Saturday, March 5, Oaxaca Women’s Writing and Yoga Retreat: We did an hour of yoga this morning, stretching and vocal sonorous yoga, then had a delicious breakfast, followed by a three-hour stretch of writing starting out with 20 minutes of meditation. We listened to each other, then wrote on our own, then returned to read and hear feedback. This was the result of my first day. Robin Greene, our instructor, “says wherever you go is where you are,” and “the universal is the local fully realized” (William Carlos Williams).
In front of the turquoise door
En el frente de la puerta turquesa
You embrace the child you call your
Disappointment. He did not grow tall
Like his father and
The father before him.
He, the universal pronoun of power,
Authority, belief, gender, origin
Of the species, sky God ravager
of Mother earth.
You bite into the chico zapote soft
Flesh taste like sugary pear
Hard prickly skin disguises
What is revealed beneath.
Morning comes early with the pop
Of a distant crackle of gun powder
Rooster crows, drum beats
A faint glow rises above the mountain.
Awaken to the soiled garments in need
Of washing, the beans that must be cooked,
a child crying for milk,
the planting of new seeds.
Finger tips dark creased sandpaper
Scarred from the heat of the comal,
The tilling of unyielding soil thirsty
From the poverty of rain.
She, arms open to salving wounds, tenderness,
the yield of a bountiful harvest, unconditional.
Everlasting. The tapestry she weaves
Is this an apparition or real?
Sun rises early and sleep is only for
Those who wait for death.
By Norma Hawthorne, March 5, 2011 (may not be duplicated without permission)
