TALES FROM UNDER THE PALAPA #3: Baja Lullaby [by Joy Wright Abbott]

(Editor's note: This is the third in a series about the Todos Santos Writers Workshop, a new under-the-radar program that flourishes in Todos Santos, Mexico. Find the first post, by co-founder Rex Weiner, here and the second, by Bianca Juarez, here. sdl)

 

I have attended the Todos Santos Writers Workshop twice. Both times, I have spent the first few nights wrestling jet lag. So when Co-Founder Gordon Chaplin challenged his fiction group to write about the Todos Santos spirit, it wasn't the neon watercolor palette of sunrise and sunset, or the whales breaching close enough to count their barnacles that I chose to capture, it was the transformative presence of the night sky.

The results of Chaplin’s challenge were as diverse as our group of Todos Santeños, both seasonal residents, and snowbound pilgrims like me. In the shade of the wild fig tree Chaplin planted, himself, we each shared our take on the geography and culture of this Pueblo Magico - even the neighbor’s rooster took a turn. Rooted in his mellow-yellow rocker, Gordon seasoned us with fresh papaya, lime, and sage. Joy Wright Abbott

BAJA LULLABY

            I cannot find sleep. Too wired, high-tuned, I lie on the patio chaise of El Hotelito, just to nurse the stars. If I’m going to be up all night - and by now, I know I am – at least I can satisfy my city dweller’s night-sky hunger.

            I count bats (two). I hope for more. They charge the heart in a trip-wired way that makes one dive for cover, emerging seconds later, thankful for the next breath. They are bright-eyed defibrillators, just searching for gnats. By the end of the night, they’ll wind up just like me, wide-awake, clinging to a warm wall by two claws. Harmless.

            I count meteors (six), one of them so close it arcs blue sparks, tracing the hump of the distant Sierra. Others drop from the sky like free-fall carnival rides. Are they hunks of old stars, or broken satellites taking lovers’ hopes and murmurs for a ride?

            Stars pulse from invisible threads. The moon, lit from the bottom, forms a perfect bowl to hold my troubles. Like a wise old friend, it gathers me at this threshold.

            The night chill seeps through layers I’ve unpacked for a week of desert magic by the sea. I trade my silken blanket for eider down. I slip inside and listen for dawn.

Joy Wright Abbott is a writer and urban planner based in Pittsburgh, PA. Her work has appeared in Landscape Architecture magazine, Carlow University’s Voices from the Attic anthology, and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.

Comments

[Bianca Juarez]

That's beautiful. Captures the spirit of TS perfectly!

[Jenny]

Brava, Joy.
This is so evocative of the place and spirit of our town and writer's group. Thank you.Jenny