We limit ourselves in so many ways by the stories we tell about our own lives. The narratives we imagine for our futures due to pressures from society, family, loved ones, etc.
What if we imagined something different.
Created a new narrative—a new story.
A story where we’re not afraid of change. The pressures of what our family/society imagines is a good future. The myths of “happily ever after” “prince/princess charming” “The American Dream.” Let ourselves envision what a good life looks like.
That doesn’t necessarily mean a life on a Caribbean island, but could mean many little or big things. I recently heard a story of a chef friend who “followed his dream” to run a fast-paced, well-renowned restaurant. The pressures of chef-life which involved a high stress environment and days and nights away from his wife made him an unhappy alcoholic. What he really wanted, he confessed, was to work a nine to five job for the postal service and come home to his wife every night. Finally, after the stress became too much and alcohol took its toll, he left the restaurant and took a job with the postal service. He now happily works a nine to five, doesn’t drink, and goes home to his wife every night. From the outside, it looked like he was living his ideal life, but the reality was much different, and it took real bravery to make that change.
We too often look into other people’s windows for an idea of what happiness and fulfillment look like, rather than searching our own souls.
Throughout my northern life, when a rare south wind blew through our Michigan fields and forests I felt like I was the violin, and the wind was the bow. It pulled me up from wherever I was to stand with my face to that rare breath conjured from warmer waters, and deep somewhere around the bottom of my heart, I ached. It was like a siren song pulling every fiber of my being, but my head shook itself at the impracticality of such longing.
Why is it so improbable that I have both a northern and southern soul?
A limitation I set upon myself.
I met my ex husband when I was nineteen years old. We married when I was 24, and divorced when I was 28. I loved him. He’s a good man and will always be a good man. But my life with him was made up of expectations from society and my parents of what makes a good life.
I come from a family of teachers—a path I dutifully followed. I love teaching. It’s truly a fulfilling passion for me, but I never questioned whether it was the only way to be fulfilled and create change in the world.
My ex husband loved to hunt, fish, and wanted to live in a cabin in the woods. These are also things my father loves. I love and value them too. Those were things I never questioned, and I followed that path without a second thought.
I got degree after degree, taught, made a home for me and my husband.
Held dinner parties.
All the things I’d been taught made a good life.
I cried almost every day—a bottomless well made all the more deep because I couldn’t figure out why I was so sad. I had everything I should’ve wanted. It truly was a good life.
I was still unsatisfied.
When that south wind blew, my heart ached so hard it felt bruised.
It took a lot of fumbling. A lot of mistakes. A lot of struggle, hardship, and boatloads of pain to find my way to the place where south winds originate.
I don’t regret any of the fumbling; mistakes; struggle; hardship; pain. They were lessons that will make up my life-long arsenal.
We’re so afraid.
Afraid of change. Of what other people think. Of mistakes, struggle, hardship, and pain.
My life today still has pain, struggle, and hardship.
Daily I fumble, happily, towards what a good life looks like for me.
Now, if I cry, I know the origins of my tears. And that, is worth it all.
I first visited Isla Mujeres when I was fifteen years old.My Uncle Don Phelan—-one of the many “Uncles” I’ve been blessed to have in my life—-bought a small casa on the Caribbean side across from the Navy base. This little, one bedroom casita is home to so many memories with friends and loved ones.
My family returned many times over my teenage years, and as an adult I began to venture to the island on my own.
Something kept drawing me back.
When I was twenty-one years old, I wrote my Bachelor’s senior thesis project—-an essay about Isla. I’ll never forget my director, Peter Goodrich, looking over his glasses at me and saying, “You really like to write sensually about food, don’t you?” It was this rhetorical question that’s shaped the course of my writing, along with the diverse travel and life experiences I collected over the years.
But something kept pulling me back to Isla.
My Uncle passed away many years ago, and Casa Don Pancho was sold.
Eighteen years later, I finally succumbed to the “siren song” and find myself making a home and gloriously happy life here on this little island.
I often think what it would mean to Uncle Don, to know the beautiful chain of events he set in motion.
What follows is the essay I wrote so many years ago— a little love letter to this amazing place.
The Island herself is a siren, and the ocean carries her song across the mainland and the brackish water, through airport immigration lines where it tangles in my hair and whispers in my ear. Isla. It slides off my tongue like a sigh of longing and holds there, at the edge of my lips. Like a sailor under a spell I return to land, but memories hold fast, like barnacles to a ship’s hull. Isla Mujeres; Island of Women, lying like a jeweled necklace off the coast of Mexico. The gods prayed to on her beaches thousands of years ago still hold sway among the crucifixes and plastic Madonnas. Every visit draws me further under her spell. Memories collected and held—treasured like shells, I draw them out to look at and turn over in my mind. She speaks to her visitors, and those not insensible do not go away unchanged.
My mouth remembers seafood: squid, shrimp, fish, lobster, and conch, so recently immersed in salt water the salty quintessence of the sea lingers within each bite. Snapping fajitas hiss on a well-worn cast iron skillet; onion and pepper fiesta slides spicy against my tongue, watering my eyes. I savor each warm tortilla: delicate flour oval reminds me of hands. Brown hands shape every individual disk, place it crackling into the hot pan lined with oil. History’s labors evolved the tortilla—centuries of oral recipes, and each kernel of corn. Traditions passed down from one generation to the next. Special techniques whispered from grandmother’s wrinkled lips into daughter’s new leaf ear. I walk to the local market through the afternoon’s beaming heat, stumbling through produce aisles like a drunken wasp in an apple orchard. I stroke fresh mangos, melons, guavas, avocados, inhaling fertile, fruity air eyes closed. The pineapple I slice for breakfast arches yellow, sweet, and acidic across the roof of my mouth. I yield to the full flavor, juice running down my fingertips and across my palms. Lunch is La Lomita’s, a block and a half from my uncle’s casa. I ease sun-burned thighs onto the red plastic chair labeled Sol in crafted yellow letters like the sunshiny beer quenching my thirst. The television hums in soft Spanish syllables as the soap opera winds down and around. A stray dog pants in the sun beneath a car across the street, and I consider sharing my left-overs out of pity. The food is cooked in a kitchen though the blue doorway to my left, and I observe family members cooking, trailing laughter. I squeeze a glistening lime across the food on my plate, brushing tangy, stinging juice across sun-chapped lips.
Isla by night is a gemmed ribbon strung along Mexico’s eastern shore. Lights appear to float atop water like a rising Atlantis as the ferry’s wake pushes us to shore. In the daylight, the houses perch in rows along narrow, terra-cotta-colored cobbled streets: an engaging mixture of approachable doorways and barred windows testify to the combination of peace and unrest. Thatched roofs whisper palm frond songs down streets into open evening air. Buildings display a liberal sprinkling of quilted cat bodies drooping over banisters and chairs in the heat. Shy doe-eyed Madonnas peak out of doorways into streets flowing with an eclectic mixture of tourists adorning golf carts dressed down to lycra and bare skin. Sharp-eyed business women with tight buns and bright suits defy the heat, their deportment starched and crisp. Grandfathers carry aloft giggling, round-cheeked children, followed closely by scolding mothers. Vivid red taxis with saint’s favors dangling from rearview mirrors creep blaringly along tight, labyrinthine streets. There is such a sense of isolation for me here. I know I do not belong in the pulling high rise hotel that advertises happy hour with the tolling of a bell every half an hour, as the tourists flounder in from the surf like strange, white, sea creatures. The open doorways are closed to me because my tongue cannot sigh words in a sunny language carried across the ocean from Spain. I attempt to span the gap with a smile. And I do manage to speak, once and a while, in the universal language of gladness.
I pass the pier where fishing boats carry locals and tourists alike across the tossing blue, flinging their luck to gods of ocean and line. The fishermen return wind tossed, flashing their silver bounty for posed pictures. After the photo shoot, locals dissemble each fish behind the scenes, tossing the carcasses back into the ocean—a return of sorts. The malodor of decaying saltwater creature hangs in the air and mingles with salt. Drifting down the lane, feet and steps gingerly avoiding refuse soiling the sun- baked roadway, I idly catalogue the emanations wafting around me. Within two steps, I’m brought up short and coughing by a gust of fumes from a tourist-laden golf cart speeding past where I stand. The trailing vapor moves upward, above stuccoed blocks of houses, and seems to hang for a moment as a pall over the sun. The next breath clears the tang of pollution, replacing it with instantaneous thoughts of my stomach. The open doorway I pass hums with soft murmuring voices and clattering cooking utensils. I inhale the afternoon meal preparation’s warm aura amongst the harmony a family creates when they move around one another in a patterned kitchen dance. With reluctant feet I pass by inviting incenses spilling into the street from doorways standing so provocatively open.
Some days, early in the morning, as the sun breaks its yellow yolk over the edge of the ocean, the soft thump of booted feet on crushed pavement can be heard over the rooster’s morning call. I peer cautiously over the window ledge and observe green khaki- clad boys who would be men, marching two abreast along the path outside my window. The uniformed clunk of feet and a soft clank of ammunition belt against gun recedes as the patrol moves on down the line. They are gone, but the sound remains with me for some time. Before boots comes the rooster. His raucous call breaks through the silence of blue-edged early morning, shrill and disharmonious. The gurgling cackle, so often associated with the country, finds itself at home here. Later in the day I sometimes see him, and his naked-necked-hen strutting territorially among the coral, hunting for lizards. Listening closely, I discern a soft, content clucking as though the warm climate and bounty of lizards are all this feathered couple needs. In the rose and blue tinted evening I sip a salty rimmed margarita, enjoying ebbs and flows of people and voices. The large man with laughing guitar approaches my table. He perches precariously on his chair, picks up his instrument, and begins to play. I’m carried away by the richness of words strung with music that his fingers pluck delicately from the combination of wood and wire. His voice singles out sounds and tosses them to the audience until we’re dancing in the street. Tourists and locals alike lose themselves to the simple sounds of voice and guitar. Music swells like a rising tide, my skirt swirls into a halo around my ankles, and I laugh from a happiness so pure it needs no language.
Since I was young, I drew culinary inspiration from myriad sources–many of them random. I loved to read menus in hotel phone books when I traveled, marveling over descriptions of foods I could envision from the photos and short explanations. I read cookbooks like some read romance novels, paying less attention to amounts than combinations of ingredients, flavors, tastes. I’m no good at physics or chemistry, but the alchemy of flavor fascinates me.
The internet has given me such an array of resources that I’m somewhat overwhelmed and find myself going back to hard copy cookbooks for inspiration.
Instagram has provided a wealth of photographic ideas, along with descriptions of ingredient lists that are wonderful guides.
So much of cooking is about experimentation and improvisation. Listening to your senses.
When I read ingredient lists, it teaches me what flavors other chefs are putting together, what might work, and ways I might take both traditional and original flavor pairings and make them my own.
Environment can also be a huge inspiration for cooking. When I’m in Michigan in summer, I have lots of fresh fruit and garden vegetables to inspire meals. Michigan winters make me improvise with available produce–carrots, beets, potatoes, cabbage, rutabagas–that my father keeps in his cold storage. In California, I came across tiny veggies in the grocery store that delighted me. I’d never seen anything like them, and they prompted a delicious white bean and sautéed squash soup. On Isla, I have fresh seafood to glory in. Look around and see what’s local, and fresh–let those ingredients be your guide.
This post’s purpose is to inspire. My travels between Michigan, Isla, and California have afforded culinary experiences I wouldn’t have believed possible a year ago.
If you’re inspired to cook and experiment, or have questions, please share in the comment section. I love to talk food. ❤️
I’ve watched the flamboyant poinciana trees burst from orange-blossomed brilliance laced in green leaves, to brown-limbed skeletons, to green-seed-pod-strung, like giant beans, and delight in the new knowing.
At the same time, I miss picking blueberries on a cricket-themed evening when the reindeer moss crunches and imprints my bended knee. Standing in a woods so quiet, when a pine warbler calls, it’s like the voice of the forest itself.
Here, on Isla, the sun is hot against the back of my neck, sweat drips. Perspective competes with every picked-blueberry-remembrance.
Moped rides weave poems in my head–make me eloquent. Thoughts, lines, and lyrics a winding narrative that disappears when I put pen to paper.
What to say about this life, this island of Islenos, Mexicans, expats, tourists–boozed, coked, sexed, sunned up one side and down the other?
Expats balanced between here and there.
Indoctrinated ideas of “normal” and “Ok” dogging us here amongst the flowing tequila and a life more complicated than those looking in from the outside can know.
There’s a surreal element to living on Isla–living on a tropical island in the Caribbean, sun-baked by close-to-equator rays.
A hazy, heat-dazed reality disrupted by hurricane waves, tight budgets, and news of the mainland.
Heat creates a tranquility and slowness I craved in Michigan’s cold weather, but now learn to both celebrate and tolerate. I never napped before coming here, but heat and humidity often make me feel like I’m wading through too-thick air, and my natural energy is tempered, slowed. Day sleep comes easier, and I now understand the siesta.
I turn to day to day activities for grounding. Each morning is a list: walk Bea, shake dog hair off sheets, sweep dog hair and sand, make bed, tidy, do dishes, etc. I’ve always found simple satisfaction in daily chores.
Then it’s off to any number of activities related to my writing work and/or island-living: white sand beach time spent melting beneath palm trees and swimming in ocean so warm the temperature doesn’t change between air and water; snorkeling along reefs undulating with silver-bodied barracuda, rainbow-scaled parrot fish, and sergeant majors dress-scaled in official black and yellow stripes; a bike cruise around the south end to drink a cold Dos XX and lose ourselves in impossible blue Caribbean waters.
As struggles with money, the past, and the recent death of a friend creep in, making both waking and sleeping a 24 hour hamster wheel of anxious thoughts, I remind myself to look around and appreciate the every-night-perfect-in-its-unique-way sunsets; my sweet home life with Ryan and dogs; the turquoise waters others spend thousands of dollars and hours of time to visit for just a week.
At this time last year, I was plucking the last tomatoes before frost; buying, hauling, stacking firewood; making arrangements for snow-removal; fighting a deep and stubborn battle with loneliness in my backwoods, solitary cabin life; and preparing for my December trip to Mexico that was only supposed to last two months.
The contrast between these two lives is many things at different moments.
Part of me cannot imagine selling the cabin, despite the Remax sign in the driveway.
I’ve memorized the topography. Mapped the acre lawn and all its stones, stumps, and wild strawberry patches. I know where the old road and rock wall undulate, disappear, and reappear, in the thick, swampy woods. I know where the lady slippers appear in spring.
Where the otters have their den; where the deer cross; and which side of the woods the Barred Owl calls “Whoo coooks for youu?” Night after night.
In spring, I became accustomed to falling asleep to the woodcock’s lonely cheeping, soon joined by a cacophony of spring peepers. Changing seasons quickly replaced the peeping choir with a cricket orchestra carried along by coyote howls.
I like walking Bea at night here on Isla, because our sidewalk is adjacent to a salty Salina swamp where frogs make night sounds and sleepy herons croak.
Sometimes I’m lucky, and for just a moment the streets are empty of mopeds, taxis, golf carts, and it’s just me, my panting dog, and night noises.
Mosquitoes, like in Michigan, swarm at sundown.
I’m fascinated by comparisons between Northern mosquitoes and those found on the island. Michigan’s seem enormous in comparison, attacking in clouds even in daytime, but slow and easy to swat with a tell-tale whine that gives them away.
Isla’s mosquitos not only potentially carry tropical illnesses, but are tiny, silent, and fast moving.
Bug spray is an important accessory, in both homes.
It seems to be, that in the comparisons, I find a sense of self. Day by day.
The death of my dear friend Kay, who’s memoirs I’ve been writing for the past two months, has made me especially contemplative.
She lived on the island for the last twelve years, moving here from her Texas home because:
“I can be myself here. Nobody gives a damn how I act, what I wear, what I say.”
One of the things that made me want to move to Isla is the island’s sense of community, especially a community of gutsy women. I’ve had the honor of knowing many strong, amazing individual women in my 32 years living in Upper Michigan, but Isla Mujeres–Island of Women–has gathered a community of women to her bosom that I’m blessed to be a part of and ponder often with delight and wonder. I’m not unrealistic about the day to day dramas that play out amongst our group, but I’m constantly awed by these women who made their way to Isla’s shores.
Women who, like me, washed up from all sorts of pasts and pull it together to live here, which isn’t easy.
Women like Kay.
She died suddenly on September 13th of a heart attack, but her life and story changed me forever.
Today, for the first time since her death, I picked up her writings again. I read through a Christmas letter she wrote in 2002, and wept for the loss of this strong, sassy, wonderful woman who ended her letter with: “My wish for 2003 is peace–on earth, in our nation in our families, and homes.”
Walking through the door of my childhood home is a comfort after living in a foreign country for three months straight. Isla isn’t all foreign territory because of a dozen or so past trips, but the fact remains I’m living thousands of miles from home with a rudimentary, but growing knowledge of Spanish.
Sitting on the dock, toes in the warm, shallow waters of Big Manistique Lake, I look at tan lines from my sandals–my body claimed and tattooed by the Mexico sun.
Sun breaks across lake water, a scattering of diamonds. It’s such a different sun than the one I’ve been both enjoying, and dealing with in Mexico. As Ryan says, “The sun in Mexico in the summer makes you feel like a bug beneath a magnifying glass.”
But the Michigan summer sun feels so… Good.
A difference of seasons. In winter the Michigan sun is a lingering wish on a frozen horizon, little to no heat trickling through. In contrast to the Mexico winter sun, which thaws frozen northern bones.
The feel of warm lake water is so familiar.
Three months isn’t that long. But for someone who’s never lived more than two hours from home, it feels long.
The place I chose is so different from this one.
Two bass hover beneath the boat on its lift. Broken clam shells from ducks feeding litter the sandy bottom. One of the biggest leeches I’ve ever seen undulates past like an underwater magic carpet.
I’ve always noticed these small movements in the world around me, but being away makes me notice them in a different light. My senses are heightened. Aromas drift heavy in the air.
All the blooming: lilacs, end-of-spring apple blossoms, spicy-sweet lupin.
The aromas in Mexico are a fast-paced scent-slide-show. Fried chicken overlapped by a tortilleria redolent of popcorn. Moments later overtaken by exhaust, or sewer, or a hot salty breeze overlaid with rotting fish. Aromas in Mexico are heavy, hanging in hot air. Aromas in Upper Michigan are sharper, more pronounced.
It’s so good to be quiet.
But it’s not silent. There’s a cacophony of bird sound, and that’s nice too. A kingfisher, crows, all sorts of warblers.
I was telling my parent’s yesterday, something I thought as we came out of the clouds over Michigan, and I could see an expanse of green and water: ponds and lakes and streams and rivers and swamps, and in the distance the big expanse of Lake Superior. All that fresh water.
I cried. And I laughed. And it came to me that, to be an expat is to always have a little bit of a broken heart, because no matter where you are–here or there–some part of you, and your loves, are someplace else. That’s both such a beautiful thing, and so hard.
Perspective and juxtapositions lick my temples–the edges of my ears.
Jungles and mangroves.
Maple woods and spruce swamps.
Salty ocean aquamarine.
Icy cold, deep Superior blue.
Spicy ceviche, taco, tostada, tequila burn.
Green vegetable, fresh berry tang and burst.
Mexico, a love in my life for the past twelve years.
A siren song from the south calling me home.
Michigan’s familiar paths, rivers, lakes, fields, and seasons I know as well as the freckle constellations mapped across my body’s universe.
There’s a familiarity to the heat, laughter, living-closer-to-the-edge-attitude here that echoes deep beneath my breast bone.
An anchor with elastic chains that flex as I board the plane going north.
I’ve shaken with anxiety, awoken from nightmares screaming, pounded stone walls with fragile fists, frustration gasps choking me.
It’s time for strength.
I stretch my fingers. Stare down at the tattoos, ink and meaning imbedded in my ring and middle fingers.
Remembrances of how easy it is to lose yourself. How love can become a slowly tightening noose.
He was always sorry, later.
Every day fading, a living ghost, shrouded in layers of self-hatred, sadness, confusion, fear, exhaustion, anxiety. Always trying to get back to that place when things were good. Until days went by looking in a mirror reflecting, nothing.
I’m one of the lucky ones–a woman who remembered. A woman who pulled apart the veils and shrouds and found her voice again.
Found it living alone.
100 year old, one-room cabin.
40 acres in rural Upper Michigan’s wilderness.
¼ mile Laughing Whitefish River tangling itself through the property.
Found myself in warm summer nights standing barefoot in cricket-symphony darkness watching fireflies wink and float like tiny lanterns.
Found myself in lazy afternoons alone on the river watching iridescent damselflies dance above eddying currents.
Found myself in back-breaking wood hauling and stacking. Hauling and stacking. Hauling and stacking.
Found myself in nights so cold the split log walls popped and shifted and if I didn’t feed the stove every four hours I’d awake shivering, breath hanging in smoky puffs.
Found myself walking wooded paths, Bea-pup by my side–each mossy rock, knobby tree-trunk, and curled leaf edge familiar. Known.
Found myself in long nights half-slept, a loaded gun at my feet, a knife at my head. Stretched between the two stone pillars of fear and determination.
Found myself in a solo July trip to my beloved Isla isle, when the familiar voice of past and future called out together and my answer was laughter and a one-way ticket to Mexico.
I’m learning to feel like an island girl.
32 years an Upper Michigan woods-walker, stream-jumper, cold-water swimmer.
Now, I ride to drop off laundry at the lavandaria, laundry in my backpack.
The bike’s left brake, typical Isla-style, doesn’t work. I’ve learned to approach speed bumps–topes–with a mixture of caution and daring-do. Pulling up on the handlebars just in time, jerking the bike up and over.
My hair’s tangled, growing more blonde by the day, textured as only salty wind can twist.
My apartment with my boyfriend has become home.
I enter the alley mouth across from the Yamaha store, which is my guide-point when giving directions. The short road is unpaved, bumpy, and dusty. My feet kick up little clouds in the south breeze.
I pass Carnitas, meaty aromas waft my way, along with the sound of pounding cleavers chopping pork to be served in tortas and tacos.
I pass the mechanics, piles of half-taken-apart cars, welding torches’ snap and hiss accenting the steamy afternoon.
I pass the barking poodle and sweet puppy Toby with his crippled back legs and slinky walk. He can’t walk well, but rolls about on his hips like a wobbly-dog doll as he plays with my puppy, Bea.
I walk through the archway and across the loose gravel that catches bike and moped tires, and into the door where my handsome man and two tail-waggers wait–eager for my return.
I’m creating another family in Mexico–far away from other families, in their various incarnations, I’ve left behind.
There’s a hesitancy in my home-making. A limbo between spaces that’s familiar, freeing, exciting, frightening, and uncomfortable.
Part of me craves the excitement of disconnectedness.
Part of me craves the stability of a home space.
The buoyancy of vacation-life on the island has been supplanted by the realities of moving to a foreign country with a 100 year old rental house in Michigan: frozen pipes, exploded hot water heater, wasp invasion, bill pay, lost debit card, need for employment/work visa, and an overwhelming sense of the unknown in my future that’s both terrifying and exhilarating.
I walk the dogs down the alley, across the street, and into the baseball field for their morning constitution.
OG, the yellow lab, runs ahead, 120 lbs. straining against the leash. Bea’s 45 lbs. pulls on my other arm, making for an interesting balance of yank and pull.
I watch as they frolic across the baseball field’s dirt and grass expanse. Bea runs for a coconut, pouncing on it and running off with it clenched precariously in her front teeth.
A year ago I watched her pull sticks out of a Michigan river and run with them across the enormous lawn I push-mowed myself all summer.
Lessons, in what a year can bring.
On the island, American tourists pour off ferries and packed catamarans in all stages of drunken and sober; dressed and undressed; flip-flopped, sunburned, white and tan; sunglassed; saronged; thonged, jeaned, wet bottomed.
I feel territorial over this place I’ve only recently come to call home.
I welcome their business, happy to take dollars or pesos to keep my life here afloat, while also resenting their often obnoxious and disrespectful presence–similar to how I felt in the tourist town in Michigan I grew up and worked in as a teenager.
I went from a cabin in Deerton, Michigan–population 352, to the congested five mile long island, Isla Mujeres, population 12,700 give or take the couple thousand tourists that come and go on a daily basis.
Taxis, mopeds, motorbikes, and trucks roar and swerve down clamorous streets.
Hours could go by before a car or SUV would go down my Deerton road.
I stand in warm, turquoise surf at Playa Norte and spin a 360. White sand sifts around my feet as I turn– a circle, an orbit, a cycle like the sun that raises sweat along my hairline like morning dew on my Michigan yard’s wild strawberry plants.
Everywhere I look is an ever shifting undulation of humanity. Nowhere without a person or people.
Eyes, faces, mouths, stories, bodies exist and sigh and breathe.
I need somewhere quiet to rest and listen for the soft soft voice that is Rachel.
I tilt my head, a curious seabird, listening, as if to a shell.
Leeks are just beginning to break through last fall’s packed-down-brown leaves back in Michigan. Green tongues, licking spring air.
On Isla, the guaya tree outside my apartment inexplicably (as far as I was concerned) began dropping its leaves as though it were fall. Nancy, the fastidious landlady who’s apartment is across the courtyard, sweeps leaves off gravel industriously as a kitchen floor.
“Ryan? Is that tree dying?” I asked my boyfriend sleepily from our king size bed.
“No,” he laughed, simultaneously pulling me closer and patting OG’s large sleeping-polar-bear form. “It drops its leaves and then makes fruit.”
Ryan’s lived on the island five years and has a knowledge and understanding of Isla’s workings that I’m just beginning to understand.
“Oh,” I exclaimed with an edge of the same child-wonder as when I learned about the habits of beaver from my father, or the monarch butterfly life cycle from my mother.
This tree behaves much differently than the trees I’m used to–trees I observed through the Upper Peninsula of Michigan’s changing seasons for 32 years.
As days go by and Michigan tiptoes into spring, the guaya tree, which I first thought would quickly become nothing but a towering, leafless monolith stretches, what looked to me like late fall-bare-branches into a cloudless Caribbean blue sky.
Instead, almost as fast as its leaves dropped, little green leaflets began to grow in their place. Just like in Michigan.
“Tiny as a mouse’s ear.” As my mamma always says.
They grow rapidly, the tree never completely losing its green.
It’s like watching a tree go from summer/fall, directly to spring in a time-lapse parody.
Now, it’s growing little bunches that burst into tiny yellow flowers I know will soon become fruit.
After a little research, I learned that this is the same fruit I called a “kinnip,” when I traveled with friends and family to the Bahamas in middle school. My sister and our sister-friends ate the tart fruits until our lips puckered, fingers and faces sticky-sweet.
Now here’s this familiar/unfamiliar fruit in my front yard. Day by day, like the apples in my orchard back home, I watch the little fruits grow.
I asked people on Facebook and Instagram how they combat homesickness. The responses were varied–many humorous, some as simple as “cry it out,” but all kind and thought-provoking. The ones that stuck with me the most were those who advised me to immerse myself fully in the place I’m currently calling home.
This advice resonated with me because I’ve felt a bit ghostly of late–as though I’m lingering in limbo between two homes. Two worlds.
I crave the north world’s silence like a deep-seeded hunger, and look through social media pictures like a starving person sniffing restaurant aromas.
See Me. The Caribbean whispers as its north-wind-whipped-waves froth deep blue and aquamarine.
I’ve longed for this place for so long. Ached for it in February as I hauled and stacked wood. Awoke cold and shivering at 4 am to feed the wood stove. Shoveled snow only to watch as, like Sysiphus’ rock, it piled back in only a few hours. Higher. Deeper.
I lose track of the time of year without seasons to guide me. Caribbean blues reach out and pull me into salty water that licks behind my ears, making me hum happy. This kind of joy is hard-won and hard-earned with an icing of privilege that, in this place where so many live on so little, humbles me.
Sitting on the ferry, returning to the island from a day running errands in Cancun, the island shimmers on the horizon.
“Home,” I whisper under my breath. Tasting the word.
“What sweetie?” Ryan says, turning his sunglassed face to me so I see my reflection.
“Home,” I say again, the word like salt on skin, sand grit, tequila burn, beer buzz green bottle tang, saline seafood bites, and mango, orange-sweet as sunset.
I’m reading Tom Robbins again. The last time I was in Mexico, in July, I was reading Skinny Legs and All. This trip, it’s Jitterbug Perfume. Tom Robbins’ writing makes me laugh and uncovers societal layers like turning book pages. It awakens me to connections I wouldn’t have entertained.
As does living in Mexico.
I stood on my balcony this morning, hungover, watching the world go by. The La Gloria, Isla Mujeres’ “local” neighborhood, world.
As a writer, white woman, United States citizen, post-colonial theorist, English professor, mentor, attempted expat, and whatever other random amalgamations I lay claim to, I’m hyper-aware of my writing perspective.
Who am I to write about Isla Mujeres, Mexico? Write about a place I’ve known since I was fifteen as a visitor and now experienced for two months as a “local.” It’s a balance of awareness–knowing my place. This issue is compounded by our current political situation and the tenuous relationship between a Trump-governed U.S. and Mexico.
I am of this place, and not of this place—a fact I’m daily reminded of.
It’s a noisy world: each delivery vehicle—bicycle, moped, massive diesel truck—has it’s own honk, catchy song, or call. My cabin in Michigan is so far in the woods that other human sounds are few and far between: snowmobile whine, gunshot, car exhaust.
I lean against the round silver railing, mindlessly spooning Yucatan honey and yogurt into my mouth.
The honey is dark, heady. Almost, but not quite, too sweet.
Children are highly valued here, raised in a community environment that’s dying out in the U.S.
Here, they’re held, scolded, played with by parents, extended family and everyone along the way. In contrast, from my balcony, I observe the family across the street and down the block. They live in a second story apartment with a door that opens onto a blue tarp, which serves as awning for the first story. The only walkway is a thin ledge running along the wall with the awning and a full story drop to the pavement mere inches away. The family has at least three toddlers. I watch them press tiny, fragile bodies against the screen door opening onto borderline nothingness, and hold my breath.
Many moments to test the limits of my “societal norms.”
Sometimes, lists become poems.
Fixing up my new, Mexico, apartment—hands and knees scrubbing
floor tiles, because I couldn’t find the mop.
Sweeping and washing Santiago’s hair and cigarette ashes from the room while the cat,
Maga, frolics, on sheetless bed.
A cat, and a room. In Mexico.
Chedraui for supplies—two- for- one toothbrushes, bleach, garbage bags.
Sunday. Poker night at Paco’s.
Faces around a table. Soon-to-be-but-not-yet, familiar.
I made pickled vegetables: radishes, jalapenos, carrots, purple cabbage.
Oscar’s pizza take-out and round-robin laughter.
Poker lessons and accents: American, Mexican, British, Canadian.
If the locals call it a midget rodeo, is it politically incorrect to call it that as well?
(I’m deeply uncomfortable even writing this.)
The crowd laughed in bursts, echoed in rain sheets halfway through the show.
We took refuge in tilt-a-whirl cups.
When the rain stopped, workers turned on the ride for us.
I laughed and screamed—release, joy, delight, in a shadowed, fluorescent-lit, whirling world.
Acid-trip caricature, orchestra-master carnival man surfed the moving track between cups. He danced and balanced on their undulating whirl—a magician surfer risking life and limb to hop back and forth onto track and back again, spinning our cups faster and faster.
The story goes: a few days later, the carnival’s last night, the audience, filled with drunk locals, heckled the cowboy until, out of frustration, he picked up a rock and hurled it into the unruly crowd. At this assault, they became unhinged, rushing the barrier to attack the lone cowboy. When the motley crew of “midgets,” cowboys, clowns, and assorted other entertainers saw their fellow attacked, they rushed into the ring. The brawl that ensued, I conjured in my imagination more than once.
It would’ve been something to see.
Days disappear on Isla.
I almost never cook anymore.
I went from the closest grocery store being twenty minutes down the road, to tantalizing flavors of all kinds available at a moment’s notice almost any hour of day or night.
A moped ride around the island is an aroma multi-course meal. I learn to seek out places by their scents, memorizing them like patterns—a language I’m slowly understanding like the Spanish I practice daily.
Sometimes I’m shy, hesitant, unsure of my pronunciation and, for that second, afraid to make a mistake in front of the local whose place here, juxtaposed against my own, is layered in nuanced history.
History played out in our languages, skin, my ability to live affordably in their home country because my home country’s political policies created unstable financial conditions our government is currently turning around and blaming the Mexican people for.
I eavesdrop on conversations: Locals to learn the language and tourists as windows into different societies and cultures.
Especially American culture. My culture. As I write from my perch on the Soggy Peso dock an insurance-company-vacation-party rages behind me.
I miss many aspects of home, but I’m confronted with situations and conversations via American tourists that give me a lot of pause.
“Shane” sidles up to my boyfriend, Ryan, and me where we sit, feet dangling above turquoise water like carefree tourists ourselves. His peers-in-age, purt, pretty, full of questions and booze, join us—squealing over the dog, the water, the dock—voices at tequila-pitch.
These alcohol and money driven young people are the future of the U.S.
Some part of me feels I’m abandoning a sinking ship as the Trump ascendency becomes reality. I’m becoming more aware of my role as an American in a country heavily influenced by American policy as Mexicans riot over gas in Cancun grocery stores and the music festival I almost attended ended with five dead in a club shooting between local cartels and police.
Salt’s drying on my skin. The sun feels delicious. The insurance company party has moved on.
Palms sigh and shiver. Cancun’s tourist chaos, Mexico’s politics, American politics— feel another world away. Caribbean illusions against, a conch-pink sunset.
The woods and cabin will be quiet—so quiet—after Isla Mujeres’ beehive hum. Winds sweeping in from the north tease a northern girl grown accustomed to Mexico heat. I wear a sweatshirt on many nights that would have been balmy bathing-suit-bottomed on a Michigan summer evening.
There’s no preparing for reentry. It just has to happen.
Long hot days in Mexico to a dose of reality and logistical juggling in Michigan I’m not ready for.
Anxiety that slowly slipped out like an evening tide during two months learning new ways in a new place has come roaring back like a rogue wave.
I read stories in The Sun Magazine about people on their last few dollars pulling themselves from the edge; stories of women rising from the ashes of bonfires their men tried to make of them; stories of struggle so much deeper than my own I take guilty consolation in knowing not only am I not alone but that, today, at least I’m not dealing with that.
Living in limbo between countries. Things, in
Closets, boxes, bags. Opening
Empty cupboards and drawers.
A stack of bills
100 year old house
Propane tank needs filling.
There’s a party in Mexico where friends and tourists sing along to a band and a song I know by heart but I’m tending a woodstove and cold-chapped lips.
Pondering money, and life, and decisions, and struggle, and how the hell to pull myself out of this.
Existing in contrasts. Perspective. Hindsight.
Like a driver in thick fog I forge ahead, swirling clouds of unknown parting before my searching eyes.
We peer into the lives of others, offering judgments and advice. Believing we know better—best. Yet our own lives are nothing but reactions to fear, change, and perspective—just like those we judge.
Awareness of our own stories of struggle in comparison to others’ leads to empathy desperately needed in a global, but disconnected world. For many, that level of awareness is too painful—too difficult and unstable, causing them to wall themselves in with fears, phobias, excuses, dogmas, and self-built walls to “protect” against unknowns. Unknowns are scary to humans, and always have been.
Fear of the unknown created our mythologies and religions, explaining how the world worked so it was no longer an unknown entity, and therefore something to be feared: Zeus is making lightning again, Pele is erupting, Poseidon created the tidal wave.
Fear of the unknown keeps us with partners who make us unhappy, in miserable jobs, uncomfortable living situations, etc. because at least these are known entities. Even if they make us miserable, it seems safer here than leaving it behind and stepping forward, into the unknown.
We laud those that do, in television, books, and media. Robert Frost’s “ The Road not Taken,” timelessly popular and borderline overused, rings true on the page but rarely in real life.
Too often, those who do step off the beaten path and into the unknown become pariahs to friends, family, and community because they come to represent both the existence and potential excitement of that unknown—but also the elements missing in their own lives. Memories of roads not taken. Regrets. Choices left to swirl away in the eddies and currents of life’s relentless river.
Staring into the Laughing Whitefish’s chuckling flow, I’m reminded of these things.
Thoughts of Mexico taste like milk chocolate, salt, hibiscus melting across my tongue.
My current life is one of limbo, contrasts, and many, many unknowns.
I write facing the south window. Snow’s piled deep. The lilac bushes, so luxurious with scent-saturated purple blooms in June, dance skeletal branches in a 20 degree breeze.
Two weeks ago I was in Mexico.
In two weeks I’ll be back.
In the meantime, I’m home in my 100 year old log cabin on 40 acres, trying to find a job, find my cat a home, get my dog to Mexico, sort out my bills, bank, phone, car, etc. and deal with a past that continues to ache and scratch and scare.
The power’s out. A flair of fear and anxiety I quiet with common-sense reassurances, then sigh over, wondering if those feelings will ever go away.
Alone. Echoes across the empty-but-for-trees-and-animals-miles surrounding my cabin. Equal parts joy and burden.
I’m not going to cry.
Because if I begin, I’ll turn into the storm that howled in from the south last night. For hours it lashed the house with bursts of out-of-season rain and gusts of wind.
Lying in bed, I felt each gust as it broke on the square log house like a storm-driven wave against stone.
I felt the impact in my back, propped against the wall. No sheet rock or insulation. Just me and wood and wind.
Sweet Simon cat has no idea he goes to a new home tomorrow. It breaks me apart. We’ve been together for 10 years and through more than most cat-and -their-humans go through. It makes me want to curl around his little soft sleepy body and fall asleep for a day or two.
Instead, I look to another list item—keep moving forward.
No time to break down.
Upheaval, change, confusion, perspective, flux, excitement, hope, strength.
Lack of sleep, too many vices-to-cope, aching muscles, compromised immune system, stress-induced breakouts, weight-gain/weight-loss…
Driven on by ecstatic swims in cenotes, need for change, and a heart-song too loud to ignore.
Isla Mujeres tests the limits of my writing and communication. Days pile up behind me. It hardly seems possible I’ve been here over a month.
Attempts to write about events coloring my days is like shading left-handed in an intricate coloring book with blunt-tipped neon markers.
It’s a taste of life I’ve always wanted. The woman I’ve always wanted to be.
Sometimes, I feel my younger self beside me, watching with fierce joy and
approval. She comes in many ages—representations of my former selves.
Insecurity, fear, anxiousness, hope, written on her face for a day in the
future she knows is coming: when she’ll fit fully into body, skin, and
heart. Know who she is. Know her purpose, worth, and hold her head—High.
A year ago, at almost this time, I wanted to disappear I was so anxious,
hopeless, and afraid.
I arrived on Isla Mujeres–a place I’ve visited since I was fifteen–just over two weeks ago. Every day I feel my confidence, strength, and experience grow. Sometimes it’s through positive experiences like learning how to navigate the taxi system with my meager Spanish.
Sometimes, it’s trial and error as I turn down the wrong street, run out of local money in the grocery store, or confront the blood splatter on our white front steps from the street brawl a couple weeks ago.
Whatever the lesson, I’m moving forward little by little. An evolution process—building myself in layers, like a Russian nesting doll.
Mariachi rock chased with beer buckets of perspective and hindsight for Christmas Eve.
Random thoughts trickle, like sand against my restless toes.
Scape of palm fronds contrasts soughing wind through northern
Wash of waves, tourist laughter, base beat thump juxtaposed in my
Memory to the quiet winter peace next to Michigan’s Laughing Whitefish River.
The new tattoos on my left hand wink black on white freckled skin.
Reminders of pain—fingernails in skin. Bleeding half moons etched into the new year. When everything changed.
Christmas Eve. A year ago. Thirteen hours to Mississippi. Headlights, dark blur. Hands clenched on door handle. Gas stations like mirages, flashing
by. Sanctuary, lost.
His knuckles stood out like bones on the steering wheel. Clenched.
His words a noose, drawing breath from lungs, leaving me limp. A
deflated, quivering flesh balloon. The spine I climbed into the car with
dissolved in self-hatred, and tears.
A year. One revolution of the earth around the sun. Choices. Change. Worn
as thin as an old white t-shirt. A ghost.
Here. I’m flesh, blood, skin and liquid pleasure. Otter rolls in ocean water and laughter curled tight in my tummy. A smile I’ve never seen on my lips. All those other Rachel’s, peering into the afternoon sun. Inhaling, deep breath. Planting my feet.
My kitchen in Michigan is comparably limited in amenities to my kitchen in Mexico. My pantry is better stocked in Michigan, and I have gas to cook on, as opposed to a rusty electric hot plate.
When invited to a potluck, I was given a moment of pause. It was really–Mexico-hot, my counter is the size of the cutting board, and I was craving vegetables.
Living in the middle of nowhere has taught me inventiveness and creativity. Living in Mexico is teaching me these things, in different ways. Teaching me my own lessons on the importance of multiple perspectives.
The grocery store, less than a block from my apartment as opposed to the half hour drive from my Michigan home, has interesting offers. I avoid the meat department and find that it has about half of what I usually need, but I also revel in sampling different cheeses I’ve never heard of and dodging laughing children zooming unattended down aisles as I shop.
The grocery shopping experience is both familiar and new in Mexico. It’s an interesting balance—attempting to appear as though I know what I’m doing without speaking much Spanish while also ogling the unfamiliar items on offer.
For the potluck I decide to combine flavors and fresh local produce with a familiar recipe I crafted in my Michigan home.
Quick pickles are one of my favorite recipes because they pair well with almost any meal, they’re healthy, beautiful, seasonal, and simple.
I walked the short block down to the SuperExpress and found purple cabbage, jalapeños, radishes, and carrots in the produce department. There was a time, when I first began visited Mexico, I was afraid of raw vegetables because I was scared of getting ill. After living here this long, I’ve realized what will and will not make me ill and vegetables are fine. Even washed in tap water.
Walking to the grocery store, picking out produce, coming back to my own kitchen and chopping, mixing, tasting, make me feel like a local. Make me feel like I’m home.
Home here. Home there.
Isla Quick Pickle
• 5 large carrots julliened/cut into thin slices
• ¼ slices purple cabbage
• 7 thinly sliced radishes
• 1 or two sliced jalapenos
• Two cups white vinegar
• One teaspoon black peppercorns
• 6+ tablespoons salt
• 5 sliced garlic cloves
Mix all ingredients with ¾ cup water (or enough to cover) and let sit for
at least two hours before serving. Taste as you create the brine and add
more water/vinegar/salt accordingly.
The driveway, tree-tunneled, winds it’s 450 feet toward the house. I always slow down, to take it in: my log house, gnarled old apple trees, and glimpse of laughing river. Anxiety, sadness, worry, disappear for a brief moment as the reality of this place, my sanctuary, slips over me like warm, strong arms around my shoulders.
Upon unlocking the door and entering the house, I’m greeted by a frantically joyful Bea. It’s hard to tear myself away from her sweet moans of joy and wriggling happiness. She has a hilarious and meltingly-endearing habit of putting her head onto the ground or couch, as though she were about do a handstand (pawstand?) or somersault, and wagging her tail wildly, she emits vocals that express her delight clear as words. It’s a wonderful welcome home, especially living alone.
When we’ve completed our greetings, I move on to the next undertaking: getting the fire going. If it’s gone out completely, I have to rebuild it from scratch. The “Wonderwood” is unattractive, as it looks like a furnace, but it’s fairly efficient. Some days, the ashes need emptying, which is a precarious and potentially dustily disastrous task entailing tiptoeing through the house, out the door and across the yard, to pour the ashes into the fire pit. The over-loaded tray is always just a sneeze away from an ash cloud descending on all the furniture, but I’ve found just the right ratio of cautious tiptoeing to forward movement—so far so good.
Once the fire’s going, I change out of my “town shoes” and into rubber boots. I slide out of my nice jacket and into my grub coat—taking one aspect off and replacing with another.
Before I can relax, wood needs to be brought in. It’s dark outside, raining on a slushy inch of this morning’s snow, and the temperature’s dropping.
“There’s no warmth like a wood stove, dear, heart-friend Dorothy always says.
I linger around the stove like a cat, loading in wood until the house is like a sauna. Taking off clothes. Opening windows. Reading, grading, writing, basking naked on cool sheets, the fire’s warmth evaporating layers of heartache and chilling cold until my skin glows.
After I load the cart with chunks of wet, heavy wood, I trundle back to the house. Load arms, open door, through the house, stack wood by wood stove, repeat. The wood is heavy, but something in me relishes the work. It satisfies a primal urge—I am doing what humans have always done: wood to fire. Working to generate warmth.
Once the wood’s been brought in, I return coat to hook and take off black rubber boots. I’ve tracked in dirt and wood detritus, so I sweep the entryway, bathroom, and living space. It never ceases to surprise me how long it takes to sweep such a small space.
It takes a little while to be fully present. I putter, doing small chores and checking the fire.
A drawback of this life, is that it’s often difficult to relax. There’s always so much to do that moments spent in activities that aren’t “productive” can cause anxiety. Even writing and reading feel like luxuries these days, and I mostly take them up at night, when household chores can be put off until tomorrow.
It’s the life I’ve chosen; a life I love: a life I’ve always known.
This is it. The first.
my jump- leap -journey
Here, is where I start. Layered in all the firsts and beginnings that came before. What will come after.
The flight. All the other flights that came before.
Remove belts, jackets, shoes.
To release, lift buckle.
Stress, lack of sleep, worry
clouded takeoff. Now, breaking through atmosphere, into sun.
Can it be?
Am I doing this?
Did I make this happen?
My window shade is open. Wheels coming down. Landing.
Life here’s come on so quickly it’s hard to sit down and document it all. I lounge on my second story balcony, watching the local world of Isla Mujeres pass below. It’s a plane ride and a world away from my cabin and woodpile.
It’s a strange feeling—my white, American self, watching from above as local Mexicans go about their day to day. I try to immerse myself, but the language barrier remains frustrating. However, I’ve learned that making an effort and a smile go a long way.
As it gets closer to Christmas, music and parties ramp up. There’s always music bumping somewhere, and it creates a layered, thumping cacophony of sound that fades into the background as you get used to it.
My week has been a blur of meeting new friends, poker night, delicious tacos, walking, hot sun, beach, ocean, writing, cleaning my room, staying out until four, and laughing until my stomach hurts.
I look at the photos of me a week ago: exhausted, worried, anxious, and running low on the kind of buoyancy that generally sustains me.
Travel. That old cure for the apathy and lack of perspective that accumulate like dust and dull your awareness of the greater world around you.
“Travel makes you modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world.” Gustave Flaubert
This trip has also reminded me of strength pockets within myself I’d forgotten about. Reminded me I know how to be a confident woman of the world, not just a confident woman of the woods. It’s reminded me what it’s like to be the only American at a table in a room full of new friends. I’m humbled daily by some lack of cultural knowledge. I appreciate the humbling, because it reminds me how gloriously different other cultures experience the world.
Being here fuels a distinctive kind of life within me than I experience at home. It reminds me to be aware, thankful, and brave.
“The use of traveling is to regulate imagination with reality, and instead of thinking of how things may be, see them as they are,”
There are many days living in this old cabin where I question what the hell I’m doing with my life. Am I really capable of living in/sustaining a structure this high maintenance? Do I have what it takes—financially and otherwise?
Days like today, when, in the middle of my second load of laundry, the water stopped working. My finances are stretched to the max, dishes aren’t done, and after a late-long-night all I wanted was a hot shower.
I’ve lived without water before: when my ex-husband was renovating the bathroom himself I alternated between showering in the utility sink if it was available, standing in a rubber made and pouring hot water over myself when it was not, and if it was a nice day, utilizing the forest-facing back porch for my ablutions. My tent-dwelling days acclimated me to catching a wash where I could: lakes, streams, waterfalls, etc.
My current situation feels different. It’s up to me to figure out how to fix this and I feel woefully inadequate. Days spent scratching my head in good moments and near tears in bad leave me wondering why we don’t teach more practical, day-to-day things in schools. The U.S. educational system is woefully inadequate anyway (don’t get me started on modern education and the “teach-to-the-test” system that’s pumping out millions of uneducated students unable to think critically), but why don’t we teach skills people use regularly?:
Finances, basic auto mechanics, cooking, basic electricity, plumbing, carpentry, etc.
These are skills that most everyone needs a rudimentary understanding of at some point in their lives.
I need one now. I flipped the switches on the fuse box, tried to get the water pump going manually, called neighbors, solicited advice but I’ve run out of fixes to try on my own. I have to wait for help, which is grating.
The experience has led me to reflect and empathize with former inhabitants of my home who lived without running water. Children were raised here, families utilizing both river and old-fashioned stone well to obtain this necessary day-to-day resource. Hauling water up from the river makes me appreciate the simplicity of a small silver handle turning and almost-instantaneous clean, hot water at my fingertips.
It’s been the warmest early-November that I can remember. I debate washing-up in the bathtub and opt for a chillier but more adventurous frolic in the river.
Just as the sun’s rays dip below the tree-line I make my way down to the river, naked but for towel and rubber boots.
With a shiver, I drop the towel and wade into the pushing current. Leaves still clinging to reaching tree limbs flicker yellow, filtering evening light into golden shadows.
I’m tired, frustrated, and anxious about how much the water-fix will cost.
Dipping my hands into the cold water is unpleasant at first, but after a few curses, exclamations, and inarticulate noises of exasperation, I begin to enjoy my splashings, pondering how lucky I am: the water pump died on a warm evening; my neighbors can provide me with clean drinking water; I have a community offering advice, support, and fixes; I live on a stunning river that provides for all but my drinking water needs; I have electricity, propane, firewood, and food to eat—not to mention Wi-Fi. By so many people’s standards, this is living in luxury.
I’m also discovering new strength reserves. Several times I wanted to sit my vexed ass down on the wood floor and give myself up to the hot tears threatening to slide down my cheeks. However, I’ve done that before and it only delayed fixing the problem, so I sniff once or twice and square my shoulders.
You chose this life whispers through my mind in my father’s voice. Sell the house and move closer to town. Make things easier on yourself. Blinking away the tears, I reach for the five-gallon bucket and head for the river so I can at least flush the toilet.
Hell, at least I have an indoor toilet that flushes.
The water is ice-cream-headache cold as I dunk my hair into the current, turning fine strands from blond to red, swirling like seaweed.
My whimpers turn to yips of exhilaration. Unable to help myself, I laugh out loud.
If the water hadn’t gone out, I wouldn’t have had this moment in the river. And there it is—the shift in mood—the choice to spin my situation and find joy beneath the hardship.
It won’t always be this easy. The sun slips lower. I step from the river, grateful. So exhilarated from icy water’s tumble I no longer feel cold, just a matching rush of blood in my veins a broken water pump enabled.