Looking out my Backdoor: My simple life in purple contemplation

This morning after Qi Gong, I told Jim, “I write my column today and my mind is blank. ”

“Easy,” his reply. “Write about purple.”

We were beneath the Jacaranda, which this week is a purple umbrella, sheltering 50 shades of birds burying their heads in each blossom, milking the honey-nectar.

In that disconnected way that one thought leads to another, I knew that what I really wanted to write about is my simple life.

“Jim, the more I pare down my life, the more important small things become. I see little things, always there, that I wouldn’t have noticed when I was so busy. Like last night, about the time you were watching the movie with Bonnie and Sam, the birds were performing a symphony so powerful that my knees collapsed me into a chair to sit and listen.

“Or the three geckos I saw yesterday. Or the white amaryllis, the only white one. Or the large gray snake that slithered through my front yard and back out last evening. Ordinarily, snakes terrify me. But that one was beautiful. I had to get closer to her just to look. Those little bits of beauty touch me deeply. Things that in my busy life I would not have noticed. Or not had time to notice. Same thing, maybe.

“Purple, huh? Well, I’ll think about it.”

My intention, in moving to Mexico, was to create a new life, not to pack my old life and drag it behind me when I crossed the border. I’ve done it. My life is small. Pared down to minimalist proportions.

For example, I brought with me one electric appliance, a food processor. I left behind a kitchen full of gadgets. My new juicer is a metal device with a cups at each end. Squeeze half an orange by bringing together the halves. My mixer is a wire whip. Or a large spoon powered by elbow grease. I do have a washing machine, quite old, nonelectronic. My dryer is our ever-present sun. One hour on the clothesline or two hours in winter; clothing is dry. I do own an iron.

I have one cupboard, two shelves, with dishes. Sigh. I do love dishes. But, I have all I need, all I can use, all local pottery. Same with pots and pans.

I brought 50 favorite books, including my Shorter Oxford English Dictionary. Kindle satisfies my book obsession.

Not feeding and maintaining an automobile has more than economic benefits. For example, yesterday Lani, Carol and I spent a good many hours in San Marcos, just up the road. In exchange for the trip, I bought lunch, a two-hour sojourn at El Parrel, hidden away on a back street. The food is always excellent; companionship a bonus.

Kristen, my son Ben’s special woman-friend and sweetheart, said, “What about your one-hundred-plus potted plants, which take hours of watering every day? Doesn’t sound simple to me!”

Oh, yes, that. I can explain. “Kristen, it’s all about containment. Plants grow here at a prodigious rate, obscene almost. When I got here, the yard was a jungle that I cut back mercilessly and started over. I figured the alternative to wild jungle was to contain plants in pots, especially things like jasmine, bamboo, mint and oregano. Otherwise, one day a lovely flowering plant; next day, one is out in the jungle with a machete hacking back the monster before it strangles you and eats your body for breakfast. So my hundred-plus pots are for containment. Which works. More or less.”

In some ways, my life has always been rather simple. I never wore makeup or dyed my hair. No tattoos or body metal ornamentation. But I like the looks of a streak of vibrant color in a woman’s hair. Kristen promised me she’ll make it happen when I visit next fall.

Which brings me back to purple.

Now that my hair is more silver than brown, I’d like to give a streak of color a try. It’s not forever. I’m leaning toward purple. A discrete steak of deep purple.

The sun is lowering in the sky. I shall change into my only purple dress and go sit beneath the Jacaranda, heavy with purple blooms, and await the avian sundown serenade.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].