Reflections

I was born in Nogales, Sonora, Mexico on New Year’s Eve, 1971.

Why does this matter?

Let me tell you about my journey to this place.

At the age of 3 1/2 months old, my father’s firm transferred our family to the Silicon Valley for what was originally meant to be a 2-year stint.

Two years turned into ten years, and we never went back.

Growing up, we spent every vacation back in my “hometown” of Nogales.

I remember the weeks of anticipation leading up to our trip. The shopping for new clothes, the trips to the mechanic to check the safety of the engine and tires, the calls my mother would make to her sisters and friends confirming our arrival date. I couldn’t wait to go.

Did you have trips like that as a kid?

I remember early morning wake-ups, pre-dawn, the sky a milky black being roused from my warm bed.

As a young child, my father’s strong arms would lift me from my hibernation. As I got older, I woke myself, half asleep, loaded down with stuffed animals strong with my scent. Either way, my brother and I would hunker down in the back of our Ford Econoline van my parents had pimped out; the original #vanlife, My mother had made a wooden bed frame and covered it with blue plaid flannel foam insert pillows. Our luggage fit underneath and we slept on top.

My brother and I would settle back down to sleep for the first number of hours as my father drove silently through slumbering cities and dark valleys.

Or my parents would pick us up, straight from school, our backpacks flung under the bed, Catholic School Uniforms changed in the restroom of the A&W while we waited for our Papa, Mama, and Baby Burgers to be ready. Then eating in the van, the smell of hot beef and onion rings, permeating the small space, we would greet the influx of other cars hurrying to destinations near and far.

Arriving at our hometown we were welcomed by aunts and uncles, cousins and friends. Relief imbued us. Finally! Arriving after so many hours in the van, I felt wanted and loved.

In the summer, the drive across California and Arizona seemed eternal, the heat infernal, the landscape useless. In the winter, the Sonoran desert cold seeped into your bones. My brother and I piled under heavy blankets. Unable to read continuously because of carsickness, I passed the time in intervals: torturing my family or daydreaming.

Making it across The Grapevine signaled the back end of our journey. The Grapevine = We are almost there.

In the long stretch of the back of the van, my brother and I read and fought and napped. In the days before mandatory seatbelts we moved around the back of the van, laying on top of the luggage, now stretching out for more room on the bed, now irritating my parents in the front seat. Sometimes I sat in the front seat, listening to Neil Diamond’s Greatest Hits and The Beatles Abbey Road on cassette. Sometimes there was nothing but AM radio and static. The topography stretched out endlessly. I learned to pick up the subtle changes that demarcated transitions. Now heading south on the 101 leaving the golden valleys of the San Jose, Morgan Hill and the smell of garlic strong in Gilroy. Now passing Salinas and miles and miles of farmland. Now heading up the Grapevine, it’s steep incline pulling my brother and me back against the foam cushions in the bed, trailer trucks tugging by yanked by the strong winds. Now down into the San Fernando Valley, strangled with smog and tangled with traffic. Now free of the city, the desert expanded away from the van in heaves and sighs. Mountain passes rife with house-sized boulders yielded to moonscapes barren save the ocotillo. Now watch the dunes spread creamy as frosting. Now wastelands become farmlands and the All American Canal threads through the quilt of fields. Now most barren part of the desert where nary a home or car would be found. Now Saguaros dotting the landscape. Now Tucson. And with Tucson, the real indication; only an hour until love, only an hour until home.

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I never wanted to return to our home in Northern California. Never. Of course, I was loved by my parents and they made a good home for us. But I was unpopular among the other children, prone to reading and making up stories and singing robustly and off-key. I couldn’t figure out what the other kids wanted to play or how to fit in, and when the bullying became constant and physical, I sought refuge in the corners of the schoolyard furthest from my classmates and created my worlds there.

At home, I played in the marsh behind our house for hours, alone, breaking up cattails and watching the pollen floating on the breeze, acting out characters and scenarios. I took solitary bike rides around the neighborhood, packing cookies and peanut butter for snacks, and journals and books. When it rained I put on my bright yellow poncho, grabbed my basketball, and headed outside to practice my shots at the nearby school courts.

I ventured far away enough from my home to feel like I was discovering something – a perfect patch of grass under an interesting tree, a new plant in someone’s yard, a freshly painted house – but always close enough to feel safe.

Growing up free in the 70s and 80s was perfect for an Alien and Sojourner like me.

When we traveled my mother always made sure we had our Permanent Resident Alien cards. they were green and laminated and had a large black and white photograph of me on the right with my pertinent information on the left. Name, date of birth, eye and hair color. We needed it to cross back into the United States when our vacation came to an end.

Is this why I felt so foreign at home?

Spanish was my first language but living among Americans I quickly lost it, substituting English until eventually, I could barely understand Spanish, making me the butt of many jokes among my Mexican cousins.

They laughed and called me “Gringa”, which I hated. Gringa had a terrible connotation. Longing for acceptance, desperate to belong, I did not want to be associated with something derogatory. I identified as one of them; not as a Gringa. I had my Alien card. Didn’t that prove I was Mexican?

My mother, trying to console me when it was time to return to the US would tell me, think of it like this – you are at boarding school and we go home to Mexico.

But it wasn’t like that. I wasn’t accepted in Mexico as a native. I wasn’t accepted in the US at all. I sojourned between both spaces not belonging and foreign in each place.

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In an attempt to diversify my social opportunity, I joined the Girl Scouts, enjoying the process so much that at one point I was part of three troops. One troop was the typical badge earning, arts and crafts group. We did some camping, which I loved. Camping took me deep into nature and stripped all pretense. Money didn’t define you, status didn’t define you. Camping brought you back to the most elemental.

I’m not entirely certain how I got involved with my Second Troop. I believe, inspired by the positive results I experienced in my first troop, I dove into a catalog to find another experience. The description of a Backpacking Weekend piqued my interest. I signed up.

The backpacking was hosted by a troop that backpacked most months they weren’t having different adventures. They didn’t do car/tent camping; they backpacked. And this experience was designed to guide you through the basics over a four-week period with the backpacking trip being the cherry on top.

Although that first backpacking trip was only five miles at a nearby park, it was excruciating. I was woefully out of shape and my gear, acquired by hint and dint, was inadequate.  I loved traveling, like a crab, with all my world on my back. I loved having a goal, a final destination, loved the autonomy. I loved the feeling of efficiency, of being in control of my world. I loved working with the team, planning, being in charge of putting together and choosing the meal. I loved walking and talking on the trail. I loved the smell of our troop leader’s pipe smoke tangling among the endless inky night sprinkled with stars and how I fell asleep exhausted at the end of the day. I felt so far away from my life and most like myself. I loved that the girls didn’t know my past; they saw me with fresh eyes and accepted me.  I could be myself. I could be Lucila.

I joined the Troop full-time. Every month was dedicated to a different experience: shooting, sailing, biking, skiing in addition to the backpacking. I had all kinds of fun doing all kinds of things.

Which led my Third Troop, a group assembled for three years culminating in a trip to Japan. During the three years, our troop gathered together several times per year to learn about the culture, experience the food, prowl Japantown in nearby San Francisco. Julia was the oldest girl whose thick, brown braids I admired.  We learned about Japan with the aid of our guide Kazuko and we prepared ourselves to spend 3 weeks in Japan, landing in Tokyo, heading to Kyoto and culminating in Osaka to spend time with our host families before returning to SJO. Even a two-week stint in the hospital did not ruin the trip for me. I loved being cared for by the Japanese nurses, making friends with the other girl in my ward, and watching the sunrise from my window over the city. they made a list for me of common Japanese words and phrases. I ate Japanese hospital food. I remember being very hot and humid and getting my period and marveling at the packaging of the Japanese sanitary napkins. I was not afraid of being alone in the hospital. I spoke with my parents regularly and though I imagine they were distraught at the fact that their daughter was alone in a Japanese hospital 5,000 miles away, I was in heaven.

Again, I felt so far away from my life and most like myself. I wasn’t the Lucila with the expectations and requirements. I was Lucila. Just Lucila. And I liked myself most like that.

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What the freak does any of this have to do with a spiritual/personal development/coaching/travel blog?

It’s the journey of discovery that can only come with the experience of traveling.

In life, right now I am called a wife, a mother, a daughter and daughter-in-law, aunty, cousin, sister and sister-in-law. I’m the PTG President and part of a philanthropic group, Girl Scout Mom, organizer, friend, planner, rally-er-of-the-troops, fight-breaker-upper, peacemaker, gardener, laundress, business owner, neighbor, chef, maid, chauffeur, babe, peace-maker, teacher, and dog walker.

I do all of these things. But none of these things is who I am.

I still feel like the little girl I was; looking to find the places where I feel most myself. Typically I discover myself when I travel. I say, “Look, there’s the Eiffel Tower – and there I am.”

Here, in the majesty of Saguaro National Forest – here I am, majestic.

Here, in the soft glow of a Santa Barbara Sunset, here I am, glowing.

Here, in the grandeur of Redwood National Park, here I am, grand.

Here, in the bold statement of love that is the Taj Mahal, here I am, a bold statement of love.

Here I am, important, significant, amazing.

Here I am. Now I am.

Here:::Now.

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What I love most is having the experience.

I can pretty much tell you what my Sunday through Saturday is going to look like. Monday, clean up from the weekend, Pilates, walk the dog, make dinner, pick up the kids. Tuesday, substitute hike for Pilates. Wednesday, substitute leftovers for making dinner, repeat. Thursday gets exciting because in addition to those things I see my therapist and attend my writing group. Friday, movie night. Saturday, chores, and Mass. Sunday, rest. Monday, lather, rinse, repeat.

I have two gorgeous, healthy daughters, an incredibly supportive and loving husband, a sweet sister-in-law, and an adorable Norwegian Elkhound. Our home is in a terrific neighborhood in San Diego, where I’ve lived since my Dad lost his job during the first Silicon Valley bust in the mid-eighties. I married my college sweetheart, drive a Mega-Fun Mini-Van, love to garden and hike and create art and volunteer and listen to music and host potlucks and run and do Pilates and watch movies and appreciate and pray.

But what really gets my heart going is the idea for a new trip, planning for the trip, packing for, taking the trip. This is where I feel most alive.

I know I should be more Buddhist and live in the moment during my Mondays through Sundays, and believe me I do. I practice mindfulness as I wash the dishes and sweep the floors, make the beds and fold the laundry. Breathing in, I know I am breathing in. Breathing out, I know I am breathing out.

It’s that very routine that allows the sense of wonder and merriment, possibility and promise to blossom when I travel.

Seeing new sights, watching the people there, seeing how they are different than I am. Seeing how we are the same. How they dress, drive, and play. Noticing the menu choices and the prices, what their downtown looks like, how their freeways curve, the color of the buses, the quality of the light, what they name their schools and parks and streets. The speed of cars traversing neighborhoods, whether they yield to pedestrians, the number of cyclists: I live for this.

It reminds me of my trips back home from when I was a child. The clothes my mother bought for me were not like the clothes I wore at home – the weather and topography were completely different, the language was different, the customs were different. They were, and were not, both mine.

The card that identified me called me a Permanent Resident Alien. Though I’ve been a naturalized citizen about 15 years now, I don’t quite consider this country where I’ve resided for the last 44 years of my life mine. It’s not not mine. I guess I still consider myself a Permanent Resident Alien.

Alien: foreigner; unlike one’s own; strange; not belonging to one:

Resident: a person who dwells permanently or for a considerable time in a place

Permanent: existing perpetually; everlasting, especially without significant change.

Perhaps the thing is that feeling like neither from here or there I was able to accept that I was from everywhere. Or the ambiguous state lent impermanence to all the places.

It means I feel at home wherever I am; I make my home wherever I am. I have finally learned, I am my home.

And just like at home, I shiver with delight at the thought of experiencing places new and foreign to me; neighborhoods, restaurants, parks, and shops I’ve yet to discover.

Want to go with me? Together?