Opening the Windows of Our Hearts

I have been waking up at 5 o'clock each morning to have a bit of time with myself, the early birds, the quieting crickets and my deep, waking breaths. 5 o'clock I wake while the stars are still fading and the moon is kissing the mountainside - her final hour of presence leaving me with a grounded sense of security. (I smile as these words leave the lips of my mind - "grounded sense of security" - for they were spoken by a friend, Abi, as she unveiled the layers upon layers of her womanhood in a monologue that she performed as part of a show we did here in La Cambalacha on Friday night. I gifted her some words as she sat to write her red exploration of a child breaking free from her cage and opening to her feminine strength that Yes! deserves to be heard. And, now, she gifts me a phrase - not to be owned, bought or sold. Gifted.)

And I return to where I left off -- 5 o'clock in the morning. I wake in this hour to have some time to sit and breathe before entering the kitchen to make breakfast for the family. Before my thoughts turn to boiling water for rich coffee and cutting fruit for morning bellies to enjoy -- I breathe, I meditate, I write. Grounding myself. Centering myself for the day. The days filled to the brim and beyond (Overflowing) with activity and children and swirling combinations of mind-blowing juxtaposition, inspiration, creation and the mundane, ordinary everyday (that also turns out to be extra-ordinary if you open yourself to its true colors). The orange joy of working with children, who find the magic in everything. The vibrant green gratitude for living together with people who value each moment of life and want to honor it with art and love and intention and a listening ear. With senses attuned, fingertips to toe-tips engaged – we live, celebrating the blessings of life without shame – working to multiply the heart-awakening effects of a smile, a hug, a ripple of laughter, an afternoon of play that turns you upside down and inside-out with happiness.

And that was all meant to be an introduction to an excerpt from my Morning Pages that I write at the five o'clock hour in the company of the moon and the early birds. For many months of not writing to you my words flow out in torrents -- not knowing quite how to communicate all that has happened and is happening in these moments that form my life. And so, I share with you now this excerpt that is a Window into my heart and my life for which I feel grateful. Deeply grateful.


Morning Pages. Gallos calling out to the dawn. Coaxing the sun to come out and play. Dogs howling at the moon; daring each other to howl louder and louder while the world of San Marcos La Laguna sleeps. They howl at night and sleep by day. We grow used to the noise. Yesterday, Monday, I spent the afternoon in San Juan. Each Monday we travel to la biblioteca to play for 1 hour 15 minutes, or something longer when we cannot tear ourselves away from what we are doing. (Playing - having fun – sharing – learning and blooming with glue-covered fingers.) Yesterday was particularly beautiful. (I probably say this each week. But this is how Beauty is. She grows, spreads her fingers far and wide. What the world needs -- not the "beauty" of supermodels and latest fashions. The Beauty of Exchange, Sharing, Consciously Creating Harmony Together.) And so, San Juan. Yesterday. We sang a song -- La Palmera; and danced and Smiled and sang again. We played a game. We stretched up high and stretched down low and gathered the positive energy we created in the circle in the palm of our hands. And then we got quiet as we played with this magic ball -- letting it grow bigger and smaller like a heartbeat swelling, rising and falling. And then we compacted the energy into a small dandelion seed and blew it gently across the room to our friend Leire, who began to fly when she received our seeds beneath her wings. Up, up, so full of gratitude for the generous hearts of the children.

She read a story. Actually, no. She did not ‘read’ a story; she told a story with the expression and dedication/energy of an authentic storyteller. El Monstruo de la calle de los colores. La calle de los colores (The street of colors) is not fantastical. It is right here, at the edge of town. (Do you know esta calle? she asked the children.) At first, no. But then, when asked what colors one sees bouncing off the prism windows of this rainbow street, each child eagerly contributed a color or two or eight. Rojo! Anaranjado! Azul! Verde! Amarillo! Morado! Blanco! This is where the Monster lived. He was shaped like a giant, rectangular armware. Like the piece of furniture that often hides an all too often used television and stereo system. It has doors that open to the front.

El Monstruo (Armarion) only left his dark house once a day. Once a day he appeared on la calle de los colores. He walked to buy a newspaper. Each and every day. The children were very curious about this. They wanted to know more about the peculiar Armarion. But when they ran after him, he ran away too, scared. And then he would turn around and scowl and open his peacock feather tail and scare the children in return. Could it be that he was he reading? All day long?

One day, the children were flying a kite near Armarion's home and the kite landed up high on his second story balcony. The children decided to wait until Armarion was sleeping to go and retrieve the kite. When it was time, three children helped hoist one another up to the balcony. When they saw Armarion sleeping, they could not contain their curiosity any longer, and so they went inside, tiptoeing. As they got closer, they realized that Armarion was surrounded by bits of newspaper, torn-up and chewed on. A bowl full of newspaper lay at his feet. He had been eating it like popcorn! Eating all the information without reading a single word. In fact, he did not know how to read. The television had eaten his brain as he sat and ate the newspaper. His heart had grown cold and withdrawn. The children felt the sadness in the gray chill of the lightless room.

One of the children noticed that Armarion wore a necklace of keys around his left wrist. A particularly daring girl took the keys in her hand and began looking for the key that would unlock the front doors of Armarion’s square body – two doors that rested just where his heart would be. When they opened the doors, they were surprised to find another door. They opened it. Inside was another door. And another and another and until little Monica was practically inside the monster. All you could see were her little toes. In the final lock, she placed the last key, which appeared itsy-bitsy even in her tiny fingers and then … They heard it. A song coming from deep inside Armarion. From between the doors burst the brilliant yellow wings of a canary. They had discovered the heart of the monster, who woke with a rumbling, tumbling, grateful smile. “Thank you!” he exclaimed. “My heart is awakening – feeling the sunshine of your smiles for the first time in so many years.”

From that time on, the children who played en la calle de los colores laughed and shared with Armarion, who threw out his television set and began to feel human again. The children would come each week and teach Armarion how to read. They were such good teachers, beginning with simple alphabet and everyday words and then gradually introducing longer, more fantastical and adventurous words, stories and rhymes. And they lived happily, playfully, open-heartedly, there, en la calle de los colores – sharing their gifts, stories and imaginations with a smile.

I didn’t realize I would sit here and tell the whole story. How beautiful, eh? What I originally wanted to share was the art project that followed the story – “La ventana de mi corazón.” “What is inside your heart?” we ask the children as we hand each one a window with a blank landscape on which to draw the beauty of their hearts. Trees, plants, animals, yellow canaries, friends – the children picked up the crayons and drew happily. Isabel draws a man holding a broom. He is very happy that he is able to buy this broom. A broom to sweep his home and feel content with a clean floor? A broom to fly away on? Children are the greatest wonders of the world. Isabel, in her owl-eye wisdom, reminds me to always give thanks for the small blessings in life.

We share our hearts in a circle. One by one, we open the windows for our friends to see. We were shy at first, passing a long, silent moment before daring to open the shades; but little by little, we opened each window and shared the colors and shapes with the whole group – exploring what is inside our hearts. Beauty abounds! The energy of the room is buzzing – and our hearts start dancing, hanging their around our necks with the windows open. And we begin to sing …

“Mi corazón salió a bailar,
Porque lo hace muy bien.
Mi corazón salió a bailar,
Porque lo hace muy bien …

And we dance.

Why Cambalacha?

This is an excerpt from my journal entry on the first day of Cambalacha classes in the new year. People write books about Why Art? People write essays on the social power of art. The power of art to change the world. I like to think that I will explore the details, images, colors, and complications of this question as the year continues. For now, this is neither the first page of a book or a well-formed essay. It is a journal entry exploring why I believe in this project -- perhaps just touching the surface of how Gabriela, the founder and director of La Cambalacha, has visioned, dreamed, manifested, written, drawn, built, sung, danced this place into existence. Perhaps just touching the surface of what I will learn and experience and write, paint, dance, sing into existence while I am here. With the collaboration and love of people from all over the world. Some just passing through. Some staying a longer while. This is an excerpt:

Blank pages. How beautiful you are. White. Spacious. Calm. Free. I arrive in this place, San Marcos La Laguna, Guatemala. I arrive. To live. To share. To participate heart and soul in this project Cambalacha that believes in the power of Art to change the world. Living Artfully -- what is this? Cooperating. Listening. Greeting one another with Respect. Love. An Open Heart. Expressing love means dissolving fear -- confronting the fears we have inherited from years of oppression, civil war, violence. Calming the storm in our humans souls with Love -- creating together, sharing together, understanding that we create unnecessary divisions between us -- entre humanos, entre culturas, entre religiones entre culturas, entre razas. El Arte cambia el mundo. This is why we are here, in La Cambalacha, because we believe that the more people close to Art, to the Creative Process, the more peaceful, free, loving this world will be. Breathing, Dancing, Painting, Singing Positive Energy into the world -- sharing especially with children. Seeds of Hope. And we begin each workshop reminding ourselves why we play, why we sing, why we dance and paint and listen to stories and cooperate and express ourselves. Because every time we sing, out heart grows a little bit bigger. And everytime we dance our heart grows a little bit bigger. And everytime we wash ourselves of fear and dare to participate and express ourselves, our heart grows a little bit bigger. And every time we share and laugh and play together, our heart grows a little bit bigger. Until our hearts are "Asi de grande" -- and we draw a heart with our hands. A heart that begins at our fingertips stretching toward the sky and ends where our toes meet the earth. Imagine the life force of a heart this big. Beating. Pulsing. Nourishing the earth and its creatures with oxygen as it pumps and pumps -- hearts resounding together.

May you Walk in Beauty

May you walk in Beauty. So goes the first line of a Native American blessing that made its way into my poetic memory some time ago. As an adolescent trying desperately to fend off the authority of Image and the judgments, mirrors, crash diets, and insecurities that hide in its shadows, I did not understand the depth of this prayer. How is beauty a blessing when the pursuit of external beauty – body, lips, stride, reputation, career choice – is a journey through a briar-patch of self-doubt? Ah, now I understand. This is where you walk away from mirrors and media pressures and other people’s ideas of beauty, fall through the looking glass and re-emerge into a world of extraordinary beings. The same world of billboards and screaming labels and loud noises and violence, but perceived with a new pair of eyes.

Eyes. Prism eyes that carefully tune five sense organs: eyes, ears, nerve-endings, nostrils, lips. Eyes. Eyes of a child who “discovers the beauty of the world every moment again and again.” A new pair of eyes and a restored dedication to consciously recognizing the Beauty and Abundance that Is; a new pair of prism eyes and a rekindled commitment to participating in the Creation of Beauty in spaces where the stars do not shine as brightly. Meeting violence with compassion and love – this is the path King, Gandhi and the Dalai Lama choose. Beauty. Believing in Beauty in spite of the suffering and violence that try to strangle our songs and celebrations and poetry and commitment to life and love. Hope in the face of the fear and deep-seated prejudices that tear us apart. Beauty away from mirrors and magazine covers and accusations and violent television programs that air live on the streets of cities and towns in every nation around the world. Beauty that has the power to heal cold hearts, inspire reconciliation between warring nations, transform dissonance into harmony, help brothers and sisters open up and listen to the morning birds that sing for them. That sing for us.

May you walk in Beauty. Yes, I understand. When you walk in beauty, your heart is open and you believe in the power of love; in the power of compassion. You believe in the power of your actions, your smile, your touch, your dedication to the highs and lows of the human experience. You believe in the power of sharing Beauty and cease to hoard precious jewels that lose their magic when hidden away in a lock-box to gather dust. And because you believe in the power of Beauty you begin to walk with intention, speak with intention, act with intention – energized and awed by the power of your actions to transform, inspire, illuminate. May you walk in Beauty is another way of saying: may you have reason to believe that life is worth living. May you find yourself living moments that inspire you to share and contribute to the happiness of all the creatures you meet along the way. May you always be generous. May you always share your smile. May you always recognize the little wide-eyed-wonders of the world even when professionalism points his finger and calls you unsophisticated. May you walk in Beauty. May we walk in Beauty.

In the Beauty of:
- Washing bright-colored cloth and watching the reds, yellows, greens and blues bleed in a slow spiraling tornado down the drain. Back to the earth.
- Listening to the laughter of two lovers who tattooed their love on their hands. Two lovers who sing hello and goodbye and always steal one last kiss before parting. Listening to the sweet melody of lovers at play with deep appreciation; gratitude – even though I sleep alone.
- Disappearing into the imagery rich mind of a Tibetan woman who sees trees as “the jewelry of the mountains;” and then gazing skyward through the green canopy of the avocado tree.
- Maria. Who greets me with flowers and kisses and a heart of gold; who washes dishes with her hips swaying to the curvy rhythms of salsa. Who calls me sister and receives my love when I do the same, sister.
- Grinding spices with mortar and pestle on a mountaintop with a view that makes you believe you can fly. Working with our hands to create, to nourish, to feed, to share. Grinding there in the shadow of the volcano
- Fuchsia flower petals swirling in a porcelain toilet
- Saying “yes” to invitations that change your plans.
- Ripe red coffee fruits.
- Listening to three grown men sword-fighting with six year-old Lucas just after dinner. Before bedtime Imaginations running wild. Consciously recognizing the Beauty of Play. Vital play.
- Feeling overcome with love for the children of La Cambalacha. Sitting in a circle by the lake painting watercolor images on our arms and ankles -- I paint you, you paint me. I permit you to touch my skin with watercolors. I open, just a little bit. Yes – watching as these budding flowers open little by little. Building confidence among this group learning to express themselves in paint, words, movement, dance, song. An expansive feeling within my heart: wanting deeply to know each and every one of these complex coming-of-age beings. To offer support and love and guidance as they encounter the many tints and shades of life. Looking them in the eye. And writing simply, “This I know: I love.”

I love

I have arrived

"The Life of a Teacher is as important a life as any person may live. Viewed broadly, it is a life of leadership in a world of contradictions and crises. It is a particularly human life, one of total involvement with human beings as they face human questions." Morris Mitchell

I smile at the young woman flipping through her quote book as she realizes why she feels slightly nervous as she steps into her new role as an educator in a multi-faceted, constantly blooming art education project on the shores of one of the world's most extraordinary lakes. San Marcos La Laguna, Solola, Guatemala. This is her home for the next year of her life; the next year of possibly sharing in the creation of something meaningful in a world that daily surprises us with the range of beauty and violence, harmony and dissonance, intention and apathy, awareness and careless breath. Perhaps it is the state of the world that makes her approach this opportunity with suitable concern. Yes, I am talking about myself in third-person. Witnessing myself as a human being from a place outside myself helps me to remain compassionate toward this young woman who is learning. Day by day. Learning. Witnessing myself in this way allows me to admit that I am feeling simultaneously ecstatic and nervous about all this Cambalacha year will be. Simultaneously capable and unprepared. Simultaneously courageous and hesitant.

Jane writes to me this morning and helps me understand from where these contradictory sentiments arise. Her words could not be more pertinent as I sit to attempt articulation, attempt fininte detail, attempt a written expression of the experiences I am living in the first days since my arrival. She sees inside the red walls of my heart -- expanding and contracting, as I encounter the first demon of the journey. A "wailing doubt" that so often arises at the beginning of a journey and causes one to question her ability to do what it is she whole-heartedly wants to do. A "wailing doubt" that interrogates a person's creative energy with judgements of "good" and "bad" and "success" and "failure." "This is the doubt that tempts you to narrow what you see about what you can do or be at La Cambalacha," says Jane. The word "tempt" is key because it signals a release of accountability -- the possibility that one would release herself from the challenge of accountability. Of accountability to herself. Allowing her to fabricate a story that she is really not as creative as the rest and cannot be expected to hold her own amongst a group of such dynamic persons and perhaps she should not hold so much responsibility and ... so on and so forth as the snowball rolls and gathers momentum. This doubt that arises is an obstacle of my mind; a convincing illusion; something I have the fortunate opportunity to encounter with the fierce grace of Kali -- courage, compassion, strength and dedication. I have arrived at La Cambalacha. A community. An art school. A conscious education project that believes in the power of Art to change the world -- one person at a time, one day at a time, one seed at a time, one question at a time, one step at a time. I have arrived. Dancing. Singing. Sewing. Painting. Laughing. Drumming. Singing. Sharing. Creating. Growing. Learning together. I have arrived. Signing a contract for one year of living and breathing children, early mornings, dance floor inventions, middle of the night revelations, hard work, colorful play, coffee harvests, mango feasts, lessons in balance, exploration. I have arrived. Entering into the undulating rhythm of the lake and afternoon winds. Commiting to the constant, thrilling, simultaneouly exhausting and energizing pulse of La Cambalacha. Crystalizing details to follow.

Kundera Quote: Food for Thought

As I logged on to post a few new thoughts, I came upon this entry that I wrote at the beginning of January just before departing for Guatemala. I think it is worth sharing. Milan Kundera has a succinct and powerful way of addressing worthwhile questions -- questions for human mind and heart together. I hope that I cultivate the ability to express succinctly, powerfully, nakedly the images and thoughts that dance around my heart and mind. The ability to be concise is not something that comes naturally to me. So -- here it is, Kundera food for thought. I hope that you are Living far from apathy and boredom. I hope the colors you paint are rich and inspired and passionate. Food for thought:

Excerpt from a Milan Kundera novel, Identity -- featuring two unforgetable characters, Chantal and Jean-Marc, who love each other so passionately, so heatedly that they drive each other mad. Creating a reality so crazy with poetry and mystery and jealousy and red-pulsing love that they cannot turn the lights off to fall asleep for fear of losing one another in some awful dream. A riveting novel. A few days after finishing the novel, I recalled something on page 81 to be soul-moving ... food for thought. And so I record it here -- not to post, to save until it comes up on some interconnected occasion.

They talk about death, about boredom, they drink wine, they laugh, they have a good time, the are happy.

Then Jean-Marc came back to his idea: "I'd say that the quantity of boredom, if boredom is measurable, is much greater today than it once was. Because the old occupations, at least most of them, were unthinkable without a passionate involvement: the peasants in love with their land; my grandfather, the magician of beautiful tables; the shoemakers who knew every villager's feet by heart; the woodsmen; the gardeners; probably even the soldiers killed with passion back then. The meaning of life wasn't an issue, it was there with them, quite naturally, in their workshops, in their fields. Each occupation had created its own mentality, its own way of being. A doctor would think differently from a peasant, a soldier would behave differently from a teacher. Today we're all alike, all of us bound together by our shared apathy toward our work. That very apathy has become a passion. The one great collective passion of our time."

Instinctively, I want to shout out to any soul who feels apathetic about his or her work -- apathy is not living, apathy is not life, leave your apathetic work to discover something that truly lights your fire and makes you burn with inspiration. We are not meant to be apathetic. Perhaps we are not meant to search so hard for "the meaning of life." Life just is ... the meaning is in the bread we bake, the birds we befriend, the laughter we share, the honest work it takes to survive on a planet trying so hard to provide for a population of homo sapiens who all too often forget to be grateful. Sigh. I am glad I will be able to revisit this passage from time to time. Checking in with myself to see if apathy lingers near my life and work from day to day. Checking in with myself to see if I feel inspired, passionate, alive. At this moment, right Now, I am bubbling over with gratitude, joy, and uncontainable inspiration for the journey I am about to make. Cambalacha, Guatemala, here I come. Open-heartedly. To learn, to share, to plant myself heart and soul in the fertile soils of San Marcos La Laguna for the next year. Om.

Sunshine Dirt Schoolyard

I went to heaven today. In the back of a red pickup truck; I went to heaven. I held the crossbar like a valiant windsurfer -- riding the air currents like a dandelion seed. Not sure exactly where I am going, yet knowing the soil will be fertile. I feel like I am flying. In the back of a red pickup truck. My open heart is my sail. Fearlessness is my strength. Open heart and Fearlessness: companions. We climb higher and higher. The pothole highway to heaven. Steep green slopes. How did they manage to plant corn way up there? On that slope just inches away from being a vertical line to the center of the earth. Because Corn is god. Yes. I understand. Golden ears cared for with dedication, tenderness, sweat and broken backs. Uncomplaining broken backs. I am high on oxygen clouds. Oxygen clouds that kiss the blue-green celestial lake. Please do not make Lago Atitlán a "wonder of the world," I think to myself. An official "wonder of the world" destination. All of the camera flashes reflecting off the water would be like a terrible storm. And the souvenirs and catchy slogans and monster hotels would disrupt the texture of this heaven in the back of a red pickup truck.

We snake our way up the mountain. Higher. A seed am I. A smiling seed. On my way to Santa Clara. Still, I do not know where I will land. Fertile soil. Coffee. Corn. And children. Children. This is where I fly. This is where I land. Fertile soil. A schoolyard. Three buildings and a central sunshine dirt schoolyard.

Santa Clara. A pueblo in the clouds. A flock of sunkissed children swarm. They are curious. Excited. Ready to learn the dance we have prepared. A choreography we have danced in the evenings before dinner. Exaggerated. Fun. Young Women returning to childhood dance recitals. Shaking our hips and waving our pom-pom hands with inexhaustible enthusiasm. We play. And now. In this sunshine dirt schoolyard, on the top of a mountain, in the corn clouds, in heaven, breathing the blue-green evaporation of the celestial lake. In this sunshine schoolyard, we will teach 50 children this made-with-love choreography for their upcoming performance in the local Gimnasia Rítmica competition. A celebratory dance. To enjoy. To perform. Cumbea. As I dance alongside these children -- jóvenes between 8 and 15 years old -- I blossom like a happy silent clown who receives an airborne kiss from across the circus. A monkey kiss on a mountain top in Guatemala. The children are smiling. The children are laughing. The children are dancing. I am sunkissed, rosy-cheeked, too. Like the children. I am dancing. Saying to myself, "Yes! I want to dedicate myself to this place for the next year. I want to make my life here -- sharing, creating, smiling, growing with the children of Lago Atitlán. I watch Gabi, the founder and director of La Cambalacha, teach the children with confident, joyful composure. She knows how to facilitate beautiful collaboration, creation, art when surrounded by 50 bouncing children in a sunshine dirt schoolyard. I am filled with gratitude. I am content. I, too, dance with enthusiasm and feel heartbeat elation as I watch them dance, remember, smile their way into a final pyramid. A pyramid with 50 children. Cumbea. Remarkable cartwheeling joy. They love us instantly. And we love them. There. In the sunshine dirt schoolyard. We dance.

Burning Hands and Contentment

I am on fire. Lit up with inspiration. Gratitude flows within and without like water. Flowing. Like the blue-green afternoon tide of the lake. Lake Atitlán. Gratitude Abundant. Truly. Where do I begin?

I have been dancing circles here in La Cambalacha for the past two weeks. Like a crazy woman I run from teaching a morning yoga class - to translating a word document - to helping Lola and Angela with lunch in the kitchen (while dancing to the latest evangelical tunes on the radio) - to inventing a thousand afternoon games to entertain the youngsters whose attention span is fleeting - to dressing up in costume and getting in character for a dance/culture class with the 12 and 13 year-olds who are sometimes difficult to motivate - to talking long hours in the night with Gabriela (the founder and director of La Cambalacha who is an extraordinary dancer and has me hooked on learning Hip Hop) and Cambalacha family - to skipping happily down to the lake to bathe body and soul in morning sun rays - to walking arm and arm with María who fills my heart with joy the color of sunshine and rain - to choreographing dances for local children to perform in the upcoming town festival - to riding in the back of a pickup to the neighboring village to share art, music, ecology classes with the students in primary school - to contemplating the reason that children tend to go crazy on rainy days and trample upon your words and good intentions - to being reminded that children are made of rainbow colors -- sometimes dark with disrespect and ungratefulness, other times vibrant yellow and orange with laughter, songs and engaged imaginations. Each day, I arrive at my bedside absolutely exhausted and smiling; smiling at the good fortune of being here in La Cambalacha.

From the moment I returned to the shores of San Marcos La Laguna, I felt a rush of Contentment rise in my soul. Manifesting in a Gracious Smile. A smile that says Thank You to each and every breath that has carried me here. Life is Intense here in La Cambalacha. There is always much work to be done. Not only are we dedicated to facilitating the artistic development of nearly 2,500 children on the shores of Lago Atítlan; we are committed to living in community. On Fire with Intensity. The heartbeat of the day, powerful.

I feel strangely inarticulate as I listen to the evening rain. Swimming in such emotion, amazement, marvel as my life unfolds minute by minute. Two weeks on Fire passing with little opportunity to express in words the rhythms, sentiments, thoughts, emotions I am feeling strongly, like drumbeats, like a rainstorm, in my organs, in my breath, in my smile. A pause from writing due to Burning Hands. Swollen. Red Blistered. An overdose of acidic fruit and sunshine? A mean herb? A caterpillar? Animal Urine falling in the night? A strange spirit? I do not know exactly what happened to my hands. But they swelled up like balloons and put on an ugly mask of blisters and puss. In the healing process, my extraordinary living body generated an entire new layer of skin, allowing the old, dark, burned skin to peel away, piece by piece. Strange, powerful occurrence. When studying the Mayan calendar with a group of beautiful sisters one evening, I see the Tarot card that speaks of my sign and my nahual (animal spirit guide). My hands are in fire. I burned myself the last time I was here. Burned myself in the kitchen cutting Chiles. A down home Virginia girl unaccustomed to cooking with chiles picantes. Que locura.

Please take a look at the website of La Cambalacha. It is beautifully crafted. It gives you a glimpse of what we are doing here in San Marcos La Laguna. How we are singing, dancing, playing, sharing, creating and opening our hearts to the power of art and collaboration. I will be participating in a fantastic Cambalacha Parade on the 15th of September. I am learning to twirl a vibrant golden flag while dancing to the drumbeats of percussion and marveling at the clown faces and fun of the stilt walkers. Singing ... singing ... singing. I will try to write more frecuently. For now -- www.lacambalacha.org

Abundant Gratitude. Love. Learning. And lots of Rain that does keep us from living like Fire.

www.lacambalacha.org