As one wandering through the wilderness, I have grown weary
and disheartened. To pile on the clichés, the
day seems darkest before the dawn.
Intellectually, I knew things would get better..eventually. I doubted my weariness could be endured much
longer.
In Durango for six months, I found nothing to lift my hope. I endured, because of the animals. The captivating Parrot who accepted my
friendship; the rescue dogs in the back
yard cell; and of course, the steadfast loyalty and love given me freely by my
dear Junior, these are what sustained me.
Meanwhile, I shared the house with the landlord’s ex husband, who is a
burnt out heroine addict. He no longer
uses, but lives in a world unfamiliar to me.
I was still in transition, looking for a permanent place to live. Most of my boxed possessions were with me in
that house. Systematically, his friends
slowly stole away with some of my most valuable kitchen possessions that were
boxed up in the front room. My expensive
Kitchen Aide was most notable and missed among the thefts.
In Mazatlan, I quickly discovered the Vinyard community
church. It is an oasis of English and
northern culture. The heart of the
community is outreach, to spread the bounty that drenches the coastline and
bring it to the less endowed among the greater Mexican Mazatlan.
I arrived in Mazatlan in January.
I enjoyed the spring months together with the Snowbird congregation at
that church. They were friendly people,
joining together for an after-church brunch at a restaurant; a tradition very
familiar to me in other places. Then
they began returning to their thawing lands to the north. What is left is mere dozens of old retired
white permanent residents of Mazatlan.
The community is held together by a handful of dedicated servants of the
church. The preaching couple; the
musician who enjoyed a riotous burnt out life as a professional musician until
he settled here, an empty shell. There
are a number of ministries that carry on year-round. I have not taken the time more recently to
arrive once a week at 7 a.m. to prepare the sandwiches that go out with the bus
touring the dump and a few villages along the way, distributing oved 300
sandwiches twice a week. Then there is
the young man who has a heart for the animals, and has found a paid position in
the local government to champion these populations. He has little awareness of the life of an
elderly citizen. I proclaimed my
dedication to his work, the weekly trips to the rescue center to walk the
dogs. He dismissed the value of my
dedication; not even taking my phone number, a kind of de facto ‘welcome to the
team’ gesture. I was not included in
special events, like a day of bringing adoptable dogs to a public community
venue; or a parade of the dogs for whatever that celebration was. When I showed up weekly at the ‘usual time’
for the walks, I did not see him. I did not take the long detour to the church
to join him and whatever volunteers might come in a church van; I drove
directly to the shelter, much closer to my home. But I never again saw any sign of his
ministry from the Vinyard. I saw him at
church, huddled with his younger cohort.
He never went out of his way to give me a Sunday morning greeting. I did; but it never evolved into a
conversation of what was going on with the ministry; just a cool nod.
And then there is Junior to be considered. We are each other’s world. In everything I do in my day, I must consider
him, his needs and his security. He
misses our country home in Canatlan as much as I do. He no longer has a few acres to call his
own. Now his security is wrapped up in the
atmosphere of my life. That is very
small right now. If I must leave him
home, when I return he is almost hysterical with joy and relief. I do not like to put him through that. He accompanies me almost everywhere, even
though many places in this world are not ‘dog friendly’. This means he must wait outside when I enter
a building, in whatever weather might be happening. He sits on guard; he lies in the place where
I left him. He understands when I tell
him he can get out of the hot car, but must wait for me in its shade. Well-meaning dog lovers have seen him sitting
outside a supermarket, being his friendly self, and took the time to read the
phone number on the collar to call and tell me he was lost. Now I either put a leash on him, or park him
in a less-trafficked spot, where he obediently stays. He does not ‘get’ leashes. His ears go down, as if receiving scolding or
disciplining. He will not be seen
prancing beside me, leashed, with a perky step.
He has learned not to be so friendly.
As an aside, I really do wish that stores would adopt a policy of
allowing pets to ride in the shopping cart with owners.
Our bond is such that, if I must leave him outside the church door
during service, my heart is very conscious of him and his well-being. It is less stressful for both of us if he
sits with me during the service. But
then we are subject to the self-proclaimed rules that are laid down by people
who are given a little responsibility.
Like the lady who attends to the library at the back of the church. She sees me walking in with Junior, and tells
me he cannot come in without a leash.
She does not know me, apparently doesn’t care to know me. But she has her sense of right and wrong, and
this must be laid down over my dear friend.
So to appease her, we sit at the back of the church away from the
congregation, lest anyone be offended by his lack of bondage. Now we are without fellowship. Of course, I should have ignored this
officiousness, and joined my congregation.
Instead, I chose to play the role of the submissive obedient
servant.
The incident led me to the conclusion that I do not really have a
role to play in this group. After three
months of attending these Sunday morning services faithfully, no one in that
building sees me. I am still
invisible. They must be very worn out
and weary, after hosting the large Snowbird population for half the year. Many among the Snowbirds are yearly visitors,
and assume leadership roles in the many outreach ministries during their winter
stays. Now who are carrying these roles? I wanted to be among those who do. However, first I must become visible. I guess I have myself to blame. In the turmoil of my life since arriving in
Mazatlan, with Oscar and his erratic behavior, and Melissa and all she put us
through, then trying to buy a car and get it legal (insurance, registration,
license) and I won’t iterate the rest here, I failed to go weekly at 7 am along
the miles in commuter traffic to help make sandwiches. Had I done that, I may have become more
visible. I will try that in the few
weeks I have left here, to exonerate the church from this negative description
of the congregation.
Oscar teased me with other suggestions of places I might live in
Mazatlan. He would drive me around a
neighborhood flooded with ‘for rent’ signs, and tell me the rates were
low. I expected him, then, to arrange to
show me one or two, but he wanted me to do that leg work. And in the following days I would, only to
find out that the rents were in no way lowered, but still could be asking as
much for one month’s rent as my monthly pension check. How naïve am I that I continue to fall for
these false hopes. That is just one
small example of how fond he is of leading me on. I have come full circle now. I choose to no longer fall for any of his
games. He owes me money, proceeds from
the sale of my house, but he will never pay me.
Instead, he would take me on as his ward, being my insurance policy against
indigence until my death. I have seen
enough of how he takes care of me, and decide that I no longer choose to be
held in his careless hands. Even without
that remaining money, I can get along just fine on my own, as I have already
for 80 decades.
I needed a break from all this emotional upheaval. On impulse, I drove back to Canatlan, where I
lived for seven years. I would try once
again to find a home to rent there.
This time I have better luck.
A house I had pursued a year ago has finally come within my grasp. In Pozole there are three houses side by
side, built by three sisters, in the center of the tiny cluster of homes in El
Pozole that make up the little hamlet.
One of them had been the center of drama for a number of my years in
Pozole. The daughter of one of the
deceased sisters wanted to update the house.
She put the task of doing it to her husband. Their marriage was pretty much dead, and she
was happy to have him spending so much time away from their home in
California. He is an alcoholic and pot
head. Because he speaks English, and is
so gregarious, I became acquainted with him, and eventually with her, too. Until their house was complete, over two
years, they lived next door in the middle house. The wife, Vanessa, did not spend long periods
of time there, except to come occasionally and give her opinion on the many
decisions that had to be made. They
fought over that project as much as any other in their lives. Now the house is done. I have not seen the husband there, but
Vanessa comes for months on end and spends time getting to know her cousins
again. The third house was occupied by
Tomasa, until her death. I liked her a
lot and spent more time there with her than any other place in Pozole. Her house is large and full of windows. The front room is so large, I imagine pushing
the furniture aside and having a square dance, or the Mexican equivalent,
there. Tomasa never was that social.
More than anything I wished to rent Tomasa’s house. I have fond memories of her there, and the
brightness of the house gives me a psychological lift. But alas, whoever has it entangled now is not
letting it go. If I move to that
village, I will learn more about who that is.
I only know that the house is empty most of the time.
That leaves the middle house.
It is small. It needs updating
and renovating. I hear the roof has
problems. I spoke with the ‘heiress’,
who lives in California, last year. I
don’t remember the details of why I could not rent the place. Now the young lady is more amenable. We are to talk this weekend by phone, and see
if we can come to agreeable terms. This
seems my only hope of returning to a familiar, home-like place. In the intervening time, the energy, Fifth
Density that is bringing about universal change towards a higher awareness of
the power of love, has brought changes about in me, and I think I am now better
prepared to live among the old ladies of this hamlet.
Has my wandering finally come to an end?
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