The sound of running spring water and the night noises of the jungle surround me, the toil and trouble of the city far behind.

This long-anticipated journey with my parents – their first to Mexico, and the first stamp on their brand-new passports – had gotten off to an admittedly bumpy start, what with a raucus all-night party in our hotel on the first night, getting lost in the chaos of the city’s Centro Historico, a virulent case of bronchitis for their driver and guide – yours truly – and too many other complications to mention. Had I made a mistake? My ailing father was exhausted – and this trip had been planned as a healing retreat for him.

But as we passed through the colorful towns on the outskirts of Merida and entered the ornate iron gate into the shady front courtyard of Hacienda Petac, I felt the tension dissolve. Marlene, one of more than a dozen Mayan women who attended to our every need during our stay, materialized from one of the three graceful arches of the hacienda with a traditionally embroidered dress, a beautiful smile and a tray of tempting red drinks.

My heart sank – I was sure they coudn’t be on my father’s diet. They almost certainly had sugar in them, and would be another disappointment. But there was Colleen, greeting us with a hug and a rundown of the ingredients: hibiscus tea and orange juice. Pure, simple and delicious. Dad reached for it and downed it, delighted.

It was the first surprise of many that were to unfold in the three days ahead. The two of them shook their heads in amazement as Colleen, the hacienda’s manager, led them on a brief tour of the property and to their choice of rooms, each of them ample and beautiful spaces, filled with atmosphere and lovingly decorated with exquisite fresh flower arrangements everywhere – from the beds to the sinks to the floors to the tiny pockets at front of the bathrobes.

The hacienda itself was a page out of the past, with its graceful arches, leather-backed chairs, lush gardens, antique brick oven and vintage tile floors. The sound of running water that served as a calming backdrop came from a fountain made of a giant chimney. Colleen explained a bit of the history here as my parents admired the crystal spring water falling into the pool below the chimney; this had been a hennequin plantation, and this oven had been used to fuel the fires that processed the hennequin, or sisal, for rope that made so many fortunes in this corner of the world until the rise of the plastics industry rendered it obsolete.

The hacienda had operated at reduced capacity until the ’70s, and lay in ruins for several decades until Houstonians Dev and Chuck Stern discovered its fallen walls and decade columns and envisioned what it could be. Together, and with the help of a Mexican architect and construction crew, they brought it back to glorious life.

“Just amazing,” said Dad.

“It’s just too beautiful to believe,” said Mom.

The death sentence handed down by my fathers’ doctors months ago at the cancer center far behind, they leaned back, looked into each others’ eyes and smiled. It seemed that anything was possible.

A cacaphony of bird calls surrounded us as the sun began to descend, and my parents got settled in their picture-perfect suite as the Mayan ladies prepared a delicious vegan guacamole to enjoy on the terrace until dinner. My parents sampled it and relaxed as the sun went down, rejoicing in their good fortune.

“Is everything ok?” Colleen dropped by to find out.

“More than ok,” said Dad. “I think you’ve got yourself a little piece of Eden here on Earth.”

***

Back in the classic talavera-tiled Mexican kitchen, a crew of Mayan women, immaculate in their white embroidered huipiles, bustled about preparing dinner. Here again, the staff did not disappoint: a vegan version of tortilla soup, followed by a Yucatecan favorite, pok chuk. Usually made with pork, Colleen had come up with an ingenious substitute – roasted shitake mushrooms, swathed in a savory chiltomate sauce, sprinkled with roasted red onions and wrapped in warm, fresh corn tortillas straight from the comal.

My father kept shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said.

That night, the Mayan ladies led them through the gardens down a candle-lined walkway to the spa to soak in the jacuzzi, two childhood sweethearts who had never tired of each other.

The next day was one surprise after another, beginning with breakfast by the pool, vegan huevos rancheros on a flower-bedecked table.

My father had the first pedicure of his life, and was a bit taken aback by it all but delighted to find out how good it felt.

That was followed by a sumptuous vegetable soup and a dreamy massage under the magical hands of Mayan masseuse Maryeli. Then the evening commenced with a command performance by Los Tres Yucatecos, one of the most beloved trova trios on the Yucatan Peninsula all for the three of us.

Melodies and harmonies of regional and national favorites echoed from the ancient stones and classic arches as I quietly translated bits and pieces of romantic ballads for my parents.

Dinner was a spread fit for a king: a flaky, moist filleted sea bass served with roast vegetables and a dessert of baked apples stuffed with maple-drizzled apple, spice and nut filling. For my father, denied a season of desserts, it was heaven. His diet forbade sugar but allowed an occasional low-fructose natural sweetener, like maple, and Colleen had taken it and run with it.

The next day, sadly, was our last. Not to let a moment escape, Colleen learned that my mother is an avid birder and lined us up with an excellent bilingual birding guide, Miguel Mendez, who brought the jungle to life for us. His uncanny birdcalls brought the avian life to us and his sharp eye helped us distinguish them from the branches and leaves.

After another generous breakfast, it was finally time to head off to Chichen Itza and the Caribbean coast – Cancun and the Riviera Maya beckoned. But it was with reluctance that we bade our farewells to each of the lovely faces that had become so familiar. Hacienda Petac had made its mark on us all – and one that we would never forget.

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By Tracy L. Barnett
Magis Magazine
October 2011

“Fierce winds ripped huge branches off the thousand-year-old redwood, sending them crashing to the ground two hundred feet below. The upper platform, where I lived, rested in branches about 180 feet in the air … As the tree branches whipped around, they shredded the tarp that served as my shelter. Sleet and hail sliced through the tattered pieces of what used to be my roof and walls. Every new gust flipped the platform up into the air, threatening to hurl me over the edge.”
— Julia “Butterfly” Hill, The Legacy of Luna

It’s hard to say what was the most dramatic moment in that 738 days that Julia “Butterfly” Hill spent atop that platform in a redwood tree named Luna. Perhaps it was the day of that bitter storm and many others that ensued. Perhaps it was the day that a massive helicopter buzzed her tree and nearly blew her to her death with the 300 mph winds created by its updrafts. Perhaps it was the day that a fellow tree sitter had the rope he was standing on cut out from under him by “Climber Dan,” a logger hired by the timber companies to antagonize and remove intransigent activists from the trees they were trying to save from the loggers’ blades.

The full text of this article is currently only available in Spanish. I am currently seeking a publisher for the English version; please contact me at tracy@tracybarnettonline.com if you are interested.

To read the rest of the article click here:

JuliaButterflyHill-in-Magis(oct-nov2011

On Day Two of our Panama adventure, we climbed 1,800 feet to the Valle de Anton to see the world’s second-largest volcanic crater – second only to the Ngorogoro in Tanzania. We were met by Ivan Hoyos of Ancon Expeditions, Panama’s only Virtuoso tour provider and a conservation-oriented company linked with one of Panama’s oldest conservation groups. Ivan, who is cited in Lonely Planet, is a lively interpreter of the country’s history, culture, ecology, and almost anything that might interest a traveler.

Panama, Ivan was quick to tell us, is an ecotourism rival to Costa Rica that in many ways exceeds the superlatives of its northern neighbor. “Panama actually has more bird species than Costa Rica, and it also has more protected area,” he said. “What Costa Rica has is fantastic marketing.” Panama derives the lion’s share of its GNP from canal-related commerce, making tourism a secondary, but increasingly appreciated, source of revenue.

The Valle of Anton was our main destination for the day, ending back in Panama City for two days of urban exploration.

Nestled among the cloud-draped peaks of the Cordillera Central, the central mountain range that runs like a spine down the middle of the country, the community of the Valle sparkles in the morning sun with terra-cotta roofs and colorful storefronts and houses.

After our stay on the beach, an hour’s drive up into the mountains took us into an entirely different world. We curved up and up through huge stands of rainforest, stopping to gasp at the occasional vistas of dramatic, bright green peaks against the blue sky. One series of peaks, La India Dormida (the sleeping Indian woman), has a poignant story behind it, which Ivan related as we made out her reclining profile along the skyline.

Our first stop, after the mirador with its dramatic spreading vista, was at the Chorro Macho, a 85-foot waterfall at the heart of a private jungle reserve that is open to the public, offering trails and canopy tours. Massive strangler figs competed for space with dozens of rainforest trees, hanging with enormous and lush philodendron vines. A cacaphony of marvelous birdsong enveloped us as we made our way down to the rushing river below, stopping to watch the birds flit from tree to tree.

After our steep climb back to the human world of cars and pavement, we were more than ready to indulge our human appetites in a sumptuous spread at the Casa de Lourdes, a charming restauarant and B&B set in a colonial-style home with a breathaking view of the misty Cerro Gaitan and surrounding gardens from its collonaded terrace.

Lourdes Fabrega de Ward, founder of the famed Golosinas restaurant in Panama City, was unfortunately not there to greet us, but her husband, the crisp British retired diplomat Edmund Ward, did the honors. He told the story of how Lourdes, a graduate of the national university who went to London for her master’s in foreign relations, decided to open a restaurant. “She couldn’t even boil water when she started,” he said with a laugh.

These days, with a first-rate staff to bring her creative menus to life, she has no need to boil water. We lingered happily over the result, a delightful repast of seafood cocktail, corvina (sea bass) with tamarind sauce and a maracuyá (passion fruit) mousse not soon to be forgotten.

Fully satiated, we headed off to explore the local market. I had some gift shopping to do, so I perused a fine assortment of molas – an art form originated by the indigenous Kuna people who live in the islands off the Caribbean coast of Panama – and for my comadre Maite’s birthday, I ended up selecting one made by a beautiful Kuna woman in her traditional costume, a beautiful black bag adorned with an appliquéd toucan amid a background of brightly colored geometric designs.

Other typical craft items included framed feathers painted with delicate depictions of Panamanian birds; slices of tropical trees painted with the regional landscapes; ceramic depictions of the Panamanian golden frog, now so critically endangered that there may be none left in the wild; and a wide assortment of other novelties.

We ended the day back in Panama City with an unforgettable tasting menu at Barrandas, the signature restaurant of Chef Cuquita Arias, called the “Martha Stewart of Panama” – indeed, Cuquita studied under Martha Stewart, but it’s hard to imagine the American homemaking icon matching Cuquita’s warmth and color.

Round after round of carefully crafted delicacies, each of them a tiny work of culinary art, were presented on long, colorful wooden display panels for our inspection and consumption. Cuquita came out to explain the story behind each of them – recipes that reveled in her love of Panamanian tradition.

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It’s been a long commute from the time my alarm rang at 4 am until my taxi driver deposited me at the glistening lobby of the Bristol Buenaventura at 9 pm. There were times when I asked myself if I was crazy to take this assignment. Now that I’m here, I see that it would have been crazy not to.

I arrived so late that all I’ve seen is the view from my balcony and the menu – and it’s enough to convince me. I was greeted with a bowl of fresh fruit and orchids, chocolate truffles and a coconut lemonade to die for. The view is like a movie set: a romantic, made-for-TV cattail-fringed lake with a thatched-roof shelter overhanging it and a palm-flanked pool lit up in the darkness as if suspended over the lake. This is my view as I dine on the roasted vegetables and polenta with poached egg that I ordered from my specially prepared vegetarian menu. The sound of tree frogs and rushing water lull me into a restful serenity.

Tomorrow it’s a run on the beach that lies beyond the darkness, followed by breakfast and an adventure of some sort – hobie cat sailing? a drive through the jungle? Not sure, but whatever happens, I’m sure it will be worth the wait.

Our day at the Bristol Buenaventura passed all too quickly, playing in the waves on a jet ski, sinking into pure luxury with a heavenly massage at the Corotú Spa, and swimming laps in the lovely pool. I swam up to the swim-up bar and ordered a caipirinha, and I swam under the bridges and to the outdoor jacuzzi, where I let the warm jets pick up where the massage left off – working away the stress of the past weeks.

There was, of course, work to do as well – a tour of the grounds, including the Jack Nicklaus 18-hole golf course, with the first nine holes to open in November and the last nine in February, with sweeping vistas of the sea. A clubhouse called the 19th Hole is also underway, with a pro shop, a bar, and a restaurant called Prime 19.

The grounds themselves are immaculate, with 114 rooms and 15 villas to choose from. Rooms look out onto a Disneyland-perfect blue lake, fringed with reeds and a thatch-roofed palapa for special events. On the other side of the lake lie a world of things to explore: bridges arching over the meandering blue ofa series of pools, including the infinity pool lined with palms; the poolhouse and restauarant; and the sinewy figures of Los Amantes, the lovers, a bronze sculpture by Manuel Carbonell, the last of the great Cuban Master Sculptors.

Beyond the poolhouse, a landscaped brick path winds its way though the villas toward the sea, past the tennis courts and beach volleyball net and on to the charming Faro, or lighthouse, another delightful venue of the resort. Here the guest can dine or order drinks to sip while watching the waves from the chaise lounges or yet another infinity pool, or wander down to play in the waves.

Twice we began our day with an invigorating run along the beach, feeling the fresh moist air against our faces.

The hotel’s cuisine left nothing to be desired, with a full lineup of gourmet delights in the Tamarindo Restaurant and the Tagua Grill. A grilled peach salad with goat cheese croquets, a chilled avocado soup, roasted vegetables with polenta satisfied this vegetarian, but a wide range ofseafood and meat options pack the creative and varied menu.

Our last night was magical with a boat ride from the lake and down a lazy river to the dock at the Faro, where we enjoyed a nighttime barbecue under the stars, a spread we shared on the deck overlooking the crashing waves. For some reason the electricity had gone down for awhile, and backup generators kept the resort humming, but lucky for us, the stars shone especially brightly for the minimal lighting. After dinner we walked along the waves and to our amazement spotted the pulsing sparkles of mysterious phosphorescent creatures that inhabit the waters under the surf.

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Meet Dave and Anna, the Permacyclists.

She was a corporate lawyer from Brussels; he was a sociologist from New York. Neither of them was happy with their chosen profession, and after a great deal of soul searching, they decided to do what many dream of but few actually do: They quit their jobs, studied permaculture, bought bicycles and headed off across Africa, pedaling and working their way through 12 countries, 12,000 kilometers and 16 months from organic farm to organic farm, sharing what they’d learned along the way.

Now they’ve landed in Mexico and are launching a Phase 2 of their journey, but with a difference. This time they’re bringing a video camera and sound equipment, and documenting the stories of people working on solutions to the many environmental problems they have learned about in their travels. Their goal is to make it to the Earth Summit in Rio in June 2012. And this time they’re going by bus, instead of bike, to give them time to do reporting, writing and producing for their blog.

I was inspired by their story and by their plan, since in some ways it parallels my own – so we got together and shared stories. Here’s a little bit of theirs.

The cheery young couple quickly turn sober when they contemplate the ravaged landscape they encountered in Africa – not because of war and famine, the typical scenarios associated with Africa, but because of severe environmental degradation. Soil erosion, deforestation, desertification, invasive species taking over and killing out what’s left of the local ecosystems. “We were biking through all those problems for 16 months,” said Annabelle. “And yes, we have seen some amazing tropical forests, but you could be sure as soon as you left that little national park you would see not a single tree.”

Climate change was a big topic of conversation wherever they went: New York, Belgium, all throughout Africa, and now in Mexico. In Mozambique, they biked along a coast through miles and miles of former rice fields ruined by the saltwater that had flooded them during a tsunami. At Mount Kilimanjaro, they compared historic photos of the ice-capped mountain with its dwindling patch of white.

“How can we deny climate change is happening? People are talking about it everywhere,” said Anna. “They talk about how the rainy season hasn’t come and how its really weird because it’s too wet but not at the right time, and how things have changed.

“But people are acting on this, and that’s the good news.”

That’s how their project evolved to focus on sustainability efforts throughout the continent.

“I find myself much happier when I’m working with people who are working on solutions, rather than those who are saying we are all going to die,” said Annabelle. “To keep saying we’re going to die is not helping, it’s not moving people to action.”

Their families were not happy about their decision to take off across Africa on their bikes. Both mothers, independently of each other, notified them that when they were kidnapped – “not if, but when” – they would not be responsible for the ransom, Dave said. “They took a picture that was a profile of the ear so they could identify us when they found the corpse,” he laughs when he recalls the moment.

And then there was the reaction to Annabelle’s decision to leave her career as a successful lawyer. “It was like: You studied for six years and you have a practice and you’re going to throw it away for what? to go biking?”

There were some actual dangers – they were mock-chargd by a gorilla in Uganda and a hippo in Botswana. “Believe me, when you have that thing of 1.5 tons running toward you in the water, where it’s strongest, and you’e in a little plastic boat…. it’s quite humbling,” Anna recalls.

But the dangers were not at all what the family and friends were worried about. “The image of Africa in the West is just not fair and it’s racist in a lot of ways,” said Dave. Of course, he added, most Westerners haven’t been there, except for a handful who go on safaris, and given the conditions reported by most of the media coverage, it’s a pretty scary place. But the Permacyclists found Africa to be filled with people who were kind, caring and generous.

In Nairobi, he recalled – which has earned the moniker “Nairobbery” – the pair kept a low profile. “We were totally intimidated. We didn’t take a chance, didn’t try to meet local people.” On the last day, nervous at the prospect that they’d have to cross the scary shantytown area, they were surprised to see all the people smiling and waving as they cycled by.

“That same day we met a great guy who ran three kilometers across an open field to tell us we were going the wrong way,” he said. “People were looking out for us, and we didn’t even realize.”

Finally, after many months and many miles, the family came around.

“They saw that we were happy,” said Annabelle.

“And that we didn’t die,” said Dave.

“Let’s face it – some of it’s luck,” said Anna. “Bad things happen – I was a criminal lawyer, so I know. You can get robbed, but you can get robbed in Brussels, too, or New York. So let’s stop being scared. Let’s throw the TV out the window, and let’s get out and meet people. That’s where it’s happening.”

The pair’s second tour of duty started with a three-week natural building class in North Carolina. From there they headed to Houston, where they ran into the folks from Transition Houston, a dynamic part of the Transition Towns movement – who put them in touch with me. Their first video project was about that group and its projects. Here it is.

#1 Transition Houston from Permacyclists on Vimeo.

So far, they say, they’ve been blessed with enthusiastic support everywhere they’ve gone.

“It’s like we’ve stumbled across this underground world of people who are doing amazing things, and now here we are in Guadalajara and we have six interviews lined up and a place to sleep,” said Dave.

To Anna, that response serves to underscore a valuable lesson that their journeys have taught them.

“You know you’re nothing alone – but together, we’re something quite powerful. It’s about the power of groups, the power of community – you’re not alone in this world. Get out and do something, talk to people. It’s really magical.”

Follow the Permacyclists on their blog and on Facebook and Twitter. And check out the trailer for their upcoming movie!

The planning had taken a long time, and the date had been postponed three days in a row – rain, problems with the tractor, but Friday night, the word went out: The next morning would be the Siembra de Mujeres.

There had been collective plantings before, but it was the first time at Teopantli Kalpulli that the women joined to plant their own milpa, the traditional planting of corn, beans and squash. I have never planted a milpa before, and I was excited to join them. At 7:30 I was waiting in front of the temple, my brand new coa in hand (the coa, I had learned from these women, is a beautiful and ancient agricultural tool that opens the ground easily and smoothly for the insertion of a few seeds, without the planter needing to bend down).

The morning was fresh and bright, with a veil of clouds draped around the crowns of the mountains in the distance. The sun shone on an aromatic earth abundant with the rains of the previous week, but dry enough to crumble easily in the hands. It was indeed a good day to plant.


Abuela Esperanza, elegantly attired for the occasion in purple, has a disability that makes it hard for her to walk very far, but she drove her truck up to the site and supervised, sharing advice and tidbits of wisdom. She, Bety and Luz Vertila took a look at the way the land was sloping and decided to make semicircular furrows to deter erosion and hold the water in place when it rains. Bety took my coa and a piece of red yarn, tied on one end to the edge of the field, and traced the semicircle in the dirt.

We had support from a few of our menfolk – most importantly, Rodolfo, with the tractor, but also Lukas, Fernando and David. Rodolfo brought the tractor around and followed Bety’s semicircle but the dried grass left over from last year kept getting caught in the tines. It also piled up in big clumps along the furrows, making it hard to figure out where to plant. It was all quite complicated but eventually the women devised a way to pile the grasses between the furrows and the planting resumed.

Here is where the teamwork came in, and I discovered the beauty of collective planting. Every foot and a half, a woman would drop three grains of corn; halfway in between, the woman behind would drop one or two beans, and every 20 paces, a squash. A third woman followed, tossing in a handful of composted manure for fertilizer, and closed the furrow with a well-placed flick of the foot.

I worked for awhile with a lovely mother-daughter team, Claudia and Daimara. An hour into our work we had the rhythm down, and some began to sing their thanks to the Mother Earth and the Great Spirit that is Father to us all. At the center of our field, Abuela Amanda created an altar with a cazuela of grains and squash blossoms as an offering. And at each of the points of the four directions and at the center, our textile artist Sofi dug a hole, inserted the bamboo pole and raised a flag, a different, carefully crafted design for each of the cardinal points.

I brought a container of cut papaya and a bag of peanuts to share, and midway through the siembra I delivered the treats to each of the women to keep their energy up. Sofi and Fernando came later with agua de jamaica, ice-cold red hibiscus tea, that refreshed us all.

We finished our task by mid-afternoon and each of us went home to bathe and rest. That night, each of us in our own homes, awoke to the the satisfying patter of rain on our roofs – a blessing on the maiz and on each of its sembradoras.

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Travel to Colombia has doubled in the past five years, and the number of U.S. travelers has increased noticeably, as well according to Colombia’s Ministry of Commerce, Export and Tourism. Colombia has the world’s highest number of bird species; the second highest number of varieties of amphibians and plants; and is third in the diversity of its reptiles. Because of its environmental diversity and history, Colombia is home to some of the world’s most distinctive cultures and traditions, reported Maria Claudia Lacouture, president of ProExport, Colombia’s tourism agency.

Here’s my story featured in the June edition of National Geographic Traveler en Español, which is distributed all over Latin America and the U.S. I can vouch for the truth in its title – “Colombia Moves You.”

Here’s the link to the whole story, if you’d like to read it. Cali te Mueve

TEOPANTLI KALPULLI – I was watering my wilted sunflower seedlings when the first rains came. First one fat drop, and then two, and then a whole scattering. I laughed and ran to shut off the faucet, delighted that I had been wrong. I’d listened to the rolling thunder in the distance with wry skepticism. Better water those seedlings, I said to myself, the scant handful that had survived this week’s scorching sun. Maybe that will make it rain. And then it did.

The first rains in six months – I relished the exhilaration, the feel of the delicious drops falling on my face, pearly orange sky, rolling thunder in the distance. And then I remembered. Shades of Hiroshima, thousands dead, millions exposed to the assassin molecules that hover in the air in the wake of a nuclear disaster. I recalled what Marisol, the little girl next door, had said about the first rain: “When the rains come, they will be radioactive, and anybody who eats the fruit from the trees will get cancer,” she reported. I stopped smiling and ran for cover.

Official government reports on the fallout from the nuclear disaster in Japan are reassuring; the only hard data I am finding online, however, confirm that the rains reaching our side of the Earth are testing for radiation at levels higher than what the EPA considers safe. So, what to do?

I’m affected very directly by this decision; because I’m without a car these days, I didn’t bring a lot of groceries with me to my home, which is far from any supermarket or even a tienda where I can buy vegetables. I was counting on supplementing my diet with the chaya leaves from the bushes outside my house, and the herbs in my garden. And while there’s no way to know whether this rain carries toxic levels of radioactivity from Japan, there’s no doubt it carries a load of toxins, after six months’ accumulation, from Guadalajara’s factories and the industrial agricultural operations that surround our little ecovillage.

I called my dear friend Nirtana, a doctor and practitioner of holistic healing. Her message: Celebrate the rain. Eat the vegetables. Have a good attitude. Spirit transforms matter.

“You take care of the Earth and the Earth will take care of you,” she said. “Bless it, apologize to it, and pray: ‘May this food be only of benefit to me and those I love.’ Our attitude and calling on the Divine has the ability to transform and transmute toxins. Act from your heart, sing, dance, love.”

I awake to a newly enlivened Kalpulli. The fresh, damp earth breathes with an indescribable medley of scents – sage, grasses, aromatic pine and the damp soil itself embrace me with their chaotic blend of fragrances. The birds seem particularly celebratory. The rainy season has begun. Just a week too late for the seedlings Marisol and I had tended so carefully and lovingly for nearly a month, and then transferred to the soil with great hopes, only to watch as the sun wilted them into oblivion.

I reflect on the urgency I felt to plant seeds this spring. After a year of travel, of constant, peripatetic movement, one of my strongest desires was to plant some seeds. Figuratively – in the sense of building relationships with people and places, giving them time to take root and grow, flower and bear fruit. But also I wanted to plant literal seeds – to place them in the soil and water them, to cultivate and nurture them to maturity. It’s a rite that connects me back to my mother, to my grandfather, to my great-grandmother Esta, to ancestors long before her, directly to the mother of us all, our Mother Earth.

The planting of the seeds was a weekend-long project; finding the seed boxes, lining them with plastic, mixing the soil, creating little biodegradable pots with paper, finding a way to splice the hoses so they would reach to the planting table, calling Marisol and the other neighbor children to participate. It felt wonderful. I made arrangements with Marisol to water the seedlings in my absence, which she faithfully did.

My wandering soul had not yet settled enough to pull it off, it seems. My work has me transferring to the other side of the city for most of the week, staying there during the week to avoid a daily two-hour commute, and returning home on the weekends – when I don’t have a trip to make, which all too often, I do. I would call Marisol and her mother, Maite, from the road, and they would give me seedling progress reports. The cilantro was doing well; the Swiss chard was growing profusely. Sunflowers and fennel and marigolds abounded.

Sadly, Marisol greeted me upon my return with some bad news: the chickens had attacked the chard, and not much was left of their tiny leaves. Still, I thought, they had a chance at survival; chard is notoriously hardy.

But transferring those seedlings to the soil proved to require more attention and care than we were able to give, so most of them perished. I’m left with one cilantro, two marigolds and six hardy sunflowers.

Now the rainy season has begun, but it’s time to travel again.

Soon, I will dare to plant seeds again. It’s a crazy act of faith – with my hectic travel schedule – but something inside me compels me to do it again and again. Next time, I think, as farmers before me have thought every season, next time will be different.

Postscript: Scratch the lone cilantro. It seems a chicken made off with its tender leaves late yesterday or early this morning. Only the marigolds and sunflowers remain.

Growing food is harder than one might imagine….

Postscript two: Scratch the sunflowers…. as of now, two hardy souls remain…. and speaking of scratching, I hear the chickens doing so now.

Sigh… time to buy some chicken wire, I suppose.