Green Shoots 2: Finding Community on Both Sides of Our Shared Border

During the three years we lived in Pátzcuaro, Michoacán, we were deeply affected by the profound communal sense that permeates Pátzcuaro, strongly supported by a generous hospitality that made us—newcomers, strangers and foreigners to boot—feel welcome.

The first Green Shoots post in this series introduces Gustavo Esteva's important work, Grassroots Post-Modernism, which discusses Mesoamerican traditions of community and hospitality. Some time later, I discovered a discussion of U.S. community written by Robert R. Archibald, a trained historian and President of the Missouri Historical Museum (MHM) in St. Louis, Missouri.

Returning to his childhood town to reflect on the meaning of community and history, Archibald gathered his reflections together in A Place to Remember: Using History to Build Community. Remarkably, the Midwestern historian uses 'attachment to place' as the unifying theme for grounding his reflection on what and why history matters, and how history can more deeply inform community problem solving, empathy for others, and personal enrichment.

In sharp contrast to the mobile lifestyle that characterized the twentieth century U.S. lifestyle, Archibald recalls,

"A sense of attachment to place—including contested, submerged, and living memories generated over time...."

Archibald's identification of 'attachment to place' resonates with a key component of Mesoamerican culture—the profound connectedness with the earth possessed by indigenous peoples—the rooted certainty that their land is their proper place on this earth identified by Gustavo Esteva:

"...not even the five hundred years that have passed since the arrival of the Spanish has managed to disrupt their [indigenous] sense of place." 

Tellingly, Grassroots Modernism is subtitled Remaking the soil of cultures.
The etymology of the Spanish verb estar (to be) traces back to the Indo-European word "sta," which means to stand; some derivatives mean "place or thing standing." In English, for example, we have state, stage, stay, statue, station—all words sharing the same root as the Spanish verb estar.

Our friend Ina tells of buying a breakfast taco from an indigenous vendor in Oaxaca, who asked where she is from. When Ina replied, "I'm from Wisconsin in the United States", the woman drew herself up and replied simply, "Ya tu estás en mi tierra" ("Now you are in my land")—a simple statement of fact.

Archibald writes,

"If we are to rebuild healthy communities, we must oppose those forces that detach people from place and confine them in a lonely present, truncated from past and future alike, isolated from each other."

In Archibald's view, four core values—mutual obligation, sustainability, transcendence, and memory—organize and sustain community. His mission at the Missouri History Museum (MHM) is to build on these values in ways that facilitate civic dialogue and hence serve as a catalyst for generating solutions to community challenges of education, crime, environment, infrastructure, taxation, family, and neighborhood.

But on the other side of our shared border, Archibald's core values are eerily reminiscent of components identified by Gustavo Esteva as characteristic of Mesoamerican culture.

• Esteva: Community is knit together by threads (ties) of mutual obligation, rather than assertion of 'individual rights'. 

Archibald: "A community is a place, but it is also a mindset—an attitude that acknowledges people's connections with each other, a sense of responsibility for one another and accountability to one another. Through investment in the common good, individuals transcend self-interest and act for the good of the whole." [p. 133]

• Esteva: Men and women cultivate the land using sustainable techniques that demonstrate respect for the earth. 

Archibald: "From the sense of mutual obligation emerges an acknowledgement that the living generation does not have a right to use everything up, and that the future [generation] too has a claim on the planet and a right to a reasonable quality of life."

• Esteva: Human beings and the natural world make up parts of a single Life-Force; a sense of transcendence derives from recognizing this essential relationship. 

Archibald: "The sense of transcendence speaks to humans' spiritual and emotional requirements that are, in turn, the wellspring of inspiration and creativity."

• Esteva: Myths and legends told by los grandes (the old ones) are handed down across generations, thus preserving the collective memory [identity] of the people—who they are, who they belong to, and who belongs to them. 

Archibald: "Public history practitioners must ensure that change does not overwhelm continuity; through remembering [stories, narratives] we construct identity for ourselves and our communities."

Under Archibald's leadership, MHM strives to be a place (!) where people can present multiple narratives about the community, where they can try to construct and present history [stories] in ways that deepen people's recognition of each other while developing historical narratives that connect them to others and facilitate solutions to problems. 


Gustavo Estefa might sum up the mission of MHM in one word: hospitality. Treating each other (the stranger) with dignity and respect—seeing in the other simply another part of one's own self, another part of the essential Life-Force—is at the heart of hospitality as practiced in Mesoamerican culture.

My architect sister and I engaged in an ongoing dialogue about possible connections between landscape, which surely embraces the concept of place, and spirituality. Several weeks ago, I read an article about new ideas for twenty-first century suburban spaces.

To my delight, one idea focuses on creating park-like centers for living, working, and playing in new suburban environments. The centers described by these futurist-planners seem remarkably like the plazas that are even today the pulsating heart at the center of life, work and play (fiestas) in Mexico's cities, towns, and villages.

So there you have it! At the grassroots a discovery of Green Shoots—the sights and sounds of community resonating along and across both sides of our shared border.

Green Shoots Part 3 features conversations between Bill Moyers and two remarkable women who actively live and nurture community in their lives. Here's the link:  Green Shoots: Nurturing and Living Community

A Walk Around Jenny's Neighborhood: Parque San Andrés, Coyoacán

In this post, let me take you on a tour of our neighborhood, Parque San Andrés, Coyoacán, in Mexico City. The 'parque' is actually a number of small, pocket parks.  The one shown below is a block from our house.

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The streets in our neighborhood are named after Anglo countries and states.  Our two-block street, Dakota, is bounded by Escocia (Scotland), California (!), and Irlanda (Ireland).

This photo was shot looking down the sidewalk of Escocia.

This shot (below) looks down the sidewalk on Irlanda. The pruned trees are ficus trees, which we have seen in parks in many parts of Mexico--always pruned the same way.

As Reed shot the photo, a woman opened the gate to the house on the right. She smiled in a friendly way, so we told her that we are new neighbors. She asked what number and welcomed us to the neighborhood, providing yet another example of the friendliness we're encountering.

Houses in Parque San Andrés range from private houses to upscale condos to apartment buildings.

One of the most notable features of any Mexican neighborhood are the omnipresent walls and gates designed to enclose private spaces.

Sometimes the house is designed around an inner patio; at other times, it encloses a garden space. As we walk by, we sometimes hear lawn mowers and smell fresh-cut grass, so we deduce the presence of lawns in some of these gardens. The house behind the gate (above) has been set back some distance from its inviting pedestrian gate graced by mature vines.

This graceful, older house is distinguished by
the carved wooden doors and traditional grillwork.

Another handcrafted wood door on an older home. The richness of the stained and oiled wood is warmly elegant, understated and inviting.

Doors pique our curiosity. We are constantly alert to get a peek inside
when a car is entering or leaving a property. Notice the pedestrian door to the right.

We don't have a picture of the massive door from the street to this townhouse complex, which is next door to our favorite local family restaurant (see photo below).

Last night the gate was open to receive deliveries from Liverpool (I kid you not!), a high-scale Mexican department store.

Reed asked the guards for permission to take this picture 'for our family'.  Notice the garages at ground level; the living spaces are a flight up.

                                                                                                       



Here's the restaurant. Open pit barbecue is prepared in this front area, so the area is open to the fresh air through the iron bars.

No -- we don't order barbecue.  We stick to the  delicious chicken dishes that are also on the menu!

This couple was sitting on an iron bench last night outside the restaurant. The woman's bright red hair is quite the fashion; it certainly makes a dramatic image!

When Reed asked to take their picture, they agreed. While showing them the photo, he offered to email a copy to them if they'd give him their email address.

This exchange led them to ask the usual questions: who we are, where we're from, why we're here. Reed explained, as we always do, that we're in Mexico City because after three years living in the tranquility of Pátzcuaro, Michoacán, we can no longer ignore the negative consequences of certain U.S. policies toward Mexico, our host country.

We're here to work with the Americas Program to raise awareness about these issues among our countrymen and women. Immediately, the woman responded, "Arms sales. The flow of arms into Mexico is bringing great violence to the Mexican people."

The man said he'd give us their email address later. We'd forgotten about it, but when we left, he came running down the sidewalk after us. After he'd given us his email address, I asked him who the woman is and where she's from. It turns out that she is Mexican of Italian descent from Sinaloa. You may have heard about Sinaloa, probably in the context of the Sinaloa Drug Cartel. Her familiarity with Sinaloa lends special urgency to her comment about arms sales.

Talk about living embedded!  We have seen no other foreigners in our neighborhood.  When we walk out the front door, we speak only Spanish.  The Mexican people we have met--all levels, from shopkeepers and taxi drivers to this obviously middle-class couple--show intense curiosity about us.

Without exception, our new acquaintances become serious, thoughtful, even respectful, when we explain what we're doing. Then, as this woman did, they often share their own experiences. Their willingness to take us into their confidence by sharing validates the importance of what we're trying to do.

These new acquaintances are the people, the pueblo, that I write about in the post, Encountering the Pueblo in Mexico City.

Travel Journal: Mexico from a Bus Window - Place (Space)

Most Mexicans travel by bus. So when Reed and I decided to visit old friends in Cuernavaca, we chose bus travel. Bus windows give us a special view of Mexico's land and its people. For me bus rides are 'time out of mind' experiences. Unburdened by daily tasks, my mind interacts freely with passing views and associates easily to related experiences, people and places.

Leaving the colonial city of Morelia, we head east toward Mexico City. The landscape first captures my attention. The sheer scale of Mexico's landscapes is awe-some—Big Sky, Big Hills, Big Valleys that twist and bend around the 'hills'. I remind myself that at 6,000 feet above sea level, these 'hills' are little mountaintops.

No photo truly captures the 'bigness' of the Mexican countryside in all its 360-degree grandeur. It reminds me of the geography of the Far Western United States—Utah, Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, Montana—where the Rocky Mountains rise up to meet the sky to the West and the Great Plains unfold to the East as far as the eye can see.

Walkers catch my eye. Mexicans are inveterate, seemingly tireless walkers. Well-worn footpaths wind across the land. I watch a mother holding the hand of a child about four years old. Walking steadily on a road across open land, it's my guess they are headed toward their pueblo and home. But I also see schoolchildren in school uniforms walking home from school on well-paved roads with little or no vehicular traffic.

My mind jumps to the teenager I saw from the bus two years ago on our way to Oaxaca across vast, open desert-like spaces. His clothes were international 'teen—baggy shorts, T-shirt, tennis shoes, hatless at midday in the scorching sun—casually striding along. What struck me at the time was that we were in the middle of what seemed to me to be absolutely nowhere—cactus of every kind, but not a tree in sight, endless hills rolling one after another.

But clearly this joven (teenager) was 'somewhere'—most likely, his pueblo was reasonably close by. On the flight from Oaxaca back to Mexico City, I was fascinated to see dirt roads crisscrossing these desolate ridges, connecting isolated pueblos. Many of these footpaths are remnants of Mesoamerican paths that predate the arrival of the Spanish by thousands of years.

Meanwhile, today I see numerous folks of all ages on bicycles riding in pueblos and fields perhaps an hour outside Mexico City. I don't mean fancy sports bikes. I'm talking about well-used bikes with balloon tires and baskets mounted front and back. I'm describing a basic mode of transportation commonly used on well-paved roads with minimal vehicular traffic. It reminds me yet again: Mexico is a different world.

I become aware of the variety of houses that we pass along the way—houses in all stages of completion. These uncompleted houses baffled me until I learned that mortgages are not available to most Mexicans, which makes house construction a pay-as-you-go affair.

Families save money. When they have saved enough, they buy land. Then they save again until funds are available to begin construction. They build what they can pay cash for. Construction stops while the family accumulates funds to begin again. It takes years to build a house.

But here’s the good news: Once built, the house belongs to the family, not to the bank. When hard times hit, families focus on essentials like food, gas and electricity without having to worry about mortgage payments.

Many families provide much of the labor as well. It seems every Mexican we know is remarkably multi-skilled. The range of skills, certainly those needed to build a house, is even broader when the skill set of the entire extended family is drawn upon, as it usually is. It's today's version of the 'barn-raisings' that helped farm families settle the Western United States.

At a certain point in the ongoing construction process, families move in. A Pátzcuaro friend told us how her family moved into their home when it was only partially completed. It took her father several years to complete the house, which he did himself. Today the house is a comfortable middle class home to the entire family of eight children.

My mind keeps returning to the importance of the Mexican 'family home'. It is changing somewhat now, but traditionally Mexicans are very attached to the place (pueblo) of their birth and tend to stay put. The Mexican-Spanish word order ir y venir—go and come—likely reflects this attachment.  We are intrigued by the word order because in English, of course, it is reversed; we say, come and go, rather than go and come.

Reed's 'take' seems just right:  For Mexicans, the center of reference is here—home or pueblo. So Mexicans van y vienen—they go and come, returning always to their center of reference. In contrast, the English form 'come and go' seems to imply that as a people our 'center of reference' is somewhere else.

The importance of 'place' is also reflected in the Spanish language. English has the single verb form to be.  But Spanish has two verb forms:  ser ('to be' as essential condition; for example, Soy una mujer - I am a woman); and estar ('to be' in the sense of place; for example, Estoy aquí en Pátzcuaro - I am here in Pátzcuaro).

Reed has traced the etymology of the Spanish verb estar (to be) back to the Indo-European word "sta," which means to stand. Some derivatives mean "place or thing standing"; for example, state, stage, stay, statue, station. As we move around Pátzcuaro, Reed and I sense a profound linkage between this sense of 'place' and, despite the severe poverty, a serene self confidence among indigenous Purhépecha people.

Our young American friend tells of buying a breakfast gordita (tortilla sandwich) from an indigenous woman in Oaxaca. The woman asked our friend where she is from. Upon hearing the reply, the woman drew herself up and proudly responded, "Ya estás en mi tierra" (Now you are in my land).

An illuminating question to ask a new Mexican acquaintance is, "Were you born here?"  Many people straighten with pride before confirming, yes, or having to say no, they quickly and proudly volunteer where they were born—obviously providing a key component of their personal identity.

We are extranjeros (strangers) in this Mexican land that—viewed through the windows of a long-distance bus—passes by so quickly. But as we go from Pátzcuaro to travel through the Mexican countryside, we carry with us a sense of our increasing rootedness in the pueblo where we will, indeed, come once again when our travels are done.

Mexico Culture: Mañana....

In the course of exchanging emails to confirm an upcoming date to get together, our Canadian friend Mary mentioned that she still hasn’t learned how to say “looking forward to it” in Spanish even though, “I lose track of how many times a day we [husband and I] both use the expression 'looking forward to it'; still, we have asked every teacher of Spanish that we have ever had and all we get is a literal translation accompanied by a puzzled look.”

Reed’s Spanish teacher offered the translation—Lo esperamos—"we await you." That makes sense because the verb esperar is used to express both to wait and to hope.

This morning I asked my Spanish teacher about the Mexican equivalent of "we're looking forward to it." He became seriously thoughtful, before replying slowly, "It isn't necessary here—just express your agradecimiento (gratitude) when you arrive, or when you leave."

Sigh—yet another cultural puzzle.

The Mexican notion of time is a very difficult concept for us gringos to get our heads around, principally because the Mexican people don't appear to have the same sense of 'future’—with its Siamese twin ‘progress’—that we US-ians have and, I suspect, that as descendants of Northern Europeans, the Canadians also have.

Mexicans rarely use the future tense. Listen for it in daily conversation and whole days—even weeks!—can go by without hearing the future tense used even once.

We have been surprised to learn that as a group, our Mexican friends and acquaintances tend to have low expectations about what the future will bring. These low expectations might explain why my teacher would suggest that "looking forward to it” isn’t necessary here since the notion of “looking forward” is alien to Mexican culture.

The tasks of daily life, reminded me yesterday—yet again!—that the Spanish word mañana doesn’t necessarily mean “in twenty-four hours” as it does to us gabachos (gringos). Instead, mañana means that the event is on the list of things to happen in a somewhat indeterminate future—that is, mañana.

In response to my order of BP meds, the pharmacist told me that they would arrive mañana, and so they did. That is, they arrived much to my consternation mañana three days later, not mañana 'next-day'.

When our taxi drivers want to confirm that something is to happen in twenty-four hours, they’ll say mañana followed by the name of the day—so, if today is lunes (Monday), they’ll confirm by asking ¿mañana martes? (Tuesday).

In a similar vein, we are struck by events surrounding the recent release, government ban and subsequent judicial lifting of the ban regarding screening the award-winning Mexican documentary “Presumed Guilty” in Mexican theaters—to, I might add, long lines and packed houses. PBS has shown this documentary (with English subtitles) recently.  Reed has posted a number of articles regarding this potentially citizenship-building event on the http://americasmexico.blogspot.com/search/label/justice.

The freed defendant has received offers as a motivational speaker and to record his rap music (played under the film's screen credits), but he has more mundane concerns: get a high school degree and support his family. His intent to “support his family” is apparently not currently supported by any plan to take advantage of the offers, or for any other plan for his own future: “I don’t have a fixed plan,” he said. “They say that when you design a plan, it doesn’t turn out how you expect.”

His response is perhaps more understandable in light of the incredible equanimity that Mexicans exhibit toward life's unexpected surprises. They take life as life presents itself to them on life's own terms.

In a recent email, our friend Canadian friend Mary captured the essence of this equanimity:

This winter in Ajijic we attended a number of the TED (Technology, Entertainment, Design) Ideas Worth Spreading online lectures. One talk was given by a woman who had suffered a stroke. A brain specialist and physician, she was able to describe her experience—once she had learned how to speak again—of losing the use of the entire left side of her brain, which allowed her the bliss of NOW—neither looking forward nor back, but simply being in that nirvana that SOME of us sought in the 60's with psychedelics. 

Following the talk was a wonderful conversation about living in the moment. I talked about our Mexican friends, acquaintances and neighbors and how much they seem to be able to 'be here now'—dealing with things as they come and not always planning and fussing and worrying and stressing wayyyyy ahead of the fact like we gringos do.

It strikes me that Mary’s thoughts about the present moment are precisely "en blanco" (on target—the "white" of the bull's eye)—an insightful reflection on the precious Mexican sense of now—neither yesterday’s now, nor tomorrow’s now, but this very now.

I'm reminded of Luis's reflection on this theme that I posted earlier:

Yesterday has already gone, and perhaps tomorrow might not arrive. For just this reason, I will be very happy today.

Mexico Culture: Mutual Obligation

Reed and I are readers, so it makes sense that reading is one of our strategies for deepening our cultural awareness. In Spanish, we read classic Mexican literature and the non-fiction of Mexico's leading intellectuals. Often our reading becomes part of our weekly Seminar with both of our Spanish teachers. Aside from improving our ability to converse fluidly in Spanish, these seminars also give us valuable insight into the underpinnings of culture, which, in turn, helps us recognize the significance of our social interactions with Mexican friends.

Last night we went to a party given by a Canadian couple to say 'thank-you" to all their Mexican friends. We felt honored to be included. Our hostess's brief, emotionally rich expression of gratitude to all those Patzcuarenses who have welcomed them into the community was especially touching. Of course, it is the couple's cultural openness that has opened Pátzcuaro's doors.

In the course of the evening, I spoke with Letty, a middle-aged Mexican woman who lives in the nearby neighborhood of Estación. In the course of our chat, Letty mentioned she always reminds her daughter to greet all the neighbors on their street with a pleasant "Good morning" or "Good afternoon." She added, "it is important that we are always amable (friendly)." Then she delivered the cultural punch line, "Because if you are sick and need medicine from the pharmacy, your neighbor will get it for you. Don't have money? No de importa -- it doesn't matter, they'll buy it for you." Ka-ching!

One of the cultural traditions of indigenous communities is the idea of mutual obligation (each helps the other). It is the ties of mutual obligation that provide labor for many special tasks (building a house, repairing a car, providing a meal, even loaning money, etc.). These ties fall under the broader rubric of self-sufficiency. This family-based self-sufficiency takes up the slack by performing roles that we in the US often assign to government.

When the US economic crisis hit, our Mexican friends were blasé about the crisis. "Oh, we're used to it; we know how to cope," they'd remark. It was a cultural puzzle that has taken us just about three years to put together. Recently, Reed and I have become aware of the bonds of mutual obligation that exist within the Mexican family, but we weren't sure about how that cultural practice did or did not exist outside the extended family structure. Letty's comment provided the missing link.

The Canadian couple who were our hosts had also experienced the 'neighborliness' that is grounded in this sense of mutual responsibility. When our hosts needed a delivery of bottled water, their neighbor -- who runs a small juice shop from her house -- said she'd take the delivery and they could pick up the water when they returned. Now keep in mind that our hosts are recent arrivals -- they will only be in Pátzcuaro for three months!

On our recent trip to Tabasco state, we had another encounter whose roots reach down into the same cultural soil. After visiting an archaeological site all morning, we returned to the bustling city of Villahermosa tired and hungry. Our driver suggested a good restaurant, but when we walked in the restaurant was filled with about 150 women of all ages. The waiter told us that an 'association' was having a meeting, but they'd be happy to set up a table for us, which they did.

As we waited for and then enjoyed comida, we observed the festivities with growing bafflement and fascination. I noticed at least four or five of quite-pregnant women, then I noticed another four or five women with infants. When we finished our meal, we asked the waiter the name of the association. He leaned forward and spoke slowly, enunciating clearly so we foreigners would understand his Spanish, "Se llama baby shower" (it's called 'baby shower'). The waiter then explained the concept of 'baby shower' to us, clearly believing that we had no idea about it. He concluded by adding that women honor brides in the same way.

We could scarcely control ourselves. Here was a cultural stew that drew on multiple cultural traditions. First, of course, was the use of the English phrase 'baby shower' to describe this very Mexican event; most astonishing was the waiter's apparent lack of awareness that the term is English and hence we - obviously US-ians - would understand it. From his point of view, it was purely a Mexican tradition -- that was abundantly clear from his careful explanation, which also drew explicitly on the traditional Mexican concepts of mutual responsibility and mutual obligation.

In a nutshell, then, in two quite distinct geographical regions of Mexico, Reed and I enjoyed two distinct experiences of the indigenous cultural tradition of mutual obligation / mutual responsibility alive and actively present in contemporary mestizo (Spanish / indigenous mix)-- that is, non-indigenous--community.

But we also experienced the porosity of the cultural traditions between Mexico and the United States, especially in the West, Southwest and California. The 'baby shower' was the most obvious, but there is another. As a youngster growing up in Palo Alto, California, it was unthinkable to pass anyone on the sidewalk downtown without exchanging pleasantries: 'Good morning' or even just a simple smile and 'Hello'. It is obvious to me that the roots of this custom, which I assume is long-gone today, rest in the original Mexican culture that was California until the mid-nineteenth century.

Mexico Culture: Humble Man, Big Soul

Reed and I first arrived in Pátzcuaro, Michoacán, in August 2007, seeking a place to retire. We had no idea what we would find when we set off from Morelia. The state capital of Michoacán and a UNESCO World Heritage site, colonial Morelia is located about 35 miles east of Pátzcuaro.

Arriving in Pátzcuaro

That first ride from Morelia was spectacular with mountains rising as high as 3,000 feet above the 7,000 foot high Altiplano (High Plains). We were delighted to find the main road into 475 year-old, Spanish colonial Pátzcuaro lined by a mixture of eucalyptus trees that reminded me of my childhood in Palo Alto, California, and pine trees that reminded Reed of summers on lakes in the Adirondacks of northern New York State. Pátzcuaro has been designated a Pueblo Mágico by the federal government because of its beautifully preserved colonial heritage. In a word, we were enchanted.

After wrapping up loose ends in the States, we arrived in Pátzcuaro permanently in August of 2008. Our first months were occupied with getting settled, learning new routines for daily living, and making friends along the way. Our intent was to interweave our lives as much as possible with the Mexican community. A small American community of about 200-300 people is scattered around Pátzcuaro and surrounding pueblos. But our focus was on improving our Spanish so we could communicate with the people of our chosen town and, hopefully, make Mexican friends.

Rather than buy a car, we decided to use taxis. This was an extraordinarily happy decision. We decided to work with Monarca—not only do Monarca cars have the beautiful Monarch butterfly stenciled on their doors, but the drivers deliver consistently superior service. We are quite impressed with our drivers. In the U.S. many of them could easily hold middle management positions. In fact, the best of them run their taxis like small businesses; they develop relationships with selected clients and can be trusted to run errands. I have run into drivers in Soriana’s Supermarket, buying supplies for our favorite local restaurant, El Camino Real.

Luis—A Humble Man with a Big Soul

Today I want to write about Luis, who is a Monarca driver. One morning he picked me up to take me to CELEP, our Spanish school. In the course of our chat, he told me that he loves to write, and he said he wanted to read to me what he had just written. It blew me away, so when he was finished, I asked whether I could copy it. When we arrived at CELEP, he dictated to me while I copied his words into my notebook.

With Luis' permission, I’m reprinting his words in the original Spanish, which I’ve also translated into English. As you read, take special note of the verb to "loan". Although Luis had originally written “gave”, when he read it out loud to me, he said, “No”, and changed the verb from "gave" to "loan" — an important change.

Somehow I think it's important to mention that when I saw his handwriting in his notebook, I realized that he is barely literate. Although this exchange is unusual for its profound insight, conversations of this nature are not uncommon in Pátzcuaro.

Here are Luis’s words in English and in Spanish:

Life Says: Life does not begin when when you are born but when you decide. There are some men who are already born, but they have not yet lived. I was born and already I have lived because God loaned me my life—and He also loaned it to you, and it is only one time. For this reason I will be happy. Yesterday has already gone, and perhaps tomorrow might not arrive. For just this reason, I will be very happy today. ~ Luis, Taxi Driver, age 40

Dice la Vida: Empieza cuando tú decides no cuando naces. Porque hay unos hombres que ya nacieron pero aún no viven. Yo nací y ya he vivido como y porque o para quien Dios me prestó la vida y a tí también y solo es una vez. Por eso hoy seré feliz. El ayer ya se fue y el mañana tal vez no llegue. Por eso solo por hoy seré muy feliz.  ~ Luis

Fiesta to Celebrate First Year in Patzcuaro!

Yesterday, Saturday, August 15, 2009, marked our one-year anniversary of living here in Pátzcuaro. We celebrated with a fiesta familiar (family party) for about 40 of our Mexican friends to thank them for welcoming us into their community. We even had a DJ and music for dancing!

A family party means multiple generations. The oldest was 80 -- the great-grandmother of our friends Sandy and Alejandro's son, Leonardo. Norma (Leo's grandmother) is my age; she has a wonderful sense of humor -- we truly enjoy chatting together! The youngest was 16-months. To my great delight, the boys (about 6-8 of them) kicked a ball around in the backyard. It reminded me of our last house on Lake Waubeeka in Danbury, CT.

Samantha, the administrator at our language school, did the cooking, which was 100% traditional Mexican -- guacamole and frizole (bean) dips for totopos (tortilla chips), pozole (chicken-corn soup), corundas, tamales, we had it all! Plus atole (a hot, corn-based drink with milk and cinnamon -- yummy). Believe it or not, I introduced everyone in Spanish by telling our "recuerdos" (memories) of the role they played in welcoming us to Pátzcuaro -- to much good-natured laughter and applause as everyone learned of everyone else's role.

What a lovely group of people -- many really didn't know each other, but by the end of the evening, they were all interacting and everyone enjoyed themselves -- especially Reed and me!

The DJ was terrific. He played traditional Mexican songs and, at our request, kept the volume down so we could converse. Everyone -- young and old -- danced and thoroughly enjoyed themselves, that was clear! Reed, of course, charmed everyone with his dancing, and he made it a point to dance with every woman! Our friend Antonio has four daughters (23-12), and it was delightful to watch him dance with them.

One traditional dance seems to go on forever -- hands up in the air, dancing "sexy" (in English, with Spanish pronunciation!), and other moves I don't remember; finally, we all made a circle and each person takes a turn in the center of the circle, demonstrating their best moves to much high hilarity. It was a kick -- an absolute kick!

Outsiders At Home in Mexico

Periodically over the past year, Reed and I have asked ourselves, "Would we ever return to the U.S.?" Our answer has always been an emphatic: "No way!" But understanding why has somehow eluded us. This morning Reed put his finger on it: here in Patzcuaro, we are accepted for who we are, rather than for what we possess -- neither for our "stuff" nor for our professional accomplishments.

Take the lovely visit we had last weekend with new Mexican friends. They're a husband-wife team: El doctor is an orthodontist. La doctora is my talented and much-appreciated periodontist, but that isn’t how I met her. I met her first because in her waiting room she runs Patzcuaro's only bookstore! I have to ask: Where else but in Mexico would your periodontist open a bookstore in her waiting room—and, moreover, it is the only bookstore in town?

The family doesn’t speak English; they are among our growing cadre of Spanish-only friends. I had to laugh one day when mi amiga pulled off her mask to say, “You’re fun to talk to.” We decided then that we could be friends.

So last Saturday we met them at their house here in town and rode with them to the rancho, which is about an hour out in the countryside. Oh, my word, I've never seen anything quite like it. The rancho is owned by el doctor's sister and her husband, who grow avocados for export to the U.S. and leechee fruit for export to China! It was our first taste of leechee: they’re about the size of a small apricot with a seed inside, the skin is pinkish, the pulp is strangely gelatinous with a sweet-tart taste. There must be some kind of divine justice for Mexico to be exporting leechee to China -- rather like carrying coals to Newcastle!

We had our picnic in a fiesta pavilion easily large enough to seat 50, with room for dancing! Mi amiga had prepared a soy ceviche that was absolutely delicious. The soy had a texture like fork-flaked fish. I had trouble realizing it was soy!!! I simply must learn how to cook soy!

Down from the pavilion was a kidney-shaped pool: water for the pool is heated by pipes that run across the roof of the pavilion to capture solar energy before being piped into the pool. Around the pool were banana and palm trees. It was like being in the jungle! At the base of the palm tree was a thriving lantana. The aunt took me for a short walk to the other side of the pool, and we looked upstream along a little river that flows by the pool. To my surprise -- voila! There was a lovely waterfall cascading down over three levels. It could have been a movie set right out of a 1950’s movie – perhaps a musical with Esther Williams!

We didn't go up to the Casa Grande, but from the driveway it was obvious that it is indeed a casa grande, complete with mirador—a unique feature of Mexican architecture. Translated as “small balcony” or “viewpoint,” a mirador is a small room (say, 15’ x 15’) at the top of the house with windows all the way around. So a mirador is a room for looking out over the countryside. I’ve never actually been in one, but mi amiga said they have one in their town house, and she’d like us to see it.

We watched the rain clouds tease us all afternoon: will it / won't it rain? Finally, at about 5:30 pm the skies opened for a torrential downpour. It was a kick running around cleaning up the food and putting chairs on the tables to the accompaniment of Tlaloc's (Aztec God of Rain) gift of rain pounding on the roof. Looking out at the rain, it was as if a curtain had dropped between us and the outside world. And, of course, the tormenta (rainstorm) was mostly over after about 15-20 minutes.

This morning Reed and I were reflecting on what a delightful time we'd had. Our Mexican friends guilelessly ask us very direct questions that always carry an implicit request: “Please tell me who you are.” So mi amiga asked, “Jenny, was your childhood happy?” and el amigo asked Reed, “Is Jenny your first wife? I just wondered because we know that many Americans divorce.”

In the United States both Reed and I have felt like outsiders; we felt we had little in common with most of the people we met. How ironic: here where we are truly foreigners, we feel accepted; but in our own country we have always felt like outsiders!

Reed and I have a young friend, Ina, who studied recently at our language school. She is a delightfully intelligent, culturally curious young woman who has shared her Blog with us. Ina has studied in Bangladesh and traveled to (among other places) India, New Zealand and Mexico. I would like to give the last word on this Post to a Reflexión written by the Program Coordinator for Ina’s stay in Mexico:

“For thousands of years, peoples of this area of the world have been hospitable towards the ‘other’ as a way of being in this world. All their original cosmologies conceive the ‘other’ as the only way to define oneself: the other is not really an alien, a foreigner, but the other part of oneself.

"But for 500 years these peoples have been constantly invaded by inhospitable people. By extending hospitality to the Spaniards, the people were colonized. By hosting other gods, their own gods were destroyed. By hosting ‘development,’ their environment and livelihood were seriously damaged.

"It seems to be a miracle that after all such experiences they could still retain hospitality as a defining trait. They have done so because they know that it is not only a condition for survival, but also the only way to live.” [Emphasis mine] --Gustavo Esteva

My hope echoes Ina's: ...that the peoples of the world may learn that hospitality might be a crucial part of bringing healing to our wounded world.