I have been in love with Mexico for longer than I know and certainly since way before I finally, finally drove my Subaru full of kids across the border for just an afternoon almost twenty years ago. Why? I have a couple of theories. One is that Mexico feels a bit like a blend of France and Italy. It’s an ok theory. But the big one, the one that lights me up the most and the one I likely will never be able to prove is that it is very possible that I was conceived in Mexico. I love this possibility. My parents got married at the end of January, I was born at the end of December and there are many photos of them in Acapulco on their honeymoon, one of my mom driving a baby blue VW Bug and another one of her with a bunch of parrots on her arm. If they waited just a little bit after the wedding to get on the plane and if they hung out over here for a few weeks… voila! Their fiesta might have sealed my fate. No matter what or where, I love Mexico in a way that I have not loved any other country. I was born in France and then entered into an arranged marriage with the United States. It was not a bad marriage but I always knew that there was another love for me. When I met Mexico, I recognized it with my heart, it opened its arms to me, and we quickly became part-time lovers. It took more than a decade to make it official, and here we are today, living in a little house at the foot of the jungle and feeling very right. My son commented to me last week that I now have a slight Spanish accent when I speak English (which I have never spoken without an accent anyway) and even though my French still flows fluidly, I am making peace with the fact that I speak everything with bits of everything else. This is not just about speaking but also about being. I am … nothing. Not fully French, never truly American and I know that I will never be Mexican. There can be a bit of grief to this, a bit of rootlessness, if I let it. Some days I do and most days I don’t. But on all days, I know that my best ally, the one that will keep me well as I navigate the mixed waves is … Humility. Humility means understanding that instead of being here to teach, I am here to learn. And then to learn some more. My ways are not better and even if they were, it would not matter. I am here to learn and the curriculum is vast. Humility means remembering that no matter what official papers say and no matter how long I buy my groceries here, I am a guest. Being a guest is a gift, an honor. It is something to cherish and to care for. And it is something that can be revoked, if not officially, implicitly. I try to metaphorically not put my feet on the table, and I accept my place as really, not just a guest, but also an uninvited one. This is a big distinction. I did not receive an invitation based on how much people knew they would enjoy having me here. Instead, I showed up. So yes, I am an uninvited guest. Which is kind of cool because it means I get to try to make sure (most) people are glad I came. Again, humility. Even - or especially - in the midst of contribution. I yield the way on the sidewalk when there is only room for one person to pass, I accept that my mere presence may feel weird to people sometimes, too. I connect heart to heart as much as I can and I am deeply, deeply moved by the love that often comes my way, the frequent non-spoken “we’ve decided that you’re okay” smiles. It’s a dance, maybe something akin to marrying into a family from another culture. Some days I trip or step on my own toes, but then I hear the music and I get back up. This week is Dia de Muertos which is my favorite holiday, a profoundly beautiful tradition. For the next few days, people will honor their dead with a joyful celebration, inviting them to visit on the night of November 1st. Altars with bright orange flowers, food, and a sense of love and gratitude are in the air. As much as I cherish Christmas with my family, I have never met a celebration that fed me so much. I am so glad to get to live here and I am so very very happy to learn every day the sweet lessons that live at the crossroads of humility, contribution, and joy. Some days, we manage to go to the beach twice. Once in the morning before it gets too hot and once in the evening after it’s done being too hot.
Each walk has a different energy. In the morning, the beach is waking up from a night of calm or maybe a night of storm. You can feel it, and sometimes you can even see it as nature has re-arranged the terrain overnight, reminding us to not get too self-important, or attached. The air feels like an invitation, a promise, a blank page. There are just a few people and they are waking up, meditating, walking, fishing, or surfing. There is the crisp energy of exercising the body, while dogs are running to greet the day, too. If I had to give it a color, I would say it feels turquoise. In the evening, there are more people. More kids too. Some people are in the water, some are swimming, and many are sitting down for this everyday miracle: the sunset. Over here, we ask: “Are you going to sunset tonight?” as if we were asking about going to church on Sunday. In some ways, it’s similar. When the sun goes down, it is applauded and thanked. Applauded for doing what it does, which I think is pretty darn inspiring. The sun never tries to rain, to turn blue, or to talk. It does its thing of rising and setting. And we humans gather to applaud it. I like to think about this. There is also something sacred about finishing the day together, whether we know each other or not. If had to give the evening beach walks a color, it would be a rich purple. Some conversations pretty much always happen on these beach walks. Some are mild and sweet, short. Some are occasionally surprising. The morning talks are usually done standing up while the evening ones often happen sitting down, looking at the sun and the darkening ocean. These conversations tend to be deeper. It’s a ritual and it’s a ritual that feeds the mind, the soul, and the heart. A bit like going to a yoga class, I never return from a beach walk wishing I had stayed home instead. A few days ago, I had forgotten to bring water for Marley and Lila. I figured they would be fine till we got home. But Marley, with the street smarts that she earned the hard way as a puppy, walked straight to a man who was sitting on his blanket looking at the ocean and somehow asked for some water. Within seconds, she was drinking out of a bowl right by him. He looked towards me, smiled, and gave me a thumbs up. As Marley trotted back to me - likely wondering what Lila was waiting for - I put my hand over my heart and thanked him. LOVEliness. It’s not all roses and hibiscus. I just heard of a dog being attacked, right by the shore. Occasionally someone drowns in the big waves, and well… the river that empties into the ocean - the same river that gurgles by my home - is not all that clean. They too, are true. These pieces, I would color a dark velvety maroon. Contrasts. Always contrasts. Contrasts that keep us alert, and contrasts that soften our absolutes when they try to decorate our narratives. Very few “always,” very few “never.” The turquoise claims its right to exist just as the purple and the maroon do. As do the bright yellow and the ochre. And the fuschia. All these colors exist within us and all these colors exist within our days, our weeks. Trying to blend them creates a sad brown, a bunch of Thursdays all strung together. Much prettier to truly feel and be with each one. So yes, morning beach walk and evening beach walk. Bright, dark, joyous, introspective, tragic, tempestuous and blissful. A buffet of Essences for us to feast on and be part of. To celebrate and to applaud. For being exactly who they are. I’m learning. grind culture
grind culture I did you proud I did not complain while I served you for four decades faithful unquestioning I made you look fun inspired generous easy middle of the night gorgonzola sandwiches so many of them with their cute checkered papers seven months pregnant working from my car or the bathroom or at dawn and being grateful for the flexibility to exhaust myself on my own schedule it was a long marriage my most faithful relationship but the divorce came paperless fight free quietly I did not plan it I just left you I didn’t even have an address to give and now when you come visit in the middle of a mid day nap or a beach walk the second one of the day or a rush less painting I recognize you and I let you talk for a little bit you feel familiar and familiar can pretend to be comforting but no this divorce is final irreconciliable differences not even a fling I close my eyes and sink into the glorious ineffectiveness of right now |
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October 2024
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I write because this is the way I am able to taste life more deeply. |