Dancing with Destiny

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Eulogy to Mi Sol

I was Alejandro’s Luna and he was mi Sol.

When we created the gallery, the original banner read:
Sol y Luna: arte sin fronteras: contemporary art ----- poetry & writing workshops

I first became friends with Alejandro when I invited him by email to be part of a bilingual poetry event. To this day, I don’t know why he agreed, but it obviously was destiny. Later he confessed that when I emailed him, he couldn’t remember exactly who I was but once we reconnected in person, it felt like as though we had known each other forever. We had so much fun kidding around during rehearsals, I wondered how the show would turn out, but it was wonderful. That night was Alejandro’s birthday and what a gift he was to me! He created an altar with Mexican textiles and a large Guadelupe painting. After each poem was read, we lit velas and dedicated the altar to Las Desaparacidas, the missing women from Juarez.

I had never imagined trying to start up a business. Alejandro was a visionary. The first gallery was a tattoo parlor, dirty, smelly and dark. We tore out the walls, replaced the white tiled floors with saltillo tiles, and the front gate by shining glass. It was beautiful and I was proud to represent Sol y Luna to the public of Puerto Vallarta. It breaks my heart that we will enjoy his legacy that he left behind without his dynamic, captivating presence.

Alejandro was the light in my darkness after my son died. In 2006, when I arrived in Puerto Vallarta, I was still devastated by the cruelty of my son's unexpected and tragic death. Alejandro took me by the hand and led me out of the shadows. We held hands as we climbed the mountain of dreams and we held hands when we leaped off the cliff, learning faith in ourselves. He chose art and I chose poetry. We laughed with delight as our wings unfurled and we watched each other soar.

Alejandro taught me to make every moment count, whether it was a meal or an art deal, a lazy day on the beach or a trip to meet an artist. I do know that after every ending, another door opens. I want you to listen carefully. Alejandro is saying thank you for all the love and the good times you shared. He was a blessing in my life and I bless him as he soars onward to the stars.

for more stories on Sol y Luna: http://www.solylunapv.blogspot.com/

You know this

The bus jerks across every pothole. Next to you sits
a young mother, acrylic nails
tipped in daisies and golden café
eyes. Her baby jostles on her lap
while she scolds into the cell phone:
“No, I didn’t…
You got no business…
It none of your business….”

and across the aisle, down the length of the bus,
ears are glued to a whispering beat,
enclosed in iPod rhythm, children with
hands over their eyes thinking they are
invisible.

You know your heart is breaking
crack by crack along the fault line,
aching fiery explosion beneath the surface,
the delicate film you wrapped it in to keep
away the fingers of
the dirty wicked world
melting

and you wouldn’t be on the bus,
eyes glazed with grief, shawled with
a darkness beneath which you are calm and adrift,
not yet bailing out the bottom of the boat,
not yet realizing the damn thing is sinking,
all caulking and plugging
useless

except that you don’t drive and there are appointments
and promises. They don’t stop, not for heartbreak,
not even for wanting that shawl over
your head like a tallit, private
and sacred and a declaration of faith,
but all day, all night in your room you are
going crazy with a restless ticking of the
hours

dead yet? still breathing? still the
virus climbing the veins, still the lungs in their
labor, their instinct without hope or purpose,
the body shrinking to bone, the muscle
slack and drooled, the lips chapped and sore?
mi amor? the name you never called
him

the way he held back and you walked away,
the last time you cradled him and he cried,
the kiss good-bye that made you weep
all the way to the airport.
You know this—like one could prevent it,
like there is still a way for a safe arrival
home

Give yourself the gift of this jewel of Rumi

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5QYDrd1a0M0

“Think of something you said. Now think of what you wish you had said.”

I wish I had said no. I wish I hadn’t answered the email. I wish I had said I’m too busy, too stupid, too illiterate, I have no language, I have no thoughts, I am empty headed.

I wish I had said yes. I wish I had taken her home and given her hot chicken soup made by my own hands. I wish I had insisted. I wish I had told her not to leave. Give me a chance, I could have cried.

Why is it so hard to see the future, the damage that is to come? Why is it so hard to see the solution is to give more, not back away? How many times have I let others make mistakes before I realize I could save a lot of heart-aches? Most of all, my own.

poppies in Israel

In Response to the Flood in Northern Minnesota

I am blest to step under a shower, the gush of hot water / to have indoor plumping / sleep in a warm bed. I am blest to be able to buy groceries / buy even flowers / buy even candles / paper towels / to have light / a tv / to play DVDs / have a pile of books teetering on the edge of a table.

I am blest to have a pc / a politically correct bus ride / green energy and brown skin and my hood I wasn’t born in and can leave anytime. I am blest to be handed a transfer I didn’t pay for / given an apology / a smile / a seat / to be asked if I am coming over soon / to be wanted / to be called.

I am blest hundreds of times a day when my mind clicks on and hundreds of times when my body stands up and when it walks and does those exercises to get back in shape and the green growing in the yard and a view out the window and suddenly a robin.

I am blest to be home alone and blest to be in a crowd of children and blest to be watching the world walking by with a cup of coffee or a glass of wine in my hand and a slice of pizza or a salad with cranberries and walnuts and fresh baked bread.

I am blest to be doing the dance of peace and hey baby it’s me in the mirror liking the silver that frames my face and never mind the winter of my discontent or the summer of my first heart-break. I do not have water gushing over my floors and mass destruction and housedamaged. I already declared bankruptcy and walked the sliver of despair, I already fell in the desert of defeat and arose with my mouth full of dust.

I spread the ashes of my lover and thought of how two can make a soul or break a promise and I tasted the ashes when my husband confided his HIV status was acute again and I sank up to my neck in ash when I watched my son’s mortal remains swirl away in the river. So blest blest blest am I to work in silence and not go screaming through the streets and what I can do to light a match to the small lantern one more time and what can I do but follow its luminescence that leads me on?