After a Perfect Day

I can't even begin to tell you what it is with Española, so I will begin.
Monique says I romanticize Española and she can't find anything to resonate with there.
Somehow, though friends I admire have called me a romantic, I don't like to hear that diagnosis
about my relationship with my nearest town.  Believe me, I know its foibles, have been robbed, visited the schools, swum in the outdoor pool when it was functioning (which is not this year), gone to its movie theaters, and longed for Italian food after its one good non-New Mexican restaurant closed.

And today, Española proved itself to me again.  We went to Farmer's Market to drop off books for Sabra. Sabra Moore, an amazing artist from the Women's Movement in New York, by way of a Texas childhood and Peace Corps in Africa, gives a free book to the children every single week.  I love this low key approach to literacy, plus she has grown this market over the years and we all take ownership and rejoice at season's end with a Biggest Vegetable and Best Poem Contest. Sabra has made our little market very successful, a secret that I try to spread --every Monday in summer, 10:00 to about 2:00.

The musicians were there again, five old guys playing their beautiful Spanish music just for fun and a tip jar.  I danced with Sabra Last week and tried unsuccessfully  to get Mike to dance this week, so I danced alone. It made the farmer's smile, me in my Keen sandals and black clothing, dancing with an invisible and handsome partner.  Michael Combs called out my name and he and his beard gave me a big kiss.

I saw my friend from Ghost Ranch, Patricia, who liked my jewelry and I told her it was from a wonderful jeweler named Sue who sells at the Ranch.  Mike and I bought lunch from a vendor called Edwin, a Guatemalan thirty years in this country.  I trusted that his ceviche would be fresh and good and it was indeed perfect withs its shrimp and fish and forty limes.  He said that this is Guatemala, the cultura. While I was sitting on the cooler and loving this guy's food and activist outlook, who should amble onto the scene but Sue, the very jeweler I was marveling about. Of course I hollered down Patricia to meet her.

 Then Esta, my old friend, showed up and I got to thank her for sending me to the one outdoor public pool in Santa Fe last week, a place I hadn't been in over a decade.  I took my grand daughter there and as we walked in, my grandson with red cheeks and a big smile happened to be there. I got to thank Esta for sending me into another beautiful sychronicity and my day in Espanola felt woven and whole.

Michael and I spent a perfect day, planted some salvia we'd purchased from a very cool market dude, moved a Buddelia or Butterfly bush, walked around congratulating ourselves on having a good day. We visited the Datura and the chickens, and our daughter Hope, and grand child came to play.  The three month old slept on my chest as I rocked the recliner She splashed in a blue plastic dishpan, and did her chubby best to be happy to be alive, even if teething. Hope is a beautiful mother who lives in, you guessed it, Española.  A house where a dear friend lived for 13 years, wwhre there are still marks on the wall to show she grew.  The same house where my son, Matt went to Montessori school, the little desks are still stored in the barn. So somehow, I am woven into this funky place.

Today Mike's truck broke down on his way out of town for a week, and my friend Elaine is ill, and it's not so perfect.  But I am trying my best to focus on the out of synch, beauty of the mismatched and the random.  The twelve colored spools of thread Monique gave me from Mexico, the mystery I am reading by Lesley Poling Kempes, the laundry I get to fold because I am still alive, and the day is long with  light and beauty.  Broken truck and all.