There is a cost for being attuned to one's environment.
Today was similar to my recent days in Mexico. I arose early to share a pot of tea with the creatures that visit me in the early morning. The hummingbird who pays no attention to me. The two fledgling doves who are increasing my future as a guano lord. The Inca dove and her nestling who cower at my approach and are certain I am going to eat both of them in a chili pie. And the black vultures who gracefully fly arcs around the communication tower before flying off on an offal venture.
Along with the supporting cast of dragonflies, bees, wasps, and other critters who treat my swimming pool as an oasis in the Serengeti. And, of course, the occasional snake. This morning they were joined by a bat Dora had conjured up from the utility alcove. Same cycle, slightly altered.
There is something comforting in their regularity. But, even in their predictability, a slight variation will occur. Instead of flying to her usual spot on top of one of the pavilions, mother Inca dove this morning flew to the palm tree where the larger doves are roosting -- causing all forms of commotion.
It was a morning to catch up on my reading and writing -- something I did last night, as well. My only other task was delivering my soiled clothes to the laundress. Another cycle with its variations.
Our temperatures are much cooler at night, and they have started edging down during the day. Even though our evenings still waffle between the low 80s and high 70s, my neighbors have broken out their sweaters and light jackets. The rhythms continue, but they change.
I walked to the beach this evening, primarily to watch the sun set, but also to practice my seldom-improving Spanish with the handful of neighbors I encounter along the way. And, even though the sun sets every night into the same ocean, it too is always different.
I suspect the core of my experiences today were what I found so calming and exciting about living here. Everything is predictable, and nothing can be predicted.
For some reason, I was humming the same song this morning when I got out of bed as I was humming as the sun was setting into the Pacific. Stephen Sondheim's "The Advantages of Floating in the Middle of the Sea" from Pacific Overtures.
The advantages go on and on
In the middle of the sea
As the centuries have come, they've gone
In the middle of the sea
Days arise to be replaced
Lines are drawn and lines erased
Life and death are but verses in a poem
Out there blood flows
Who knows?
And I think I know why this most Asian of Sondheim's works came to mind today. It is possible to complain here about barking dogs and crowing roosters and exploding sky rockets and masks unworn and politics and just about anything else that pops into heads and out mouths. It is possible because it happens. A lot.
And for each obsessive complaint, a change of the rhythm of a familiar flower or a child humming a tune or the gathering of the grackles is missed. And that missed rhythm may have been just what the complaining heart needed to find a small bit of contentment in life.
It's the fragment, not the day
It's the pebble, not the stream
It's the ripple, not the sea
That is happening
Not the building but the beam
Not the garden but the stone
Only cups of tea
And history
And someone in a tree
Those of us who live here know a secret.
Mexico is patient. She will continue to offer those moments in the hopes that we can all eventually feel peace at the center.
As we float along the edge of the sea.
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