Hold on to the Center

Wake up

Form dawdles, lazily rustling and beginning to come into awareness lazily, leisurely. The city is loud in the morning. The light seeps through the window panes of indigo, periwinkle, moss, and apricot and enter the lines of flesh, eyes flutter open softly to acknowledge the sun's early advent; outside there are clicks of heels, and the chicken buses and clumsy jalopies and motorbikes rumble along the wet stone streets, clattering and blustering and clangoring and hurtling, plodding and blumbering. The constant loud pop of richocheting engines sounds like gunshots, a reminder of the short and dark faced Guatemalan who clutched his rifle by his side within the bank walls the day before. On the other side of the rich and heavily wooded hotel doors, the missionaries are chattering in familiar phrases, chuckles echoing in the tiled hallways and intermingling with the lively bursts of boisterous Spanish. The patchworks of earth tones sewn into the quilt are thin so that skin can soak in,
inhale,
revel in
the buzz of energy in the air, and a lover's even, imperturbable breaths are near the ear, soothing and nourishing as the mind delays the body's rising.

Candid laughter of your paramour is like the music of a Brazilian rosewood guitar, rare and ephemerally beautiful like a particular dying species of tree (more easily attained in these lands then the ones from whence you came.)Your dreams were full of old friends as though your spirit remembers this undiluted joy, sweet like the city's sugarcane and childhood nostalgia. When finally and begrudgingly you climb from beneath the covers, disentangling yourself from the circle of warmth, the tiles are frigid under your roseate toes, but it is a welcome rawness.

In the tiny bathroom in this little stowed away piece of paradise, which is done in all pastel and porcelain peach and pinkish salmon, a woman observes the new waves of her air dried hair; the disparate minerals in the water brought its natural fluidity to the surface like blood rising in the heat of misty nights when the moon is full and voluptuous, glowing hot. The woman could swear her teeth are whiter here, her smile filling the nooks and crannies of her face more fully and gleaming like reflections of neon fish scales in the sea.

You can see the yellows of flowers through the net of teabag, and the scent of roasted beans from a nearby coffee planatation fills the birds' throats with chirps, fills your cup with their crisp and local aroma, the taste of jubilation. All colors are more pure in the early light. The staff is taken aback when they are addressed amiably in their native language, as though they are accustomed to remaining invisible to the visiting patrons. But they are not invisible, or dead. They have whispery voices of warm almíbar, they are beautiful and alive. Two small caniches with fluff of neutral colors pounce and bound through the courtyard, barking and chasing one another around the fountain and clay pots and and leafs of greenery; they war over rubber toys and lie contentedly in the lap of strangers.

The night prior is still thickly simmering in the bellies of companions like the most expensive of Guatemalan rums, aged 23 years (yes,older than they) that they toasted to their new friends and fellow wanderers after dinner; dinner under the sway of a gauzy cloth draped ceiling and light bulbs dangling from wires, on a spread accented by brightly striped woven cloths and ceramic pots filled with coarse salt and pepper. They are rejoicing, in quiet wonder and wide eyed at their untrodden surroundings and at the instinctive and sudden self awareness, the feeling of finding their calling, of taking solace in letting go and remembering what is important. (What is simple, what is true.) The source is here.

Here, there are stomping mules in the streets and cafes with sinks that sit on top of counters near ornate glasses full of dark lavender alagappan blooms; there are delightful market lunches of fresh slices of tomatoes, red and green jalapenos, cilantro, sweet onions, the brightest and greenest avocados one will ever encounter- all spread upon soft and pungent Mexican cheese in humbly miniature and hot tortillas. Diet cokes are called "light coca-cola" and the Brits sitting close by remind you of the backbone of the language you often times leave behind in forgetfulness. You're beginning to think in mixtures of accents and catch yourself nearly speaking aloud with words that are not quite your own- but you are perfectly satisfied with that. There is no toilet paper allowed in the ancient pipes, so it is necessary to retrain your habits and cultural predisposition, to allow for the complete surrender to the phenomenon of revelation in your bones.












-Miel