This morning, just after my first cup of coffee, an autumnal sonic assault begins. A murderous whirring of epic proportions.
The gas powered leaf blower.
It is nigh impossible to think for oneself amidst the din of modernity, particularly in suburbia, where the moving of leaves around seems to point to some sort of status.
I wonder, what we might hear if we were afforded an opportunity to listen deeper. To listen to the miniscule preparations being made by the smallest of creatures….
Roll, roll, grumble, grumble, roll…
The sounds of a gathering of food stuffs for the winter season. Acorns, walnuts.
Crack, snap, crack, crack, stack…..
Further gathering and arranging of sticks and wood and kindling with which to warm ourselves in the months to come. Even the smallest of fallen twigs might be of use.
Perhaps we hear the click, click, click of knitting needles working woolens into garments for bracing against autumnal winds…..
Maybe we hear the gentle felling of ripened fungi in the forest, so that they might be dried and saved for soup making.
What sorts of sounds do you listen for when the leaf blowers finally run out of gasoline? How can we better listen to the quietude offered to us by the smallest of woodland creatures? How might we better listen to ourselves?
(headphones in. Listen for the tone of the post below…….)
I arrived late in the day yesterday to my home away from home here at Posada San Sebastian in Antigua Guatemala. Perhaps they say ‘welcome home’ to all their beloved guests, but it feels so great to hear it any how. I awaken to hazy sunlight in the courtyard after 11 solid hours of unbroken sleep. I am the first to arrive of our group.
My bedside window view is peaceful and familiar. I bundle up in a shawl and socks to wander down the hall to boil water for coffee. Coffee before coffee.
Arrival to Antigua is generally none too difficult. Though traffic can be an issue at times getting from Guatemala City where the airport is to be found. Yesterday I opted to complicate matters just a bit to endeavor a side trip on route to Antigua .
When I was a kid (ages 5 – 7 or so) we lived here in Guatemala, in the city. My dad was a machete weilding geophysicist who enjoyed field work more than academia and so we came here for his work. There are many firm and pleasant memories from our time here. And there are many gaps in that memory bank as well, for trauma did leave its mark in the end.
An earthquake and the seismic dismantling of our family shortly thereafter meant this place carries some scars in my little-girl psyche. I’ve been unpacking that heavy suitcase bit by gentle bit upon coming back for the first time with my hub for our anniversary few years back.
Memory and the reptilian bits of our brain are a fascinating soup of interpreted facts. Mixed in alongside the sanity-saving memory gaps, desire to take flight, flee and save oneself at all times, trauma can cement things into a body and make a life we run from for the rest of our lives . For me, I am interested in going back in, from a place of safety, the present moment, and revisiting.
My side trip on route from the airport was to my childhood home where we found ourselves in 1976. My patient shuttle driver put the sat nav on and we wound our way through the diesel and the oppressive midday heat and traffic to find my old home.
I had an old letter from my mom to her parents which has the whole harrowing tale from her perspective and the address as well and so off we go. With the traffic being what it is and this being an unusual shuttle driver request, I only manage to stay litle while. Snapping photos for my mom, noticing differences and familiarities in succession. Had I noticed anyone around I might have scraped up the courage to ask if I might come in and take a peek. Alas maybe next time. My Spanish improves with every visit here and I managed to share with my driver a bit of why it was important for me to visit this place.
There are many changes of course. Our neighborhood is now a guarded, gated community. There are big black garage doors on what used to be an open and breezy car port. My host here said that with the violence suffered awhile back, many places circled their wagons in a sense to keep themselves defended. Guatemala has a complicated history, one I hope is shifting into a new era of eco-tourism, prosperity and fair pay for artisans living and working here. That is a tale for another day. But suffice it to say, change is inevitable and truly the only constant.
Above is a sketch I made of my old house. With it’s unfamiliar doors and additions up top. Overlooking the gorge across the street, the trees are taller but the view is strangely familiar. I remember the days just after the quake as the earth settled back into place with aftershocks and constant tremoring.
I’m ever so grateful to get a glimpse of this old place and hope to go back again. I love my new relationship with Guatemala which involves textiles and painting and new memories being made with friends and loved ones in this magical mystical place.
As time passes and I dig deeper into the past while continuing to focus on the present, I’ll share more of what I dig up. Perhaps there is a book in all of this . I do not know. I just know, that right now, on this first morning in Antigua, I’m deeply grateful. For my past which has made me who I am and for my present which helps me forge that self in the best way possible .
A note and apologies for the photos in this post. My devices aren’t talking to one another. So I had to use the crappy camera on this tablet to add the visuals. Its time for a new laptop for my travels so I can blog more easily from the road. If you dip over into instagram, find me at @abeefrnd and I’ll share a few old photos there which will add to the story .
As @doodleyboo on IG posted this morning…
” You might not work well everyday. But you can always edit a bad page. You can’t edit a blank page.”
and so, in the spirit of the quote above, I offer you this imperfect blog post, for now .