IN GUATEMALA, TIME IS A PLACE

By Marylou Shira Hadditt

In Guatemala, time is a place you live in. As a dimension it becomes quite different. Essentially, time is slower.
The bus leaves when it is full.
The boat comes when it comes.
You sit forever at a restaurant after you’ve eaten. It would be rude for the waitress to bring you a check.
Time allows people to see where other people are. To relate to absolute strangers in a friendly, patient manner. Never, in any of our interchanges with all variety of service people – hotel and sales clerks, bus drivers, sellers of merchandise on the street, waiters and waitresses – all were pleasant and good humored. No one was ever the slightest bit impatient.
***
My daughter Gail is my traveling companion. We go to the bank to change travelers checks; the line is long. We wait, we don’t look at the clock. there is no clock to look at. When it becomes our turn, we are warmly greeted by the clerk: “Buenos dias, senora, ” or “Buenos tardes, senora”. Guatemalans always use the honorific. We follow, likewise, using manners we often forgot at home, “por favor, senor/senorita” and “muchas gracias,
senor/ senorita. ”
We wait for the ferry boat to take us across Lake Atitlan. We signal , waving from a hill above the shore. A small Chris Craft with a smelly outboard motor pulls up to the dock. I struggle, dragging my wheeled suitcase along the sandy path. A passenger jumps out of the boat, runs up to me, takes my suitcase to the boat. “Me gusto:” he says. Another passenger helps me, “la abuela,” (thd gandmother) climb in to the boat. The ferry waits until we are comfortably seated before leaving the dock.
We enter a restaurant in Antigua, relax at a table in a garden courtyard, We laugh at the mermaid fountain, water spraying from her nipples. We admire the carefully planted hibiscus, fuscias, day lilies. Someone has taken a great deal of effort planting and caring for this garden. The waitress give us a menu. This is not a microwave restaurant. Our meal is individually prepared. Sooner or later dinner appears. Sooner or later we eat. Sooner or later, we ask for the check. The waitress won’t bring the check until its asked for. Doing otherwise is rude like asking us to leave before we are ready. Before we leave, we exclaim how good our meal was and everyone says, “Gracias. Muchas gracias.”

The bus to Solola leaves when it is full. Along the route many more people board carrying bundles on their heads, on their backs, in their arms. The bus becomes crowded, people are squashed against each other. Those who are sitting two to a seat, squeeze together to make room for a third. If someone has a vacant lap, a nearby child is invited to occupy it. These bus passengers have time to notice their neighbors and to make acts of kindness an everyday occurrence.
Children are everywhere — accompanying parents on the buses, in the market place, in restaurants, in church. Babies up to two or three years old, cuddle in brightly colored rebozos against their mother’s breasts. I never saw an angry short-tempered parent tugging or yelling at a child. Instead, I saw children contentedly playing with siblings in the corners of market stalls, boys and girls as young as six helping parents by carrying a load of firewood or a basket of grain. Being useful. These gentle people took time and patience with their children and the children behaved in a relaxed, non-threatening way. Contrary to my Western misconceptions of machismo in Latin countries, fathers were often seen carrying the children.

We sit at a tiny four-table restaurant for breakfast. We order a papaya liquado (smoothie) with two straws, one for each of us. Almost two weeks later, we return to this same restaurant for breakfast. We order one liquado and one panqueque. The liquado arrives with two straws. The waiter had time to remember, even though we were strangers.
***
I felt physically different in Guatemala. I hardly wheezed even though I was climbing steep hills, and my leg didn’t hurt from walking on cobblestones. My back, which usually aches every morning, didn’t. Now that I am home, I realize that I need to reevaluate my time, how I perceive it and live within it – to learn to idle productively. Finding time to relate to the world around me in a more sensitive manner.
I question my own values, my pressing needs. For instance, is my life so much better because I plop my soiled clothes in a white porcelain box, push a button and they come out clean, than that of a Mayan woman who joins her friends to stand in a clear mountain lake,, minnows tickling her feet while she scrubs the family’s clothes on a rock, lays them out on the grassy shore to dry in the sun?

When I am delayed in an endless line of late afternoon auto traffic. I take a deep breath, say “oh well”, settle back listening to a tape, not looking at my watch. That’s what I learned in Guatemala. Those five or ten or even twenty minutes don’t matter that much.
The bus leaves when its full. The boat comes when it comes and the groceries will be waiting on the shelves when I get there.

end

80th Birthday on a gondola

Some entrepreneur, with an eye to making money while making fun, imported three bona fide Venetian gondolas, complete with brass griffons, tritons and pom-poms and rented them to be polled around Oakland’s Lake Merritt as if it were the Grand Canal in Venice. . The gondolas have varied uses: wedding parties, birthday parties, champagne floats and one gondola with an partially enclosed nest especially for lovers. For my 80th birthday my daughter Lucia treated me to a full moon Venetian evening.

Lake Merritt is a U-shaped estuary of San Francisco Bay, a haven for Canada geese, teal, gulls and an occasional pelican. It is the crown jewel of Oakland and treated appropriately. Around its entire three mile perimeter rise are strings of fairy lights.
To the West are new high condos, to the South, the city itself – its varied architecture having survived many earthquakes. To the East are older elegant mansions from the thirties nestled beneath the Oakland hills fronting on the lake shore.

We embarked at about 8:30 — there were still a few pink streaks of sunset in the sky, the moon was not yet up. “Guseppi”, our gondolier, stood behind us on a platform, poling around the lake, appropriately singing Venetian songs; at one point he sang Happy Birthday to me in Italian and Santa Lucia for Lucia. As we glided around the lake, enveloped by the slight spray of salt air, we watched each high rise building, one by one, come alive with lighted windows, growing tall and straight into the sky and growing deep and wiggly in the dark waters of the Lake.
Guiseppi began to sing “La Bella Luna”, turned the gondola Eastward as we watched the moon large, golden orange, a huge saucer, slowly rising through the branches of the trees on the Eastern shore. I sang “Au Clair de la Lune” tho’ Lucia told me my French was awful, which is what my daughter Gail says about my Spanish and which I what I know about my Hebrew.
Guiseppe led us on a silver moon path back to the dock where another Gondolier, with a guitar and a much better tenor, serenaded us with a series of Italian love songs.

I told Lucia, that’s was the nicest kind of present. It can’t be put in on a shelf,, it doesn’t have to be dusted, it doesn’t wear out. It’s just there in the corner of one’s memory whenever you want to retrieve it.

Mark and Lucia

Note from Penny: we four children get creative at birthdays. These were written for 60th and 70th birthday celebrations.

Lucia, Penny, Gail Steve – ML’s 60th

May 1998 (70)

There once were four children who started
but their efforts were really retarded,
they tried to complete
a rhyme to repeat
before their dear mother departed.

Bootsie she was called as a girl
green eyes and black hair all a’curl
in dresses with sashes
she flashed her long lashes
and Necie called Bootsie her pearl

Marylou wrote ads for Sam Bell
It was something she did rather well
Co-op ads won her prizes
which was no surprises
the folks in Hyde Park thought her swell.

Her politics are quite left of center
though whom could we say was her Mentor:
Was it Aunt Bea or Sagan?
Lillian Smith, but not Reagan
from the South to Sonoma it sent her.

Let me tell you how she got her new name
after four kids, two husbands, INSANE
we know she went nuts
no ifs ands or buts
now Hadditt’s the name that she claims

There once was a Sonoma witch
whose life, at 70, was rich
she wanted a ritual
but got only victuals
and the party went off without hitch.

1988 (60th)

To the tune of “Daisy:”

Bootsie, Bootsie, tell me your name, now do.
Bootsie, Bootsie, or is it
Marylou?
What really is your name?
For it never stays the same?
Whatever you choose, it never will lose
The essence that’s truly you.
Holzman, Hadditt, Stauffer and a Deutsch
Bootsie surely has given us a choice

Two marriages and a flip-out
We know it was a trip-out.
So What will be next; how can we guess?
What life will bring next for you?

(to the tune of Rocky Racoon: see kazoo accompaniment in photo)
Somewhere in the back hills of Sonoma there lived an
old haq named Marylou. And one day she had her sixtieth birthday; it blew her away
She said ” I can’t believe it”
So one day she had a great big party with family and friends that would never end..
Mary Louise
Sorted through life’s debris
And always had something to salvage.
From Hyde Park to Kenwood, she’s mainly done good
And will live to a hardy ripe old age
Her life’s work it seems,
has been pursuing her dream and continuing her education. Her career will unfold
And will turn into gold,
As she works towards her
Reincarnation.
Mary Louise
Stepped into the Breeze,
Only to air out her fanny.
Her fanny, It seems,
had split at the seams,
while methane escaped from her cranny.

A LAVA BED OF YELLOW BLOSSOMS
A journal of my first trip to Tassajara Zen Center

Tuesday

I am in a narrow valley less than 1/4 mile wide in the Los Padres National Forest east of Carmel), California – deep within the Coast Range. This is the peak season of wildflowers: monkey pod, fire weed, buck thorn, paint brush; I only know the names of a few of the ubiquitous flowers here. There was a severe fire two years ago and combined with this past winter’s rains produced mountain sides covered with a Van Gogh palette of blossoms. The high mountain which shields this valley on the East has a lava bed of yellow flowers flowing down its side.

The Retreat Center is part of the San Francisco Zen Center and has been trimmed, planted and walled, ageing half a century with that sleight of hand one finds in Zen gardens. Yesterday, while sitting in the sun, I watched a student hand trim the grass growing around a boulder. Low stone walls are ubiquitous – each bulk of granite carefully placed to complement one another by color in tones ranging from gray to pink to lavender as well as complementary shapes.

Wherever I turn, I see beauty. In the gardens, alongside the creek, in the hot baths and the Zendo, “See” is not an accurate word. This is the kind of beauty one feels – caressing my shoulders as I walk along the pathways; warming my heart, touching my soul

Tassajara is famous through its published cook books, especially the Tassajara Bread Book, but is also famous by word of mouth (and taste of mouth) for good reason, I sit down to a beautifully set table and am served the most amazing variety of delectable vegetarian food with fresh herbs that I’ve ever had the pleasure to eat. Asparagus and string beans are cooked just to that crunchy place of proper eating, The table cloths are bright red cotton with matching napkins and, when we arrive, we find our napkin ring with our name on it, arranged alphabetically at an entry to the dining room.

The whole valley is full of being alone spaces. At a bend in the creek, hidden within the trees, is a small writing table and chair. Along the major pathway is a congregate of long, wide, slender and tall hollowed redwoods carved for easy sitting. The major bridge across the Tassajara creek where one of its tributaries joins is lined on either side with long, comfortable benches. Often I saw one or two people sitting there quietly reading. Especially before meals, people gathered to chat along the bridge. Further on the main path of this narrow valley are a group of carved oak chairs that get moved from place to place depending on whether you’re alone or together. I was sitting in one of those cozy chair watching the woman hand clipping the grass.

The people, either priests, students or guests are quiet and respectful of one another, of each others’ space and of the land. Tassajara is a true retreat, beautifully away from whatever is happening in outside world. Just before I came inside this evening to write by kerosene lamp, I stretched out on a chaise by the pool and looked at the stars – so many stars, stars the way I remember from my childhood before city lights faded the sky. I could even see the Milky Way.

Wednesday

I am sitting on the women’s sun deck by the hot tubs. An indoor tiled Japanese style bath is quite deep – up to my chin – and very hot. Too hot, in fact, for me. Instead I relaxed in the outdoor tub, stretching out on a water smooth granite chaise. Above me, the sky is Crayola True Blue, a cloudless cloak over the wildflowered mountains. Before me on the private women’s deck is a gallery of nude women: here a large Ruebens buttocks, there a pale lean Kranach. A Matisse sits with her back to me, her legs folded beneath her with a background of underbrush and the song of the creek instead of wallpaper. A Modigliani rises from her nap, breathing in the sun and sweet air. A small child climbs over what is probably her grandmother – both quietly giggling.

Everywhere is granite and everywhere human hands connect granite walls to matching stones along the creek. There is a rock stairway with a wooden bannister leading to the water. The naked grandmother holds her granddaughter’s hand as they descend to rock seats submerged just precisely enough to cool one’s belly button.

Everywhere are signs of consideration. Like the creekside bannisters, there are carefully selected toiletries, chosen by Tassajara as “ecologically sound” shampoo, conditioners, soaps, lotions and poison oak cleanser are available to care for both guests and land. There are little thoughtfulness: matches and a small dish beside the kerosene lamps; a small table in front of the first aid station on which are provided mosquito repellant and sun screen. Each bed is supplied with a duvet and a goodly supply of warm Army blankets for folks like me who sleep cold.

Food! Try as I might to reconstruct those three delectable meals each day for five days, I cannot. It’s like trying to reconstruct a love affair. I will tell you about their “bag” lunches. The “bag” is a reusable plastic container with a lid. Choice of lunch includes roasted red and green peppers, tapenade, a variety of bread and rolls, hard cheese, soft cheese, goat and cow cheese, guacamole, hummus, half a dozen raw veggies, egg salad, tomato salad and green salad. I do remember a delicious breakfast surprise, semolina with gervasio (sesame salt). And I thought to myself, “you know, I can do some of this at home.”

Adjacent to the dining patio is a tea station with urns of hot water and every tea imaginable. A large bunch of orange monkey pods cheerfully bloom at the base of several shelves which are filled with clear glass tea cups, I’m, told, tea is available 24/7 although I had my last cup of tea early in the day.

Thursday

The staff were gentle and thoughtful, especially when it came to helping me use my nebulizer. Once I mentioned to either a student or a monk that I was too short to reach those warm Army blankets. Presto! A genie appeared and carefully folded the blanks at the foot of my bed. Then this afternoon I was wandering aimlessly walking around, looking for a spot to sit by the creek when a pleasant young woman stopped, asking if I needed help. I replied that I was looking a chair I’d seen beside the creek. She wove me in and out of her rather labyrinthine collection of student housing to a secluded chair and writing table within hearing distance of the rapids.

I think I am beginning to get an idea of what is meant by zen “practice”, although I’m not altogether sure. Zen doesn’t seem to be a religion but rather a roadmap for day to day living. The core of practice is, of course, meditation. The emphasis is on giving your sole attention to what you are presently doing. To live in the present.

I watched my good friend Judith who came to Tassajara as a work-study person, standing at the kitchen prep table. There were eight people, four on either side of a long cutting board. Everyone was intently chopping – I didn’t see what they were chopping. I just heard the tap-tap-tap of the knives against the food. No one talked. No one chattered. I later asked Judith if they ever talked. “Only to discuss matters of food”. she replied. This is what Judith calls “practice”. The woman I saw cutting grass around the boulders, was that her practice? She was certainly focused on the present,

I found myself completely in the now with my hearing aids. The only time I wore them when I was a Tassajara was when I went to classes. When I’m in a large restaurant back home, I give up trying to have a conversation because of the noise. At the Tassajara dining room, which probably accommodates up to sixty persons, I wore no hearing aids and joined in conversation comfortably. I attribute this to two things: one, everyone spoke quietly and, two, I was so at ease and so completely living in the present that I didn’t have all those hundreds of thoughts running around in my head which I am sure get in the way of giving full attention to anyone or anything.

Friday

I’m thoroughly convinced that a once a year trip to Tassajara will keep me both physically and psychologically healthy for a long time These past five days have been the only time in my entire life that I almost never hassled myself. I had no ruminations, no repercussions, no guilt, no alienation. I was just there.

How to keep some of this now that I am home.

Find peace for myself.
Slow down. If it’s supposed to get done, it will get done sooner or later. Keep a mindfulness of touch.
Take time to feel where I am. Look up at the sky. Note the variations of blue. Feel the breeze on my face. Define the shapes and colors of the trees. Look for bugs and worms in the grass. Find the smallest blooms. Carefully watch where I step. Locate myself in space.
Be more attentive to others. A phone call, a drop by visit, a get well card, a food treat. A thank you note.
Take time and care with food. Let Tassajara food be a model. Learn new ways of preparing food. Find my center when chopping or stirring. Taste each ingredient as I add them. Take time to taste. Nourish myself. Give the gift of food to others. Say I care about you with food. Say I love you with food.
End

Summer, 1978. On a camping trip through the UK with Gail and future son-in-law, Sean. Sean, a native Brit, shows us all the sites tourists didn’t see as well as some unexpected ones. A late August night, it was past ten o’clock, and that far north in Scotland, dusk was just beginning to fall. We were looking around for place to camp and not having much luck finding a suitable spot. Sean stopped at a petrol station, asked for suggestions. We were directed to turn off the main road, and there was a quiet glen, “if ye don’t mind the spirits,” we were told.

The next morning, as we were driving northward to Skye, we recounted the night before:

THE BALLAD OF GLEN COE

By Marylou Shira Hadditt

‘Twas a dark and cloudy night
We camped out in Glen Coe
The mountains looked forebodin’
Those clouds were filled with woe.

We pitched our tents up hill away
And set dinner on to cook,
We sank our feet into the bog
And walked about to look.

Across the Glen were three cruel crags
With gray and purple stones
And on each mountain top, a cave
Densely filled with ghostly bones.

“Let’s not camp here”, I begged them
“This glen’s a scarey site.”
“It’s just the mountains”, Sean replied
“You’ll be quite safe tonight.”

And so we set our bed rolls
And so we ate our food
And so we washed our dishes
And went to bed for good.

I’m layin’ in the dark of night,
Thickly black inside the tent,
Then I heard some clompin’ hoofs
Round the tent they went.

My heart is beatin’ faster
My adrenalin’s rising up
The hoofs are kicking at the stones
Stompin’ round where we’d sup.

“Go way! Go way!” I heard them cry
“Be gone ye from our Glen”.
Clompin’, stompin’ round my tent
Gallopin’ round the fen.

‘Go way! Go way! you human beings.
“Go back to town and store,
‘You’re sleeping on our stompin’ grounds
‘We cannot dance no more.

“Go way, leave this magic place
“We don’ like folks around.
“Go way, go way, be gone
“This is our sacred ground.”

Are they goin’ to get me?
Are they leanin’ on my tent?
Do you hear those hoof beats clompin’?
Do you know which way they went?

Enter now our hero, Sean
Who opens tent flap wide
He looks to right, he looks to left,
“Hmmm. There’s only dark outside”.

Calls Sean to us, ‘What’s that?
‘You say you hear a noise?
‘Don’t be afeard, it’s only wind
‘Go sleepy-bye girls and boys.”

So brave Sean puts his head
Back inside his tent.
With one or two final clomps
Away the spirits went.

Was it wind or was it ghosts
Of that battle long ago
When Celtic clans met and clashed
In the massacre of Glen Coe

(Glen Coe, Scotland 1978)

PS. Sean admitted that he, too, heard the clomping, but. as a native Brit, he knew how to handle ghosts.