Today, I opted to walk towards the beach for my morning journaling. This is a practice I’ve been doing on my days off, while living a five minute stroll downhill from Avila Beach. The sun was just about to rise over the cliffs. As I walked in the distance, I saw something large moving. It takes practice and a keen eye to watch areas for movement, and it’s easy to be fooled. It could be simply a larger bird bathing, yesterday I was at a loss, and thought I saw an animal playing with a ball in the distance. It was a human swimming with a bright orange vest. But today, my eyes stared into the horizon. As I walked closer, I saw in the water a dolphin, swimming solo towards the sunrise. I watched with awe and wonder. How grateful I was to witness it. Another passerby noted, “it’s beautiful isn’t it?” I pointed out the dolphin I just saw, he informed me he had a seen a group of 20-30 seals that just swam by.
I was just about to sit on the cement steps looking onto the pier, when I saw something moving beyond me. A woman was looking through a telescope at this little being, and as she walked by me she smiled and was wearing an “awe of god” shirt. The universe was definitely speaking to me. I walked onto the pier and saw a little otter down below, cleaning himself, having fun rolling in circles in the water. The sun glistened like golden flecks in the water as I stared at him with joy. He seemed to notice me and I’d like to think he was putting on a show. On the other end of the pier, I saw something move at the corner of my eye, but did not stay above water for too long. I caught a glimpse of a seal.
And although I went to the beach to journal, I spent an hour being mesmerized by what was in my presence… The morning sunrise served as the backdrop for the dolphin, seal, and otter, and the variety of birds that were greeting my morning. Sometimes life redirects us to just be and witness the magic that lies before us. But we have to be present to observe this.
During the Thanksgiving season, my family and I were in Mexico City. Every year we opt to use this as an opportunity to travel and connect, as it aligns with my mother’s birthday. It’s become an annual way to honor her, as we explore another city or country. This was the case for Mexico City and the Museo Frida Kahlo, or as many know it as Casa Azul.
Casa Azul, known to English speakers as the Blue House, is where Frida resided with Diego Rivera. It was where Frida created, recovered, and lived in inspiration. Because she did not always leave her home during periods of illness, she surrounded her residence with inspirational pieces from indigenous cultures of Mexico and throughout the world. We were uber prepared for this journey, as my mother had made us blinged out Frida denim jackets to wear for the week and ensured to get our tickets weeks in advance, aware that it sells out on a frequent basis. The day came for our journey to Coyoacan, the artsy borough where the museum exists, and we were early. We didn’t want to miss a moment of the day. As we stood in front of the museum, two hours before it opened, we begun to wonder how would we spend the day. We could wander the streets taking in the culture, and opted to walk towards a local market. A woman stopped us on the street, “Frida,” she said with a smile.
My mother and I both turned around. She asked me in Spanish, if we were going to Casa Azul, and I agreed. Luckily my Spanish is good enough to have basic conversations with the locals. She then asked if I was aware of Casa Roja? Another Frida museum several blocks away. This was the house Frida grew up in with her family. How had I not heard about this? I was a Frida fanatic, and thought I was aware of all things Frida in the area. But the museum opened two months prior and we didn’t need reservations for it. It was closed Monday and Tuesday, we were in luck, as it was Wednesday. She tried to recount images from her sister’s recent trip and the exact address, but informed me it was only two blocks down this direction, turn and walk two more blocks. I thanked her quickly for her Frida tip, and we proceeded to head towards the museum. To ensure I didn’t miss anything in translation, I looked it up on my phone and she was right. Four blocks away, we arrived at the museum in luck, an English tour was just beginning.
It was a day full of Frida, stepping into the rooms she lounged in, walking the path between the family home and her married home, observing her belongings, and impressed by her clothes. I had visited Casa Azul twenty years ago when doing a short study abroad program, but knew little about Frida. This time was different. She had emerged as an artist and strong female that has served as a guiding force in times of difficulty, and it was a pure pilgrimage. The final room had the urn that held her remains, which I missed initially and had to return to ensure I paid homage to her.
Several days later, we were in the Modern Art Museum in Mexico City. I stood for several minutes in front of the Two Fridas painting, reflecting on what lay in front of me. I overheard two Americans talking about Frida and her sister. They were talking about the horror of her sister Cristina having an affair with Diego. I made sure to correct them, as I had the same thought while at Casa Roja, but when I brought it up to the tour guide. She cautioned me that this was a solely a rumor that began with the film that was produced about her life. There was no proof. I ensured to pass this intel onto these American tourists, and gave them a tip of Museo Kahlo that had recently opened and would be a perfect addition to their trip. They were appreciative and said they would add it to their itinerary. It was after my trip was made to Coyoacan that I began getting notifications from friends and social media travel updates that this museum was opened, but I had the inside scoop from a local. Yet what made it more special, and serendipitous, was how we found out.
Sometimes it pays to wear loud clothing and talking to strangers. If we had not worn the Frida jackets and had a willingness to engage in my elementary Spanish with a stranger, we would have missed this golden opportunity to explore Museo Kahlo.
Yesterday, while walking around the local town of Arroyo Grande Village, I stumbled on something that surprised me. Signs on a yard. I was curious what they were, as voting day was one week ago. They weren’t signs for political parties or religious organizations, but signs to ignite a sense of comfort in ourselves. There were two signs:
Do Not Give Up
Your Mistakes Do Not Define You
On the corner of the yard was a table, with a little sign on it and a box. I assumed it would be poetry or a creative prose that could be offered to you for a small donation. Just like some stands I’ve seen on Venice Beach. But when I approached the table, the sign read that they would pray for your. Write about something you are struggling with, and they would pray for you. They were not asking for anything else, but to hand over your problems and they would honor you in their thoughts.
The owner was on his front lawn, boxes in hand. I am not sure if he was about to decorate his yard for the holidays or put up more signs. But I thanked him for the signs on the lawn, and how special that was. I thought of asking for a prayer, but instead offered a note on this Puzo/Bella card (perhaps you have received) to thank him for these gestures.
We spend so much time and energy talking about what is wrong with our lives and the world. I do not disagree, but the noise is heavy. In addition, we are each dealing with our own heaviness of personal issues. It was beautiful to witness for a moment someone using their home not to voice their political stance, not to show off their wealth, or to compete with the Jones’. The owners of this property simply wanted to uplift whoever was in their lawn’s presence. There was no forcing of their religion or any of their beliefs. They wanted to simply uplift their neighbors and fellow pedestrians on this tiny street.
And with this act of kindness, I wanted to pass it on.
To remind you that kindness among strangers still exists.
Something the smallest things can bring about the biggest feeling of accomplishment. This was the case of getting a pair of cowboy boots fixed by the local cobbler. Because I have been in the midst of change, I have been meaning to get these shoes repaired for the past year. They were not everyday pair of shoes, but ones I deeply enjoyed. Yet they were not the top priority, something that simply remained on my to do list, and eventually fell of off it, amidst a move and times of transition. And yet finally today, I brought it to the cobbler, and it brought about a sense of relief.
This little act serves as a reminder that little things accomplished can feel like big things, and should be acknowledged and validated by ourselves. The nagging feeling in the back of our minds, of just another thing to do is now resolved. I am curious what is on your list of to dos that you can possibly check off this week. Doing small things helps build up our belief in ourselves that we’re that much closer to doing the bigger things. Reward yourself
This week when visiting with my grandmother 3000 miles across the country, I wasn’t alone. She had other friends present: her weekly Mahjong crew. Every time I make the visit to my grandmother in Philly, there is at least one day her friends are present. This has been going on for years. They don’t gamble for much: There’s 25cent entry fee, bring loads of quarters and it can last you hours. I never thought much of this game, which is similar to Gin Rummy, but with these tiles and Chinese symbols. I took for granted the sound of the domino like cubes being spread across the table. It served as background noise to the Filipino parties and gatherings, different older family members taking their turns at winning. It’s the sound of nostalgia, although my mom never played, it seemed to be preserved for the elder generation: grandparents, great-aunts, great-grandparents.
But what made me appreciate the importance of this game was watching my grandma play with her friends this week. She’s been struggling with dementia for years, walking with a cane, most recently needing people to spoon feed her or else she won’t eat on her own. Yet, in front of a mahjong table the old mahjong queen arises. Her strategies are on point, winning game after game. The music of Barry Manilow played in the background, as she swayed her hands as if conducting an orchestra. Grandma was in the flow. She may forget something she asked me 2 minutes ago, but she was not forgetting the techniques of this communal game that’s been embedded in her bones.
I never learned this game, but as I watched her and her friends, I tried to pick up what I could. How many more moments would I have of this? I should learn. I tried to ask questions to the group, and although they responded, I was lovingly scolded because they said they lost because of talking to me. And so I observed in silence for nearly two hours.
And I couldn’t help but appreciate her friends who show up for her week after week, who keep her company, challenge her memory skills, and simply join together to laugh. This is a friendship aspirational goal I hope to achieve. There may be other groups playing mahjong around the world, or whatever game their culture is obsessed with. Those who live longer fuller lives don’t just have to live in Blue Zones, but must be part of a collective who watch out for each other, still play, sway to the music, and laugh with their competitive edges.
I write this on National Coffee Day, can words express what coffee mean to me? As I parked before coming into this coffee shop, a woman knocked on my car door and asked where I got my sticker of “Petrify the Patriarchy”. Although I couldn’t recall the exact site I purchased it from, she shared her admiration for my sticker and the message. And I realize this is one thing I enjoy about coffee shops. They are third spaces, where you can meet with members of the community, friends, or strangers and connect, or be alone connecting. It’s interesting that Starbucks are closing some of their locations, some first to go are ones that are solely for mobile orders with no seating. The lack of connection took away from the brand of being third spaces, and therefore some of those starbucks are getting eliminated.
And so with this being National Coffee Day, it’s not just about drinking coffee at home, but enjoying coffee with others and the lure of coffee shops (which is where I tend to write these blog posts from). They are places that serve as killers of distraction, intent focus, and fuel for creativity.
Coffee shops serve as my treat. I may not often buy drinks at the bar or the latest fashion accessory, but I don’t mind buying a latte. It’s worth it at the cafe to drink the creamy foam, sometimes beautiful artistic design, and linger with my computer or a friend in a chair with atmospheric lounge music as I write, or we talk, read, or people watch.
And so I cheers to you cafes around the world who have served as places to hold us in the midst of it all: the creativity, connection, study, boredom, and freedom to simply linger.
“Nobody can discover the world for somebody else. Only when we discover it for ourselves does it become common ground and a common bond and we cease to be alone.” -Wendell Berry
Yesterday, I opted to end my 10 days in Costa Rica with a walking tour of San Jose. It’s an easy way to squeeze in history, exercise, and tourism in a short amount of time. There were six of us tourists, all solo travellers. The interesting thing when you travel solo is you are out of your comfort zone, no familiar friends or family to converse with, and you have the opportunity to have conversations with people around the world.
On the tour, my only fellow American spent the past week clowning around Costa Rica. She literally was clowning, through an organization run by the infamous Patch Adams. They spread smiles around the world through comedic performance. We were an international group from Ecuador, Colombia, Netherlands, and Scotland. One was brought here for work, another has moved here temporarily as a digital nomad, and most for pure pleasure.
The day unfolded without much plans, we walked the laid out path our guide had set for us. But then we inquired about the restaurant he recommended La Esquinita de la Abuela (Grandma’s corner), an awe inspiring place with a cheap menu and local cuisine, decorated as one’s grandmother’s home would be. Our guide stated “you know how minimalism is popular, but Central America is not that. Minimalism is boring, we are maximalists. And this is decorated with maximalism.” In the corner of the restaurant, where chicken soup was being served, was an homage to St. Martin de Porres with brooms next to him. Upon exploration of who this Saint was and why was he here, he was a mixed race friar from Peru. He’s the saint for social justice, racial harmony, and mixed race people. The broom served as a symbol that all work was sacred, regardless of how small the task. I felt that in this restaurant that served authentic Costa Rican cuisine in it’s kitchy plates and glasses. The love was offered to all who entered.
We listened to local stories our guide shared with us over lunch, such as who was author Jose Leon Sanchez. He allegedly stole La Negrita (the beloved Black Madonna) and condemned to jail for years, and upon release fleeing Costa Rica, and found fame in Mexico City. We heard about a tradition of people wearing folk masks in small towns, who look like pinata heads but the opposite occurs. Instead of this pinata like figure being hit, you are hit with a stick, “you know what you may happen if you are too close.”
It was as if some of us didn’t want it to end. We enjoyed wandering (flaneuring) the streets taking in the recommended restaurants, cafes, and markets. The 2 ½ hour tour extended to over 8 hours, as we shared our professions, travel history, political views of our countries, and dreams over coffee and shared desserts. We stumbled to one of the top 100 cafes in the world, and also one of the most beautiful in the local theater. Our guide told us, if we couldn’t make it to a show, we could get a peak of the theater while walking to the restroom.
As we walked the streets, I was reminded of the film Before Sunrise, without the romance, and instead of two main characters, there were four. Who knows if we will see each other again, I made sure to share our contacts. Life has a funny way of working out, “we may end up meeting in another country” I told a fellow traveller as I gave her a hug goodbye.
As we meet strangers, when we travel solo, we have the opportunity to pause and reflect on who we are in this moment, where we’ve come from, and where we opt to go. What are the stories you choose to share? Where are the destinations you hope to go? What type of life are you stepping into when you return home? Where is home, and will home change? All of this occurs within the backdrop of an unfamiliar country, which adds to the allure of the fleeting moment. I can’t help but notice the nomadic wanderluster arises in me at times like this. The 25 year old backpacker who visited 15 countries in one summer, and so many hopes before landing my first full time job. Do I forever want to wander? Will I ever find one home? At moments like this, I don’t just meet new friends, but meet that old version of myself who still longs for adventure, wonder, and feels ephemeral.
When’s the last time you’ve met that version of yourself?
This week, I am squeezing a visit with my grandmother. She’s been such a powerhouse for much of my life, the top prescribing psychiatrist in Philly for quite some time. She owned a practice for decades, with hundreds of employees and numerous buildings. The past several years have brought about retirement and a bit of dementia. It’s been gradual, having long term memory, but lapsing in short term memory.
Mama Minda is what I call her, as she never wanted to be called grandma. She was quite young when she became a grandmother with me, I never knew any different. I accepted it, and it stuck. She helped pay for my living as I went to graduate school in psychology, and my first year of tuition. For a brief year after I got my doctorate, I lived and worked with her. I witnessed her wearing powerhouse suite blazers that were bright or filled with bold springtime flowers and heels, bedazzled herself with jewelry.
Depsite her dementia progressing, she still wears bling jewelry. The gold glistens as she walks with a cane, or holding onto your arm. Her time sitting across from patients, listening to their symptoms, now consist of crocheting scarves. She once led meetings and had pharmaceutical reps following her from one building to another offering expansive meals for staff members, I now had to spoon feed her lunch, or else she wouldn’t eat. There’s a sense of appreciation, as she feels this is a loving act and it is. We age, dynamics change.
In the two hours I spent with her, she asked me questions 30-50 times. I didn’t mind responding, as it was a reminder to practice patience. It also served as exposure therapy to talk about my recent break up? Our conversations went like this:
Grandma Me
How old are you now? 20? 30? 40? 46
Where are you living? California
Where in California? Avila Beach
Do you have a boyfriend? We broke up
Why? Not a good match
Was he American? Or Filipino? American
I’ll pray for you so you will find a Thank you
Good match, get married,
And have kids
And repeat
It’s one way to get over a break up… and I know her repetitive questions are a way to ensure I am “happy”, that I am taken care of. All the boxes are checked off for what brought about happiness in her era, and she wouldn’t have to worry about me. Or she could partake in any way to assist, by praying or attempting to play matchmaker.
I am not sure how many years we have together, but I will make the most of it. And will be happy to respond to whatever questions she asks, and know they come from a space of love. It’s a role reversal, and I’m happy to reciprocate.
“Is this your first time at Esalen,” the gatekeeper asked, as I was checking in.
“No, it’s my fourth, but first time volunteering.” I responded.
The gatekeeper proceeded to describe property rules and protocol for my day at Esalen. I’ve attended three retreats at this Big Sur property in the past 15 months, nourishing my soul at times of change. I had the urge to return, but didn’t have the time to allot to a full retreat, therefore a day dose would have to suffice. Volunteers get nearly 12 hours to use the facility.
I kept this in mind as I left my home at 6am, but with traffic, and a stop to fill my car, I didn’t make it to Esalen until after 10:00. I put positive thoughts in the universe my desire for leftover breakfast and a spot to charge my car, and surprisingly both were available to me on arrival. I was lucky for scraps, as breakfast ended at 930. I needed food in my body, because my shift started when lunch would be served.
Retreats sell out at Esalen, and as I checked the website, so do volunteer slots. Available slots are posted two weeks early, and are quickly nabbed up. Everyone wants an opportunity to experience the land, the thermal baths, and the healing space Esalen has to offer. So I felt relieved when I landed a spot. I had hopes to share this with my partner, but he cancelled the week prior due to a conflict in schedule, and we broke up yesterday. So, here I was ready to volunteer solo on what I thought would be a joint venture.
My two hours of free time before check in included writing as I looked out the cliffs of the Pacific Ocean, laying in the gardens, and glancing at the available books in the bookstore. Time passed quickly, I moved my car, parked far away as requested and went to check in for my volunteer shift to begin.
“I want you to get lunch first, then start your shift for me.” My shoulders and nervous system relaxed. The volunteer attendant wanted to ensure I was nourished before I prepared food for others. What a beautiful thing. My body needed nourishment, after a break up, and long solo road trip.
My three hours in the kitchen served as a meditation, as I cut up zucchini with repetition. Everyone was in their zone of allotted tasks to do. Another staff member, asked how I was doing and if I needed water. She grabbed water for me in a large plastic container. Once again another stranger was nourishing me. Time passed as I swept the kitchen with a broom, peeled off stickers from plums, and washed these fruits for others. And just like that, my shift was over.
For the next 75 minutes I relaxed in the thermal baths, naked as everyone else was. We watched otters play in the water, one even shared her binocolars with the collective. Each time I go to the thermal baths, I cant help but think we stepped outside of Big Sur California and into ancient Greek times. Perhaps we are our own gods and goddesses who deserve a break from daily modern life.
This is my first time I volunteered at Esalen, and I know it won’t be my last. Perhaps in the future it may be more than cutting vegetables, perhaps a sound bath I will lead or a workshop. But for now this is good, I appreciate the mutual nourishment in what this place offers me. I have gratitude to the land, and the ancestors and protectors of the land the Esselen tribe. Thank you for holding me, nourishing me, and I hope in some way I can serve you.
I’m curious how there is reciprocal nourishment in your life? Whether that is through people, pets, or places?
Earlier this year, my friend Lisa bought for my birthday a special necklace. Yet prior to putting it on my neck, she encouraged me to have a ceremony surrounding it. Because it wasn’t just any necklace. The script was written in the language that pre-dates the Filipino language of Tagalog, before colonization Babayin. The word is powerful: FREEDOM.
Although my birthday was months ago, I have not felt the time was right to wear it. I tried a ceremony on the afternoon of a full moon last month. I walked five minutes from my home to the sand, and into the ocean, and held this in my hand thinking of intentions. But it wasn’t time to wear it yet, and I let time pass.
Yet something shifted this month. It was the day after I paid off my credit cards (which had built up after moving back to America). There was a sense of freedom that emerged: financial freedom. And I knew it was time to do a ceremony for the necklace and finally wear it.
Yesterday morning, I walked towards the beach, but this time I stopped and saw mini labyrinth lay before me. It was in the shape of a snake, a reminder of transformation lay before me. I placed my necklace in the center, along with palo santo and a lighter. I slowly walked toward the center of the snake’s mouth, and when I reached it I picked up these items and cleansed the necklace. Now was the time to place it on my neck.
And maybe somehow a shift was made.
Today is the second day I am wearing the necklace, a stranger in line at the coffee shop gave me a compliment to my necklace. She queried if it was in Hebrew, and what it meant. I told her it was “Freedom” in the Filipino script language before colonization. She found it intriguing, and shared it with her husband next to her.
There was power in sharing the story, in simply telling this stranger about my necklace. It serves as a reminder there is intentional choice and strength in what we wear and the narrative we share behind that. Everyday is an opportunity to make a statement in what we stand for.
It Only Takes A Smile 