In the distance, Lake Chapala’s
a silky sheen of white
all the way to Mount García;
but near the shore, her surface
is worried by waves from the south and the west—
El Colimote blows today.
And in this dawn, not seen before,
which will never come again,
waning moon still makes
shining diamonds on the water.
Pelicans sail with regal grace,
and egrets blinding white,
kissing the lake good day.
Having cast his net, a fisherman
stands in his boat
brightening sky and the lake’s patina.
Waves repeat white music
and carry my meditation
aloft to the rising sun.
Their ripples, caressing the rocks,
nearly reach my feet with their refrain.
My vision blurs to wider focus.
I gaze at something almost seen
through the gauzy veil of beauty.
All the wind, and light, and music
sudden seem to cease—
Then I know, when it is time
for me to leave for larger realms,
I’ll thrust myself with birthing joy
and swelling gratitude for earth as well;
for mornings clothed in glory
and beings dressed in bodies;
for fisherman and waning moon,
and pelicans in white.
And for the queenly touch
of southwest wind upon my face.
They come, the old women, ten for every guy. They come to Ajijic, all the solo old women, to form an energy constellation. They come, each for her own healing, and each to synergize the lake matrix for planetary healing. They come to receive the lake’s infusion of grace and power, to magnify it for the earth’s healing. They come, forming an invisible base in the ether over the waters. They come to this healing place because they heard La Diosa del Lago calling them. They come to this place, because before they came to earth, they committed to join together here when they were finally old and wise enough to make a difference. They come to save themselves, they come to save the planet.
This is my current response to the question my friend Joyce has been asking, about why so many women settle here on the shores of Lake Chapala. I found myself bored with the usual answers, which are true for me as well, (finances, culture, and climate combined with female longevity), so I let my muse tell me something deeper.
like the imprint
of an egret
winging over the lake,
I dedicate this poem to my beloved sister Ceilie who died fifteen years ago today.
On the Shore of Lake Chapala.
A place to loaf
to invite your heart
a place to float,
balmy the air,
languid the new
not jumped but
Searching for the Poem,
I look under the table.
The tiles bear a subtle spiral imprint
that travels from one tile to another,
grounding me in a single pattern,
like a poem.
I look up at the game,
teens batting a ball in the pool.
Keeping it in the air,
they count aloud their cooperation,
keeping sweet rhythm,
I look out at the sparkling lake,
which through eons observes
making a long
poem of witness.