I fell in love with the mix of peacefulness and activity. I fell in love with the ease of meeting people and connecting at a real level. I fell in love with the sense of community and activism which I glimpsed. I fell in love with the spirituality, the simple sophistication, the artistry - and more. I barely touched my Morning Pages but instead, spent time with new friends, swam, laughed, explored the nearby village, danced, ate, LIVED, and loved. My girlfriend arrived and we spent the last few days together, she and I, meeting more people and feeling so at home within this place. We both knew we were under the spell and wanted to return. Before leaving on March 11, I secured myself a casita to come back to on May 1, for an undetermined amount of time. I would just go home, get Lila, arrange a few things and be right back. On the phone that morning, I told my son my plan and he suggested I not get on the plane, saying it could be hard for me to come back. Talks of the virus were very quiet down here, but not so in the US. I had heard enough that I knew I needed to cancel my April Bali Retreat (which was terribly difficult, it turns out) but not much more. Surely he was exaggerating. Also, I had committed to be a “flight angel” for a pup who was going to his new life in the States. I got on the plane like a woman on a mission. Seven weeks. Perfect. As early as SeaTac, everything felt different. The world had shifted on its axis and the look in people's eyes was a little wild. For the first few days, I resisted. I moved even faster towards my goal. Surely I could outrun this. I found someone to rent my room, I made a huge to-do list and wrote it in chalk on the blackboard in the kitchen. I brushed up on my Spanish grammar. I ordered mosquito nets. After years and years, I was free to go. And I knew where I wanted to go. I would not get stuck again. But the walls were closing in a little more each day and as I was washing the dishes one morning, I admitted to myself that I could not leave. The time was not right. That realization buckled my knees and I sat on the kitchen floor, sobbing all the tears I had never shed 40 years before when I was told I would not be going back to France. Maybe all the tears I still had for my refugee friends, too. Borders, physical or emotional, are a b***. So, I stayed. And in some ways, it was sweet. Because somehow, life always has some sweetness. I quarantined with my kid and a friend, and did all the writing, meditating, healing I knew needed to happen. My team and I launched The Big Gratitude Project, too. I did not know what to do with the Ballroom. It felt out of integrity to keep it open as my office only. When would it be a place of Community again? Would it ever? I knew it did not need my physical presence to thrive, but it did need humans within its walls. Yet, letting it go was scary. In July, a friend invited me to go paragliding with him. When we jumped off that cliff into the nothingness, being caught mid-air, being held into the winds told me that I could let go. That I could trust. In August, we closed the Ballroom. The next day, I got shingles. Home was a good place to heal. And each day I received photos and sounds of life "down there." It was like a lifeline to a parallel universe. I knew I would go back. I knew I would go back to that exact place. Just not right then. I made potential plans for January. By the time October came, I wanted to see how it felt, in Mexico. Had the pandemic erased the joy? Was it a good idea? Would I be safe? Would I endanger anyone? Would my presence there be a good thing or a bad thing? I took a Covid test and headed down on a reconnaissance trip. It was so, so, so good. Yes, the pandemic is here also. There are masks, and signs in stores and beaches can close on a week's notice. There is also music everywhere, and chickens and dogs and horses running free, and warmth of air and hearts. So, here I am. For however long. Now, back to the questions: I first found my house through Airbnb and it is a very, very modest little orange-colored casita. The whole thing is smaller than my bedroom in the US and the garden is its main gift. Lila and I are outside 90% of the day. Am I happy? YES. In a quiet, profoundly fulfilled way. My Core Essences are all over the place: Freedom, Joy, Simplicity, AND Community. Surprisingly, Convenience is superabundant, too - which I find interesting considering how strong a value it is in the States and how much we think we have it down pat. Here, all I have to do to get my laundry done is throw it over the wall of the lavanderia down the street. Then pick it up later for $3 and have a great chat with my new friends as I do so. Food is everywhere, alkaline water gets delivered to my kitchen. So do huge avocadoes and hot tamales. Meeting people has been easy. Local people, American and Canadian people, too. I think that to meet people, we need to dance with a blend of daring to Ask, being willing to Receive, and also find every chance to Give. The fact that I speak Spanish helps, for sure - but I would not say that it is a deal-breaker. Yes, I feel safe. Everyone's comfort zone is different and I know that mine is a little stretchy. But also, my intuition is strong and I know that the feeling of Safety I have here is real. I can walk in the village at night and not have a second thought. I do not lock my house during the day. And there are rules to pay attention to, too. I would not drive at night, for instance. Now, virus wise, do I feel safe? I do. As much or more than I do in the US. I am alone with Lila most of the time and when I am with other people, it is almost always outside. If I go into a store, I wear a mask. The stress level is pretty much zero and I see no fear in anyone's eyes. Again, it's a personal comfort zone. Also, an awareness for me of how contagious and damaging long-term fear and mistrust of other humans can be to the immune system. The money. I have a budget and I keep a close eye on it, daily. This first month has been more expensive than what I anticipate will be the norm as I wanted to get my house up to snuff. On average, I spend about $70 a week on food. My rent is $500. I believe that there are much less expensive places in Mexico. I don't know how long I will stay. It has taken me many years to get here and I am relishing truly being here. Not as a visitor. I trust that I will know. Lila is really good, now. It was rougher than I had thought, for her to adapt to all the new things. There have been days when I wondered if I did the right thing, for her. As of this week, I can see that we have turned a corner and that she is truly doing well. We are together pretty much all the time, she finally has made friends with the neighborhood dogs and one other cute little dog, too. She lays in the sun, runs on the beach, and even occasionally barks at night, Mexican style. Our yard and casita are her sanctuary and we have both learned to navigate the streets together - chicken, horses, motorcycles and all. It's a good life. Nothing is forever and sometimes, it takes a leap of faith to create the life we want. Especially when the one we have is already good, it can feel greedy to want more. For me, it is easy to be comfortable in a lot of environments, to find the goodness in so many different places. But I know that for now, this is exactly where I need to be. And so, I am. We have been here five weeks today. Five BIG weeks. In some ways, it has been easier than I would have thought, and in some ways, a little trickier As I share morsels of our days on FB and my blog, I receive questions, which I have been trying to answer as they come. The main questions are:
Today, as I was traveling back to the village on the bus, I flashed back to almost a year ago, when I arrived on the same bus, after sundown. And as I remembered all that happened in that last year, I thought that telling that story could answer a lot of these questions. I also thought that it might make for a long story, but here goes. In two parts. --------- Part One. Setting The Stage. The end of 2019 was rough, for me. Now that I think about it, my heart had been doing spins since early January of the previous year. Working with refugees in the land where my own family had sought refuge hundreds of years ago, broke a dam within me. I knew it had the power of affecting me, but I did not how deeply. I regret none of it. I returned to the US in the Spring of 2018 and threw myself into a work craze. That summer we created our first big online course, I certified Essence Facilitators to teach my own work, and we visioned and delivered A Day in Happyville. I organized a couple of fundraisers for refugees, too. The whole time, my sister my mom, and I were preparing for my mom's passing. On August 11, nineteen years to the day after my dad had passed away, the three of us got on a conference call with hospice. Very much the Lavigne Women way: getting s*** done. Hearing my mom's voice, a hundred percent clear-minded, orchestrating her last days, slayed me. As soon as A Day in Happyville was over, I hopped on a plane to Florida to help my sister usher my mom into her last few weeks. I sang "Les Feuilles Mortes" to her as she crossed over and in some ways, it felt like a birth as much as a death. When the two men wearing ill-fitting suits closed the doors of the white van that took her body away on a stretcher a couple of hours later, I ran after the car like a kid left alone in kindergarten for the first time. I came home numb and empty. The word "orphan" felt overly dramatic and age inappropriate and yet in my belly, it rang terribly true. 2019 began with a beautiful Retreat to the French Caribean, shortly followed by a tough blast to my romantic relationship. A mixture of betrayal and what I saw as dangerous craziness on the part of a reader created a canyon that would be hard to mend. A few weeks later, I found my then partner collapsed on the front steps of the house, gasping for air. His heart was damaged and the Spring was spent attending to it. When the doctors took him away on another stretcher towards the operating room, I could barely breathe. He healed well. We didn't. In the Fall, I ended the relationship and the weeks that followed were brutal. While I am not ready to share these details, I will say that they shook the foundation of my work, of my semi-public life. So much was affected by it, so much was being questioned. Including, I felt, my safety. With a mountain of support, I made it through another Retreat in Mexico in January. Some it felt like I was walking through fire. And at the same time, being held in a lot of love. Back to the States at the end of January, I tried to re-group. My younger son invited me to join him in one of his night ocean swims. Feeling the strength of having walked through the fire, I found myself dipping my body in ice-cold water and screaming at the stars. I definitely did not swim, but I went in and immersed myself almost fully, and anyone who knows me will know that the combination of pitch dark, ice-cold, and wet is not my favorite. But there was a hot fire waiting for me as I emerged, both anesthetized by the icy water and yet fully alive, feeling as though my inside were roaring. A couple of weeks later, I decided that I would go back to Mexico and gift myself 12 days of heartbreak-free Mexico. Twelve days for just me. Not having to take care of anyone, nor look over my shoulder. Somewhere that held no memories. Twelve days to meditate, heal, and pick up the pieces of a newly fragile relationship with my work and my readers. I would decide how I wanted to handle all of it going forward. Decide IF I wanted to go forward. My older son suggested a beach village he had loved during his 6-month stay on the other side of the border, and I booked a flight. On February 29th, I sat on the same bus I rode on this morning, making its way from the city through the jungle as the sky got darker and stormier. When the driver called the name of the village, I got out and followed a few surfers towards the center of town. It felt so good to be there, somewhere new, somewhere where I could be alone and still soak up all the Mexico goodness that my cells love so much. After a bit, I found my Airbnb, walked through the open door, emptied my backpack, took a shower, and let out a big breath. Twelve days. The first nine fully on my own and the last three with a girlfriend who would join me. I laid down my Morning Pages notebook next to my bed, knowing I would write in its pages every day. That's when my host showed up to introduce himself and make sure I had all I needed. He was very nice and before he left he let me know that there was a music festival happening just a few blocks away. "It only happens once a year and it is really good. You should check it out." It had been a long day of travel, it was pitch dark and I was not completely sure where I was. Also, I was here to meditate and write. Not to party. Of course, I went. The air was warm, the stars were twinkling above it all, fringed by palm trees, and it was hard to believe I had left a frigid Washington just hours before. There was music everywhere. And people. And food. And dogs. And kids. And somehow... love. It's hard to explain but it was easy to sense. I stood back and watched the musicians on the stage, the crowd, I felt it all, and I remember thinking that something was happening - and that I could decide whether I wanted it to or not. Something was melting. Two years of barely noticeable bracing, holding, of loss, of grieving. The sweet air, the sounds, the smells, the freedom, the anonymity somehow joined hands in inviting me to let go. I walked back to my Airbnb an hour later, knowing that I had accepted the invitation. Over the next few days, I fell in love. A couple of blocks from my home, there is a cacao shop. It is wide open to the street with a sweet tiny little garden in the back. A couple of tables, too. Lots of plants. When you decide to glide into the shop - I don't think your left brain is part of this decision - you get immediately enveloped by the smell. It reminds me of my bakery, but with an edge. Because roasting cacao has some little edges that bread-baking, in its full roundness, doesn't. Every time I walk in, I get a feeling similar to falling in love. Today, I asked the girl behind the counter if she could still smell it. "Just for the first ten minutes after I get here," she tells me. Yes, the bakery was like that, too. You can pleasure yourself (it's the direct translation of the French "se faire plaisir," and I know it's weird in English - but there is no other sentence for me to use in this case) with a cup of dark hot chocolate, or maybe a truffle or three, or something frozen, or maybe even a jar of cacao infused body cream. And while you wait, you can munch on freshly roasted cacao bean from the small basket on the counter. But for me, ever since I had my first sip a year ago, it's always the same: Agua de Cacao. Crispy cold, not very sweet, intensely chocolate-y with a whisper of cinnamon. A gritty sludge at the bottom that lets you know that this is the real deal. I bet that's what we drink in heaven. |
SCARED OF THE SACRED
HAPPINESS SCHOOL:
|