First, Mexico

Falling apart and together by Lake Chapala

If you noticed my reference to the opening sequence of Guardians of the Galaxy in my post, Hockey Women…, you’ll understand why I broke into a grin at the entry to the Savta Bistro in Ajijic, Jalisco, not long ago: Redbone’s goofy one-hit wonder “Come and Get Your Love” was pouring from the speakers out front. Stepping carefully across tiles wet from the night’s thunderstorm, I pictured Chris Pratt aka Star Lord, Walkman in place, dancing across an alien landscape to that same song. I almost started dancing and singing myself but—American abroad—there are limits to how weird an impression I want to make.

I needed that touch of home. I didn’t come back to Mexico to hear American oldies, but since the smooth flight down here I’d been experiencing turbulence. If you’ve flown, you’ve heard a voice drone “Use caution when opening the overhead bins as items may have shifted during flight.” My items were still shifting.

My first week as a nomad was shaking loose a tumble of “WTF?” An aspect of self previously labelled “Responsible Homeowner” had posted a new sign: “Space to Let.” The turbulence was entirely predictable, but being unsure how to answer “Who/what/how am I now?” is never entirely fun.

This trip to Mexico is no leap into the unknown. (Selling my home with no next fixed address was the leap.) I have friends here in Chapala and Ajijic. Plus, Lake Chapala and her volcanic mountains are powerful catalysts. Deciding to come here to regroup and write was easy. Once I got here, though, the actual writing was not.   

Short version:

I spent my first few days in Chapala as a puddle among wise friends. I was more tired than I’d realized, a bit sad, doubtful, and discombobulated. Not terribly so, just enough to realize my initial almost-exuberance upon closing my house sale was just that—initial.

After a few more days, second thoughts about selling the house gave way to inklings of freedom. Contrasts began to soften; my inner judge hung up its robes for a while. Having access to wise friends and time to adjust to Mexico’s unhurried pace was instrumental. I bumped out my return date, stretching two weeks to three.   

Week two: I shifted from Chapala to Inn Ajijic, a boutique hotel where I was given The Queen’s Suite. It’s off-season. I was the only guest. For 7 nights I slept in a royals-worthy wooden canopy bed once owned by a Texas oil baron. A nearly life-sized stone tiger head watched over me. Thunderstorms and torrents rolled through the wee hours 5 nights out of 7. The Lion’s Gate new moon came and went. Every morning, I opened the tall balcony doors to a courtyard overflowing with lushness. It was perfect.

Without taking any drugs, I woke up stoned. My proprioception was off, as if my energy field were a giant amoeba delicately trying on new shapes. Something unknown, messy, but intriguing was astir in and around me, and I didn’t know what. Was I disintegrating, integrating, or just oozing?

Once the stoned days passed, a sense of aimlessness bordering on purposelessness took their place. I know better than to take seriously the kinds of thoughts that dog me in the wee hours, but the judge was back. I tried to be gentle with myself (friends here kept reminding me to when I forgot), but still, I was existentially off-center. And way more verb than noun.

In part, I’d come here to write. But everything I tried to write felt forced. I wanted to focus on integration, not its opposite, via clear messages, vignettes about this part of Mexico, stories with climaxes and resolutions—encounters savored, lessons learned, wisdom gained. In other words, I wanted to make sense. But (Hello again, Captain Obvious) my week three realization? I’m not here to make sense. Not yet.

Selling my house unmoored me. Being adrift unnerved me. Of course I’m simultaneously dissolving and integrating. Of course that’s messy. By trying to write linearly in the midst of a nonlinear shift, looking for a clear story line, I was missing the point. It was like waiting for a smoothie to settle into its identifiable components before tasting it. The secret to a smoothie’s appeal is its suspension.   

That obvious-in-hindsight revelation didn’t land until the middle of week three.

So, here I am, 9 hours before a driver will pick me up for the drive to the Guadalajara airport, finally able to share some of what happened here.   

I slowed down. I listened to deep-souled friends and strangers. I learned a bit more Spanish. I watched the lake and mountains and flowers and storms, the murals and street dogs and people. I deepened friendships and began what might become new ones. I learned something about my spirit and body. I dreamt. I drank colors. I discerned. I fell a little more in love with Chapala and Ajijic and Mexico. I worried a bit about whether the effect would last once I went back to the States, then let that go. I practiced presence and letting myself be. And in a store in Chapala I bought earrings from Japan and labradorite from Canada that will always remind me of this trip because of the proprietor’s smile.

Here’s what I’d pass along to anyone who’s letting go of something major, doing something that’s at least logistically irrevocable, something that prompts some to say “Good for you!” and others to say “You’re doing what?!” First, don’t be surprised if your insides and sense of self are as wobbly as Jello once the deed is done. You may be entering the “goo” stage of caterpillar-to-butterfly transformation—the stage to which the caterpillar, if it could, would vehemently object. You’ve elected to let go of some major aspect of who you’ve been. The fact that you volunteered to do so doesn’t diminish the change’s power to disturb your sense of self.

Take a time out; your next big project can wait. Go somewhere nurturing. Visit friends you trust to meet you as you are instead of friends who’ll try to put you back together. Somewhere you won’t feel alone, but can be. Somewhere nature is easy to connect with.

Be as loopy as you need to be, take as long as you need to take, engage with people as much or little as you wish to.

Open your heart to yourself, open your eyes to the world, and see what happens.

A driveway gate near the last place I stayed in Ajijic.