Everywhere and without hesitation there is gratitude and celebration in San Miguel de Allende this Easter. Bursting inside of Mexico is a boisterous blend of sounds and sights trapped between the poverty of a place once unnoticed and the unmistakable thumbprint of the next boomtown. Women and children wear purple for mourning and walk almost dancing past dogs content napping and guarding the horses standing patiently nearby. That patience resonates from man and beast alike, born of a people’s faith that is centuries old – assured of its place and purpose. Here it is beautiful to be still, feel the sun, smell the chamomile, and sense the power of family and salvation.
Face after face fill a great parade with eyes that have cried for their God. Statues are shrouded in the same sorrow as those who understand suffering’s secret. Spectators stare at the somber processional but barely glimpse the devotion of its soul. A thousand miles away, lives of comfort await them where faith is just fear in hiding and pain is painted over. Joy has withered from neglect because for them it comes at too high a cost. Now here it is at the tips of their turned up noses. It is death by candlelight, crushingly held upon leather brown shoulders, sung by the lips of night-haired children, and embraced as a part of life. It is a reality not anesthetized by privilege.
A portal to this truth is there before me. But, I cannot get in. The space is too small a fit for me with my ego, my distraction, and my “on to the next thing”. I am comfortable in my delusion. I am one of the masses removed from the moment by a camera lens and thinking I know it all. I do not feel a stirring. The parade is nearing its end. Twenty men at least strain to hold the bulky wood beams upon which sits the clear glass casket of God. Sadness reaches itself inside me and binds me to my conviction. The sky is red, purple, then black. My body aches from an old injury that plagues me. This makes me dizzy and mad. I think I know about suffering. I tell myself as I walk away that I understand it all. I avoid having to feel ashamed.
The sun rises in San Miguel to try again with me today. The mood is lighter, more jovial, and the poetry of community fills the air. Loud booming fireworks make children scream and giggle with fingers shoved tight in their ears. Young and old gather in celebration as I slip away to breathe and just be. In a few steps the street is as clear as the sky above me. The voices, not ten feet away, sound like whispers. My feet crunch below me, keeping me rooted in now. I pass a wooden door and my world becomes yellow. It is suddenly soft wool with fringe at the edges. My whole life is tucked in a doorway on a stone step bursting with yellow and begging. I am frozen and staring.
Her hands are mangled and terrifyingly small. Without saying a word she is asking for money, for compassion, and for me to realize that she wants to eat so that she can continue to live this suffering and joyous life. I cannot escape her message to me. She is the frailty that still finds strength. She is the peace while feeling the pain. Her yearning for life knows all about mourning, sorrow and poverty and yet wraps itself in an unwavering and absolute yellow. Her hands, warped and motionless, simply convey that death is a spectacular reason to live. They assure me that it is worth it to have one more day despite hardships I will never know. I want to cry and am filled with confusion. I take her picture and hurry away.
She is reality not anesthetized. And, I do not even give her a peso. I am afraid.

May 1, 2014 at 12:25 pm
Wow. That’s a moving experience. I love how you use words to paint a picture.
May 1, 2014 at 4:41 pm
Thank you. I value your feedback so much. Your encouragement has always helped me to dig deeper and figure out what I really want to say.
May 1, 2014 at 4:45 pm
Thank you for this post. It left me stirred inside. Namaste.
May 1, 2014 at 5:04 pm
David, I am glad it resonated with you and I hope all is well with you.
May 4, 2014 at 9:02 am
Once again your words are a picture and an emotion. Thank you for being able and unafraid to reach into your heart and soul for all of us.
May 4, 2014 at 1:38 pm
It reminds me of my favorite episode from “Six Feet Under” where he watches the funeral ceremony of a culture very different from his own. Their out pouring of grief was so much different and yet similar to his own. But he could never let himself feel life through death they way they did. I love how you stand in awareness of that truth of life. It’s hard to put into words what it feels like to be an outsider trying to understand and connect and yet standing in the realization that that awareness comes at a price. But you put it into words so beautifully. Love this.
May 4, 2014 at 2:32 pm
I loved that episode as well. How fitting that all of this is coming together for me at a time when my family tries to understand the texture and contour of our own grief.
May 17, 2014 at 6:25 pm
Reblogged this on The Krueger McAdams and commented:
Josh wrote a great piece on his psychotherapy site about our recent trip to Mexico.
September 21, 2014 at 8:40 am
WOW just what I was searching for. Came here by searching for
arf