Día de los Muertos: "Yo Soy la Tierra"—"I am the Earth"

For those of us steeped in the Western tradition, experiences that challenge our taken-for-granted assumptions about how the world ‘is’ can startle and unsettle us. But when we lean into these challenging experiences rather than rebuffing them, we open ourselves to a deeper understanding of what it means to be human.

Renowned Mexican anthropologist Guillermo Bonfil Batalla studied indigenous traditions and practices. In introducing Bonfil Batalla's master work, México Profundo, his English translator wrote:

"An ancient agricultural complex provides their [indigenous communities'] food supply, and

• Work is understood as a way of maintaining a harmonious relation with the natural world;

• Health is related to human conduct; and

• Community service is often part of each individual's life obligation.

• Time is circular, and

• Humans fulfill their own cycle in relation to other cycles of the universe."

At times living in Mexico is a wild ride. We go along day-to-day assuming that we are more or less in the modern world, then suddenly something happens that brings us up short, and we become aware of having landed in a completely different universe. So it was one day when my Spanish teacher Alicia, who is Purhépecha, announced,

“Yo soy la tierra”—“I am the earth.”

“What?” I asked, startled as much by the abruptness of her announcement as by her words, which I had instantly understood.

She repeated her statement, more insistently, emphatically,

“Yo soy la Tierra”.

My face must have betrayed confusion because when Alicia repeated the phrase for the third time, “Yo soy la Tierra” her voice tone had softened ... more inviting than insistent.

Her words left me mute—without a thought in my head, incapable of framing a response. I had never before heard anyone utter words so simple, yet so profound. Words spoken matter-of-factly, with tremendous dignity, Alicia's tone conveyed the urgency that lay just beyond her words.

I reflected. In the Spanish language and in Mesoamerican religious thought, each word in the simple sentence is pregnant with meaning:

• Yo – I, the ‘me’ that is me—no ‘other’—Alicia was saying that she is, herself, the earth.

• Soy – am: the ‘essence’ of being itself—in Spanish the verb ser ('to be') is used when referring to an essential, unchanging quality (e.g., “Soy madre”); a second verb estar (also 'to be') is used to refer to a state or condition that can change (e.g., “Estoy cansada” – I am tired).

• La tierra – the earth, the soil. In Mesoamerican thought, the earth is a complex symbol—domain of the earth goddess, Tonantzin, it is also the locus of the Underworld.

Alicia continued. Before her death, her grandmother had given Alicia three dichos (sayings).

I. 

 “La tierra es la madre | Lo que tú haces a la madre, vas a recibir.”

The Earth is the Mother | What you do to the Mother, you are going to receive.

The Earth is the Mother: Tonantzin is believed to be a manifestation of the Earth Mother, known as Coatlicue, the mother of all living things. Conceived by immaculate and miraculous means, Coatlicue is the one who decides the length of life. To the Mexica, the earth was both mother and tomb, giver of life and receiver of human remains at death. The process of decomposition both feeds the earth and culminates in reunion with the Life-Force that animates the universal cycle.

What you do to the Mother, you are going to receive: Alicia pointed out that everything we eat and everything that enters our bodies originates from the earth in one form or another—not just plant foods, but beef, fish and poultry as well.

She then related ancient agricultural wisdom for cultivating the earth, including the custom of planting multiple crops in the same field. Beans and squash planted with corn, for example, deliver nitrogen that nourishes the corn plants in a natural, organic manner, without negative side effects.

It isn't difficult, then, to imagine the sense of honor felt by campesinos working their ancestral lands—their work enables them to maintain a harmonious relationship with natural forces as they care for—in English, we might say husband—Mother Earth herself.

Nor is it difficult, then, to imagine the profound sense of violation occasioned by such extractive practices as open pit mining, illegal logging of sacred forests, fracking—which constitute a veritable rape of Mother Earth.

Moreover, this violation, this rape is not without consequence, for humankind is destined to 'receive' in kind 'what it has done' to Mother Earth, which leads quite naturally to the grandmother's second dicho, saying:

II. 

 “No siembres para que no coseches.” 

“Don’t sow that you need not harvest.”

The similarity of this saying with Saint Paul’s injunction to the Galatians is unmistakable: “As you sow, so shall you reap.” There is a similar saying in the Old Testament, “He who sows the wind shall reap the whirlwind” (Hosea 8:7). But Alicia assured me that her Purhépecha grandmother intended neither of these meanings.

To explain, she related this anecdote: Apparently in the 1950’s, foreign agricultural companies gave free chemical fertilizers to the campesinos. After using them, the campesinos discovered that not only were the fields unable to grow anything without using these expensive fertilizers, but the people feared eating foods grown with chemicals because they feared putting those chemicals in their bodies. Health is related to human conduct ....

For the same reason, many indigenous people reject western medicine in favor of traditional medicines that originate from medicinal herbs and plants locally grown. Not coincidentally, one consequence of Mexico’s geography are its diverse ecosystems. In fact, Mexico is one of the planet's countries with the greatest biodiversity. It is a resource that Mexico's peoples have drawn upon for three thousand years.

III. 

 “Tú eres hijo de la tierra y ella va a darte lo que necesitas, pero el día que mueras ella se alimentará de ti y entonces te preguntará ¿qué hiciste conmigo?”

“You are a child of the earth, and she [Mother Earth] is going to give you what you need, but on the day you die, she will feed herself on you, and then she will ask, 

‘What did you do with me’?”

This final saying is perhaps the most profound. When her grandmother died, Alicia felt sad but at the same time peaceful because she felt that now it was her grandmother’s turn to feed the earth. As Alicia observed,

“The daughter must to return to her mother….”

Traditional burial rituals are helpful. It is the family’s responsibility to prepare the grave. I can only imagine the range and force of feelings expressed by family members as they perform this final task for a loved one. Surely there are feelings of sadness at losing the participation of this beloved family member in the family’s daily life.

But there is also calm in their confidence that they are preparing the resting place for the daughter, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother as she goes forth to rejoin the Life-Force itself.

Time is circular, and humans fulfill their own cycle in relation to other cycles of the universe.

And now we come to the grandmother's last words, “…and [Mother Earth] will ask, ‘What did you do with me’?” A difficult, even profound, question — one each of us is called to answer for ourselves....

Qué le vaya bien—May it go well with you.

Mexico Culture: Campesina Wisdom

I've been back and forth to the U.S. a couple of times in the last month. Dropping in and out of both cultures has heightened my awareness of the unique qualities of each. In New York I had lunch with a long-time, beloved friend. She urged me to continue writing about the people I meet here in Mexico.

As I begin this New Post, Evangelina immediately comes to mind. I'm just a few months older than she: I just turned 70; she’ll be 70 in December. We are both grandmothers, but my grandson is nine-months old; hers are teenagers. She has worked at the Casa Mariposa for over thirty years. Her youngest daughter, now 32 years old, played in the niches for storing firewood under the kitchen counter.

Evangelina is a short, stocky, strong campesina (countrywoman) with a broad, pleasant, morena (brown) face and large brown, expressive eyes.  Always neatly dressed, her hair is graying, except when her daughter periodically ‘colors’ it. She has a keen sense of play, a vivid imagination, a delightful sense of humor and a generous spirit.

Intelligent, she wanted to go to school, but school wasn’t possible. The couple who built Casa Mariposa over thirty years ago were professors of Social Work from a university in the Midwest.  Each year they brought down groups of students to do field work and improve their Spanish. They all lived at Casa Mariposa and held seminars in the large sala (living room). Although Evangelina couldn't understand a word, the seminars fascinated her. Those years with the visiting students were clearly the high point in her life.

But Evangelina's wisdom doesn't come from education. Her considerable wisdom is campesina wisdom, and it comes from a lifetime spent close to the land and to her family.

Once a week, she helps me with the house. We begin the day by pouring each of us un cafecito (cup of coffee) from beans grown in nearby Uruápan. Then in the timeworn fashion of women everywhere, we lean against the kitchen counter, and we chat about whatever's on our minds. Sometimes we chat about family. Sometimes we discuss the latest happenings in Pátzcuaro. And sometimes, not always, but many times, we talk about our lives, and we reflect on what we've learned about what it means to be human.

When we first arrived, I was puzzled by her periodic assertions that "Todos somos seres humanos" ("We are all human beings"). Over time I have come to realize how devastating to Mexican self-esteem was the never-ending derision of Mexico’s Spanish colonists, who complained that the indigenous peoples were "lazy, ignorant...." Well, you get the idea. Sounds a lot like what some of us in the U.S. have said about African-Americans, doesn't it? And for precisely the same reason—as an insidious means of social control.

Early Spanish accounts, interestingly, describe the indigenous as intelligent, curious and cooperative. In the early stage, monastic orders were charged with educating the brightest of indigenous men to prepare them for ordination, but when both their tutor-monks and the Spanish vice regal government realized that the indigenous seminarians were outshining their Spanish mentors, the program was gradually altered and eventually phased out. At about the same time, Spanish accounts of the indigenous changed: later accounts describe the indigenous people as sullen, stupid, and uncooperative.

Here in the area surrounding Lake Pátzcuaro, Bishop Vasco de Quiroga intervened on behalf of the Purhépecha people—a proud nation never defeated by the Aztecs. In his defense of the Purhépechas from the worst of Spanish excesses, Bishop Quiroga insistently reminded everyone, "Todos somos seres humanos." Tata (Father) Quiroga is held in such high regard by the Purhépechas that he has been nominated for beatification.

But the damage has been done, and so Evangelina asserted to us, strangers in her workplace, "Todos somos seres humanos." It is impossible to relate all I have learned from her during our kitchen chats. Early on, it became evident that her life has not been easy. She spent part of her childhood in an orphanage run by the nuns. She doesn’t complain; she says she liked the order and the discipline.

When Evangelina married a Purhépecha man, she quickly learned that her life would not be easy. She told me, "I had a choice. I could be depressed, or I could decide what I wanted to accomplish. I decided that I wanted all of my children to finish school." And they have. One is an accountant, one is a social worker, one is a teacher, and two work for the government in international trade. I should add that although what Evangelina has accomplished is heroic, she is not alone. These campesina women are the backbone of Mexico. More on that in a later post.

Over time, I’ve pieced the story together. School is not free in Mexico, so there were always school expenses: uniforms, textbooks, and school supplies; fees for traditional dance (balet foklórico) and for sports. Evangelina and her husband live in the house that her husband grew up in. The property is perhaps half an acre—sufficient for a good-sized vegetable garden, fruit (including avocado) trees, and a chicken yard.

In the early years of their marriage, her husband was a fisherman bringing home in his traditional canoa (canoe) Pátzcuaro’s famous white fish, but this was before the water level in Lake Pátzcuaro fell so low that the Lake receded from their land. The good news is that the family has a corn field on the now-exposed lake bed.

As Evangelina explained to me one day with a teasing gleam in her eye, “If one of my children needed money for school expenses—it's not a problem. I've always had eggs from my chickens and fruit from my trees. I’d just take some eggs to sell in the market, or avocados from my trees, or I’d bake tortillas to sell.”

Her entrepreneurial spirit derives from Mesoamerican culture, when a network of trade routes linked marketplaces among Mexico's city-states over two thousand years ago. Evangelina's entrepreneur-ism manifests the daily operation of Mexico's informal economy—the much-debated informal economy that makes up 40% of Mexico's economy overall. Forty percent!

Just after Christmas, we had taken down and stored away a wonderful gallina piñata (piñata in the form of a hen on her nest). But when Evangelina saw that we had removed the piñata, she lamented, “Oh, you think that the gallina (hen) is only a piñata for Christmas. You don’t realize that the gallina is the symbol for the domesticity that means a contented family.” Needless to say, we restored the gallina to her place of honor hanging in an arched opening between the breakfast and dining rooms.

Just recently, Evangelina observed to me, out of nowhere, that all of us are the people we present to the world, but we are also deeply private spiritual beings as well. Then she added, “I feel that I am like the leña (firewood); first, it burns brightly as it provides heat for the family, but as it burns the leña becomes smaller and smaller. I look at my clothes and see that they are too big, and I say, ‘Hmm, I am getting smaller. Like the leña, I have done my major work in raising my family, now my body is diminishing…just like the leña’.”

The roots of Evangelina’s identification with a natural process (la naturaleza) reach deep into the Mesoamerican culture that is the substratum of Mexican culture. This ancient culture presupposes a close link between man and nature, such that man and nature are mutually obligated each to the other. It is this reciprocal relationship that is the basis for the idea of mutual obligation—reciprocal relationships—that remains a primary value of traditional Mexican culture to this day.

I wish I could communicate the calm acceptance and bemused detachment with which Evangelina uttered these words. Where else would I ever have heard such a description of the aging process? Nowhere that I know. It was as if she were an interested, kindly bystander to this process called ‘aging’.

When I began taking Spanish, my teacher commented that the Purhépecha women on the colectivos (vans used for public transportation in our rural area) have a deep sense of their own ‘place’. My teacher said, “They get on with all their baskets of things to sell, and they make themselves comfortable. The rest of us accommodate them.”

Reed has written about the verb estar (to be in the sense of location), and in an earlier post, I told the story of the young American woman visiting in Oaxaca. One morning she bought a breakfast tortilla from a vendor on the street, who asked where she was from. Our friend replied, “From the United States,” then watched spellbound as the woman drew herself up proudly before announcing, “Ya estás en mi tierra” (Now you are on my land). My land, my place. I belong to this land; this land belongs to me.  This sense of place gives rise to a profound self-confidence unknown to us in the 'developed' world.

It was with this certitude that Evangelina told me about the burning leña as metaphor for her aging body. Such is the wisdom of the campesina.  I don't know about you, but I can use more of this wisdom in my life.

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 Fiestas: How They Work & What They Mean

Let me tell you about this week after Semana Santa.  Tuesday afternoon we began to hear cohetes (rockets or huge firecrackers) being set off in Ihuatzio.  I was interested to hear the discussion among our albañiles (a family team of workmen) on our roof cleaning and rearranging tejas (red roof tiles) in preparation for the rainy season, which arrives in May.

Following a brief discussion of whether the cohetes came from Janitzio (major island in Lake Pátzcuaro) or Ihuatzio (pueblo straight across the now-dry Lake bed from us), Daniel (father) pronounced definitively that the origin was Ihuatzio, and the cohetes were announcing the beginning of Ihuatzio's annual fiesta honoring their patron saint, San Isidro.

The pueblo's full name follows the custom of the frailes (members of the Catholic Monastic Orders that sent missionaries to Nueva España) to use both the Purhépecha and a Saint's name.  So the pueblo's full name is Ihuatzio de San Isidro.

But this is a three-day fiesta, and last night was the pueblo's baile tradicional (traditional dance). I can attest to the fact that they were going strong at 2:00 AM, when I wakened briefly to enjoy the sounds of Mexican music before putting in earplugs so I could get the rest of my beauty sleep.

Mexican Fiesta Band

The story of fiestas is an excellent example of how cultural understanding builds over time. For me, the first stage was simply enjoying, even savoring, the full sensual impact of Mexican fiesta traditions.

Señoritas in Traditional Dress Bearing Bottles of Tequila
for Champions at the Jaripeo (Bull-Riding Rodeo)

All five senses are involved—sights (families, bright colors), sounds (happy chatter, music and dance, games, cohetes), touch, taste and smells aroused by mouth-watering, soul-satisfying traditional foods—corundas, atole (corn-based beverage seasoned with various fruits), tortillas a mano (handmade tortillas), tacos of all kinds, and much more.

Young men stirring huge pots of Atole

Stage Two began when I first learned how fiestas are arranged. A Mexican friend told me that one person in the pueblo accepts the cargo (charge) for the year's fiestas, which includes not only arranging, but paying expenses associated with the fiesta as well:  bands; religious services; food and drink for assistants; adornments for the Saint's image (frequently a statue); cohetes (rockets) and Castillos (towers of fireworks)!

Castillos, Fireworks Towers, are a standard element of fiestas

My initial reaction was disbelief ("But how can that be?"), followed quickly by mild censure as I learned that sometimes a family will send a son to the U.S. to earn the money to pay for the fiesta. What?—asked this incredulous extranjera (foreigner), still trying hard to understand.

My Mexican friend further explained that it has been known to happen that upon receiving money from the government, a pueblo's Elders have chosen to pay for their fiesta rather than make infrastructure improvements to the pueblo. The mild censure of this civil engineer's daughter yielded to outright disbelief:  "How can this possibly be?  How can the Elders choose to 'waste' these funds on a fiesta?"  

Over time, that is, in an ongoing Stage Three, I am coming to learn, and far more than merely learn about, but to appreciate deeply the wisdom of, this culturally-based reasoning. As my understanding increases, so does my respect.

As it turns out, a pueblo's fiestas are much more than an annual 'party'. In these communal societies, continuity of family and community is top priority. In this context, fiestas are essential social rituals for reinforcing familial and communal identity essential for preserving millenia-old cultural traditions rooted in Mesoamerican culture.

Community members living afuera (outside the pueblo, either in other regions of Mexico or in the U.S.) make annual visits—one might say pilgrimages—to attend their pueblo's fiesta. At this time and in this way, communal identity is affirmed in a traditional reaffirmation of: Who I belong to, and Who belongs to me.

Sign reads: "Employees of Tzintzuntzan 2009"
"Lord of the Rescue"
"Commission of the People and Migrant Brothers (25-year tradition)"

These traditions are built on ancient Mesoamerican customs of mutual responsibility and mutual obligation described by Gustavo Estefa and Guillermo Bonfil Battalla (México Profundo), among others.

A person's invitation to accept the cargo for the pueblo's fiestas is, in fact, one of the highest honors the pueblo can bestow. It singles out the carguero as a person who not only knows what must be done to maintain the ancient cultural tradition, but how to do it.  The role of carguero brings prestige and honor to himself and to his entire extended family.

From an early age, children begin to assume responsibilities in the larger community; that is, they begin to act in ways that acknowledge and honor their obligation to the community. As they mature, responsibilities become increasingly significant until, as adults, they may choose to participate in the sistema de cargos (hierarchy of public tasks).

It is by their service to the community over many years—even decades—that the individual develops a variety of specialized capacities for maintaining the community and assumes increasing responsibility and authority for community governance.

A majority of roles (cargos) are annual. In some situations, acceptance of a charge is voluntary; in other situations, a cargo is imposed either by designation or by election. In either situation, the social pressure to accept is intense. 

The sistema de cargos formalizes the authority of the community in three inextricably linked spheres: civil, religious and moral.  A person who successfully performs all the "laddered" tasks is admitted to the community's circle of "principles" or Elders, in whom the ultimate authority of the community resides.

This closed circle of Elders is charged with maintaining the group's cultural—that is, indigenous—heritage with its Mesoamerican roots. Participation in the sistema de cargos implies a fundamental orientation of one's life toward service to the community. For that reason, it is one of the basic norms underlying identification with and membership in the community's circle of Elders.

Council of Elders for Pueblo on shores of Lake Pátzcuaro

There is a visible congruence among seemingly diverse cultural aspects of these indigenous communities:

• Orientation of production toward self-sufficiency is congruent with a society that recognizes prestige (rather than, for example, material success); these core values—self-sufficiency and prestige—tend to equalize material gain and discourage accumulation of wealth. 
• Neighborly and familial connections based on networks of reciprocal relationships (mutual obligation—similar to the farming communities that settled the Midwest and West) are the same as those required for the acquisition of authority by means of prestige described above.  
• Communal property and restrictions placed on the acquisition of private property are congruent with roles,  relationships and values described above.

In sum, the community profile describes a society in which full realization of the individual is achieved by means of service to the community, which in turn, gives back prestige and authority to the individual who undertakes to participate in the sistema de cargos.

For this extranjera, raised in a culture that values individualism, individual effort and material success, the placement of family and community, including an ancient cultural heritage, at the center of one's effort and care involves a growing acceptance of a radically different way of thinking about all the possible ways we might consider living together on our Planet Earth.

Jenny's Update: 2014 

If you're up to having basic assumptions challenged, I strongly recommend Naomi Klein's recently published (2014) "This Changes Everything: Capitalism Vs. the Climate"; reviewed in New York Times by Rob Nixon, "Naomi Klein’s ‘This Changes Everything’." (The review is exceptionally useful for understanding the thrust of Klein's argument.)

The first generous third of this highly researched and vetted work reviews climate science. I plowed my way through the science, which Naomi presents in the most accessible way possible. Becoming increasingly pessimistic, I was completely unprepared when Naomi Klein sprang a surprise on this trusting reader. A Canadian, she introduced a discussion of Canada's First Nations as best positioned to take on and stop the Keystone XL pipeline. Even more, she discusses the worldview underlying their way of life.

* * * * * Most Highly Recommended.

Easter Sunday in Pátzcuaro

This morning dawned clear and bright at Casa Mariposa.  Easter Sunday was heralded by the inimitable sound of cohetes—rockets, or large firecrackers—calling the Faithful to Mañanitas, Morning Prayers.  I'm not quite sure why the cohetes sound so reassuring and friendly; perhaps it is knowing that they take the place of bells in the smaller churches around Lake Pátzcuaro.

Easter Sunday is mostly a Family Day.  Our favorite restaurant in Pátzcuaro, el Camino Real (the King's Highway), is decorated for the occasion with blown-out eggs hung on a tree. The symbolism is unclear, but eggs are clearly fertility symbols in anticipation of the approaching planting season.

The restaurant's cocineras (Mexican chefs are traditionally women) will be kept hopping all day preparing  almuerzo (brunch) in the late morning, followed by comida (dinner) in the afternoon.

Tables will be set up in a covered patio area in front of the restaurant to accommodate customers. Meanwhile, the restaurant's cheerful meseros (waiters) will quickly push tables together to accommodate family groups easily numbering ten, fifteen, even twenty or more people per family.

One of my favorite sounds in Mexico is the muted, comfortable sound of family conversation punctuated by the gentle laughter that seems to come easily and often during these family celebrations.

Easter Message from Pátzcuaro

For this extranjera (foreigner) living as embedded as possible in a Mexican neighborhood, it is increasing awareness of and respect for the acute Mexican sense of the dualism that characterizes all life.

In the Mexican sensibility, every condition of human life is characterized inevitably by its opposite state—life and death, joy and sorrow, laughter and tears, success and failure, bitter and sweet—the list is as infinite as the states of the human condition.

When we first arrived, I experienced as jarring, discordant, the automatic reminder by our Mexican friends of a condition's opposite state.  Being reminded of a condition's opposite denied me the luxury of relishing—or wallowing in—a current state.

But over time, I've discovered the wisdom inherent in recognizing the Essential Duality of Life:  no condition—positive or negative—lasts forever.  I'm mindful of St. Paul's comment from his imprisonment:  "I've learned in whatever state I am, therein to be content." 

It is in this context that perhaps we can approach an understanding of the suffering and penance of Good Friday and Holy Saturday as the necessary precursor for celebration of the Risen Christ on Easter Sunday.

¡Feliz Pascua!  Happy Easter!

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.

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.