Sante Fe

The Sante Fe New Mexican, the West's oldest newspaper, is being sold here on the corner while I try to warm up here in the sun. Getting off the plane yesterday it was 91 degrees, so I felt no need for stockings today, but oh boy, thank you God for the sun. I'll take one I signaled from my bench. He stopped and handed me the paper.
''Thank you''
''Thirty five cents please."
On my early walk this morning, I came upon this French coffee shop that gave the promise of a good cup of black smack. It was a pleasant shop but the coffee had little smack. Santa Fe was not all I had expected, but I really had no idea what I expected except that maybe the streets would be red clay and of course waiting for my arrival. My mind was wondering back to the coffee shop where I sat observing this small Frenchman with two small boys that I assumed were his sons. He was greeting the woman behind the counter with kisses on both cheeks. The small children also were raising there thin lips to kiss the lady that I assumed was their mother. They seemed to smile all the time and went fluently from French to English. Their freedom with each other at the coffee shop led me to believe that they were the owners. The women served the boys crepes. They rolled them up like hot dogs which disappeared into their small mouths. The father had two croissants and a cup of cafe au lait which he added more milk to. How can they eat like that and be so thin.! Smiles and kisses, kisses and smiles, and it is not yet 7 a.m. I could not help but wonder: will these children be free of addiction? Will life go better for them? Will all this nurturing ensure their happiness? My boys are all over six feet tall now, and I grieve. I wonder how it would have been if my children were given a father like this Frenchman who seems to love being with these boys, and they so comfortable with him.--like they are all equal, yet the father is the mentor. Charlie Rose' guest this morning was R. J. Reynolds' grandson, the author of The Golden Leaf. Yes, Charlie is saving my ass in Santa Fe. Reynolds believed that the alcoholic and suicidal personalities of his father and grandfather were, in his opinion, the result of the overwhelming amounts of money they found themselves with along with the absence of a mentor father-image in their lives. Oh, Elizabeth you go so fast, now how did you warm up on that bench? Oh yes. The sun was getting warmer and it felt so good on my knees, the same knees I hit the deck with this morning when asking for help. I need direction on these new trails. I refer to my higher power always for his will for me. My vision is that of a he, yet in reality, my strength has come mostly from women. I could care.....help is help. There is a power that works for me because I believe. I looked the paper over, and saw lots of what I already knew about from watching the t.v. news most of the night. What I didn't know was what was going on in town tonight other than the A.A. meetings. Then I spotted the ad: ''A Reading, sign up at 6:30 p.m., Center for Contemporary Arts, 291 E. Barcelona Rd. Free. 5 minute limit." God helps those who help themselves, so I'll do it. I'll go. A bit harder to get around here in Sante Fe. The cabs are not on every corner. All day I held on to my paper like a stranger in town on a job hunt. Tried to pass the morning with a massage at the healing center I found across the street from my hotel, La Posada. Afterwards, I found myself back at the coffee shop. Then took my first cab that the waitress was kind enough to call for me. It was like an old English car. The Friendship Club it was called, and I was headed for one of their daily noon time meetings. After ordering a sandwich I didn't want, I felt I had better get there before I got intoxicated on food. We pulled up at the Club where several of the clients were outside having a cigarette, and I stepped out with my black Matsuda outfit on complete with Patricia Underwood toreador hat. My cabbie drives off (with instructions to pick me up after the meeting) waving to the guys on the curb. The chairperson chose the topic: "Faith and Practice." My faith that the meeting would sustain me and my practice of getting there over the years no matter where I was, tuned me right in. I felt I had to share, so I raised my hand, and spoke of my fears and loneliness, and my self-centeredness. And regarding the topic, well if I didn't renew my faith and practice, I would like the Quakers say, be in for a bumpy ride. The meeting had ended, and I went outside to wait for my cab. I was offered lots of rides, wouldn't it be that after I finally find a cab, I would be offered a ride back to Sante Fe? So I'm chit chatting with a young man, 22, who had driven out from Connecticut, who felt that pot was his problem, that he still kind of drinks, but... I asked this blonde lady that I sort of hooked up with (she had been sitting beside me at the meeting) what time it was. The cab was 10 minutes late, and she was saying that she would give me a ride. Again, I'm thinking about not letting down the cab instead of me getting the hell out of where I was. I accept the ride with the blonde lady. She tells me she is 45, and hopes she looks like me when.... Here's where she's getting in trouble. She stops when she sees the expression on my face. Well, talk like you. You said so much that helped me at the meeting. O.K. So now I'm a mother figure to a 45 year old woman! I'm trying to be a grown-up, not a mother figure to people in transition. She felt like having a cup of coffee, so here I find myself for the third time back in that French coffee shop. I shared with her that I was going to this reading tonight, and that I'm a writer. She said that she was a sculptor. Both of us agreed that our art had filled in many a lonely gap. I walked back to the hotel to make myself look less tired than I was. Don't mind telling you that the gods were fair, I looked great. Strutted my stuff down Palace Drive, down to the center of town where I chose to eat in the restaurant that wasn't a five star, but they made me feel welcome. The waitress was as pleasant as the night before. The New Mexican said be there by 6:30 to sign in. My waitress called me a cab. This one was in bus form. He lowered the stairs and placed a box on the ground so I could climb up. A dark Indian man was seated in the front seat behind the driver. So I just put my derriere beside him. "Hi ya'll" was his greeting. The driver knew exactly where I was going after I gave him the address. "Center for the Contemporary Arts." We pulled up onto this red, dirt road winding down and around. Deserted.
Are you sure this is it? I said. I tried opening the doors, they were locked. The driver and the Indian were looking at me from the inside of the van.
What time is it? I shouted.
5:35
What! 5:35! The wind was picking up and the red sand was swirling all around me. Maybe I should go back with you, then come back here. He poked his head out of the van. "Lady, tell me what you want." Like the man at the airport who I asked, "Should I carry my bags or check them?" Lady tell me what you want. I carried my bags and I told the cab driver to go. The wind picked up more now and I was alone. There was this old volkswagon that I just assumed I'd sit in till someone came. It was locked. I was cold and getting scared. There was no cover. I clutched to the door as much as I could, and squeezed into the door jam for some protection. Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I was frightened. Why had I told the cab driver to go? In my pocket was the note from my daughter, this was the time to open it. "I am letting go of all my self-criticism today, and changing all my judging thoughts to thoughts of love. I am becoming softer and more gentle and accepting of myself, making more space to feel love and joy." "Mother, wishing you a trip full of love and joy. You are worthy of every moment of this trip. Tell me about it! One more time, mission impossible. But it gave me strength to shake the fears and I felt less cold. A car drove up but was out of sight with the red dust that was looking more and more like a a possible tornado. Oh God, please help me. I was so scared and cold. With the red dust swirling, I hardly noticed this man walking up towards me. He had a reddish beard and a white chenille dress on. I could see his legs through it, and the cold had hit his penis too, they were all coming forward. With a reddish, brown jacket, a cap on his head and a knapsack on his back, his hands were pressed together in prayer. Oh God, if Manson wasn't in prison, I'd swear, this was it. Hello, he said. He had warm blue eyes, close together but not crossed. "Are you here for the reading?"
He says yes.
I sure hope they get here soon to open up. What are you reading tonight? I asked after I started to feel comfortable with him.
A poem. Would you like to hear it?
Yes, I would. I thought it would take the edge off how cold I was. He recited his poem that was about nature. He was the justice of the peace marrying the birds to the butterflies, the lake to the sky, the chipmunks to the squirrels. With this ring, I thee wed. With all the gestures he went on for the full five minutes ,"and in death, let love be free." I enjoyed it. Well, I read to you, will you read to me? he asked. Sure, but mine is very short. By now another fellow showed up, and the threat of rain was evident. "There's been no rain in a month," said the stranger, and I hoped it wouldn't be tonight. No such luck. Other people started arriving but no key to open the door. Three spots like grease landed in front of my feet, the evidence of the first heavy rain. I cuddled closer to my friend and now it wasn't just rain but hail. Oh God, I'm crazy. Don't say that to yourself. We huddled for a while, ten minutes in this cold rain. The warmth of my friend's body gave comfort to the awful situation. After ten minutes had passed, a young lady offered me her car to sit in, so I left the pack to get out of it for a while. The rain stopped and the doors were finally opened. I took my place at the end of the line that had formed to sign up. My friend with the white chenille dress turned around, "Where's that woman from Rhode Island? She was here at 5:30. Come up here," he said to me. "You were here first." My faith was restored in the fellowship of writers. I signed in. Soaking wet, I had to make a choice: what should I read? Only five minutes they said. If you're not finished, off you go without finishing. My closures were my best feature.... Finally I chose the story (3 pages) on Elizabeth's decision to sign the lease. Meanwhile, another writer asked if I wanted to fix my hair and straighten up. I chose not to, I didn't even want to look at myself in the mirror. The background of the stage was white. The seats were black. I visualized how my black Matsuda suit would stand up well--after being drenched--against the white background.

When I lay in ignorant beds I knew not how sweet weeds of knowledge give me no rest Once too stupid to feel pain my sword points forward for truth in his name While ignorances lie in gardens once mine.

and then,

Elizabeth sat down with her tired mind and body on her thick carpet in the master bedroom...

And with absolutely no inhibitions and with a dignity .that came naturally, I finished my reading and walked back to my seat. I didn't get the hook, so I figured I stayed within my five minute limit. The lady beside me, who later read her poems in Spanish, commented that she wanted to hear more about Elizabeth. I whispereìd to her, "Well that's my aim, for my audience to want to hear more of my voice." Elizabeth is an Eastern lady, she takes life seriously and surrounds herself with productivity. She has a fast gait, not much room for spirits. Her god is a simple one of daily bread and good night's sleep. What went on in Sante Fe today? The West's oldest newspaper says, "Soaking wet to the bone, hair tight with curls, an artist called Elizabeth read her story."

Copyright; Ruth Mahoney Wed. May 10, 1989