Fountain of sorrow, fountain of light
You’ve known that hollow sound of your own steps in flight
Jackson Browne, Fountain of Sorrow
Appropriately, on the Friday of Sorrows, two days before Palm Sunday, I saw a truck bearing the words that serve as today’s title. The two words are so suggestive, in so many ways. I shan’t ruin it for you by telling you the service the company provided. OK, I will. Electrical and plumbing services. Does that create more thoughts for you? Perhaps in different ways than you were previously thinking? I think the company’s name entirely appropriate in Mexico.
Guanajuato, the state in which I live, is perhaps the most religiously conservative of the estados. The Kansas, as it were, of Mexico. Today is known as El Día de las Flores y Viernes de Dolores (Flowers Day and Friday of Sorrows). Friday is also the day that my housekeeper, Dolores, comes to put things right. I hate to come home after she’s been here because she leaves everything sparkling, organized, and tidy; I hate to disturb the work that she’s done.
Last night Diana and I had dinner and as I walked home from her apartment I passed the intersection where calle Guadiana meets Las Moras, I noticed a large window open, so I looked in. There was a magnificent altar in a living room, ready for the Night of the Altars. This particular altar featured Mary at the foot of the cross watching her son die, tears on her face, her hands clasped at her breast. There were large white candles and bitter oranges representing her sorrow; there was chamomile representing her humility and fennel for the betrayal and abandonment of Jesus.
Today, at lunch I was asked by a board member from one of the larger NGOs if I wanted to join its board of directors. I’m doing something wrong.