Grandfather

The last drops of a heavy rain trickle off the tin roof as Father Sun greets the Mother Lake. Roosters crow in anticipation, raggedy dogs cry in the street, and Grandmother Moon waxes in the blue sky as the jungle birds carry on Earth's song. A song so powerful, so complex, it takes all of creation to sing it into being.

The Mother Lake's deep turquoise water rests under Her Daughters, three densely forested volcanoes, and the surrounding cloud-covered mountain range. Patches of maíz and flowers of every essence enlighten the green hills. Tucked in between the Mother Lake and the mountains is where the forgetting-remembering humans dwell. Wispy smoke rises from their concrete pueblos, tortillas hot on comals, and the day is born.

The women sit in the market place, bartering and selling, teaching the younger women through action and word. Their vibrant, distinguished clothing emanates centuries of earth-taught wisdom. They chatter in native dialect until a viajero arrives and the tongue flows into Spanish.

The old men sit in their hand-carved cayucos, patiently waiting for hungry fish to bite, while the middle-aged men climb the mountain paths in pursuit of firewood. Those with small plots of land work the fields for harvest: corn, cucumber, carrot, squash, potato, peanut, melon, banana, avocado, cacao, and other bountiful gifts.

Tuc-tucs hum in the street, joining the pitter-patter of sandaled feet, and church music floats in the air. Children of God are everywhere. Some are in school. Some are apprenticing with elders. Some work in local tiendas. Some fly makeshift kites. Others wander and wonder, seeking something to spark the senses. Each is learning in his or her own way, in his or her own time.

I sit silently, entranced in the moment, listening with my heart. Forgetting yesterday, forgetting tomorrow, remembering to be here now.