Las Tres Mujeres- How I Found the Spiritual Side of Aging

With brown weathered faces as serious as faithful nuns presiding over Sunday mass, three little old women draped in brightly colored shawls glided up to me. They made the sign of the cross, kissed their thumbs, and whispered a prayer. Within the sacred walls of that majestic place on the outskirts of Mexico City, it was immediately clear that what transpired on that warm Good Friday morning in Coyoacan was no accident. It was the passage of my spiritual walk into middle age.
We were alone in the antique garden once cultivated by Mexico’s greatest 20th century artists, Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo. It should have been strange that no one else, other than the Columbian gentleman who had disappeared into some other part of Casa Azul, was present. However, it wasn’t strange at all. It was predestined. My questions came as if they were rehearsed and ready for this moment.
“La conocían?” (Did you know her?)
Their wide smiles squeezed out from under layers of folded skin; a youthful energy suddenly danced in their eyes.
“Si, la conocíamos.” (Yes, we knew her.)
“Que pueden decirme?” (What can you tell me?)
“Como usted, ella no tuvo niños.” (Like you, she didn’t have children.)
One of the old women grabbed my arm and held it in a death grip, as if Frida’s spirit had come back to communicate through her. Perhaps Frida was channeling the knowledge that I was also childless and close to the same age as she was when she died. It was clear to me in that moment why I was obsessed with the artist who painted her pain so graphically. I was fascinated by her story because no other woman dared to break the status quo of a male dominated culture so brazenly. Frida Kahlo was ahead of her time. I had always made a point of being ahead of mine. I believed the old women were sent only for me.
“Sea paciente, mi hija- mire, escuche y escriba. Enseñe los niños.” (Be patient, my daughter- look, listen and write. Teach the children.) Just as quickly as she said those words, the three wise ones drifted away.
Once I left Casa Azul, St. John the Baptist Cathedral, standing tall and proud in the middle of the town square, beckoned me to join the mass in progress. A few
indigenous groups were in front of the church selling palm frond crosses for a few pesos. The encounter with the three women, and the sight of these beautiful people celebrating Easter, gave me a renewed sense of faith and belonging. My aging process seemed to take on new meaning.
Not having been in a Catholic church for decades, I was surprised how quickly I dropped to my knees in prayer. Soon, I was swallowed into a sea of people that swept me toward the altar where the priest was finishing his sermon. He descended the pulpit at the point of the choir’s highest note, which came to a crescendo on the word Cristo. While splashing parishioners to his left and right with Holy water from a plastic bottle, el Padre nodded and smiled at me with the same knowing look that had possessed the old women. And then he doused me with the same water. My tears confirmed what I felt inside- I was included among the blessed and still had so much to accomplish, even as a twenty-six year veteran teacher facing fifty.
The surge of the exiting crowd pushed me back toward the large wooden doors and dumped me on the street. “Sea paciente, mi hija- mire, escuche y escriba. Enseñe los niños.” I knew that everything I did from that moment on in Mexico had to honor those words, or the spell of las tres mujeres (the three women) would be broken. Deciding there was one other place that might unlock the mystery of the journey I was meant to experience, I hailed a taxi and made my way to the heart of El Zocalo (Mexico City’s main square). Every fear of being alone was replaced with a hopefulness of adventure.
The massive Cathedral, the vast cobblestone streets constructed with the remains of Aztec pyramids, and the half unearthed El Templo Mayor heightened the excitement I was feeling as I looked up at El Palacio Nacional- the government building that houses Diego Rivera’s most famous murals, “The History of Mexico.”
I spent hours roaming the gothic corridors that displayed Rivera’s work. Without relying on the written word, the stories painted in front of me enlightened my knowledge of Mexico and gave me an urgent sense to teach this incredible history to new generations. So I waited patiently. I looked and listened as I sat on the stone steps that take visitors to the main murals. Soon, a masculine voice whispered to me, “Enseñe los niños.” Teach the children. Still in a state of hopeful meditation, I wanted to believe it was Diego speaking to me from another dimension, just as I imagined Frida had done through las viejitas.
I took out my travel journal and began writing as if my life depended on the words that would fill its pages. Out of respect for my fourth grade students who, for the most part, are from Mexico, and whose families sacrificed much to bring them to the United States for a better life, a children’s book began to fill the pages of my worn diary. I asked myself: What would these parents want their children to know about their history, their culture and their pride? And then I remembered reading that Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo painted for the Mexican people who couldn’t afford books. Every bit of wealth these fabulous artists amassed from their work, they gave back to the people in the form of an accessible history rich with dignity, sacrifice and truth. They did all of this in the middle of their lives.
I thought of the Mexican children I had seen in the streets selling trinkets to help support their families. I thought of the many middle-aged couples tenderly guiding their elderly- their viejitos- around town parks as if they were parading kings and queens for all to admire and respect. I thought of my own life. I thought of my hopes and dreams as a child from a broken home where money was scarce. I thought of the years I dedicated to my studies, sacrificing friends and relationships. I thought of my heritage: a predominant mixture of Spanish and French peppered with a smattering of California Indian, and a dash of English and Irish. I thought of the struggles I had had as a child to find a heritage that fit. Then I thought of the ancestries that have blessed my life- my Italian stepfather; my Japanese American husband; my African American father-in-law; and, the multicultural friends who have surrounded me throughout my life. In the belly of that ancient building, I felt my middle age taunting me with new challenges. I had never before felt more youthful.
JuFrida de Kato