Why Do You Love Baja?

I remember the first summer night I slept on a beach front porch in a hammock. I was fifteen. A bright full moon rose of the Sea of Cortez and I was in love. Picturesque. Although not very comfortable. That was my first summer here after a short visit several years earlier, and my first trip to Baja, spending Christmas with Grandpa Jimmy and Nana Lupita.

There was a time when every one here knew who he was. You would see him driving around town, both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. Having coffee with Bobby Vanwormer. Hanging out with Steve Chism at Tio Pablo's. Now, it is a treat to meet and greet those who still remember.

He came down when my mom was a little girl. Among his adventures was winning second place in the first Baja 1000 on a motorcycle. He loved to tell the story about his trophy with an ironic smile and tilt of his head: the trophy was a man on a horse. There must have been a shortage of appropriate trophies that year. This is after all, the land of improvisation.

Four generations and the man who started it for our whole family: Grandpa Jimmy holding Mr. Dylan, winter 1998.

He came here first, then my mother followed in his footsteps and I followed in hers. My two children were born here and here we are. This is home. Of all the places I have visited, there is only one other place I have loved like Baja. Ireland. But that is another story, another time, another dream. And that is all it might be: a memory, a connection, a reminder, a dream. 

Some of us are fortunate enough to choose where we want to live. Among the practicalities driving this decision, I believe each person has a certain criteria. Must haves for happiness and well being. Criteria for choosing a place to create a life. For me, it is the connection to the outdoors. The need to have windows and doors open for as many days out of the year as possible. Fresh air and natural light. Freedom to move between indoor and outdoor spaces. Freedom to walk. Hike, saunter and roam desert trails in the cooler months. Stroll the soft and wet shoreline in warmer months. 

In the desert, I follow trails originally created by free range cattle and goats. I watch for rattle snakes. Especially after it rains when the desert turns green and enlivened with butterflies. In summer I watch the shoreline for clear shiny bubbles with dark blue lines. Agua Malas. I have felt the shock of a jelly fish sting once when I was seventeen and swam laps between the shore and a boat. Or buoy on the days it's owner would take it out on deep water. One hour of swimming every morning after sunrise.

June Sparkles

Living here year round, working full time and keeping up with the needs and activities of a family can result in forgetting to enjoy the reasons I am here. Sometime, I fail to walk. The desert or the shore line. I don't forgot to walk. I talk myself out of leaving our property line when I feel overwhelmed by responsibility, interactions and need more than anything to see only the space within the confines of our yard. When I step outside our fence and walk again,  I wonder, why on earth would I ever stop going for walks? Walking, putting one foot in front of the other, such a grounding activity. Feet on the ground. The smell of the air. The temperature. The view. Everywhere, there is beauty. I take in the sights with utter awe. The hills never get old. Nor does the water.

Hurricane season gets old. The boarding up. Living in a dark house while watching for storms and wondering if we will get hit. The sounds at night that remind me of living next to train tracks in north eastern Oregon.There, the train track was next to the house. In a hurricane, it feels and sounds like the train is roaring through the middle of our home. The weeks after. Waiting for power. Waiting for water. The gratitude for owning a generator to run part time and keep food fresh in the freezer. The blessing of an underground water storage tank. Remembering the years when neither of these amenities were part of our home. Remembering that for many, these amenities still are not. The up side of after a hurricane includes family time, roof top sleep overs. No power means no Internet and no Internet means more communication between us all. And I always wonder at these times, why do we forget to disconnect and why do we have to wait for nature to unplug to plug us in? I like to think I have raised our family and myself with awareness to do the latter. I know we do. But to the degree with which we do so, it is relative and the critical part of me looks on to say: we need to unplug more often so we can connect more deeply.

After Hurricane Odile. Carrying bedding to the roof top for sleeping while we await power.

I think of our 500 acres of Rancho el Aventadero and wonder what it would be like to raise a family on a farm. No power. No Internet. It is only a wandering wondering thought as our plan to be there is after our daughter graduates from high school.

The man I married is the ultimate provider. He follows after his father. The ranch property we now own was his parents and then sat solo for over thirty years. Slowly, Javier and his brothers with the help of our craftsman have revived the land. They ran water to a newly built pila from a natural spring. Planted fifty mango trees, started a garden, raise chickens that make us eggs for breakfast to go with fresh organic papayas cut into bite size pieces. The land is laced with beautiful hiking and mountain biking paths enjoyed by many, thanks to their work in creating the paths and above all, Javier's generosity in sharing the land for others to enjoy.

Walking the beach one late spring morning, I looked at the horizon as I heard my phone ring. It was a message from Javier on a boat passing by the place I was walking on his way to a fishing tournament in El Cardonal. The sight of sunlight cast upon the water, a boat within the light and jumping manta rays. My heart swoons: I get to live here.

On the water recently, flying a kite, harness around my waist and board on my feet, moving through spring swells on dark blue shimmering water, feeling the north wind in my face: I get to live here.

Looking at numerous paintings of trails I have created in watercolors and turned into note cards and someday something more: I get to live here.

Walking the job site recently and wondering if loving a project I designed is narcissistic as I fill with pride for the design and build our company gets to create. All the stories we get to tell through architecture, the homes, and parts of homes, indoor spaces, outdoor spaces, the artistic pieces I get to design with our clients, our craftsman get to build and our engineer oversees to ensure all our creations are safe and will endure the test of time: I get to live here.

In Ireland, after our son's high school graduation, standing in the ruins of an old church built from stone, I remembered Baja and felt the following to be true:

When you live and connect 

with a place you love, 

you become as much

a part of the landscape

as the landscape becomes 

a part of you.

The land becomes a jewel 

in your heart,

a reflection

incarnation 

of the land beneath you

sky above you.

And where you stand 

on the land

between the two

inhabits the jewel of space

above the ground, beneath the clouds.

This all reminds me of a time before marriage, children, a hard earned degree in Architecture, before design took over my brain and creating a healing center poured out of someplace I let go of trying to understand, before I realized Yoga has been my life since before I stepped on the mat, before the wind called me to play, before I lived on this knoll that was a hill with no road to it. I remember long talks and walks with my daughter's godmother who is originally from El Cardonal and how I would ask her to tell me the stories. Stories about families. The history. Now, I am part of this land too. Part of an ongoing story we are all part of. Part of this land I get to call home.

Why do you love Baja? I love Baja because of how I feel when I am here. The openness, expansiveness, the stillness. I feel alive and creative. For me, Baja has become synonymous with home for the heart, body, mind and soul.

Beauty

That moment when the sky turns a certain color

And the lighting glows in a way

That stops you in your tracks

Creates a lump in your throat

And makes you wonder how it is possible for beauty of this magnitude to exist

Enraptured

You stop, in this moment and forget everything

Nothing exists but this color, these mountains, this sky, this lighting

As you continue on

Around the next corner

The lighting changes

And shadows return

Mountains a moment ago lit

Are now dull

You see the road ahead of you

And you keep going because it's what you do

Moving through shadows

Remembering the light

And all the frequent spaces in between

Tehroma