It is a wonderfully cool morning and the day’s plans just got fully upended.

Today was to be Marly-at-the-vet day, which means Marley on an empty stomach day - which she decided was not a good way to start her day. She chose instead to somehow get out of the yard and help herself to whatever breakfast delight she might find in a neighbor’s pile.

My big city list is still on the wooden table and I know there is no other option but to pirouette. I call the vet, I rearrange things in my mind, feel the familiar blend of frustration and trust that something better was in store all along, and I breathe. I watch the dogs who are so good at pirouetting, physically and mentally. We don’t go here? Let’s go there! It may be really fun there! And I forgot where we were going in the first place! Let’s go!
I try. My human mind is so much stiffer.

And then I remember words I read yesterday in an article about living in Mexico. The article was provocatively called Letting go of US-style efficiency .

"Living here requires patience and flexibility. It can be hard to adapt to this way of life when you are accustomed to always rushing to the next big thing. Meanwhile you miss so many little things.” - Kerry Watson

Patience and Flexibility. The author’s words resonate with me. These are two of the main tools. Such good ones, too. And they require ongoing practice, which Mama Mexico is always happy to provide.

Yesterday was rich in opportunities.

Let me tell you about it:

The sun is barely awake and while my Market Spice tea is brewing, I notice a message from one of my neighbors letting me know that I will need to move my electric cable which has been living above his roof for the last year.

There is a whole chapter to write about my relationship with the electricity and one day I will do just that. For now, it is enough to know that at 7 am I am told that this big scary-to-me cable needs to find a new home, preferably way up in the air and that it needs to happen quickly - as in this week.

How? How the heck do I do this? Who will help me? How much will it cost? Is it even possible? My calm morning mind has been hijacked and I can feel the tightness moving in. I don’t like it. Deep down I know it will be okay and not so deep down, I give in to the stress. Once my tea is ready I sit with it, holding the hot clay mug in my hands and remembering my own two pillars, learned over the last four years of living here:

1. No one cares about my timeline. Not people, not the universe, no one.
2. It always works out.
   
   

These two pillars create a powerful dance together, they ask a lot of us, and they give so very much. They have never failed me and even as I squirm, they hold me like a wise parent holding a toddler overcome by a tantrum.

It always works out.

I have a big day ahead with many pieces, and I look forward to it. One more sip of tea. It always works out. I get dressed, take the girls on a short walk in the country, and before I leave, I notice Marley passionately chewing on something which I know I did not give her. I lean down to look and not recognizing it, I take it from her. As I hold the dainty bone in my hand, my mind and stomach join together in brewing in me a mix of repulsion and horror: the bone has fur on it. I immediately want to know and also I want to never know. I can feel my brain having all kinds of comments about this little bone and I want to hear none of them.

It is not yet 9 am. I add the bone to my small bag of garbage, get on my quad and ride to town, shook up in a visceral way.

The day is full and by the time we are watching the sun set over the ocean hours later, I am once again rich of another day spent in a place I love, a place that asks for a lot and gives even more.

A quick stop at the local OXXO for a white chocolate ice cream bar makes me smile as I notice the clock above the cashier assuredly announcing that it is 4:15 pm. It is dark out. A round piece of plastic ticking away while reminding us not to get too attached to this whole time concept. See pillar #1.

I am ready to go home and slip into bed.

Onto the dusty road, through the jungle and on our way to the house, I find out that nope, not so fast.

Ahead of the car, in the clearing where my house and now several more houses have sprouted over the last couple of years, I see fire. More exactly I see fires. Several of them, bright orange. It has not rained for months. Is the field on fire? Is my house ok? Lila had stayed home, is she ok? There is much smoke ahead of the car and between my worry and the smoke, I turn too early and instead of arriving on the small road to my home I am now smack into the river bed. The very sandy river bed.

I swear in French, which always helps, I put the car in reverse, the wheels spin, I get deeper into the sand, there is so much smoke, is my house burning, is Lila ok?

It took forever to get out, meaning probably less than a minute, and when I finally arrived home, the house and the banana tress were standing, Lila was happy and I learned that all the fires were intentional, some sort of weed control and that “it is always good to burn when it’s dry and before the rain comes.” I ask my mind to please leave this one alone.

So yes, Patience, Flexbilty - and Trust.

Marley will go to the vet next week, I am sure there will be many things to discover until then, new ways to let go, to create, to dance with this life that asks for so much, and gives so much.

I left my neighbors’ home-on-wheels last night, full of warmth and peace. Swiss mushrooms and chocolate, too. I went to bed looking forward to some time in the gym in the morning, following a generous offer to “show me the ropes.”

All creatures slept soundly and we woke up to the sound of roosters, announcing the day, calling the sun.

The sky was dark when I fed everyone breakfast, and as pretty much all mornings down here, I drank in a full helping of serenity and gratitude. It’s hard to have this much big nature around each day and not tap into an awareness of both how magnificent it all is, we all are, and also how tiny.

I remembered the gym plan, the painting waiting for me in my studio, the beach walk we would have later on.

And then, I read the news and the thought of stepping outside my garden seemed impossible.

I have read the news before, but today I wasn’t ready for it. I had very little padding, very little armor and it made its way in. Names, places, terror, unknown, too well known. I still don’t have many words that will work, so I won’t try.

I canceled the gym. I allowed the heaviness to move in all the way because this morning, I did not want space from it. I walked to the garden hose, turned on its red faucet, and I gave the plants a big gulp of the water that won’t fall from the sky for several more weeks. I let the leak in the hose drip onto my pink furry slippers and soak them a little. Then I went to the big plastic crate that holds my garden tools, picked up leather gloves that have seen better days, some shears, and I started pruning the palm leaves. One at a time, making light, making room, giving the bougainvilleas space from the fronds and giving the hibiscus space from the bougainvilleas. Stepping back, sloshing a little in my slippers, moving closer again.

There were no thoughts, just the heavy and the heavy seemed glad to have a place to go. Together, we pruned. We created a big pile of leaves and some of the bright flowers went into amber-colored bottles. No thoughts.

Just the heavy, the shears and me.

While painting last week, I listened to a class by Fer Broca, a friend had recommended. Fer does a great job of making complex topics simpler - something I love - and he does so about big subjects. On that day, I was steeped in his explanation of the Tao, particularly three points he had chosen to explore.

As my brush did its thing, swirling colors in just the right spots, I let myself get absorbed by his teaching. When he got to the third point of the lesson, something inside of me perked up its ears.

Yin Yang.

Holding a small piece of art representing the well-known symbol, Fer found a way to melt something inside of me, a border of sorts. The process felt gentle yet profound, as though I had reserved a little spot for this teaching a long time ago, and it had chosen that day to move into it.

I like to talk and write about Contrasts quite a bit. Since I moved to Mexico a few years ago, I have had plenty of opportunities to do so. For some reason, I am wired in a way that this works for me, even if it sometimes hits me hard. The sweet and the bitter, the dreamy and the harsh, the easy and the seemingly impossible, the sunset and the trash.
To me, they are two sides of life, dualities to be experienced and danced with.

Fer doesn’t see it this way.

In his clear Spanish, he explains that instead of duality, these represent unity, things that live together, not separately.

I paint, I listen, I pause. I rewind, and I listen again. Something in me nods its head, and a pleasurable softening takes place.

I think back to a few weeks ago.

I just had breakfast, and I am making my way down a sweet jungle path toward the beach, rich from having spent the last 18 hours with good friends eating, walking into the ocean, talking, and listening to live music in a nearby town. It is time to go home. My eyes and heart are full of so much beauty, nature, and friendship. Right before I reach the beach, I encounter a small hotel with a turquoise swimming pool and a palapa roof. It feels gently luxurious and it feeds that part of me. Then my feet are on the sand, the morning is crisp and full of promises, and I take in a big eye, soul, and lung breath full of gratitude.

Walking into the small village where I parked my car the night before, I decide to spend 10 pesos on a quick bathroom stop before getting on the road home.

With my sheets of toilet paper in hand, I wait. There is another woman waiting also.

Then I hear from one of the two stalls: ¿ Me pueden ayudar, por favor? Can you help me? Suddenly, the door swings open, revealing an older woman sitting on the toilet, seemingly unable to get up.

She is heavy, her panties are on the cement floor around her ankles, and she is asking for help standing up.

The other woman and I both gently loop an arm around each of her shoulders, and to the count of unos, dos, tres, we lift her up. Oddly, and possibly because we are in Mexico, the whole thing is joyful, as though all three of us are in a play or making some sort of prank.
Once up, she closes the door, and I resume waiting for my turn, now filled with something new: sisterhood. Three women in a small, almost makeshift bathroom, taking care of each other at a very basic level.

Then the door opens once more, the woman walks out, and now asks for water. The toilet is not flushing, and she is flustered. It is not uncommon for public toilets to be set up so as to not flush. In that case, there is usually a large container of water outside the door with a small bucket. You fill the bucket with water and then dump it down the bowl. The first time, it’s a little weird, and then it makes plenty of sense. Of course, you usually spot the container of water before walking in and you take the bucket of water with you.

Not today.

The woman seems overwhelmed, and I tell her that I’ll take care of it. I’ll get the bucket and “flush.” She thanks me and walks out.

Turns out that there is no container of water waiting outside.

And now, I really need to pee.

The other stall is occupied, so I walk back into “the one,” and boy oh boy let’s just say it wasn’t a great post-breakfast sight. The kind of sight that immediately turns my stomach upside down (just writing about it now makes me queasy). I just don’t do this well, and that morning, I couldn’t do it at all.

So I walked away, found my car, and drove home. On the drive, I thought about how, within five minutes, I had gone from a feeling of awe and deep freshness to being part of one of the most basic experiences of humanness. As I drove, still having to pee, I thought: Contrasts. Here they are again, right in my face. Pinche Mexico.

But now, listening to Fer Broca and remembering that morning, I live it differently.

What if this wasn’t about the pristine vs the distasteful? About morning sunshine vs stained cement? About turquoise swimming pools vs poop?

What if this was just Life? What if instead of Contrasts, it was about integration?
As Fer proposed: what if this wasn’t about duality and instead about unity?

I am processing, and I am pondering. I am always grateful for teachers who make us pay attention and invite us to peel the corners of places we thought we knew for sure.

***

PS: The unveiling of the Wall of Hearts was richer than I had imagined, and because it was so good, I am ready to have it make babies all over the world. I present you with Wallofhearts.org.