Observations

Every so often, the power of nature probes me to write. As I sit on my favorite balcony in my brand new home, I’m in awe of the power of the wind. All around me earth flies, carrying the secrets of many other people along with mine, and also carrying away my doubt, my apprehension and my sadness.  To write eloquently is a gift. I’m not sure that I have it, but sitting out here on the balcony that I can tell is about to host my memories, my cries and my creative energy for a year, I’m compelled to try. Most things are hard to capture in print. The palm trees swaying with each gust of wind, my hair in my face as I type, the changing weather. I’m wearing a white shirt with lace at the top and jean shorts, my flip flops off and one foot up on the ledge. Dust is everywhere, swirling around me, and I can feel it on the keys. There’s a bad smell from the sugar processing plant and dogs are playing in the streets. I can sense a storm on edge, but there is no rain. The air is cooling down – a dramatic change from earlier in the day. I think this may be one of the only times where I haven’t been sweaty. I hear chatter from below, Ildy is washing clothes. How? I’m not so sure. It’s dark and windy. My mother’s trabajadores are sitting on wire chairs, taking a break from their sewing. Inside, my mother and two other sisters are talking, and watching the telenovelas. We were supposed to leave at six, but in Bolivian time, that could be any amount of minutes after. It is now six forty-five. The wind howls and blows and I’m encompassed in the fresh air. One street light is sadly flickering and I can only see a couple hundred feet of housing, the roofs terracotta, and colored shadowed shades of red and orange. It gets dark quickly here. A pack of dogs play at the corner store across from the balcony. A mixture of mutts – two are tan, one is white with a black spot on its side, and one is a smaller black one. A woman is chasing after the white one with a black spot with a stick, and a couple and their baby are walking by. People watching is my favorite part. Earlier, a man in a white sedan drove up to the corner store, called out, then yelled, and then shook the bars until the middle-aged and middle-weight woman in a long floral dress came out from the back. He left his car on, music blaring. He was in a hurry. They made the exchange, and he sped off, the bass from his music trailing back for a few seconds. Now two women are checking out the half-closed store, squatting down in order to see through the half-closed gate. They’re talking to the woman who owns the store, or maybe to each other. It’s hard to know. The ranges of houses around me are beautiful. Some are grand and tall, like mine, with balconies and pretty paint jobs, and others are smaller, less ornate. There is a long light a few hundred feet from me, cast up into the sky with illuminating brightness, and I wonder why it’s there. The two girls, after a few minutes, walk the opposite direction from the store. I don’t think they got what they wanted. The light is pacing through the sky, looking constantly, like a mother frantically searching for a lost child. It never dims, never stops, and is always questing. The point of this writing, I’m not so sure about. Maybe it just feels good to express things in English again. But once more, I’m overcome with a sense of wonder and new life, just by looking off this balcony. It’s from here, I can sense change and I can recharge. It’s from here, I can escape.