skipping to dessert

It's raining.

That is a bit of exaggeration.  It was just a few sprinkles in the morning and throughout the day yesterday. 

But this is January.  At the Mexican beach.  Not what we expect for our tourist visitors.

Of course, we all know why it rained.  Construction is in progress on my house.  Considering the circumstances, I am surprised we were not subjected to a tropical storm.

I am getting into my Sunday rhythm.  Off I went to church to hear a well-developed sermon about Jonah and grudges from Pastor Ron; I almost expected Noah and floods.  Then a breakfast-lunch with my pals Wynn and Lou at Rooster's to catch up on the goings-on during the past month -- and to discuss what I need to get done here before I head north to get my visa for Red China.

That list includes paying my property taxes, water/sewer/garbage fees, and renewing my automobile registration.  There is nothing like paying fees to the government to make you feel part of a community.  I will tell you a little more about that process tomorrow.

I then settled down next to the pool to read Richard Brookhiser while eating a bowl of raspberries.

The Brookhiser piece could not have been more appropriate -- for its mood.

If you live in the woods for a few winters you learn how beautiful that season is.  When the trees are leafless you can appreciate their bark and their bending.  Spring, summer, and fall are fashion shows; winter is a parade of nudes.  Creatures without roots are also worth studying.  Birds sing less but they are seen more; animals leave tracks like sociologists' flow charts.

I, of course, do not live in the woods.  Nor is it winter in Barra de Navidad.  At least, not in the same sense that it is winter in upper New York state.  But the scene Brookhiser set was exactly where my soul was yesterday.

Content.  Nearly complete.

Especially, with the raspberries.  Patty bought them in Ajijic last week.  A large container in which the three of us had put a sizable dent.

They were incredibly good.  But, more importantly, they reminded me of the sweet joy of sharing time with Dan and Patty -- and the bitterness of seeing them go.  It also reminded me to thank Bonnie of Ajijic for her comments in our tour around Lake Chapala.

As I write this, I am listening to Peggy Lee sing jazz while I dine on duck while watching the lights that line our pretty little bay.

Brookhiser says it well: "Outside the stars see everything (or all that they care to see)."