Category Archives: Adventures in Mexico

On The Move….

Posted on by
1

Sundays Are Not For The Blues

Here, where I sit on the deck of our friends’ home in Todos Santos, beauty surrounds me like a warm velvety blanket. The soft, ocean air wraps around me like a gentle embrace; there is no where I need be, nothing I need do but be, here, now.

High above, white wisps of clouds, like angels’ wings, streak across the vast blue expanse. In the distance, the surf pounds against the shore, a rolling rumble beckoning me to come watch the sunset. The scent of salt air mingles with the sweet fragrance of the garden in full bloom. I stay here. For now. Sunset is an hour away.

Bird song fills the air with the cooing of doves and the rhythmic hammering of a woodpecker. In the distance, a rooster crows. But how can that be? It’s late afternoon.

Dr. Google has the answer. Yes. They can crow any time of the day, or night.

This morning, standing in line waiting to enter the best coffee shop in town, I chatted with a man whose dog was hit by a car yesterday. “The driver couldn’t avoid him,” he told me…

To read more click HERE.

____________________________________________

On The Move.

Dearest Dare Boldly readers, my heart is calling me to a new space, a quieter corner of the internet where we can connect more deeply. I’m moving my writing to Substack!

For years, I’ve wrestled with the very act of writing. Is it hubris to believe my words matter? Yet, if not to be read, why write at all? This move is about releasing those doubts, about embracing the simple joy of sharing stories and reflections that stir my soul.

Substack feels like coming home. Imagine a cozy room filled with sunlight, the scent of fresh coffee, and the gentle hum of conversation. That’s the feeling I hope to create in my new online home. It’s a place to escape the noise, to find inspiration, and to remember the beauty that surrounds us and our capacity to create joy, harmony, hope and Love in the world around us.

Substack is simple and inviting, like a handwritten note passed between friends. It allows me to share my writing freely, with no barriers between us. (Though, if you’d like to support my work and receive occasional gifts, there’s an option for that too – but truly, your presence is the greatest gift of all.)

Come, gather with me. Let’s share stories, explore dreams, and celebrate the everyday miracles that make life so extraordinary. I can’t wait to welcome you!

__________________

To read the completed Sundays Are Not For The Blues – click HERE.

The Tropic of Contrasts

Posted on by
3

Nature’s beauty abounds here along the Tropic of Cancer. Lush, colorful, and dense green foliage is punctuated with splashes of vibrant reds, yellows, oranges, and pinks. High above our heads, palm trees rustle and sway in the gentle breeze that floats in from the ocean. Beside them, Bougainvillea climb like Jack’s Beanstalk, yearning to reach the azure sky.

Across the road, farmers work in the basil fields, bending and stretching as they plant seedlings. Each row is covered with long plastic sheets, carefully punctured with holes. “It’s a reverse greenhouse,” our host tells us. “The plastic traps the heat and prevents the moisture from escaping at night.”

Their arched backs, determined to cultivate this fragile crop under the harsh sun, bring to mind John Wycliff’s 13th-century idiom, ‘by hook or by crook’. To me, who has never succeeded in keeping a basil plant alive for more than a week or two, they are defying nature. Their determination and resolve to provide for their families are a startling reminder that even here in paradise, poverty and hardship coexist with affluence and plenty.

This is a land of stark juxtapositions – lush resorts with manicured lawns and sparkling pools line golden sand beaches, just a stone’s throw from communities where people struggle to make ends meet. Children play in dusty streets, their ball a wad of wound-up string, their clothes worn. Yet, they still laugh and smile and wave as we drive past.

Stopping at an outdoor coffee shop, I eavesdrop on a ‘gringo’ couple sitting next to me. They talk about families going hungry, of illnesses going untreated, of dreams being deferred. I am saddened by the reminder that while I sit sipping my specialty coffee, there are shadows lurking and inequalities that need to be addressed. And then, I hear them name the place of which they speak. It is not here in one of the most beautiful corners of the world. It is ‘back home’, in Chicago.

Unlike the flowers which grow up to spread their luscious deep pink petals in the pots surrounding the veranda where I sit, too many people in this world do not have access to the necessary resources to create futures for their children that do not include deprivation and hardship, no matter how rich the world around them. Nature has given these flowers a defense system to prevent insects, and humans, from plundering their fruit: a multitude of razor-sharp needles line their hefty stalks like porcupine quills on constant alert.

For too many people in this world, there is no such defense system. Reading today of the shutting off of essential aid provided by USAID, a wave of fear washes over me. How will millions of vulnerable people in our world find refuge from the chaos and destruction that surrounds them? How will they find peace and well-being? How will they hope?

And then, the sound of children’s laughter wafts through the air. They are playing amidst the rows of basil their parents so carefully tend.

Despite the challenges, life finds a way. Even in this paradise, where nature’s beauty abounds, the realities of poverty and inequality are a stark reminder of the challenges facing our world. I do not have the power to change the world. I do have the power to change my attitude, to create beauty, joy, and love in my own little world. And that is a good intention for me today on this beautiful day in Todos Santos.

All is not always as it seems

Posted on by
11

Last night, sitting at a table beneath the stars, laughing and chatting with my dinner companions, I paused, glanced upwards, and was momentarily entranced. Stars glittered like diamonds scattered across the night’s vast, obsidian blanket.

In that moment, I felt utterly humbled. The sheer scale of the universe dwarfed me, a tiny speck within its infinite mystery and wonder. Distant Jupiter shimmered, a celestial pearl suspended in a sea of stars.

As the conversation swirled around me, I felt a deep yearning. I wanted to capture it all: the warmth of the laughter, the clinking glasses, the friendship, the beauty above—the ineffable silence, the profound luminescence.

Transported by the night sky, I pulled out my phone, leaned back, craned my neck, and stretched my arms above my head. Click!

And then, distraction. Someone spoke, the beauty above faded, and I returned to Earth.

This morning, scrolling through last night’s photos, I found what appeared to be an AI-generated image: golden streaks fading into an abyss of blue. Confusion. Where did this come from? Then, I remembered that brief moment of star-struck wonder.

This blurry, indefinite photo is it. Where are the stars? Where is Jupiter? The image doesn’t reflect what I saw. Or does it?

Initially, I almost deleted it. Then, I paused, struck by a sense of wonder. How divinely orchestrated is this disconnect? The image, though not what I intended, reflects a deeper truth: all is not always as it seems.

The universe holds countless worlds beyond our own—unexplored, unknown, unseen. We spin and orbit within our own small spheres, often believing we understand everything about being human, about existing on this planet, our Earth, as it journeys around the sun. We speak of the cosmos as if we possess some special insight, forgetting that our understanding is itself a tiny, flickering light in an immeasurable darkness.

And as we spin through time, we often act as masters of our destinies, controllers of our world. We meticulously plan our lives, building our towers of ambition, rarely considering the ineffable, inexplicable nature of existence beyond our limited perspectives. We strive, we conquer, we accumulate, all while suspended on a fragile blue marble, adrift in an ocean of cosmic immensity. Our grandest achievements seem almost comical when viewed against the backdrop of eternity.

We inhabit a vast planet, orbiting within a vast solar system, of which humanity has explored only a minuscule fraction. Beyond Neptune, the universe stretches into an unfathomable unknown.

Perhaps, if we paused to breathe in the immensity of the cosmos, if we truly acknowledged our infinitesimal place within it, we might find a deeper, more grounded peace, a peace that reflects the quiet majesty of the starlight above.

The Unseen Burdens of Strangers

Posted on by
1

The teller motions for me to wait. ‘Please,’ she mouths, her eyes flickering towards the woman on the phone at the money exchange counter. I nod, and step back a bit to give the woman privacy. Our flight to Cabo San Lucas is delayed, and a sense of ease settles over me. I have nowhere else to be.

The woman finishes her call, a tremor in her voice as she thanks the teller. As she turns away, I catch a glimpse of her face, etched with despair. ‘Is she okay?’ I ask, a knot tightening in my stomach. The teller hesitates, then tells me a story…

This woman, who just moments ago stood so close to me, arrived in Canada from India two years ago. Leaving behind her husband and four children, she pursued her Master’s degree in Early Childhood Development. Now, a graduate with a promising career, she’s on her way back to India for a conference. But instead of the joyful reunion she envisioned, she carries the crushing weight of a denied immigration application. She can’t bring her family to Canada, the teller tells me, and she can’t bear to tell her husband, with whom she was speaking, over the phone. It’s a secret she will carry with her until she sees her family the teller tells me with a hushed sadness. I try to imagine the woman’s heartbreak and am sure I am nowhere close to the heaviness she carries.

The contrast is stark. Just yesterday, I was bundled up against the snow, catching ferries from our island home to this bustling airport. Now, the warmth of Mexico beckons, a place of sun-drenched beaches and carefree days. My husband and I are escaping the winter, our hearts light with anticipation. But this woman beside me, she carries a winter in her soul.

I think about her as I wait for our flight. I carry no secrets, no burdens like hers. The injustice of it stings. She worked hard, achieved her goals, and yet her dream of a future with her family in Canada is shattered.

How many others around me, I wonder, are traveling with heavy hearts? Behind the smiles and hurried footsteps, what stories lie hidden?

I return to where my husband waits in the lounge and as I settle into my seat, I can’t shake the image of that woman’s face. I close my eyes and practice a compassion exercise I learned years ago. I picture the man in the seat across from me, his brow furrowed as he reads a book.

Like me, you have known disappointment. Like me, you have experienced loss. Like me, your life has not been all clear skies and sailing. Like me, you are doing your best to live your life with dignity and grace. And like me, you are perfectly human, doing your best on the road of life.

I repeat the words silently, extending the sentiment to the flight attendant with the tired eyes, the young couple laughing iby the windows overlooking the tarmac, and the elderly woman gazing out the window.

We never know the burdens someone is carrying. Let us step lightly through each moment of our day, offering kindness and understanding wherever we go. Perhaps, in doing so, we can help lighten the load, even if just a little, for those whose journeys are a little less carefree than our own.

Do you have my passport?

Posted on by
4

Sunset on another wonderful adventure

Our flight home from Huatulco on Sunday was not a direct one. My beloved booked it for Sunday not realizing if we left Tuesday, Westjet flies direct. He always likes to find the most ‘interesting’ routes for us to travel. Which is why, at 9:15pm we are standing in line at Toronto INternational airport to get through customs, worried we might not make our 10:15pm connection to Calgary.

We just do.

We’re the last people on the flight. Not because of long line-ups. There were long line-ups. In Toronto, you go through customs, put your bag on the conveyor belt to continue on its journey, and then enter the airport proper only to have to clear through security again.

When I went through security this time, they asked to open up a parcel in my carry-on. It was bubble-wrapped. A raiku incense burner I’d bought in Todos Santos created by a local artisan.

The security guard was apologetic. They’ve asked me to check it, he says.

It’s okay, I reply with a smile.

He finds a pair of scissors and cuts away the paper wrapped around the bubble wrap.

He pulls out my incense burner, admires it and then helps me package it all up again. The time is 9:40. Our flight has started boarding.

C.C. and I hoof it down the airport towards our gate. It’s not a short walk.

As we walk quickly to where we need to be, my mind reviews the process of rewrapping the package. In the flurry of getting it wrapped up, pulling all the things that were in the bin with it, including C.C.’s wallet, I can’t remember where I put my passport. I dig through my purse as I walk. Check in my carry-on bag as best I can.

I can’t find it.

I ask C.C. if I gave it to him.

He is adamant. I did not.

We get to the gate. The passengers are boarding.

We rummage through my carry-on and his.

No passport. My boarding pass is inside it.

I go to the check-in counter. I tell him what I’m missing and ask him if he can call security. “I don’t have a number to the security desk,” he tells me.

I hoof it all the way back to security.

The same guy who looked inside my package tells me he didn’t see it. He checks with others. checks garbage bins. My passport isn’t there.

It’s 10pm  Our flight leaves at 10:15.

I race back to the gate.

C.C. has gone through our bags again. My passport is nowhere.

We go to the desk.

The same check-in agent smiles and tells me not to worry. He gives me the number for Toronto airport to call when I reach Calgary.

I am almost in tears.

He takes my driver’s licence and checks me in without my boarding pass.

C.C. pulls his passport out of his back pocket. Opens it up to his picture and looks at it. Looks at me. Smiles sheepishly and says. “Oh. I do have your passport!”

I look at his face. Look at his outstretched hand where my passport photo stares back at me. I start laughing.

The check-in agent looks at me nervously. He looks at the passport. He too starts to laugh.

C.C. joins in.

We are still laughing as we race down the jetway to the aircraft.

All I can keep saying to C.C. is, “I can’t believe you had my passport all along.”

He too can’t believe it.

Travels with my beloved are filled with their own special adventures.

I’ve promised him I won’t let this one go for quite awhile.

“You know you’ve be reliving this story many times,” I tell him.

He smiles that way that makes my heart do a little happy dance and says, “I know.”

We made it home safe and sound. Beaumont has returned home. A little sulky but happy to see us.

And as to our passports, they are securely stored away until our next adventure.  It’s almost a guarantee they’ll be interesting in their own special way!

Happy Trails!

__________________________________________________________________________________

And as a special little bonus, my daughters organized for a photographer to come and share some time with us while in Todos Santos and to take photos.

The video she’s created is AMAZING.  My heart melts every time I watch it (and that’s a lot) 🙂  @marianaleonphoto is very gifted. She’s based in La Paz and spent four hours with us to capture this incredible visual.  I feel so blessed and loved.

Photos by Mariana León Fotografía

For those interested in hiring a photographer while on vacation, Alexis, my eldest daughter, searched instagram for photographers in the Todos Santos area to find someone whose work she really liked.

I’m not sure how to load the video so I’ve linked in my Facebook page Watch the video HERE.  (You may have to scroll down on my FB page one or two posts)

 

 

 

 

There is no end to paradise

Posted on by
4

 

My deserted beach

I am walking on a deserted beach. Aside from a turkey vulture pecking at something lying on the sand further down the beach, I see no one.

I want to laugh and yell out loud, letting my voice be carried by the gentle pacific breeze that stirs the branches of the bushes that line the sandy beach. Other than C.C., Guillermo and his lovely wife Roscio, along with the three staff on the boat that is moored 50 metres out from shore, there is no one to hear me.

So I yell and throw my arms up into the air and do a little dance of joy. I also want to cry. Tears of pure exhilaration and joy and happiness.

I feel so free and blessed and grateful.

Villas FaSol from the water

At 8 that morning, Guillermo, the owner of Villas FaSol, arrived with Roscio to pick us up to go to the boat. Anna, one of the staff at FaSol joins us

At the dock where Guillermo’s 45 ft fishing boat, Do It, is moored, Jorge and crew have everything ready and waiting for us to depart.

We head out to sea for a wonderful day of touring and fishing. And while C.C. did catch one big fish, we threw it back into its watery home after thanking it for sharing in our adventures. We were not after food. We were savouring the experience.

We travelled down the coast towards Guatemala, past the site of the recently discovered Mayan ruins south of Huatulco, as Guillermo shared the history of the area. The stories of the peoples of these lands are as ancient as the Far East and Asia, he told us. Long before the Spanish arrived, long before guns and conquerors, the indigenous peoples farmed and fished and lived off the land by the sea and in the mountain ranges high above.

And then we turned north in search of a quiet cove to moor and swim in and have lunch.

The first cove we entered was too busy Guillermo said, and we motored to the next which is where I ended up walking on a deserted beach and dancing in the sun after diving from the boat into emerald green waters and swimming to shore.

On Friday, Placido, our taxi driver who drove us back to FaSol after dinner in town the night before, took us to the Magical Waterfalls, Cacidas Magicos. After about a fifteen-minute drive north of Huatulco on the highway, we turned off onto a dirt road and began to climb and climb and climb into the hills. The road was rough. The driving slow. We passed through tiny villages that clung to the hillside, the roofs of many of the homes concealed by the jungle that stretched out as far as the eye could see. Laundry hung on lines between houses and I wondered how it could even stay clean with all the dust that rose from the clay road.

Children, chickens, turkeys, burros, dogs, iguanas, goats, a cow and a horse wandered along the roadside. Like many of the people, the animals live off the land too.

Two hours after leaving Huatulco we arrived at the starting point of the trail leading to the waterfalls. Placido lead us down the path, telling us about the 3 waterfalls we were about to see, his pride visible on his face.

The entry point for the grotto behind the falls

We followed the river, past banana trees and wild birds of paradise blooming everywhere. We climbed up, higher and higher until we came to the first falls. Here, someone had hung a rope from a tree and people were swinging on it and dropping into the emerald green waters below. I would try that on our way back down. For now, we kept climbing.

When we reached the base of the largest fall, we stood on the wooden platform and admired its majestic beauty. Placido told us, “We wait here now.” He had organized with a local guide to come and meet us and lead us up and into the grotto behind the falls.

C.C. opted not to join me as his breathing has not been good in the humid air of Huatulco.

When Roger arrived, he motioned for me to follow him. Down the steps from the platform, along the trail leading into the river.

Above us the cascading waters crashed. Mist covered my body.

We stepped onto the rocks and began to cross to the other side to reach the stairs someone had carved into the rock alongside the bottom of the falls.

I am feeling nervous. Scared. Exhilarated.

This doesn’t look too safe to me but Roger keeps urging me along, taking my hand to help me cross waterways where the force of the water from the falls almost knock me over.

We reach the other side and keep climbing until we reach the place where we will enter the grotto behind the falls.

Roger motions to a stick that has been secured between the rocks. A short rope hangs from it.

He grabs it. Holds on tightly and disappears into the veil of water pouring down from the rocks above.

I take a breath. For a moment I wonder who last tested the security and strength of the rope and stick.

I put my thinking on pause. Those thoughts will not lead me forward. And I cannot go back down alone.

I grab the rope and slip behind the cascading waters.

The waterfall pummels my body. I can barely breathe. I push forward, climbing over the rocks.

Suddenly, the water stops and I am in a grotto behind the falls. Roger waits. Smiling.

I smile back.

We crawl through a small cave, into a cavern the backsplash of the water has carved in the rock behind the falls. The sound of the water cascading is loud. The water is emerald green in the pool. I cannot see out to where C.C. stands below on the deck of the platform below the falls, but I know he’s there.

Roger jumps into the pool. I take a breath and let go. I jump in.

Pure, utter joy sweeps over me.

This is bliss.

We fly home today.

Over dinner last night, C.C. and I shared in the joys of our travels these past 17 days and laughed at our trip planning expertise, which never ceases to amuse me. If we had stayed until Tuesday, we could have taken a direct flight home to Calgary. 5 hours. Instead, our travels home will last 10 hours as we must first fly to Toronto (5 hours) to catch a flight to Calgary.

Oh well I told him. At least our track record of unusual travel planning is intact.

It has been a glorious adventure. The trip home is just part of the journey.

I shall miss this land. The people. The food. The sights. The experiences. The sun. The sunsets. The incredible beauty of those we’ve met and all we’ve seen.

But in having taken this time I have been reminded once again of what is most important in my life. The people who make it so rich. To have had 10 days with my daughters, their partners and my grandson followed by another 8 with C.C. alone in this beautiful place is a gift.

This was our second trip to Huatulco.

Until we meet again.

Creating Joy in Mexico

Posted on by
3

Sunset.

A pink band of colour quietly stretches itself out across the horizon. The bright yellows of the day time sun soften into rose and purple as the day eases into night.

I am standing at the edge of the pool looking out at the ocean, breathing deeply into la magia del atardecer en Huatulco (the magic of sunset in Huatulco)

It is a phrase I have just learned from one of the staff here at Villas FaSol. They are all very helpful in providing me Spanish words and phrases. Patient. Kind.

It is the way of the people.

To help. To be patient. To laugh with you when you say or do something that does not quite make sense. To encourage you to try again. Slowly. Slowly. Lentamente. Lentamente.

Like the group that gathered around yesterday as I learned to make tortillas a manos on the outside wood burning stove at the school where I am spending my second morning learning to cook the food of the Huatulco area.

Martine, the gardener, has loaded up the wood into the body of the oven and set it alight. It is just right, he says.

I have rolled and pressed my first tortilla and to the encouraging calls of the group of five or six people who have gathered to watch, I am about to place my tortilla on the tray that covers the opening to the fire.

I carefully watch my teacher, Rosie, place hers with grace and ease. The tortilla lays flat and round on the surface.

I step up.

I am not sure if the sweat running down  my spine is from the heat of the day mixed with the heat of the oven beside which I am standing or the pressure of the crowd watching.

I place the tortilla on the grill. Quickly. I do not want to burn myself.

The crowd gasps. And laughs.

No. No. Rosie says. You cannot throw it down. She is laughing so hard she has trouble finding her words.

Gentle. Like you are laying a flower on a bed.

I have never laid a flower on a bed so I am not quite sure what that is like. But I get the picture. I am too quick. Too… Americano, she tells me.

Lentamente. Lentamente.  “No flip. Lay flat. Like this.” And she demonstrates. Her hand flows along the surface of the pan, her knuckles skimming the surface but not touching it. “You must be careful not to burn your fingers,” she cautions me.

One of the spectators, an older man with a toothy smile and weathered face, demonstrates too. In rapid Spanish he tells me to (what sounds like, “assissez. Assissez.” I repeat his words though I do not really know what he is saying. We are both laughing and smiling. I hold my hand the way he demonstrates and move it in concert with his. Si! Si! he says.

I get another tortilla ready to cook.

As I approach the oven, the crowd moves closer. I watch Rosie lay another tortilla on the grill. I see my mistake. I have held the tortilla in the flat of my hand and tried to flip it onto the grill.

I step closer. Now I know the sweat is in response to the pressure of getting it right!

Success!  I lay the tortilla in a perfect round circle on the grill! The crowd cheers. Rosie gives me a high five. The man with the toothie grin motions for me to do it again.

I spent the morning learning how to cook Tortillas, Tacos al Pastor, Mole Rojo and Salsa Verde yesterday.

It was pure delight.

And when I returned to Villas FaSol, I lay in the welcoming waters of the ocean and let the waves wash over my body. I looked up at the sun and gave thanks to the sky above for the divine beauty of this place and the people who make it so special.

I did not know I was lost. Yet here, I feel like I am finding myself again. Finding the source of my peace of mind. My joy.

At one point yesterday, Javier, one of the young students in the class asked me, “Why you do this?”

“I love to cook,” I told him. “And I love to learn. When I go home, I can share with my family and friends what I have learned and bring a little bit of the magic of this place home to them.” (Okay. So it wasn’t quite so straightforward an answer as we both had to navigate the language gap and find the words to express what I was trying to say. But that is the gist of it!)

Over a beautiful dinner at L’Eschalote last night, C.C. and I spoke of what brings purpose to our lives. What gives us joy.

I love to create, I told him. When I am creating, I feel content. Whole. Complete. I do not do it for the ‘finished product’. I do it because the process of being immersed in the doing fills my heart with joy.

When I create, I let go of expectations and surrender to that place where I am one with being present in whatever I am doing, creating that which is flowing through me, calling out to be created.

I made tortillas yesterday on a wood fire stove. They were not perfect but they created a perfect place for me to practice being present to the beauty and wonder all around me. There was no space for judging my process or what I made. There was only joy that I was willing to let go of expectations to immerse myself in the joy of being open to learning and creating.

In the process, I was reminded of the truth of what brings me joy. The act of creating.

I am grateful.

 

 

 

 

The heart of Mexico is in the beauty of its people

Posted on by
6

Sunrise at Villas FaSol

Jorge, our taxi-driver into the city centre of Huatulco from Villas FaSol, does not speak English.

We do not speak Spanish.

Siri comes to the rescue, or at least a Spanish speaking, language translating version of Siri that is.

Jorge holds up his phone and waves it at the both of us in the back seat as he drives one handed. He flings a string of Spanish sentences into the phone and holds it up again, motioning for C.C. to take the phone.

Magic! His Spanish becomes English. “What are your plans for downtown Huatulco? You plan on going shopping?”

He motions us to speak into the phone.

C.C. complies.

“Yes. We want to walk around town. Visit shops. Have lunch.”

The Mescala Lady and her Parros

Jorge smiles. Nods his head. Reaches back for the phone. Again he fires his rattatatat of Spanish at the phone.

“You want I take you to my friend who owns a shop. Lots of lovely things. I tell her you’re my friends. She give you good deal. Not like others. She will treat you well.”

C.C. takes the phone. “Of course!’ he speaks into it.

I wonder if the Spanish speaking Siri will translate our laughter into anything other than what it is. Joyful gratitude for Jorge’s enthusiastic driving and clever translation skills.

Downtown, Jorge double parks on the narrow one-way street in front of a store, jumps out of his cab and says via his phone, “Come. I take you in and introduce you.”

We follow him into the shop where without aid of Spanish speaking Siri he greets a lovely dark-haired woman in a volley of Spanish. She smiles. Thanks him and turns to us. “Jorge says you his good friends. I am to treat you well.”

We smile. Thank Jorge, pay him for the ride and he leaves us with many Gracias!

The first question, Ines, the proprietress of Las Maracas, asks us is, “Are you American?”

“No,” we quickly reply. “Canadian.”

She smiles big. “Oh good. Then I tell you right now. The prices you see are all Trump dollars. For you, they are much less.”

We laugh but she is serious. “No. I no like him. I make him pay here, at my store. I like Canada. My daughter. She met a man from Calgary. She get married and move there. I love Canadians!”

We laugh again and tell her we are from Calgary. She has never been but has a trip planned for next August. “I not go in winter,” she says, faking a shiver and rubbing her bare arms. “My daughter. She likes the cold. Not me.”

Ines is true to her words. We spend a half hour in her shop. Chatting and eyeing her wares. Her husband is the silversmith and jewelry maker. His work is beautiful.

C.C. tells her he is buying me a birthday gift. “It is your birthday?” she asks.

“Yesterday,” I reply.

“Then I make you a gift,” she says. “You pick anything you want, I give it to you at cost. Our gift to you.”

In the end, we bought two bracelets, a necklace and she gifted me a pair of earrings to match my bracelet.

“But that is not cost,” I say.

“It is a gift,” she replies firmly.

The heart of Mexico is in its people.

Sunset at villas FaSol

From Jorge to Ines, to the man who lead us down street after street to visit ‘his shops’ (the Mescal store where free samples were doled out liberally. We had to buy the Passion Fruit Mescal after tasting the concoction the salesman created), to the waiters on the beach at Santa Cruz where we visited for lunch, warm greetings, smiles and laughter, a willingness to engage and talk is at the heart of what makes this country so beautiful.

We spent a delightful day exploring and eating. And after a late lunch under a palapa on the beach at Santa Cruz, we returned to Villas FaSol for a swim and a well-earned siesta before heading out to a delight dinner under the stars at Mision FaSol.

The day is done. The sun has set. our hearts are full after another beautiful day in paradise.

A woman of a certain age.

Posted on by
6

From where I sit…

There is no end to paradise.

There is no end to the beauty and mystery of Mexico.

After a day of travel, we arrived last night in Huatulco. Jordan, son of the Villas FaSol Manager, Gerrado, met us at the airport, his smile and hugs welcoming, to transport us to the resort.

Tucked into the shoreline in the Bahia Conejos just south of Hautulco, Villas FaSol is the perfect, ‘home away from home’. White washed domed roofs á la Mediterranean stand tall, etched against cloudless blue skies in a lush tropical garden. Below, the surf ebbs and flows into the bay, splashing up against rock strewn shoreline and a tiny, perfectly groomed, sandy beach.

The air has already heated up to day time highs, its full force softened by a gentle breeze that rustles through the palm trees and caressing my skin as it passes by reminding me of a story I wrote long ago for my daughters. it was called The WindStory Tree. In that story, the wind circled the globe collecting stories which it brought to a tall tree, a proud tree, a tree of many branches that stood in the middle of the prairies where a boy and girl lived within its sheltering branches listening to the stories of the wind.

The breeze here is like that. Carrying stories, tempting my mind to stop thinking so I can hear the beat of my heart calling me to dance, to laugh, to sing out loud and dive beneath the waters in the Bahia Conejos in search of octopus and lobster like the young men I can see from the deck where I sit in the shade watching the waters ebb in and out, in and out.

This is definitely paradise continued. No end in sight.

Our two daughters are back home safely in Canada. I feel the lack of their presence, the missing of my YaYa time in the early hours of the day.

And I smile as my heart remembers. In paradise there is no lack. No need to miss someone. In paradise there is only a joyful heart full of gratitude for the time spent together, building memories, building stories to tell the next time we see each other, or as they say in Mexico, “hasta que nos encontremos de nuevo mi corazón está lleno de recuerdos tuyos”. ” (Until we meet again my heart is full of memories of you”)  Okay. I don’t really know if they say that in Spanish but it sounds pretty and I like it because it’s true. My heart is full of beautiful memories of time spent with those I love.

C.C. and I have no plans today. No expectations. Aside from grabbing a taxi into the town centre to walk around old Huatulco, lunch on a patio, we shall rest and relax savouring time together under the Mexican sun as I explore this new era into which I officially am subscribed as of yesterday when my years on earth added up to becoming a ‘senior’.

I don’t know what my 65’s and beyond will bring though C.C. and I chatted this morning over a beautiful breakfast on the deck about ‘the future’. I do know that whatever time brings me, I am blessed with family and friends, good health and work that continues to inspire me.

But, as I asked him this morning, I wonder what awaits if I choose to explore a different path?

Bedmates — looks and smells beautifully

It is the gift of this age I am embracing. There are no limits to what I can do when I let go of thinking of myself as a ‘woman of a certain age’ and step instead into the full power of being a woman of this amazing age where I am the dreamer and the dream-maker, the story-teller and the story-maker, the creator and the creative, the writer of my own journey.

Lived in Love, there is no other journey to take, no other place to be than where I am right now, not asking Mary Oliver’s question, “What will you do with this one wild and precious life” but living it wildly to my heart’s content.

Namaste.

 

 

 

Filled with gratitude and love — life is grand

Posted on by
6

Photo by Alexis M

C.C. and I are sitting at Cabo Airport this morning waiting for our flight to Mexico City and then Huatulco where we will spend the next 8 days enjoying more sun, sand and surf.

It was a parting of sweet sorrow this morning. After 9 days treasuring every moment together, Alexis, Liseanne, their partners and my grandson left to return north to Canada while C.C. and I travel further south in Mexico.

It was a beautiful week.

Photo by Alexis M

From seeing whales from the upper deck of the house, to stingray flapping the water, turkey vultures circling the waves as we rode horses down the beach and baby turtles waddling through the sand towards the sea, it was a time of special moments spent with those we love, our family. Though, as Alexis said last night as we sat around savouring Churros and vanilla ice cream and Chocolate molten cake from Guaycara Restaurant, it would have been perfect if C.C.’s son and daughter had been there too.

There are so many moments that filled my heart to overflowing.

Cabo Airport domestic terminal

On our first Sunday, we arose early to walk the beach and then head to town in search of a good cup of Java which we found at Taller 17, a delightful bakery/coffee shop in the town centre. At 2pm, Alexis and Liseanne told me they had organized a professional photographer to come and take family photos that afternoon. When Marianna arrived we went back to the town and had photos at Hotel California, one of the town’s more ‘infamous’ locales. We wandered the streets feeling like paparazzi as Marianna followed our footsteps snapping photos everywhere we went. And then, the penultimate photo opportunity, a private releasing of sea turtles on the beach, just down from our house.

There is something so exquisitely beautiful and poignant about these tiny endangered species and their journey into adulthood. The mother’s have travelled north up the shore to avoid the more populated areas to the south of the peninsula. In an effort to protect the eggs and to foster greater success in the tiny babies surviving the treacherous walk to the sea once hatched, volunteers have created a turtle sanctuary on the beach directly in front of the house we rented. For a small fee, every evening, you can help release the babies and hopefully, watch it and protect it on its journey to the water.

One in 100 babies survive to adulthood. Not great odds for a species of which there are only 2500 alive on the planet today.

It was a transcendent moment to watch our 10 month old grandson laughing and chortling as we stood together on the other side of the line the turtle guide drew to show us where to stand before releasing the turtles. As the tide rolled in, on the signal of our guide, we adults each placed the coconut shell we’d been given with a baby inside onto the sand and gently as possible, without touching its body (skin oils inhibit its ability to survive) and coaxed the turtle out of the shell. We cheered each turtle as our grandson clapped and cheered, supported by his dad. 

Thurlow is just on the brink of walking. Like the baby turtles, his journey to adulthood is just beginning. As I watched my daughter and son-in-love coax and protect his steps this week, I was reminded always of the turtles’ and their journey to the sea and the many dangers they must face in order to survive. Thurlow’s journey is not nearly as treacherous nor dubious. He is always safe and surrounded by his parent’s loving care.

I am grateful.

We fly south to Huatulco today.

My heart is full and though I shall miss them all, we have already arranged to visit for New Year’s in Vancouver.

I am so blessed.