Myself, Trish, Myra and Jessie caught a plane to Mexico. Flying into Puerto Vallarta we passed over agricultural lands, small farms, palm trees, a river. We landed and passed through Mexican customs and caught a cab to the condo. The place was between the highway and the beach. Cruise ships passed by on their way to and from Puerto Vallarta across La Bahia de Banderas, the bay of flags to the east and south.
Armondo and Lucy were the resident managers of the Vista Bahia condos, our home for the following month. The day of our arrival he insisted on driving with me into Puerto Vallarta. As we drove along in his Volkswagan bug, he blew kisses to oncoming drivers.
He explained that he’d rent the VW for ten dollars per day if we bring it back full of gas. We parked in town by the water and a couple of boys came running up carrying a bucket.
“Lavaremos tu carro cinco pesos” they cried out.
Armondo paid them and explained that that’s how you park in Puerto Vallarta if you want the car to still have a radio when you get back.
The spector of a gringo family with two blond little girls didn’t go unnoticed. Everywhere we went we were celebrities. Entering the neighborhood grocery we were greeted daily with a robust “Ahloow babies!” by the young proprietor.
Mostly we rode the buses. Each bus was privately contracted. They varied from worn out retired school buses to half way decent retired school buses.
Day one I caught a bus into PV, looking for a statue of John Huston. I knew it was in a park near the center of the old part of town. I entered a shoe store. “Me puede decir, donde esta la estatua de Juan Huston?”
The men shrugged. The third place I entered the woman replied pointing “La estatua, si. Alli en la isla.”
I walked in the direction she had pointed and wandered among shops and plants on an island in the Cuale River. It was such a beautiful setting. And it was the center of town. I finally came upon the statue I’d heard so much about. John Huston seated in his director’s chair, directing.
A couple of dive boats sat in the lot next to the Vista Bahia. One had Dive City painted on the side in bold letters.
“What’s with those boats?” I asked.
Armondo rubbed his fingers together. “Permito especial”. He explained that if a gringo wants to open a dive business, or any other business for that matter, they need to employ locals. Otherwise they’ll be hit with enough bureaucracy to sink a ship.
I sat by the pool in the evenings watching the lights of Puerto Vallarta. In the morning Myra and I would walk a half mile up the beach to town. We’d have breakfast at our favorite restaurant, the Olas Altas. Fresh hand made tortillas, eggs, ham, fresh squeezed orange juice. Returning to the apartment we’d often stop and buy fresh fish from the fishermen who were pulling their pangas up on the beach. We typically got back as Jessie and Trish were awakening. Then we’d take one of the busses into Puerto Vallarta or the other way to the beaches at Punta de Pita or Saiulita.
Or we might walk up the beach to the east to the Bucerias town center or to the west toward La Cruz. One particular day we walked farther than usual past La Cruz and realized the day was getting late and we were getting hungry. We followed a stone pathway up from the beach and to our surprise came to a small sign that read “restaurant”. We walked out onto a large patio paved with slate stones.
“Hello?” I inquired.
A man appeared in a doorway. “Hola puedo ayudarte?”
“Tenemos hambre. Es este un restaurante?”
“Si senior. Un momento”. He placed a white tablecloth over the only table on the patio and arranged four chairs. When we were seated he explained that the house special was roasted snapper and that he very highly recommended it. The food arrived at the table and it was excellent.
“This is going to cost a million bucks” I whispered.
“Do you think we have enough cash?”
A young man emerged from the kitchen and came to our table, his palms folded together.
“Is everything OK?” he asked. He wore Italian looking shoes, black slacks and a white shirt open at the collar.
“Excellent. Very excellent meal.” I replied.
He introduced himself as Alex and explained that he owned the place and liked happy clientele. He asked where we were from, what we had been up to, what grade the girls were in, what they were learning in school, general chit chat. Soon he had pulled up a chair and was sharing shots of tequila.
The conversation turned to the setting and Alex, feeling compelled to give some explanation for his apparent wealth explained that he owned a couple of businesses. It was obviously a subject not to be pursued. Alex bragged about his children and told funny stories. The bill was ridiculously cheap. When I asked if he might call a cab he insisted on driving us home in his high-end black Mercedes.
The day before our departure, a month after our arrival, was Jessie’s birthday. She had one request, apple pie. This was a challenge because they don’t make a lot of pies in Mexico and they don’t grow a lot of apples. We found a bakery in Bucerias who offered to bake the pie, even though it was their day off. “Come to the back door at four o’clock”.
“Any ideas what we should do then?”
“Oh yes. I’d take the pie to the Orca restaurant on the waterfront. Have them do dinner for you and serve the pie as dessert.” Which is what we did, dividing the pie between everyone who was dinning on the deck. We gave a slice to each of the two musicians who were playing guitars and singing Mexican folk songs. The sun set over the ocean while fishermen brought their boats ashore.
The following morning we piled our luggage into a Volkswagen van taxi cab. A piece of plywood had replaced the back seat. As usual there were no seat belts, except for where the driver sat. He talked animately and played music on his tape deck. In Bucerias we stopped to return the ceramic dish in which the pie had come. A small crowd of people gathered round to see the family with the two beautiful daughters that had become such a regular sight around town. “Regresarán” one gentleman said. Which we did. The following year we spent another month at the Vista Bahia.

Don Quixote in the end is defeated and must swear to go home where he drifts from being delusional to depressed. His remorse is inevitable. He dreams of the passion of youth and awakens overwhelmed with regret, wondering if marriage is a viable agreement or if lovers can remain friends for life. Like Penelope and Odysseus, the stumbling odyssey of lotus eaters and sirens gets us to a place and time, all part of a script.

Harry Sr and Mary shared something that held them together like glue. It certainly wasn’t subservience by either. The glue was a feverish love and appreciation of nature. Of big trees and mountains and wild animals. A deep understanding that this is the world in which we live and it’s the most beautiful thing we can experience. It’s what we’re intended to experience. They cherished the trees, the birds, the bears, every living thing. They imbedded themselves in it all, totally and with the greatest joy. Sadly, few people in the modern world ever experience the joy of living and thriving in the natural world.

Mother, Mary, the coal miner’s daughter, the woman in a flannel shirt, possessed a great love of music. She had a beautiful voice when convinced to sing. There was a cabinet of long playing records including Verdi’s Aida that she often played. The love of music must have been contagious.

As a child I studied violin, drums and trumpet, ultimately landing on the piano. I could never seem to persist at anything. I’d just stop practicing to the great frustration of teachers and parents. I continued to obsess over music, sometimes staying awake into the night listening to the radio, hoping to catch a favorite song.

There’s a quality in acoustic music that will never be duplicated electronically. In a piano this might be called resonance. Chopin discovered this in the piano and milked it in his compositions. A great pianist can make a concert grand sing.

A friend gave Trish and I a couple of tickets to the Seattle Opera production of Englebert Humperdinck’s Hansel and Gretel. We were hooked and bought season tickets. Each year we moved up a row or two until we were three rows back from the front of the balcony.

We of course love Puccini. I challenge anyone to sit through Manon Lescaut, La Boheme or Madama Butterfly without weeping. Over the years we tacked some ticket stubs on a board in our kitchen: Tales of Hoffmann by Offenbach, Die Fledermaus by Johan Strauss and Der Rosenkavalier and Elektra by Richard Strauss, Cosi fan Tutte, Don Giovanni, The Marriage of Figaro and The Magic Flute by Mozart, Macbeth and Aida by Verdi, Julius Ceasar by Handel, Iphigenia in Tauris and Orpheus and Eurydice, by Gluck, Don Quixote by Massenet, Norma and I Puritini by Bellini, Carmen and The Pearl Fishers by Bizet and The Flying Dutchman, Tristan and Isolde and Lohengrin by Wagner.

I volunteered through their Experience Opera program, bringing middle school aged kids to dress rehearsals. Doing this gave me access to the warehouse where the costuming and set design took place. We attended classes taught by Jon Dean who translated librettos into English for the “supratitles” or if he was out of town General Director Speight Jenkins himself. Students and parents attended dress rehearsals for seven dollars which meant that being season ticket holders Trish and I saw each production twice.

Speight was addressing a dozen people in a class leading up to the production of Puccini’s Manon Lescaut. Manon is caught cheating on her husband with an old boyfriend. Her husband sells her into slavery and she is shipped off to New Orleans. An attendee asks “Would that have really occurred?”

Speight looked at another attendee and asked “Ted, you’re a historian. What say you?”

“Absolutely. That’s what would have happened” To describe the opera as emotionally evocative would be an understatement. At one point Manon is being loaded on a ship, holding up an infant, singing to the chorus “won’t somebody take my child” who sing in return… back and forth.

At a class taught by Speight the subject of the coming season was addressed. An attendee commented “Baroque! Please how can we sit through something like that?”

Speight laughed. “Don’t diminish Handel. You’re going to love this one. Handel is not Bach. Bach wrote for the church. Handel wrote for the theatre.” As it turned out, Julius Caesar thrilled audiences. This was the genius of Speight Jenkins. To produce operas that aren’t commonly produced rather than repeating the same operas that everyone associates with opera; to find performers capable of doing it; to keep regulars coming back; to take a few thousand fans on a decades long journey.

Speight Jenkins talked on the radio for an hour after each performance, just the amount of time it took Trish and I to drive back to Olympia. It made the evening complete, filling in the blanks and sparking ideas. Speight knew details of the music, the history and the performers. He was a vast storehouse of knowledge and a brilliant director. Although he would deny it, his hand was everywhere.

The best librettos create characters and then change or redefine them. Don Giovanni kills Donna Anna’s father Don Pedro in a duel. He’s a rat. But as the story continues, Don Pedro reappears in visions as an intolerant tyrant. In the Seattle Opera production, he was dressed as a nazi general. Don Giovanni? We’re less certain, especially when he sings one of the most beautiful serenades ever written. Opera at its best defines what it means to be human, with all the complexities that make up the human psyche.

+++++

Harry Sr and Mary died after 67 years of marriage. Neither knew of the other’s passing. Mary died first of a sudden heart attack. I was with her. Her last words were “Damn it all anyway”. She was angry that the world’s children were inheriting a rotten mess.

I visited my father in a nursing home that evening. Big Harry suddenly awoke, sat up and said. “The smartest thing I did was join the Marine Corps. It was also the stupidest thing I did.” He then went back to sleep. It was a fitting final statement. He was a conflicted individual.

A nurse called the following morning to deliver the news. She asked “Who was Birdie?”

“That was his mother’s name. Why?”

“He was talking with Birdie when he passed.”

“What do you mean? Why would he address her as Birdie and not mother?”

“We were privy to one side of a conversation” was her answer.

At about this time Patrick, a friend of Aunt Bonnie’s, invited be to a Buddhist meditation seminar. These began at seven PM on Thursdays at the Wilson Street Temple in Olympia. The group chanted for five minutes, sat in silence for twenty minutes and engaged in philosophical discussion for another forty minutes. Geshe Jamyang Tsultrim, a Tibetan Llama, was our teacher. We learned that being a human being is a challenge. Call it discordance. You need to experience suffering to eliminate it and comprehend the miracle of being alive. We can follow the noble eightfold path. Right view, how we see the world, what we think, how we speak, what we do, how we live, our inner diligence, mindfulness and concentration.

The Buddha said that there are two extreme paths that we should avoid. The first one is seeking sensual pleasures, the pleasures of the world. The second is the practice of depriving the body, such as the practice of asceticism. Those extremes do not lead toward happiness and peace, they lead to failure on the path of understanding and love. We want to find a middle way.

I read several books on meditation and recounted to Jamyang that if I isolate chakras in my thinking I can achieve an altered state of mind.
Jamyang chuckled “Those are Hindu methods. If they work for you, excellent. I’m not here to convert anyone to Buddhism. There are good things in every belief. If you’re a Hindu, a Christian, Jewish, Muslim or whatever don’t change. Apply what we learn here to your life. We can all learn from each other.” Having an apparent affinity for Hindu techniques I decided to look a little deeper.
A person can meditate while walking, biking, and doing other rhythmic exercises that incorporate breathing. Here is what works for me:
Riding a bike, as the peddles go around, think left, left, inhaling and left, right, right exhaling.
Once a rhythm has been developed, visualize five chakras in order – the root, belly, heart, thyroid and pituitary. Repeat the visualization for each through four breathing cycles. A system of five chakras is common among the ancient Mother class of Tantras.
While isolating the root chakra, the pelvic floor, consider its adherence to the seat, as if melting into it. Isolating the belly chakra, inflate and deflate belly together with inhaling and exhaling. Do the same for the heart. For the thyroid visualize the upper body. Be in the moment. Each turn of the peddle is a new frame. For the pituitary, visualize a place in the center of the head.
Upon completion of the exercise, visualize and relax the feet, hands, face, tongue and all the fine capillaries running throughout the body.
If sitting for any reason in any location, waiting for an appointment, one can chant quietly, breathing cycles slowed. A is Pronounced AH. M is sustained. Look for patterns on the closed eyelids.
Root chakra  LAM (Earth) — Belly chakra VAM (Water) — Heart chakra RAM (Fire) — Thyroid chakra YAM (Wind) — Pituitary chakra KHAM (Space).

Then there’s what might be the sixth chakra directly behind the pituitary, the hypothalamus and the cerebellum behind that, leading down through the vagus nerve on both sides of the neck — OM (Universe).

The Vedas, especially the Upanishads, form the foundational understanding of Sanatan Dharma and provide direction and purpose. The purpose of a human life is to recognize the Atman, the real self, one’s aptitudes and interests and perform the Dharma or duty, to learn, and ultimately to generate good Karma, the sum of a person’s actions.

John Dunn, a local physician, was of a Christian background. He often spoke at length. I was not raised a Christian and ironically learned mostly what I know about Christianity in Buddhist gatherings.

John began “At last week’s presentation in the temple we heard the term ‘agnostic buddhism’. The teacher stated: ‘Nobody knows what happens when you die. You work and work and work and then you kick the bucket.’”
The group chuckled, remembering the robed holy man’s words of wisdom.

“But then he went on” Jamyang said. “We sleep and we don’t exist. Unless we dream. What if we’re not dreaming? What if we dream but don’t remember the dream? Is what follows life what preceded it? Is it like the dream we didn’t remember?

John continued “We can believe things based on reasoning. By contrast we know little. But there must be some explanation for things being as they are. I’m thinking why not start at the beginning. The oldest stories, the ones that have stood the test of time.”

“The Rigveda Samhita?” Jamyang asked.

John chuckled “Well sure but I’m thinking of Genesis.” This resulted in conversation over the following weeks.

The Creation myth is said to have roots in Mesopotamian narratives dating back thousands of years.  It occurs over six days, though ‘day’ may be interpreted as ‘phase’ or ‘milestone’.

Day one. Let there be light. Light is the standard by which all things are measured. Earth formed 4.5 billion years ago, a seething ball of magma and toxic gas.
Day two refers to the separation of liquid water from water vapor and ice. Probably occurred about 4 billion years ago.
Day three, a half billion years later, water is separated from land and salt water is separated from fresh water. This is when phytoplankton and cyanobacteria through photosynthesis begin to clear the sky.
On day four the sky has cleared thanks to the workings of living organisms. When humans went into space and looked back at the earth we realized that it’s blue. It’s a living thing.
Day five is about the great whales and winged fowl, AKA the dinosaurs. Day six the earth brings forth the sentient land mammals and ultimately humans… in God’s own image. If this refers to the physical form of God, which form? Does God have male pattern baldness? Male and/or female sex organs? What for? No, the reference is to intellect, will and other qualities of consciousness.

Jesus died to save us from our sins. What exactly got him killed? He overturned the tables of the money changers and the seats of those who sold doves.

Who were the money changers? They were those who make money off the labor of others through profit and interest. “For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul?” How is this not a direct parallel to Marx’s theories of profit and labor value? Liberation Theology is in line with early Christian teaching.

Who were those who sold doves? The dove and olive branch appear in the story of Noah and the Flood. Although the dove is not specifically a symbol of peace in the Old Testament, it acquired that meaning among early Christians and Jews. The ultimate sinner is one who profits off the means of war.

According to René Descartes the only absolute truth is “cogito, ergo sum”, I think therefore I am. The entire universe could be a dream, the only certainty being that I am thinking it. And what am I? Does this thinking spontaneously pop up out of nowhere? Does it go nowhere when we die?

We might think of universal consciousness as the ocean and our personal consciousness as a wave. The wave breaks and it’s gone. Or is it? Our memories are a series of synapses that cease to fire when we die and end. Or do they? The wave was not aware of the ocean. The ocean was and is aware of the wave. Universal consciousness runs forward and backward in space and time, infinitely. The human mind is incapable of comprehending infinity.

Chemical, electrical and biological processes don’t create consciousness. Consciousness would logically originate at some other level, a product of the tiniest quantum effects, the motion of ripples. What we call matter is energy whose vibration has been lowered so as to be perceptible to the senses. When something vibrates the entire universe resonates with it.

In the equation E=mc2, E represents energy measured in joules. One joule is the amount of energy required to lift a potato one meter. This equates to mass in kilograms times c, representing the speed of light measured in meters per second or about 300 million, which when squared, multiplied by itself, equals the number nine followed by 16 zeros. One unit of energy equates to little, if any, mass.

Einstein suggested that “Concerning matter, we have been all wrong. What we have called matter is energy, whose vibration has been so lowered as to be perceptible to the senses. Matter is spirit reduced to the point of visibility. There is no matter… We are souls dressed up in sacred biochemical garments and our bodies are the instruments through which our souls play their music.”

Quantum entanglement. What happens one place can affect what happens in another place, maybe at a subatomic level and maybe at galactic level. Einstein’s “spooky action”. The gaps between what we know about quantum mechanics and how gravity shapes space-time are currently irreconcilable. It’s like we’re trying to create a model based on what we don’t know.

Artificial intelligence can do some amazing things. But machines can at best only parody true understanding, experience, choice and free will. Consciousness is non-computational. It’s unpredictable. Plants and animals respond to multiple stimuli in complex ways. We can in some cases explain the chemistry and the biology but soon hit our limits. Stimulus, response, aversion, attraction, the will to live or wither, are all attributable to thought.

Perhaps the consciousness of life forms feeds into universal consciousness and we through our senses convey what we perceive, our duty being to experience life. If this is the case it’s likely that logic, language and thought are all part of the process. Perhaps the brain rather than the source is a receiver. Or perhaps the process is more back and forth. The brain is tuning into a fundamental force of nature. We’re imbedded in electric and magnetic fields but the phenomena remain invisible.

We observe synchronized behavior in galaxies, rotating in sync with the motions of galaxies hundreds of millions of light years away. The interactions happen across distances too large to be explained by any known phenomena, even gravity, as we understand gravity. Astronomers can only attribute it to some unacknowledged force. We don’t know who discovered water but it certainly wasn’t a fish.

The second law of thermodynamics says that things will move toward entropy or disorder. Life contradicts this by introducing complexity and order. And yet life appears on earth a mere 800 million years after it formed. Something prompted cyanobacteria to assume order out of entropy and through photosynthesis break carbon dioxide down into carbon, a building block of life and oxygen for life to breathe.

Cell mitosis or meiosis, the replication of DNA, involves the storing and manipulation of information. There’s no advantage, no logical reason for this to occur spontaneously. The division and rejoining of the double helix, which things to keep and which to expel, all the various membranes and bodies within a cell, what they do and how do they know how and when to do it… this change wasn’t an simple step, it was a reversal of the laws of physics.

Systems can evolutionarily give rise to secondary, more complex systems but these complexities, under common knowledge, can only be an extension of the parent. Given the success of evolution and that evolution favors species with greater cognitive ability, it’s logical that evolution is written into the fabric of the universe as a way of increasing cognizance.

The earth is a magnet. Without the magnetic field, the earth would be bombarded with solar radiation. We can see the aurora borealis. We can’t see its causes. Mars has no global magnetic field. Mars has no life. Earth’s size and distance from the sun, the size and location of the moon such that it creates tides, all these things are perfect for supporting life. Is this by design? Or, the result of a series of highly improbable accidents and we’re alone in the galaxy inhabiting a rare, unique and incomparably beautiful place.

The Hindu Vedas state that the absolute truth or being is beyond comprehension and that it’s impossible for the human mind to grasp the magnitude of the ultimate reality — nirvikalpa. The Vedas initially take an agnostic position, defining the formless Brahman, cit (consciousness), ānanda (bliss/love), ananta (the limitless) and amalam (freedom from negativity). They then provide descriptions of gods as having form (saguna).

The Vedas refer to the supreme divinity of nature. They stipulate maintaining ecological balance, revering the rivers, mountains, trees, animals, and the earth. Pashupati is an incarnation of Shiva, lord and protector of the animals.

Unfortunately we today don’t see it that way. Little we do is truly sustainable. This isn’t because people want things to be this way. There’s just no way to stop. We hope to leave the world a better place for our having been here. A beautiful highly capable species, we daily strive to enjoy ourselves. We sing and dance and fill the air with love.

Dvořák’s Rusalka sings: “Moon in the dark heavens, your light shines far, you roam over the whole world, gazing into human dwellings… Moon linger for a moment, tell me where my beloved is, tell him, silvery moon, that my arms reach out to him, hoping for a brief moment he will dream of me, shine on him wherever he is.” The mermaid would give up everything to live one day as a human.

The Final Act

Speight Jenkins is retiring after 31 years. The 3500 seat house is packed. I’m sitting alone between two women, both wearing expensive black dresses. Further to the left and right men are wearing white or black tuxedoes. There’s a guy in a suit jacket, tie and kilt and a young woman in a black mini dress, six feet five inches tall in heels. I’m wearing Levi’s and a black turtleneck.

I’ve been assigned a seat in the third row stage right. Glenda the good witch, layers of makeup, pleats and ruffles of multicolored fabric spreading from her waist like great feathers, briefly sits behind me exuding chemical fragrance, then mercifully moves.

Singers have come from the world over to sing in Speight’s honor. “In an event like this there’s little talking to be done. Let the music speak.” He is briefly described as ever intrusive and never interfering, possessing encyclopedic knowledge and infectious inspiration. A relentless advocate. The embodiment of humility. They sing works by Wagner, Offenbach, Bizet, Verdi, Bellini, Mussorgsky, Korngold, Sant-Saens, Tchaikovsky, Gershwin, Mozart, Puccini, Rossini, Boito and more Wagner. They sing and sing and sing.

During intermission I’m walking up a side stairway and encounter Speight accompanied by an assistant. I stop and he stops, we face each other and I take his hand. “I want to thank you for everything you’ve done. You’ve enriched my life enormously”. He smiles. It feels good. Science tells us that expressing gratitude can release neurotransmitters like dopamine, serotonin and other mood enhancers, over time rewiring the brain to favor optimism and resilience.

And isn’t that what opera’s all about? Regulating stress response, improving emotional balance, laughing, weeping and everything in between. Cognitive flexibility.

William Burden sings Kuda Kuda from Tchaikovky’s Eugene Onegin. “Where have you gone, the golden days of my spring?…The memory of a young poet forgotten.” The words are poignant. Where have they gone? The song continues “But you, Olga. Tell me. Won’t you remember? My heart’s desire. I await you. Come to me my love.” It’s all too beautiful. “Where have you gone, the Golden days of my spring?”

Greer Grimsley sings Woton’s Farewell from Die Walkure. Then Speight briefly addresses the audience. “I just want to convey to you all what a wonderful evening this has been for me. I want to thank all the wonderful people I’ve worked with over the years. The singers. The musicians. The people who make the clothing, the sets. Too much good work to single anything or anyone out this evening.” He pauses momentarily and continues. “And all of you…you who’ve made these years what they’ve been” Speight steps away from the microphone, speechless, head bowed.

Speight is speaking to each person, individually. We are an audience for whom opera has become a shared passion, thanks of his obsession. The entire theatre rises in unison. The ovation is like thunder.

The curtain goes up behind him and all the soloists and the chorus join in a booming rendition of The Finale from Wagner’s Die Meistersinger.