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

Boca Cerrada: In Observation of Joy

Boca cerrada means mouth closed.  I like to talk.  I talk a lot.  This month I want to take a step back from being reactive or dismissive because my mouth gets in the way of the opportunities I have to reflect on life's joys.  I want to share with you the joys I find.

I am thrilled to see what this exercise can open up for my perspective on life and my constant desire to notice the joy when I feel that there may not be any left.  I want to shine a light on that this month (October 18th - November 17th).  Will you join me?

My porch swing.  The writing dock.
Carolina Hinojosa-Cisneros, 2015

October 18th. Sunday. Early.

I awoke before my husband and son this morning.  Instead of rolling under the covers for a few more minutes of rest, I get out of bed, wrap a sweater around myself, slip on my chanclas and head outside. It is my first taste of a Texas autumn. With the wind zigzagging through my toes I slowly pull the mangera from its snake like coil and water the matas that adorn my front porch.  I have become all the matriarchs in my family that value rising early to tend to the life in the yard before tending to the life in the house.

I notice a new budding of tiny red and orange florecitas atop a plant I have newly planted.  It must be thriving from the soil where it is enterrada.  It was in a pot before and would not give this kind of show until it was buried deep into the soil.  Like the plant, I too must be grounded in rich soil in order to thrive.

I recoil the mangera and sit on my porch swing, which I like to call the Writing Dock.

I hear the train chuh chuh chuh and then its horn con fuerza on an iron track not visible from my yard.  I've never seen the train near my home, but just up South Flores Street there is the train that runs near the Gravelmouth Gallery.  I assume it is this train that is causing me to want to warm my cafecito and imagine the era of industrialized transportation.

The bing bing bing of the bell from Mission San José announces the beginning of a Sunday morning Spanish sermon.  Visions of my childhood chime in reminding me of the veils my grandmother and I wore to mass on Sundays at El Carmen on Martinez-Losoya Road.  My mind lingers on how we fear the veil, forgetting that we once wore it- some of our elderly still do. (That's for a later post, que no?)

It is nearly time to wrap up my journaling to go inside and make breakfast.  I am thankful for my writing time this morning and for morning sounds with memories that attach themselves to those sounds.

In what ways do you crave solitude and what do you notice in those moments of soledad?  What joy can you gain from being still and taking on today with la boca cerrada?
  

Mano de Leon, Cockscomb Flower.
Carolina Hinojosa-Cisneros, 2015