A Rocky Road

Yesterday, driving home through the rain, I found myself grumbling about the dreadful road I have to travel to reach my little casita. On either side of this battered road are large developments filled with expensive homes. One of them also has countless horse stables that come alive whenever they host international equestrian competitions. Hundreds of spectators attend, along with riders from around the world. Police and military are present because so much money is involved. I was told that a single horse can be worth $200,000 or more—not to mention the luxurious trucks and trailers used to transport these magnificent animals.

My non-Mexican mind couldn't help asking, Why aren't these roads repaired? I've already replaced a couple of tires and the struts on my little Chevy, a car never designed to withstand this kind of punishment. Someone explained that because I live outside Centro, neither the developers nor the homeowners are responsible for maintaining the roads, and the city claims it isn't either. Meanwhile, sections of the road are repeatedly torn up because aging water pipes underneath continue to leak. I have no idea why this latest excavation has been going on for weeks.

But enough complaining. The moment I arrive at my quiet home, surrounded by green fields and the abundance of flowers brought by the nearly daily rains, I remember that the drive is worth it. It struck me that this road is very much like my own life. I have slogged through disappointments, heartbreaks, pain, and endless tests to arrive at a place of peace and beauty. This aging body has finally accepted that true joy is found within. My twice-daily yogic meditations have become the highlights of my days. They are where I discover stillness, and more often now I experience the awareness of simply observing my life—as though I were watching a movie. From that perspective, I understand the karmic idea that we come to this earthly school to experience, to learn, and, hopefully, to grow mentally and spiritualy. During these extraordinary times—when political divisions deepen, deception is exposed, and so much of what we once considered "normal" is falling away—I often think of the old saying, often called a Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times." Yet I have complete faith that the Earth will endure. Nearly everything we once relied upon is being shaken apart, but after this rocky passage we will each have the opportunity to choose our path. We can choose clarity over confusion, compassion over division, respect over conempt, and love over fear. Or not. Free will has always been our gift. Artistically, I find myself waiting for inspiration for a new series. These quiet seasons come and go, and I've learned not to force them. Instead, I recently enjoyed spending a day in the studio with another artist, experimenting with cold wax and oil painting. I also began a small painting of cats. I've never considered myself an animal painter, but I happily accepted this assignment from my youngest grandson—who is now a grown man. He has always been what I think of as a cat whisperer. Ever since he was a little boy, cats have been drawn to him, and he to them. He seems to communicate with them effortlessly. Even a difficult, troubled cat we once had—the one I jokingly called mentally ill—would happily drape herself across his shoulders while he quietly showered her with love and compasion.. Painting his three favorite cats has become an unexpected creative detour, and I'm thoroughly enjoying the challenge. Recently I also pulled out a book I wrote more than thirty years ago called Better Than Before. It included exercise suggestions, healthy recipes, and my thoughts about aging. At the time, I had no real concept of what being truly old would feel like. Reading it today, I smile at the enthusiasm that filled those pages. That enthusiasm is still with me, although it has softened during this final act of my life. One passage especially caught my attention: "There is joy to be experienced, adventures to be lived. We can fall in love with life all over again. Our transformation process includes feeling beautiful. Our bodies can still move gracefully and radiate health." My body no longer moves quite so gracefully. I no longer search for bigger adventures. Instead, I treasure a quieter life. I enjoy solitude, peace, and the freedom of not needing to stay busy all the time. I still look forward to teaching my encaustic workshops. Sharing decades of artistic experience with others continues to invigorate me. Years ago, a gallery director here told me I should make ugly art because, according to him, "that's what sells in Mexico." Perhaps he's right. But ugly art has never called to me. Beauty, hope, and light still do. Recently I designed a new logo. What do you think?