Facing La Madre

December #2

Facing La Madre, the fountain.

Meditation. Sweeping. Making and drinking tea. Speaking Spanish with Manuel, whom I have named, to myself, Wise Heart. Because he is one of the wisest people I know.

Yesterday a beautiful black or dark brown snake came into the doorway. I called Sweet Heart, my partner in these adventures, who gently picked it up and placed it back into the garden.

Finally, the right spirit!

No question at all of harming it; only admiration for its sleek and fearless regalness. I felt the closing of a circle in my life, regarding snakes. From wonder and fascination (which I would have experienced as an infant),to the heavy indoctrination of my church and parents; to having fear and loathing instilled in me; then coming around again to wonder and admiration.

This little one, about 2 years old, Sweet Heart thought, was a gopher (or Mexican equivalent) snake.

Next day, Wise Heart encountered a huge rattler in the road. He took a photo of it and helped it on its way. In Spanish it is called “cascabel.”

Jumpy and weird yesterday because I opened my computer and found myself in the news. Emory presenting my talk as I gave my papers to the University earlier this year. It is odd, unexpectedly seeing one’s self in this way. I feel far away from that sweet persona, in that role. Here, we worry about ants, “las hornmigas”, eating everything we plant.

We’ve been studying further uses of our magical Vita-Mix. We can make compost with it. This excites us no end. Sweet Heart made almost a quart of liquid compost from the remains of our breakfast green smoothie. Banana peels, eggshells, apple cores, etc. I poured it over the collard and arugula starts.

Sweet Heart is practicing scales and I should be too! I can now play “Amazing Grace” and half of “Lift Every Voice and Sing!” Which I love. Generous Heart at East Bay Church of Religious Science in Oakland is one teacher; Sweet Heart is the other. Between them and my Keyboard I am coming back to the lessons I left when I was eight or nine years old.

Another circle, longing to close, closing.