrough for 10:09 in the morning. I’m already feeling more confident about the day. Maybe I’ll call it a success and go back to bed until tomorrow. 

Change

Please forgive me, stranger on the plane. You sit beside me plugged into your music and I keep to myself with my nose in my book. But the unrequited love of my novel or the aerial view of expansive rows of agriculture remind me of the world I am leaving behind. My nose crinkles up and one tear escapes; but then I begin to weep full hot tears of spicy tacos and the dim lighting of our mosquito-infested Frisbee fields, of dodging horse dung and grasshoppers on the short walk to class and the meaningful talks Maggie and I would dive into on the bus rides to avert our attention from the lunacy of traffic. 

I was  feeling completely discombobulated when we disembarked the plane. Everything was shiny and flashing and on sale. I stared up at the screens displaying departures to every corner of the world until I saw him for the third time. He’d been napping on the plane a row ahead of me. He’d let me pass him in security as he juggled his shoes and luggage. Now he sidled up to my right and we fell in step as we headed for the same plane to Seattle. I got so lost in conversation with this nice guy from Cuernavaca that I forgot that I’d been overstimulated and upset...and where we were going. But getting lost in the huge terminal was of little consequence as my entire being sighed with the familiarity of our common tongue. Sometimes God sends us angels when we need them the most.

And now as my mom and I wind our way up and down the West Coast, carving out our play time for just us, I am playing my own game. I am playing tug of war between the present and the past as I embrace the fall weather and the vampires offering me Snickers bars and waterfalls and pancakes. I want to appreciate this adventure as an isolated chapter – a fantastic opportunity to pioneer the West with my best friend and my inspiration. But even in the most serene moments, life’s not as simple as mojitos and scenic drives, because this journey is bridging the gap between what was and an unknown future. Not only am I marching into unemployment in my parents’ basement, which I know will inevitably unfurl into another impactful pile of life lessons and business ventures, but I am being hurled into American life like a trans-national human cannonball. I’m learning how to adapt to hurling. So while I’m trying to savor every morsel of these pumpkin pancakes, I’m also lost in the memories of the place I just left. My heart is aching for my friend – he never stops laughing, never stopped holding me up, but he must be so exhausted from studying full time and caring full time for his ailing mother.  I left another friend in the midst of emotional turmoil and all I want to do is hug her. I close my eyes and over the Deep South accents discussing music in the seats behind us, I can hear Augustín panting as he streaks up the hill to arrive first to class, and Dona Rosa’s cow mooing off in the distance. My heart was on the mend when I left Mexico – I had scooped up the bits and held them together every night as I curled into my squeaky bunk bed, but as it had a tendency to break apart in its fragile state, I’m not sure if every fragment made it into my overweight baggage.  

On the outside it looks like we haven’t a care in the world. But you can’t see my tug of war game - my heart torn between worlds. I can’t explain why I marvel at toilets with seats that actually flush paper or why I would return to a land without them. I can’t explain why I love the smells of donkey dung, burn piles and myrrh. I can’t explain why fourteen children or teammates who may never bridge the gap of ever-lasting friendship made such a deep impression in my soul. Consequently, I can’t explain why I am testy and impatient; why I have such a profound sense of ache and longing when the scenery from this train is beautiful, the food is rich, the company is sweet and the future is bright (albeit unilluminated). The best advice I’ve gotten so far is fake it til you make it. My friend was talking about love, but I think it’s applicable here too – just power through and live in the moment and eventually the energy you pretend to have will seep into your real mindset. One can only hope.

San Miguel de Allende

The Queretero tournament was quite an adventure. Only five of my teammates from Pachamamas went, so we were split up onto different teams rather than playing together. On Sunday, I hadn’t intended to play and really wanted to go to museums, but I kept waiting and waiting until the decision was essentially made for me. Why is it the case that moving to a foreign country doesn’t faze me, but the idea of leaving my team and going into the city for a day by myself makes my heart race? I realize that there are lots of open factors and unknowns, but that doesn’t explain my calm about big changes and neurotic anxieties about small things out of my control. Lately I’ve been trying to plan like mad – how do I get to practice next week? What will we eat when we get home from work on Wednesday? What time should we leave work to pick up tortillas? It’s like I’m clinging desperately, obsessing some might say, over things that I have some autonomy over because there is so much more swirling above me that is entirely out of my hands. It’s a very exhausting dichotomy.

Anyway, after we went to dinner in the center, I went home with Pablo, a friend from Pachamamas who’d just moved to Queretero, who was crashing at his friend’s place. He’d expressed interest in accompanying me to San Miguel and thus became my travel buddy for the rest of the weekend.  We woke up on Monday morning and headed for the bus station for the one-hour trip to San Miguel. I felt calm and free. As a background, I’d like to tell you that it was important for me to go to this city because this was the town where my mom’s friend, Joyce, lived for 10 years. It was she who inspired me, really. I had always said I wanted to go abroad and then one day she told me she and her husband picked up and moved here. And I thought, “Oh, you can just do that? Cool!” She made me realize that you don’t need an excuse to do what you want to do – just figure it out and go. So I wanted to pay a tribute to her and visit this funky pueblo.

 It was just as she described it – artsy and charming. There were expats on every corner. You could distinguish the foreigners by the way they stood, by their shoes, their maps and Ibuprofen bottles (after a long weekend and another pulled quad I secretly coveted their over-the-counter pharmaceuticals, but I kept walking).

Pablo was a fabulous travel partner – so relaxed, similar non-agenda and interests and a fabulous conversationalist.  We spontaneously hopped another bus to Atonontilco, famous for its sanctuary, but not much else. The church was known as the site where San Miguel Hidalgo assembled the community to march to San Miguel de Allende and initiate the grito (the shout) that began the War of Independence. They grabbed the flag of the Virgin Guadalupe to rally behind. This rallying point started a great conversation about how even with official separation of church and state, everything is so connected to Catholicism that the government is very similar to a theocracy. Many of my friends in Cholula resent this because they don’t practice a faith. Recently, Calderón stated that even though we may not be all practitioners or believers, we are all “Guadalupanos” (of the Virgin Guadalupe). This really upset my friend:“How can you make such blanket statements about who I am?” And yet, even those most disconnected from the church still tend to cross themselves and have confirmation ceremonies. It really is a very interesting culture of faith here.

 Anyway, we walked to the end of the world – down a long cobblestone path that led out of the town, or at least to the mezcal distillery whose owner greeted us at the elaborate iron gate. ”I’m 67 years old! I have 7 sons and daughters here and I’ve seen them grow up here!” We took a step back from his strong breath. Apparently he’d been in charge of taste-testing that day. “One day, with more calm, you can come back and have a look around!....Well, come on in!” We didn’t stay long or score any samples, but we did get a peek at his giant plantation. Then we back-tracked to the sanctuary and the other half of the town with the store, restaurant, paper shop and rows of tents selling rosaries. We leaned on an old pickup truck while doctoring our cans of Modelo Negro with salt and lime and continued talking about religion.

 We wandered a bit more around San Miguel and then got on the return bus to Queretero where we parted ways. I’m not sure what I would’ve done had Pablo not been there to offer me a bed and hold my hand. But the more hesitant I became, the more I realized how important it was for me to go. I continue to attempt to let things work themselves out, as is the Mexican way, but it may kill me first. Maybe someday I’ll be less tightly-wound. I keep doing things like jumping buses to unknown places and getting haircuts in a foreign language, throwing my agenda to the winds, but I’m not sure if it’s helping or just giving me high blood pressure. I’m having a damn good time trying to figure out the answer, though. And my hair doesn’t look too bad, either.