Feb 12, 2020: Thinking how important it is to appreciate the Day we live in, the richness of each day in whatever circumstances around us and within us. If the day is dedicated to service and longing to be free of self, the heart is full with bountiful grain. Thinking back on the many bus rides I was privileged to take from Corozal Town to Belize City during our seven pioneering years in that country. Often while seated on a Bluebird bus with its creaking gears and diesel smell, sometimes riding in stifling humidity on a chosen bus whose windows were stuck closed, or the opposite--riding on a damp night in a rainstorm on a bus whose windows wouldn’t completely close, often a surge of joy would pass through my body in the realization of how fortunate to be on such a weary bus passing by cane fields and making stops along the way in villages such as Ranchito, San Joaquin, Sand Hill and Ladyville. This surge, which occurred almost anytime I traveled in Belize for the Faith, came with a strong feeling of thankfulness of being “allowed” to be a pioneer in Belize, even though I sensed that my shortcomings were engraved across my face.

morning comes after a night of insomnia

Now to catch up on the rest of day

with our back side to the winds of destiny.

How be it, we lost sight of the last turn of events

that could have changed the world, our lives

and everything we ever ate before going to work

off the weight upon our shoulders,

whose responsibility never shows up on time?

Who decided to include a complete list

of our assets to determine how old age

might catch up to the rest of our days,

and tomorrow, too?

We were not consulted.

The glue that sticks to our ribs.

     C. S. Cholas, August 18, 1996, Edinburg, Texas

Evening in Guaymas

I miss the guarantee of your eyes on my face

The way your smile takes residence

Within this whirlwind I cannot tame.

The same storm circles up and down the coast,

Lost and mad, ready to ruin every innocent rose

That attempts to bloom.

I fumble to unlatch the window in the room

And climb below to the anchored ship that sways

In the water’s jerks at the quay

Desperate to take shelter beyond the curve

Of the sea that bends around like skin

On a planet filled with wounds.

What candle has enough light

To scatter the drowsy shadows

The peer over the desk to settle

In this fog upon the night?

I write and write as if the ink

Might throw me the rope to escape

This hollow mood to the safety

Of our cove in the shelter of our love.

            Cocorit, Sonora, April 1986

                        To Linda

Teaching Story—Cuba, NM 1973

First of all, back in the 1970’s and 1980’s US Highway 550 was State Highway 44 and noted for many accidents. In fact, there was a popular bumper sticker driver often displayed on the back bumper of vehicles that stated: “Pray for those who drive 44.” 

Per Wikipedia: “In the late 80s and early 90s the accident rates began to increase which prompted New Mexico Department of Transportation to upgrade the entire road from Aztec to Bernalillo from 2-lane to a 4-lane-divided over a several-year period at a cost of $312 million, and once construction was complete NM 44 and NM 544 became an extension of US 550 in 2000.  

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Mexico_State_Road_44

Our family lived in Durango, Colorado back then and we regularly made the drive on 44 to visit Linda’s family in Isleta Pueblo and we were aware of the need to drive carefully on that mischievous road. The café in Cuba (Probably the Cuban Café) was a nice stopping place to make a restroom and food stop.  

In 1973 the National Spiritual Assembly for the United States arranged for a National Bahá’i Youth Conference to be held in Oklahoma City.  A number of youth, including myself, in the Four Corners Area, were eager to attend. A dear Bahá’í named Tom Powell, who was living in Aztec, New Mexico at the time offered to provide transportation in his camper pickup. It was a long ride from Aztec to Oklahoma City, but the excitement of attending a youth conference with at least one thousand or more youth from around the country gave us the energy to endure the trip in the back of Tom’s cramped camper. 

The Conference was everything one could want in a spiritually uplifting affair.  Hand of the Cause of God William Sears was one of the featured speakers, and special guests, Seals & Croft, were among the musicians performing during the event.

I don’t actually remember who, besides, Tom, did the driving to and from the Conference, maybe his son, also named Tom. I do recall that when we reached Cuba one the returned trip, Tom was too tired to drive the last ninety-five miles without a rest. We pulled into the parking area by the Cubana Café for Tom to get a few hours of rest. It was in the early hours of the morning before dawn and those of us in the camper hull were asleep. 

Around six a.m. Tom woke us and said that the café had just opened if we wanted to get something to eat before heading on home.  Groggily, we slowly sat up as Tom opened the door to the camper shell.  One of the youth from Aztec named Harry woke up very animated. Harry, who was of a small build, recounted a dream that he just had. In his dream Harry had gone into a restaurant and, sitting at the counter stool, began teaching the Faith to the person who sat on the stool next to him. The person was very open and interested in the Bahá’i message. Harry’s dream moved him to want to find someone to teach in the café.

I think there were four or five of us.  We entered the café and Harry immediately saw there were empty stools at the counter. No one was seated in any of them.  Harry said, “I’m going to sit at the counter, and you can find a booth,” and he promptly sat down on the middle stool while the rest of us took a booth within watching distance.  As the café had just opened.  We were the first customers. Gradually a few patrons came in and took booth seats. Harry still sat alone in anxious anticipation. He ordered some food with the counter waitress and we ordered breakfast from the booth.  About the time the food was being served, a large, tough looking Navajo man in work clothes entered the café and immediately took a stool on the right of Harry.  Harry gave us a quick, nervous look, as if to say, “Now what?” The man looked as if he might have once been a heavyweight boxer who had lost a few fights.

The new customer ordered something from the waitress.  He spoke just enough words to make his order and nothing more, nor did he take any notice of Harry.

We could see Harry nervously glance at the big man a few times, as the man’s breakfast arrived.  Halfway through the meal, Harry finally had the courage to greet the man.  We could not hear the conversation, but Harry was speaking to the man and the man was giving Harry his attention and conversing with him. A few minutes later, we watched Harry reach into his backpack and pull out a stack of Bahá’í pamphlets and give the entire stack to the man. The man graciously took the pamphlets, arose, shook Harry’s hand firmly, paid his bill and left the café.  We sat amazed. 

Harry rushed to our table with the story.  He said his heart was beating rapidly with a sudden surge of fear when the man sat next to him.  He thought about skipping the teaching opportunity rather than risking rejection, but the power of his dream made him decide to keep his commitment to teach someone in the restaurant. With a silent prayer in his mind, he got the courage to greet the man, who simply nodded without a reply.  Harry told the man that he was just returning home from a Bahá’í youth conference about the Bahá’i Faith.  The man expressed interest to know more, and Harry gave him a short introduction about Bahá’u’lláh and His Teachings. Harry told us that the man lived far out on the reservation and he told Harry that these Teachings were good, and he knew many families where he lived who would be interested.  He asked Harry for information, and Harry gave me the pamphlets. 

In the afterglow of the teaching encounter, happiness rushed though our limbs. We commended Harry for his courage and determination to keep his promise to fulfill his dream.  The time riding in the camper on the last ninety-five miles was as joyous as the time at the Youth Conference in Oklahoma City. 

We had no way to know what happened to the stack of pamphlets that were carried out to the middle of the Reservation by that gentle man: if they were shared and if shared, did they reach open hearts and help them in some way on their spiritual journeys. It was in God’s hands.

Sunday Morning In La Paz

Scattering angels sing in the plaza

Birds herald Sunday in song

A scattering of torn papers

From Saturday night’s bash

Drift throughout the park

A scattering of thought

While seated on a bench

In the morning shade.

Long shadows of churches and trees

Streak across my face.

Scattering angels glide a prayer

Across my face into my palms

In the Oneness that all is known

            By God

We seat ourselves along the beach

            To share being of the same fold

We wash and fold our clothes

            In the same Oneness

Awkwardly aware

            That all belongs to Him

            13 de abril, 1986, La Paz, BCS

Morning in Loreto

A spray of sun pries

Through the window glass at dawn.

Yellow shouts of day.

Soft words press their turn

To pass our lips to the air.

Forming morning prayer

How did the dawn sound

Before the din of motors

Destroyed the sunrise?

                   C.S. Cholas

                   April 11, 1985

                   Loreto, Baja California Sur

A Sociologist’s Field Study

Aunt Laura’s Place

                        How big is Murdo?

                           Well…it’s

                                    about two rooms and a bath across

                                    wall-to-wall carpet, chicken and dumplings

                                    on Saturday night;

                                    about a little bit of a spring day drive

                                    from Rosebud and the Sioux;

                                    about ten years out of teaching

                                    and ten years into stockpiling hotels,

                                    motels and sleeping rooms;

                                    about twelve dollars for the night;

                                    about a little more if you use the single bed

                                    in the tiny front room;

                                   

                                    about that nice Oregon girl coming for the summer

                                    who’s a lot of fun;

                                    about selling roasting ears and saving

                                    for a hair-cut in depression years,

                                    and not moving much beyond Draper, White River

                                    or Wall;

                                                                        and, well…

                        How big is Murdo, Aunt Laura?

                        It’s bigger in summer and colder in fall

                                    and that’s all we know.

                                                                                    C. S. Cholas

                                                                                    Passing through Murdo, South Dakota

                                                                                    Spring of 1975, Sociology Field Study