I had not done the dishes in a week.
Day after day, as my sister and I walked, talked and played from her house to mine, I looked at the growing pile and thought: not today.
I don’t think I have ever let a dish sit in a sink more than a day in my whole adult life.
When I got back alone to the village yesterday, it felt a little more foreign, my house a little more empty.
I questioned my choice to live so far away from hearts I love, from the very few people whose blood I share.
My mind was telling me painful stories as my body lead me gently to the sink.
I heated up a big pot of water. Added a strong squirt of bright green soap and swished it around with my hand until it magically turned into suds.
Then one by one I washed each cup, spoon, plate and knife.
The thoughts got quiet as the dishes got clean.
Birds overhead, late afternoon sun, baby bougainvilleas.
Hot water, then cool water.
Allowing the simplicity to smooth the pointy edges.
Wiping down the sink, then my hands.
More quiet in my head, less hurt in my heart.
More remembering, too.
Remembering how good it is for us to have our kitchen sinks be where we feel peaceful and alive.
And how lucky we are to share these places with those we love.
I once attached my heart to a man after seeing him cry as he told me about the day his dog was euthanized, a decade before.
What I saw as his tender heart spoke straight to mine, and what I understood as his depth of feelings won me over.
Years later, the same man berated me for wanting to postpone our Sunday breakfast by an hour so that I may go support a friend as she took her own dog for a last, heartbreaking visit to the vet.
This man often teared up when hearing about acts of kindness - yet was reliably sharply unpleasant to waiters and waitresses.
I have a dozen examples of what I considered crazy-making inconsistencies of this flavor, over the years. Some of them unsettling.
They puzzled me and I often wondered what I was missing, what I was not understanding. Really: what was wrong with me?
How could someone who felt so much ... feel so little?
Over time, too many forays on that not-so-sensitive side took their toll and I eventually took my own heart back. Something I do neither well nor fast.
But still, I did not understand.
Until just a couple of months ago, in my kitchen. While making breakfast.
We were discussing a movie we had watched the night before and I was grappling with trying to figure out what had been clearly missing for me, from a movie that seemed to have touched so many people.
Thats when my son, while making fresh orange juice said: “well, it’s important to not confuse depth and sentimentality.”
Depth and sentimentality.
Bam! That was it.
Not only did it explain what was missing for me in the movie, but it shone a big bright flashlight on that other nagging question.
In the early days of that long ago relationship, I had confused the two. I had confused depth and sentimentality.
I had seen the sentimentality, had kissed the tears, and had decided that surely, they were merely the tip of a big, miles-deep glorious iceberg of depth and empathy.
“it’s important to not confuse depth and sentimentality.”
I love this. I love distinctions that make us stop and think. And then stop and think about our own actions, our own ways of being in the world.
Ever since that conversation, I’ve been checking in with myself when my heart does a little stirring.
“Is this depth or sentimentality?”
Not judging, not making one good and the other one bad.
Just simply, importantly, not confusing the two.
And definitely not making big decisions based on that confusion.
Here’s to Clarity, to learning, to growing - and to being darn nice to waitresses.
My sister arrives tomorrow, for a week.
We have planned this time together since before I left and because my place is so small, she has booked a sweet little two-bedroom casita, only a block away from me.
Her place looked super cute, with two bedrooms and a swimming pool. Also, it is a "real house," compared with my well... charming tiny shack.
We have been looking forward to being neighbors, exploring the village together, me getting to play tourist with her, and indulging in restaurants and cafes.
A couple of days ago, in response to hearing me express some tiredness over the perennial dustiness of my place, combined with a yearning for a "normal" shower she asked me if I would do her a favor. I think she sensed that after six-weeks, I was ready for a change.
"Here's what I'd like" - she started. "I would really like it if I could start my official stay at the Airbnb a few days earlier and you could go in and add some personal touches, maybe some fruits or something. Making it feel, homey, you know? So that when I got there on Sunday, it would already feel lived-in and cozy for me." To which she added: "And if you wanted to take a shower and a dip in the pool and maybe sleep there a couple of nights, that would be nice too."
So smooth, isn't she?
So because how could I turn down doing her such a big favor, yesterday found me walking several times from my place to hers and back, carrying baskets of food, my laptop, and my yoga mat, Lila wondering what the heck we were up to, now.
There was definitely a touch of Mexican Beverly Hillbillies in the air.
The pool is divine. The shower is tiled, with great water pressure and a seemingly unlimited number of temperature options, at a fingertip. The towels soft and huge. What really got me was when I turned on the kitchen sink to wash the dishes: I immediately had hot water rushing out of the faucet.
So here we are, couches, oven and all.
So glad I could do her this solid favor.
I just hope I don't get too soft.
SCARED OF THE SACRED