Verses in the Morning, Thunder at Night: A Day in Guanajuato
This morning began in quiet harmony, the kind that needs no words. Sol and I sat with a Jarana, Cajon, a fresh page, and the slow, warm breath of a Guanajuato morning drifting through the open window. No plans, no pressure—just two women in rhythm with each other’s creative pulse. I began to write verses, letting the melodies thread through the poetry like roots seeking earth. Sol, ever attuned, responded with a chorus that felt like it had always existed.
It was a dance of intuition. A call and response not just in lyrics but in energy. We passed musical ideas between us the way the wind moves through branches—effortlessly, wordlessly. When we paused, we looked up and smiled. We had something. Something alive. It will grow and evolve when I return home, but the seed was planted today, rich and full of potential.
Later, my cousin Jackie and I took a winding drive through the verdant hills outside the city to visit the historic San Ramón mine. Jackie had driven down from Guadalajara the night before, and it was a joy to share this place with her.
We started in the gift shop, where a charismatic saleswoman charmed us into buying crystal pendants that shimmered with soft lavender and deep turquoise. They felt like talismans—reminders of the creative clarity the day had already gifted me.
The hills around San Ramón were thick with life—lush, green, almost tropical in their abundance. It reminded me of Hawaii in its intensity: wild, layered, and unapologetically vibrant. The entryway to the mine opened into a courtyard of quiet beauty. Old stone buildings, their bones still sturdy after centuries, stood among beds of flowering plants and soft green grass. In the center stood a massive stone mill, once pushed by donkeys to grind grain or minerals.
To the left, our tour began. We passed through a gallery of artifacts—rusted tools, sepia photographs, glass display cases holding fragments of a world underground. Then we entered the old cantina where miners once unwound after days deep in the belly of the earth.
Our guide led us to a steep staircase that descended into darkness. I stepped to the edge, felt the vertigo rise, and chose to stay above. Sometimes the imagination paints deeper pictures than a descent ever could.
From there, Jackie and I drove to Resplandor, where I taught the children songs—one of them Son Jarocho de Oregon, premiered by the Latinx Choral Project just weeks ago. The kids sang with open hearts and bright eyes, their voices reaching out toward the same creative sky I had sung under that morning with Sol.
We ended the day with dinner at a lovely restaurant, then joined Sol and her circle of friends at a cozy jazz bar where the music curled around us like a lullaby in 5/4 time. Jackie and I weren’t ready to say goodnight, so we shared dessert and tea, letting the sweetness and warmth soak into our bones.
But then the sky broke open.
As we stepped outside, rain came pouring down in sheets—fast, hard, beautiful. We ran for the car, laughing like children. Jackie pointed to a stairway that had become a rushing waterfall, wild and cascading, glowing in the reflection of city lights. Thunder cracked overhead. Lightning flashed, and the sky bloomed violet. We were drenched and breathless by the time we climbed into the car, our laughter still echoing inside the rain-soaked windshield.
Back at home, I dried off, called my husband and son to wish them goodnight, and curled up under the covers. The rain droned on, steady and hypnotic, like a lullaby for the heart.
Today began in verse and ended in thunder. And somewhere in between—songs were born, stories unfolded, and memory carved itself into the soft stone of this day.