Photo albums

Last summer while visiting my parents, my mom and I discussed the future. She would like to give up the 3 bedroom house and move to a small apartment, especially since my father is unable to help any longer with upkeep. “I never realized all the things he took care of,” she told me “until I had to do it all myself.” Inspired by this thought, she pulled out a box of things I had sent her over the years. “Take whatever you want,” she said. Thinking it might be one less thing for her to deal with, I sorted out the copies of literary journals, the unpublished manuscripts, and the photos of me, my kids and my life, leaving a photo of me with my dad in case she might like to have it later.

But bringing them home gave me pause. Recently I bought a big plastic container for the photo albums I had lovingly schlepped from Santa Fe to Minnesota. I have albums with glossy black’n’whites from my childhood including the shots of my cat and her kittens, many of which are just blobs of fur, my amateur poses of my younger sister and brother, 3 x 3 colors from my first marriage where I took a lot of shots of the cat, sundrenched photos of me when I was in Israel and priceless shots of my children (we have lost many along the way, hitch-hiking from Mexico to Israel. Don’t ask, it’s a long story), then albums stuffed with photos of my adventures with Michael: Desert arroyos and sacred sites around New Mexico, hot spring retreat in Colorado, dinner out of town in shady garden cafes. The casita we rented in Mexico and the tequila factory. The girls in their Guelaguetza costumes, the churches with their Saturday lines of couples and their families waiting to be married. In Italy, cafes in Rome after the museum tour, the gathering at the beach house with elderly neighbors, and the canal in Venice. Dinner parties celebrating birthdays, holidays or just getting together with friends and family in an assortment of locations. And after Michael’s death, the photos of Alejandro became an obsession. He was so handsome that I couldn’t get enough, hoping to save him for the future I knew we could not hold onto.

The lovely photos of me dressed up for performances with my women’s poetry group Word Dancers. The trip to New York where I posed in front of the Bowery Poetry Cub in my calf-length velvet trench coat and pink beret. The CD release party and my costume changes and the crowd. My Mexican outfits with their aprons and plastic carrying bags to perform in Día de los Muertos and Jugar con fuego.

From time to time, I wander down memory lane, to remember, to honor and celebrate where I have come from and the richness that has been my life. The blessing party when the condo was turned over to me for a while. The children I was nanny to and the ones in my pre-school class. The trip to San Francisco.

And then of course, the hundreds of photos of the first grandsons, taken by proud parents.

But I think of my mom’s decision to clear out the old stuff that she will not look at again. She knows exactly what she wants to keep, and it isn’t much. Who is left to enjoy her memories with her but me on my annual visit? And I think of my huge box of photo albums. They mean so much to me, they have captured a lifetime of love and sorrow, of adventures and quests. But who will want them when I am gone? Who else will even look at them with me? Alejandro used to, he was insatiably curious, it was way to pass the time. Occasionally someone visits me from the past and I will take them out. But for many of those photos, there is no one to know who the people in them are or what they mean to me. I once thought my grandchildren might want them. But now I know better. The boys might ask a question or two. But the curiosity to inquire after obscure moments in my past…the pain of Michaels’ depression, the shattering of throwing my sons’ ashes, the crazy feeling of swaying with Alejandro on a swinging bridge during a thunderstorm, these things they don’t want to know. Scanning them all onto the computer is not an option, by the way. I still need to hold them in my hands and the computer screen just isn’t the same. Although that is where the most recent ones are. I stopped taking photos when the digital cameras became popular. I lost the thrill or perhaps I don’t care to keep collecting memories. I know I will not be able to bear throwing them away. So what will I do, when the time comes to downsize my life so that it will fit the time I have left?

After the Memorial

Today I awoke to snow gently falling. After a dry brown winter and a freezing day of below zero temps yesterday, it is a relief to see snow. I sit with hot coffee in hand and think of yesterday’s memorial for Joan Calof. Despite the weather, the synagogue was packed. Joan was a dynamic, vibrant, active woman who passed away three days after her 84th birthday. She had been a social worker. After she retired, she became a performance artist, singing, dancing and telling stories on stages wherever she would find them, from cabarets to nightclubs in exotic locals.

We met at a workshop soon after I moved to the Twin Cities and Joan introduced me to the Twin Cities Women Writers & Poets. Other opportunities branched out from the women in this group and from Joan, the nudge to check out Patrick’s Cabaret. We read together for my book launch of transparencies of light at True Colors bookstore this last spring and her story about the women’s Turkish bath complimented the poems I had chosen about the Middle East. Her poems making fun of aging never ceased to delight me. She made me laugh even after I had heard them many times over. It was Joan’s dynamic, sparkling personality that infused her poems and made them come alive. Lately I have had an inspiration of bringing fast poetry into local businesses, a quick poem and get-away, and I think Joan would approve.

At her memorial, her books, The Lyrical Curmudgeon and Tales of a Well Seasoned Traveler, were given away. For some reason, this struck me. I felt its poignancy: the blessing of her books, labors of love, a message sent to us, remaining for us to hold her close. As I read her poems, I hear her voice and see her small compact body moving and dancing. Like me, she had hopes of selling them at her performances. I thought about the box of my books in my basement. If something happened to me, they would also be given away, a wonderful tribute to my creative force, a way to remember me when I am gone. But that of course is not what I want.

It is difficult to walk that spiritual path between letting go and letting God and wishing with all of my heart for the golden ring of acknowledgment, success, and adding to my income so that I can continue on my journey of creative inspiration. It is hard to admit that at times I just want to be as famous as Billy Collins or Sharon Olds, or OMG, Lawrence Ferlingetti, whom I heard read in a small venue years ago. I want to be noticed and loved for my work and I also want the communication that happens between the poet and her audience, her readers, her fans. As a woman who has been silenced for years, I yearn to have my voice—MY voice—heard.

The silencing came from years of communal living and being told that my opinions didn’t matter and it was vain to think they might, followed by living with a man who was bi-polar and incessantly analyzed his traumatizing past, his turbulent present, and his frightening future. I fell in love with him because we could talk about anything but as his illness progressed, the dialogue became a monologue. He told me that he didn’t want a conversation, he just wanted me to listen. He woke me up at dawn to report every thought he had had for hours before I got out of bed to make us coffee, make his breakfast and head off to work. His death was a relief from the grueling care taking and a deep sorrow of knowing that no, love cannot cure everything. Only those who wish to heal can be healed.

Is it gluttony to now want more? I have performed poetry 13 – 20 times a year in various locations such as cafes, bookstores, galleries, schools, churches, cultural centers, cabarets, and even once in a parking lot, from here to Mexico, from NYC to Berkeley. I have collaborated on poetry events with other local poets and musicians, I have created bilingual events. Forty people at Tribes Café with Word Dancers and a standing ovation, thirty people at the gallery in Puerto Vallarta for my Día de los Muertos performance, 200 in the audience at Patrick’s. I have achieved my dream of bringing poetry to unique venues, to present poetry to people who don’t think they like poetry, to be accessible. I have heard people in the audience weep, hold their breath, laugh and sigh, holding me in their attention as I shared my journey through words.

And yet—the desire to leave a lasting legacy is on my mind as I ride the bus home from Joan’s memorial. Joan is remembered for her chutzpah, her kindness, her ability to draw people out and connect them with each other. There is a resonance between our souls; we are soul mates. Joan always told me she admired my transparency on stage. Joan, you see, made up characters to inhabit but I embody my own experience, my emotions, my confusion and grief and joy and passion. I create an intimacy with my audience that brings us heart to heart, if you are willing to go on the journey with me. The reason I prefer intimate circles to the bright lights of a stage.

Joan, if you are smiling down from Heaven, what do you see?

Three Kings Day: Epiphany

Today is Epiphany, the 12th day of Christmas, Three King’s Day, a day to celebrate the arrival of the gifts brought to the child Jesus by the Wise Men. It is a day to contemplate the gifts and the wisdom of the past year and a day to imagine what transformations might happen over the next year.

I once was in a church in Mexico when the Wise Men rode in on their donkeys. It was spectacle dressed in humility. The donkeys’ hooves resounding over the church floor, the reverent and excited congregation, the flash of the wise men’s garments created from sequins and paint rather than real gold thread and fine fabrics. Here is what I read in the internet: Mexico, as it inherited its culture from Spain, quickly adopted January 6 as Three Kings Day and since then every child waits for the arrival of the three travelers. The tradition has its rules: the children should write a letter with their requests (they are not going to continue delivering incense and myrrh) and specify the good work they have done throughout the year along with the problems they are going to correct in the coming year. The letter will be tied to a balloon with string and will be allowed to fly, or they will burn the letter (because the king can also read smoke; they are very wise!) or simply put the letter inside a shoe that should be placed at the base of the nativity, or now also the Christmas tree.

Reminds me a little of the burning bowl ceremony at Unity Christ Church on New Year’s Eve.

The good work I have done includes providing child care for my grandsons, which has extended to a boy born in September. I once said I would never live in a place that was so damn cold and now it is going on 7 years. First I came because I could not return to my old life, neither the one left behind in Santa Fe with bankruptcy, loss of the condo which has been my home for 10 years and where I lived with my true love and partner for 8 of those years, and the feeling that I was stuck. Between what was familiar and taking a risk, between friends and encountering the wider world. Nor could I return to Mexico where instead of honoring my own creativity, I was supporting my new husband’s pursuit of his business, one that I thought would belong to us both until he made it clear that I was working for him. The opportunity to spend time with my grandsons was too precious to give up. Along the way I learned which bus shelters are heated, attended numerous wonderful poetry events and got to know talented poets and writers, received healing, love and wisdom from Unity, and found a great doctor to do my hip replacement.

There is nothing to compare to your 6 year old grandson on the phone asking if you will come to his school to help make a gingerbread house. Or to hear him say while pasting the gumdrops onto the icing, “Why are we wasting all this candy?”

This past year I performed poetry at least 14 times, not including in private parties, and conducted writing workshops, at La Conexion de las Americas, All About the Journey, Unity Christ Church, The Aliveness Project and at Face to Face High School. I witnessed people’s pain and sorrow, struggles and passions, the urge to put it to paper and to share it, the power of telling one’s story with authenticity. I finally understood exactly what it is that I do: self-reflective writing that is intimate and honest as a way to access the inner healer in an environment that is safe. Because this is where my own writing takes shape: in the willingness to share my story, the griefs and passions, dreams and reality-check, the guilt and the gratitude, the disappointments and the satisfactions. I have lived my dream this past year: launching my second book of poetry, creation of a broadside, and writing alongside of others who may or may not be writers but who want to express themselves through words. The success I feel is not calculated by numbers or sales figures (I still have boxes of books) but by reaching one of my cherished goals: to bring poetry to those who do not yet know they love poetry, to make poetry accessible through presenting my own work theatrically and through sharing other poems in the writing workshops form poets who reflect back to us our turmoil and our ecstasy.

Could I have done all this remaining in Santa Fe or Puerto Vallarta? Remaining in my state of despair and longing? I had to be somewhere with a fresh start, where I knew only a few old friends who provided encouragement and places to live and rides home and uplifting me out of blue moods with laughter and meals shared and glasses of wine poured and who listened to my questions and kvetching without complaint. I had to be somewhere else. The land of 10000 Lakes, cold and frigid, the big city traffic and noise, the cost of living and the availability of culture, turned out to be where I could unfurl my wings after all.

Jan 9, 2012: Wendy Brown-Báez presents "Yours Truly" at the Lowertown Reading Jam

Jan 9, 2012: Wendy Brown-Báez presents "Yours Truly" at the Lowertown Reading Jam

Dia de los Muertos

Dia de los Muertos

Death is sitting on my left shoulder, insisting
I remember, Death tapping
whispering, Don’t you dare forget, girl.

I took your son, your friend, your husband,
the first boy who ever kissed you
and if you don’t watch out

I’ll get everyone you want to love.
I’m not talking about old age.

Here I am with Death dancing
with my head on his shoulder.
He collects my tears in the bowl of

his collarbone.
I long to be comforted, am squeezed
between his ribs trying to find

a heartbeat. In the silence I whisper No
because the embrace is all too clear,
he wants to claim something that isn’t

mine to give. When I walked
among the graves in Oaxaca
death felt like warm yellow candlelight

spilling across the scars carved into the
ground, the young and the old cast in
their perpetual costumes, the young

dressed in excitement, masks, pulling
at my coat to beg for a treat, the old
huddled together for companionship

as they kept vigil, as they murmured
their memories into the smoke of copal.
At the entrance to el campo santo

we bought hand-made clay coffee mugs
painted with all the colors of Mexico
fragile as the mist among the broken corn

stalks, bright as a Mariachi tune
played at a wedding.
Death is tapping on my forehead

his insistent subtle chatter,
What if? What if?
I hold out my arms as if I could

make a bargain but it’s a lie.
I would gladly pay the debt if it meant
we would finally love

without fear. Do I dare to take
another knowing Death is jealous
of anyone I ever hold close?

Death, I am asking for a divorce.
I’m not talking about rest in peace.

Creating an altar

To begin your altar, meditate for a moment on your loved one's personality and the dreams you once shared.

Remember this is a time when the veil between world grows thin and a message may be left from the other side. Begin with a tablecloth. Collect photos and candles. Think of symbols, the twenty-five candles for the years of his life, the expresso cup for the drink he enjoyed every morning, candy for her sweet tooth. Add Angels and flowers. Make it bold and bright. In Mexico, people decorate with sugar skulls, pan de muertos, and miniature skeletons. They add the departed soul's favorite food and drink or cigarettes or cervezas, or perhaps fruits and dulces. They believe the Dead return and if they eat and drink and are satisfied, will not stick around to haunt the family. A path is created from torn petals of cempusichil, the large golden marigolds, to the altar or an entrance created of sugar cane. Invite your loved ones to come and keep you company while you sit quiety, keeping vigil. Remember the good times, the love that floated your heart to the sky, the stars that encircled your head. Tell stories, tell jokes, have a beer or a glass of wine, or at least hot chocolate. Listen.



To Tell the Truth

You may think that your questions reveal something about yourself and so you hold back. Instead of asking, you are mute. You are afraid to make a fool of yourself or to reveal your patterns of differences. That perhaps it isn't the place where you belong after all. The impulse is to rebel, to be the devil's advocate, to be in disagreement with the voices of pat knowing, to tip the boat and soak everyone with a wake up splash. That was your adolescent past and time to let it go. But maybe the truth is, you don't agree. Your heart thudding in your chest knows the way to truth may be crooked and filled with the rocks of remorse, pebbles of desire, the winding stream of expectation and disappointments. There is always balance between the human point of view and the spiritual and after all, you are not a monk. The short cut seems cut off and how can you consider the years of spiritual discipline anything but the work to get here? If you can't say it aloud, here, to whom will you speak? The obvious answer is through the mouth of a character on paper. Not knowing the point of this chattering monkey is your mind. Perhaps it would be better to pretend. Nod. Follow the path of least resistance and least revelation. But then that impulse comes up. Remember how Michael spoke aloud his lack of faith and will to live, how some came up to him afterwards and thanked him for voicing the doubts they were unable to admit. How the medicine woman thanked him for bringing the shadow. "It makes us work harder towards the light," she said. How later she told you that your spirits were going in different directions. The shock and the relief.
All things considered, you take a deep breath. You open your mouth.