Boca Cerrada: The Joy In Waiting

October 19th. Monday. Late.

Ya te dije que no.  And I'm tired of repeating myself.

The answer is the same today as it was yesterday and last week and last month. Before you ask, I want to blurt out "no" when I see you because I know what you will ask.

No. I am not pregnant yet and each time you ask and offer a wealth of advice, it reminds me that I am failing my husband and my family.

"Oh, but you already have two kids," is the most hurtful phrase to surface from a mouth.  It wouldn't matter if I had one or four, the feeling remains the same.  My husband and I would like a child and I cannot carry one at this time.  There is much to learn in that.  To find joy in the midst of waiting is a quiet peace.

Therefore, I will allow my life to be the birth and rebirth of something extraordinary.  I will allow our new garden to surround me with abundant life as I watch our pinto beans and watermelon vines crawl up our front window.

I sit in quietude, a lesson in humility.  Where I take for granted that I am a woman capable of creating life inside me in the form of a child, I must notice that I create life in my home when I choose to love what I have been gifted.  I am surrounded with life to remind me that it comes in all forms.  God makes sure of that.

Tonight, with my boca cerrada, I sit on my porch, my legs crossed, my back against the writing dock (porch swing) and my eyes averted toward the heavens.  I see the moon staring back at me; it always shows up.  My perspective might be skewed by the clouds, but each and every night the moon shows up.  I take a deep breath and wait.

What are you waiting for and how do you find joy in the waiting con la boca cerrada?

Onlookers at moon observation night.  McAllister Park.
Carolina Hinojosa-Cisneros, 2015

Writing Truths

I had a great evening with my sister, son, and husband. Gathered at the dinner table our conversation led us to the indigenous languages of Nahuatl, Yacutec Maya, and Purépecha. We candidly spoke about what it's like when you're American and one of your parents was born on foreign soil, what that means as far as identity and connection and how people treat you differently on both turfs even though either will go to great lengths to prove otherwise. 

We spoke of travel, education, and culture.  My son worked on his mathematics and reading homework.  We asked him if he learned about Columbus.  He said he had learned a bit about Columbus, but the teachers were sure to tell him that Columbus did not discover America.  A fact that I was proud was being taught to my fifth grader.  This could also be respective to the area in Texas where we reside.

It was a beautiful evening as we wrapped up the conversation and the laughter when we took it outside to water the matas (plants).  It reminded me of being at my grandmothers.  How each evening we'd spend long hours at her home and she'd take us outside in one sweeping gesture so that she could water her dear plants.  The conversation always turned lighthearted and carefree as she spoke about different plants and different animals that attacked her plants.  

I found myself in a pleasant déjà vu last night.  I am becoming the matriarch in small and careful steps as God wills it.  Stories continue to riddle my lips and l find it is my duty to keep these stories alive in the best way I know how, speaking and writing my truth.  

In Bloom

As I watch the blisters on my hands heal, the hours of gardening prominent in the folds of my palms and hinges of my fingers, I know that everything will be okay; we are made in the likeness of the ultimate creator and therefore we are miraculous beings. Miraculous as the surroundings that were created for us and in spite of us.

I walk out to the petunias in bloom, at my front porch, waving goodbye as I leave to work only to arrive at the end of shift to observe all the blossoms sprinkled upon the ground. Each budding purple flower alive with freedom lies helpless and abandoned no longer a part of its own body.  This is the same image I capture each and every day.

Sometimes there are three and sometimes there are more and yet, the petunia blossoms each morning knowing full well that by the end of the day her blossoms will be found lying around her.  Whether escaped or released, it is not known.  Tiny buddings of life form around her as she gives way to new life and new plants.  This remains unseen until I begin to move closer to her.

There, in the dirt surrounding her stalk, are tiny buddings of new life made possible only because she has lost her blooms; therefore, she must arise each morning and bloom just as the day before.  It is her job and it is a beautiful one for it gives way to new life.

I admire the petunia so easily dismissed for not retaining its blossoms, powerfully arising each morning to accomplish the work set out for her since her creation without fail and without exception.

Purple Showers

My Mexican Petunias greet me each morning. 

They lose their petals by the time I get home from work, 

but reawaken in the morning just in time for goodbye kisses.

Carolina Hinojosa-Cisneros, 2015
San Antonio, Texas

My Facetious Word Garden

They taught me, until I was blue in the face
That the comma does not go here, nor does it
Go there, but I put it here, anyway. I love
Commas, they are like, little blossoms of
Life in the spring, deep breaths that I take
When I see something magical, in my
Word garden, and they judicially, make a case
as to why, I absolutely cannot, put a comma
here as if the comma, were a pesticide. Life
can be breathtaking, so I will pause as much,
as I need to. They obviously do not, enjoy the
spring as much, as I do.