Finding courage, connection, and clarity among the decorated doorways of San Miguel de Allende
A DISPATCH FROM THE UNDERWORLD
by Lenore Eklund
A month before heading to a writing workshop in San Miguel de Allende, I took my daughter around the neighborhood selling Girl Scout cookies door to door. She beamed from her wheelchair as I helped her access her communication device to give her sales pitch to neighbors. Her smile faded at the bottom of the stoops where doors went unanswered.
We rolled past houses with No Soliciting signs. I don’t want her to get discouraged. “Come on, there are plenty of other houses to visit.”
I know there will be many doors in her life that may not open, and I need her to understand that there will always be more opportunities if she keeps going until she finds the ones that are open.
Three days after Portland was blanketed in a city-closing snow, I stood at the threshold of airport security. As I said goodbye to my daughter and her dad, I wondered if I was prepared for the journey ahead. I hated to admit it, but I was uneasy about this trip. I hadn’t traveled internationally since I was pregnant, and I had little to show as a writer–just an unmanageably large collection of narrative stories with no ending in sight. What if I forgot something important and ended up stranded at the Leon airport? Would my work hold up at the workshop or would I be revealed as an imposter?
The need for this trip outweighed my reservations.
Flying to Houston first, I met up with my sister, niece, and future great niece, now residing 18 weeks in utero, traveling from Ohio. From there, we flew together to San Miguel de Allende, finding our cousin, a part-time resident, sitting on the cobblestone street curb outside our rental door.
After dropping off bags, we wander, my eyes drifting to doorways along the streets. Many of the homes have ornately carved wooden doors. Other doors are decorated around the frames with flowers–artificial, dried, ombre in arrangement–dried grasses sprouting seeds, pressed tin ornaments, and at night, some lit up with twinkling lights. The doors look inviting, often opening into courtyards, galleries, or shops, and I wonder who was welcome to walk through the decorated doors. Would I be welcome if I couldn’t speak enough Spanish? Did I have enough money? Or was I dressed the part?
The next day, I ring at the door of the writing workshop, excited for the clear space to let my brain wander creatively. Entry opens to a courtyard lined with bougainvillea climbing deep pink walls and a flowering poinsettia tree reaching heights I thought unimaginable.
In the days that follow, writing leads us into the underworld–through themes of Persephone’s tale: abduction, betrayal, and uneasy compromise. It’s easy for me to put words on the page. Giving the first writing prompt, I write about the depths of despair I have descended for my daughter–through surgeries, climbing mountains seeking scraps of disability support, and fighting with everything I had to push her into the classroom. When it comes time to read our pieces aloud, in comparison, sharing my writing with a group of semi-strangers should be nothing. Who cares if they don’t like my writing? No one’s life is at stake.
I’m alway telling my daughter to live unapologetically as herself. It’s time I do the same. I inhale, then read, speaking over a quiver just beneath the words.
I look up, anticipating blank faces or eyes cast to the floor. But instead, I’m met with support and encouragement. Feeling myself growing braver, the door protecting my words opening wider, I try new things on the page, take risks. I like what I read back and want more.
After class, I spend the evenings in El Jardín with my sister and niece, embracing my auntly duty of treating them to cinnamon and sugar churros. We wander the streets, stepping through unfamiliar spaces of the city, much like I had stepping into the workshop. Inviting doors open into restaurants where mariachis play, stores with folk crafts for sale, and a courtyard where young boys climb an art nouveau wrought iron gate.
My sister cranes her head toward one open doorway, its soft glow illuminating foliage and art. “It’s so pretty in there.”
I flash a daring smile. “Do you want to go in?”
She hesitates. “There’s a desk at the entrance. Do you think we’re allowed?”
“C’mon. The worst they can do is ask us to leave,” motioning for her to follow.
While my niece waits at a bench, my sister and I stroll through an exhibit of Wixárika-inspired beaded sculptures. We point out which ones we would buy if we had extra cash and space in our suitcases. I choose an upside-down lollipop, discarded and seemingly stuck where it fell.
The day after the writing workshop concluded, my sister, niece, and I met up with our cousin again. In the neighboring town of Atotonilco, sitting around a table under spindly mesquite trees, conversation descends into the underworld–our stories of heartache, ruin, and rising, bringing us closer. In that sacred space, we make promises to each other.
Strolling the market, finding tin stars for my daughter while my cousin buys a ribboned-haired doll for my niece’s baby, I share my fascination with the decorated, open doors.
My cousin leans in, “Doors in the U.S. usually mean permission, but in Mexico, they seem to represent invitation.” Her eyes sparkle as she holds my gaze, “and, on Dia de los Muertos, everyone opens their doors to let the spirits pass through.”
As we ride back to San Miguel de Allende, I think about the doors I’ve stood before–some open, ones not meant for me, and others I had to push through. Maybe the most important doors aren’t the ones we step through, but the ones we learn to leave open—inviting others in, offering a space to belong.
After our excursion, we embrace our cousin before parting ways. She waves and says, “My door is always open to you here in San Miguel de Allende.”
Lenore Eklund is a writer, comic artist, and disability advocate living in Portland, Oregon. She blends storytelling and advocacy to explore themes of access, inclusion, and resilience—all in between IEP meetings and Girl Scout gatherings.
