Thanks for the latte!

This morning I found myself at a drive-through espresso shack in Naches, Washington (a tiny little town-lette outside of Yakima). The barista, a twenty-something dressed as a she-devil for Halloween, prepared crappy lattes but delivered delightfully engaged conversation. There was something about her. She was so open, so interested, so genuine. I left the drive-through shack feeling full of joy, a happy humming coursing through my body from this little jewel of unexpected connection in Naches, Washington. It's an energy that comes when two people, even complete strangers, are both open to connecting.

Had I been the age of the barista, I likely would have taken away only the fact that my latte sucked. But now that I am comfortably into my middle age, I have the ability to recognize and appreciate this kind of random connection more readily. Historically, this has not been my forte. Good friends who eventually made their way through the deflector shield I wore through my twenties and much of my thirties often told me that I presented as "aloof, judgmental, intimidating, unavailable."

Survey says, I'm no longer the Nellie Olson of my youth. My openness evolved over time, and with age, from a combination of experiences-- childbirth, motherhood, heart break, death of my father, falling in love, therapy. All of these experiences created in me a vulnerability I couldn't fight, and ultimately an openness that was easier to bear. The ongoing experience though, that keeps me open, is yoga. Yoga is a conversation between the body and the mind, the physical and the mental. In postures that are physically demanding, requiring great balance or focus, we have to draw from the physical and the mental. When one strength falters, we draw from the other, eventually finding balance. In Savasana, where we attempt to quiet our minds, we do the same thing, quieting the body to remind the mind to be still, stilling the mind to calm the body. Connection.

The ability to connect internally enables us to feel grounded, whole, stable in ourselves. It creates an internal knowing of oneself and consequently a comfort in our own skin. For me, this internal knowing has created the ability to be open to other people. And every once in a while, like this morning, there's a surprise. A fleeting connection that, for a moment in time, makes strangers feel a little bit more like friends.

Expanding my Territory South of the Border

There is a supernatural warmth about Mexico. Sure the temperature is in the mid-80s and the sun is strong all day. The people just look warm. There are brand new babies everywhere and two out of three women between the ages of 15-45 is pregnant or nursing. People seem to eat ice cream cones all day long. No one has acne. Everyone seems to like their body. Parents genuinely like their kids.

On Sunday in a Oaxcan tourist market, I met an eight-year-old girl named Estrella (that translates to Star) who, in collaboration with her grandma makes little cell phone bags. When I met Estrella, I had been in Mexico less than 12 hours, most of it sleeping, so an eight-year-old felt like a safe place to start using my rusty Spanish. Estrella´s business is to draw pictures of whatever she wants on a piece of cotton (cowgirl, tree, flower, farmer). She then embroiders what she can and her grandma finishes them up. Estrella makes 5 pesos (about 35 cents) on each bag. After interviewing Estrella on her business model and art skills, I shot a photo of her with the bag I bought for my daugter Lucia.

At the Abastos Market, the market of the people (where we saw not one gringo), I ate divine tamales oaxaños-- they come wrapped in a giant banana leaf and inside are the traditional tamale incredients plus mole negro. Even with the random chicken parts I found in my tamale they were still divine. Luz, the proprietor and I had a nice long platica (chat). She told me that her little restaurant has been there 22 years. At the Abastos market I also bought pillow cases to embroider from Maria who turned 8 that day! Feliz cumpleaños Maria. My pillow cases have love birds with the words ¨Tu eres me amor¨ in an arch above.

Not all of my contacts have been as charmed as my interlude with Estrella and at the Abastos market. One afternoon, while having a solitary moment in the plaza, a short blood-shot-eyed fellow sidled up next to me on the stairs where I was sitting watching a campesino speaking about something political I couldn't quite understand. Juan was so complimentary of my accent (and my boobs). Where had I studied? Had I been to Belgium? He'd recently been deported from Cincinnati after a 12 year stay. After enough eye-boob contact, I made a quick, not very polite exit.

Jorge, the dueño of our bed and breakfast grew up very poor and never knew his father. But he is from one of the original Oaxacan families. His grandfather was 100% Zapotec. Jorge wrote a book for his children to explain his life. It was really easy, he said. In a short time Jorge churned out 186 pages that his daughter (who is a professor in Spain) is working on getting published. Today when I visited Monte Alban, the ruins of the Zapotec people, I thought of Jorge´s grandfather.

Making contact takes effort, especially in another language. Initially it was scary to use my Spanish to all of those people, but I'm so glad I did.

Delicious Sam

My nephew Sam is four-months old. He is delicious. How is it possible that I use the exact words my grandmother used on me? I used to think "delicious" was the most ridiculous, slightly creepy descriptor for a human being ever uttered. When my own daughter was four-months old, I was too tired to see her like I do my delicious nephew Sam. While we had our own intense, symbiotic relationship, I was just surviving, processing my own hormonal earthquakes through a fog of massive sleep deprivation. I don't think I ever called her delicious.

The thing about Sam, and I don't say this lightly, is that I can see his soul. His gigantic eyes invite me to come closer and in the same moment let me know exactly how close (not very). He is at once profoundly accessible and completely ethereal. He needs nor wants anything from me, yet here I am. "I can see your soul little guy", I want to whisper in his tiny sea-shell shaped ear, "can't you feel that?"

Sam nurses ALL THE TIME. When I watch my sister sitting, lying, standing, nursing in every possible position, I remember that feeling of being simultaneously thrilled by that role of being "the one" and wanting to hurl the 8-pound leech from my body. When I was a human utter, I felt taxed, beyond exhaustion, unable to do much more than finish one feeding and take a quick pee before the next.

Now I watch Sam, this little creature who I truly feel I have soul-access to and, while he is really just a seventeen-pound blob of developing cells, I can see that this baby is intensely connected. Sometimes Sam nurses with his big eyes open, sucking fast, his body a little bit tense, one hand gripping his mother's blouse, toes curled under, clearly letting her know that the nursing game is on, no exceptions. Other times, when he is relaxed, Sam nurses with his lips slightly loose, his big eyes closed. One hand laying limply over his mother's arm, the other tucked in close to her belly. He is okay, he might even sleep and let his mouth fall off the nipple, give his mom a break. He is in complete control and only 120 days into this world. That's delicious.