Watching volcanoes erupting in the distance will never feel normal. And that's good. I've gotten so good at adjusting to everything (by necessity) that sometimes I feel like everything is just... normal. And it's nice to have the things that decisively feel abnormal. And seeing that plume of smoke above Fuego as I take my morning poo is still very abnormal.
I'm starting this post from the dining room area of the Yoga Forest. A small jar of fading flowers rests on the rough wooden coffee table in front of me. The night guard shoulders heavy blue bottles of filtered water and pours them into the clay eco filters (we don't mess around with water here. It gets filtered about six times before we drink it). The night guard's son sweeps the path between the kitchen and the Shakti Shala, and I feel a twinge of guilt settle into my gut.
I understand that different countries have different views regarding child labor... but it still kills me to see eight year old kids working.
That's Guatemala, though. And Mexico. Parents force children to beg on the streets and to peddle their wares. I frequently see boys, panting under loads twice their size, bravely marching up the hill outside San Marcos. Nearly every time I buy my coffee in Del Lago, a young girl approaches me with banana bread and cookies.
These are the times white privilege hits me in the face like a freaking two by four. When I was a kid, I spent my days playing, studying, and doing a few chores around the house. I got my first job when I was fourteen, but it was because I wanted to start saving for my own personal dreams. Not because my family needed money to put food on the table.
What would my life be like if I'd spent my childhood selling knickknacks to tourists on the streets? If I'd had to worry where my next meal would come from or where I would sleep?
I don't think I'd feel the kind of freedom I do right now. It's only because I've never had to worry about food that I trust food will happen when I need it. It's only because I've never had to worry about being homeless that money isn't a big deal to me. I can quit jobs with hardly a second thought, because I just believe another job will present itself when it's time to work again.
Because that's been my experience.
Worry takes up a lot of space. And creates some pretty strong attachments to stability.
But trust creates space. And allows me to live a life less attached to possession, identities, all that stuff.
I'm so fucking grateful that my experience has created a worldview that allows me this freedom. This trust. Holy bananas.
A slight breeze rustles through the trumpet flowers, the giant jungle leaves, the bit of hair that's fallen out of my ponytail. My skin tingles and goosebumps and I feel vibrantly alive.
The only thing that would make me feel MORE alive right now is a cup of steaming coffee. Mmm... yes.
Yogis gracefully glide across the stone floor, decked out in their colorful Lululemon pants and hippie sweaters. Braids, tattoos, flowers, and the occasional feather augment their outfits. They sidle up to the hot water and tea dispensers, holding their nalgenes underneath expectantly.
I don't understand this. The morning shift doesn't start until seven, so there's almost never tea or hot water in the dispensers. But it doesn't keep the dedicated yogis from checking every single morning. And being disappointed every single morning.
The ride from San Cristobal to Panajachel took a backside destroying, spine wrecking thirteen hours. I sat next to an American fellow named Alex, and we chatted about travel, politics, and how tired we are of discussing gun control (Alex has lived in Texas for a few years...). I eventually put my earbuds in and tuned out to a podcast, and Alex turned to Tom, an elderly American who'd been living in San Cristobal de Las Casas for quite a few years.
"I can't live in the States anymore," Tom's voice infiltrated my episode of Radiolab. "Everyone there is so correct! I can't say anything anymore without someone getting offended. I remember, listen to this, I remember saying to a coworker that something we were doing felt like slavery. And before you know it, I was talking to HR. 'He was offended,' they said. 'Well, I'm offended that he was offended!' I said. Just because he was black. Hell, people can't have a conversation these days. Nobody knows how to talk! But here in Mexico, I can talk and nobody minds."
Clearly he hasn't been keeping up with the things Donald Trump gets away with saying.
We arrived in Panajachel at about seven pm, and I decided to spend the night at a cheap hostel in Pana, rather than take the forty-five minute boat to San Marcos and then walk up the mountain to the Yoga Forest alone in the dark. Because I am slowly, surely, becoming a reasonable human being. So Tom, Alex, and I moseyed down Santander and found a bar where we relaxed with a couple of drinks. Like reasonable human beings do.
I boarded the boat for San Marcos at around seven thirty the next morning, pleasantly surprised with how anxious I was to get back. To get back home.
"Is that an ukulele or a violin?" the bearded hippie sitting next to me gestured to Teal Cecile.
"An ukulele. A waterproof ukulele. But only because it's cheap and plastic."
"Gotcha. Why are you going to San Marcos?"
"I'm teaching yoga up at the Forest. Been there for about a month, but took a quick trip up to Mexico with a friend. The bus ride yesterday back to Guatemala killed me."
"Here," the hippie offered me a wire ring. "Roll this over each finger a couple of times. It hits all the acupressure points. And it's infused with self-love."
"Oh. Okay," I took the ring and began moving it over my fingers, valiantly struggling against the impulse to roll my eyes.
Yup. Back in San Marcos.
"And if you want one of your own, I'm selling them for 40 Quetzales each," bearded hippie smiled beatifically.
Yup. Back in San Marcos.
I walked up the mountain towards the Yoga Forest, relishing the happy spring in my step.
I'm excited for the outdoor shower. I'm excited for the view from the toilet. I'm excited to see Bre (like the cheese), Nele, Kayla, Ana, Blake...
Holy bananas. "home" feels good.
After many hugs, a quick breakfast, and a glorious shower, I headed back down to Circles Cafe and did a bit of blogging with my cappuccino.
Jonas is keen on creating communication and camaraderie between local staff and volunteers, so we've started doing a couple hours of language exchange on Wednesdays.
And while I love languages, I am comprehensively incompetent at learning them. And speaking them. I spend a few moments thinking about what gender the word is, whether or not it's plural or singular, whether or not the adjective goes before or after the noun, and just when I'm ready to spout a sentence, I realize that half of what I want to say is in French.
WHY. Do I suck at languages SO HARD?
Eventually, I stopped beating myself up for my horrible Spanish, deciding it would be much more productive to just eat cookies.
Which is probably why I'm horrible at Spanish, I thought as I contentedly munched delicious baked goods listened to Michael fumble along in Spanish with a very patient Petrona.
Although I'm happy to be back at The Forest, I'm also a little overwhelmed. We're still full to bursting with hosting the two teacher trainings simultaneously. And while all the trainees are lovely people, they can be a bit absentminded.
Are these really adults practicing a life of mindfulness?
 |
| Someone moved the "please dry your dishes" sign so that they could put their dishes there. This is incomprehensible to me. |
I get a bit irritated, but mostly just let myself feel amused. I find that it's generally a healthier option. So I chuckle, dry their dishes, put in my headphones and break out my paints.
I think that all I need is a sense of humor and my paints to carry me through life.
And bacon. Oh, and cheese. And wine. Never mind. Fuck that. I need a lot to carry me through life.
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