I am traipsing down the steps from my little apartment in Guanajuato, avoiding the crumbling concrete edges the way a school-girl avoids stepping on the cracks, not because any harm would come but just because they invite attention. I cross a busy intersection, nodding good morning to passersby, and head through the narrow passageways lined by homes—some brightly painted with polished wooden doors, some raw stucco with rusted metal gates. I am directing my attention to this moment, to the choice of paving stones for my feet, to the comfortable familiarity of this place, to the morning sounds of school children, and the morning smells of corn tortillas drifting from a nearby doorway and soapy water from freshly scrubbed pavement. I emerge onto the central plaza, still quiet this Wednesday morning, and lightly shake my head to the waiters eager to serve me breakfast at the outdoor tables.
It occurs to me as I continue my walk along this familiar route that, for the first time in days, my mind is still. I purchase a cup of fruit from a stand at the entrance to a smaller plaza, sit on a bench in the sunshine—the morning is still cool—and enjoy the slightly salted chunks of orange, melon, mango, and cucumber.
A toddler chases the pigeons that gather to squabble over invisible crumbs. He squeals with pleasure as the grey and white birds rise, squawking in protest as he interrupts their morning snack. His mother watches quietly, and for a moment I am once again a young mother, overcome with love for a child at play. I stand up, smile at her, and continue my morning walk.
The quiet of my mind is unusual and unintentional. I have begun my day, as always, by reading the news, which continues to be frightening. I have never mastered the art of “living in the moment”. I obsess endlessly about things over which I have absolutely no influence. I carry on complicated internal conversations with myself or with imaginary companions, often about those obsessions. But minds, as well as bodies, become exhausted, and this morning my mind is taking a nap. I am grateful. Even a brief encounter with a friend, who speaks to me of political turmoil, awakens it only briefly.
Moments later, I into the dim, cool, serenity of one of the city’s many churches.. At the front, a handful of worshippers is gathered, chanting in what seems to be a call-and-response, though there is no sign of a priest. It must be one of those recorded services that seem to take the place of a celebrant on weekdays. I take a seat in one of the pews at the back and wonder briefly if I should remove my hat. I don’t. The voices from the front continue, their intonation moving up and down with the rhythm of words I do not understand.
At eye level, life-sized and lifelike sculptures of saints occupy places of honour throughout the church. Closest to me is a trio of personages, all male, one of them holding a pale-skinned baby Jesus that resembles the baby-dolls I played with as a child. On the other side of the church, lighted candles suggest prayers offered in sorrow or in thanks. None of these things speaks to me in a language I understand. But the architecture invites awe, as it was designed to do several centuries ago. The vastness of the interior space, the intricately carved, sweeping stone arches, the age of the structure itself—these do speak to me on this quiet morning in a troubling time. Although it is not exactly my language, for the moment I am grateful for a brief sense of permanence and peace.
That is quite lovely Paula. It makes me want to be there. I, like many others, who have had so many years of relative safety, am finding it a terrible test to be at the mercy of someone so dangerous and a future so uncertain.