The sun is hiding behind a layer of thin grey clouds that drift slowly by in the sky above. Every so often, a small cloudless patch of deep blue allows the sun’s bright rays to peek through to the earth below, temporarily warming my skin, blinding my eyes, and causing the glow of my laptop screen to fade. But another layer of clouds soon returns to transform the sky back to a pale grey. A moderate unpredictable breeze gently rattles the leaves of nearby trees. Occasional random gusts of wind momentarily shake the branches, but these gusts quickly subside, allowing the cool breezes to resume their gentle and pleasant natural rhythms. The temperature is perfect, right around seventy comfortable degrees.
As I lay here in my favorite hammock, I cannot imagine a more delightful place to begin writing about this week’s adventure—a return to the thick green jungles where my Valladolid journey essentially began—a long awaited pilgrimage back to the energy filled ruins of Ek Balam.
Last Wednesday (Jan 27), Dr. Gomez gave me the long-awaited green light to exercise and to ride my bicycle to greater distances. During that visit, I continued to maintain my silence regarding the fact that I had already ventured out on two shorter ten-mile rides. As I rode away from the clinic, my heart was ever so grateful to receive official medical clearance to break out of my prison cell of near inactivity.
Ever since my event-filled third degree burn of almost eleven weeks ago, I have played around with the idea of returning to Ek Balam on my bicycle. An eager spirit urged me to tackle what would be an arduous, almost seventy kilometer roundtrip bicycle journey. I knew I could do it—I knew I had to do it—even after two months of minimal physical activity.
For one reason or another, this past weekend came and went with no travel. Yes, we did have several days of stormy weather, but weather was not the main roadblock to my venturing out into the wild. Instead, it was the lack of clarity in my feelings that plainly told me “Not yet.”
Monday evening, however, was a different story. A strong resonating feeling surged from within my soul, undeniably declaring that “Tomorrow is the day.” I cannot say exactly how I knew—I just knew with total confidence. I didn’t even bother checking the weather forecast, because I was going to go—rain or shine. Waiting for another day was simply not an option.
Sleep Surrender
As I went to bed on Monday evening, I was beginning to wonder just how much sleep might be possible. For two weeks now, the little Catholic Chapel here at Candelaria Park has essentially dominated daily life in the neighborhood.
As I have previously mentioned, Valladolid’s annual two week expo is a festival held in celebration of “Our Lady of Candelaria.” This fair-skinned Virgin Mary is said to have appeared in the 1700’s to a humble Mayan Slave while he walked through the jungle carrying his load of palm leaves. The beautiful Virgin was carrying a baby in one hand and a candle in the other. Upon meeting the humble slave in the jungle, the Virgin asked him if he would build her a house. The resultant small structure is reported to still exist behind the alter of the Candelaria church, right here in Candelaria Park, less than one hundred feet from the entrance to my hostel.
Throughout the festival, the church has been hosting numerous, daily, outdoor meetings, with the loudspeakers seemingly maxed out at full volume. On most days, the festivities would quiet down before 9 or 10 p.m., but this past weekend became a totally different story.
Friday evening (Jan 29), a large band formed on the small concrete stage at the eastern edge of the park square. As the band played traditional folk music, literally hundreds of Mayan folk dancers crowded onto the stage. The vast majority of the dancers were dressed in traditional white Yucatan clothing. The women wore typical white dresses with elaborate and colorful embroidered flowers, wearing fancy white shoes, flowers in their hair, and a smile on their face. The men were dressed in white wide-legged slacks and traditional cotton shirts. Their outfits were topped off with white hats and a large colorfully embroidered scarf hanging from the right side of their waist area.
The energized dancers seemed to represent every age group, ranging from eight-year-old children up to elderly grandparents. The footwork was complicated and elaborate, delightful to observe as the dancers twisted and turned to the rapid beat of the music. Each couple was doing their own unique version of the dance, yet seemed to be following the same general style of fancy stepping—a style that did not vary much throughout the entire evening.
Knowing I would not sleep much with the loud music, I stayed up and watched the dancing till nearly midnight. Earplugs did not do much to mask the blaring melodies, but in spite of the noise I somehow managed to get random one or two hour spurts of broken sleep. To my amazement, the high-decibel festivities continued that night till nearly 4:00 a.m. on Saturday morning.
As my head hit the pillow on Monday evening (Feb 1)—the second-to-last night of the festival—instinct told me that I might be facing a similar night of uncertain sleep. The church had begun outdoor services around 5:00 p.m., and by 9:00 p.m. an unending series of musical concerts had commenced. At 11:00 p.m., a Mariachi band was still playing traditional songs at full volume, and there were absolutely no signs of slowing momentum.
As the wee hours of the morning found me still awake, lying in bed while listening to meditation music on my IPOD, I finally succumbed to my growing desires for sleep and gulped down a sleeping pill at 2:30 a.m.. I smiled when only minutes later the music gave way to peaceful silence. I was not sure at first whether the silence was real or simply the result of the sleeping pill—but I was told the next morning that the bands had indeed ceased their playing. Five hours of sleep was not much, but nothing was going to alter my plans for an early start on my bicycle adventure—nothing except sleeping in, that is.
Ceiba, Ceiba, Who’s Got The Ceiba
I suddenly sat up in bed with a start, having awakened from a short but sound sleep. I recognized the familiar rumblings of a large and noisy outdoor Catholic Mass already in progress. Tuesday morning had arrived ever too quickly, but a sense of relief comforted me when a quick glance at my watch revealed that the time was only 7:45 a.m..
After chowing down on a quick but relaxed breakfast of fruit, yogurt, and bread, I returned to my room to casually throw a few items into my daypack. As 8:30 a.m. ticked away on my watch, I was finally enjoying the cool breeze blowing against my face as the tires of my bicycle hummed above the smooth asphalt below.
Yes, I was starting out a full hour later than I had planned, but a strong presence of peace clearly proclaimed all to be perfect in my first big bicycle adventure since a magical pre-sunrise ride to the Eastern shores of Cozumel just last September.
For the first few kilometers, the road leaving northbound out of Valladolid consisted of a wide modern four-lane highway with very narrow shoulders. Ten minutes later I was carefully maneuvering around a large roundabout while passing underneath the first of two east-west highways. This first highway, a shoulder-less two-lane highway that winds from Cancun to Chichen Itza and beyond, passes through each of the small towns and villages along the way.
After yet another ten minutes, I huffed and puffed as I pedaled to the top of a large overpass that straddles the second highway, a large interstate-like toll road that runs between Cancun and Mérida. This larger and straighter divided highway, with two lanes in each direction, is more expensive to travel, but also much more efficient for travelers who are in a hurry to cross the Yucatan.
As I continued northbound, my once-four-lane highway immediately shifted into a beautiful two lane highway with large, spacious shoulders—shoulders that doubled as a perfect bicycle path for my casual adventure past the wild jungles huddled closely along each side of the road.
Barely a hundred yards ahead, I approached a large sign confirming my ultimate destination. The words read: “Ek Balam, 27 kilometers.”
A small burst of excitement flowed through my veins as I pedaled onward. Overflowing with energy, I had an undeniable feeling that today would be a magical experience.
While the beautifully paved road was straight and ordinary, the journey itself was anything but ordinary. Insatiable curiosity kept me constantly absorbed in studying my surroundings while I gradually pushed on to the north.
About one hour into my journey, I passed through the small pueblo of Temozón. According to google maps, this beautiful little town is approximately twelve blocks in length and eight blocks wide. Another website lists the 2005 population as being approximately 14,000 residents, with over 12,000 of those speaking the Mayan language (most speak Spanish too).
After stopping for a brief glance inside of a beautiful 17th century church, I eagerly continued my journey to the north. Soon the pueblo behind me was nothing but a memory as a sense of anxious excitement continued to push me onward. In my mind, I pondered the prospects of locating my baby Ceiba tree—the same little sacred tree that I had left behind with Carmen some eleven weeks ago.
“What could have happened to my precious little tree?” I wondered. “Was it ever planted? Could it have been lost or destroyed?”
I hoped to find answers soon, but knew that I would remain at peace regardless of the outcome of my search.
Thirty minutes later I said goodbye to the main highway as I began the final eastbound twenty-minute leg of my journey along narrower back-country roads. Anticipation grew ever more heightened as I rapidly approached fond and familiar places that will forever hold a warm spot in my heart.
Finally I was there, riding past the small central park of the indigenous Mayan village of Ek Balam.
“Is Trini at home?” I asked a few nearby ladies as I approached the Cocina Maya (Mayan kitchen).
“No, she has left on a trip,” was their reply.
I had secretly hoped to talk to Trini, desiring to gather clues about my baby Ceiba—but that option was no longer available to me. After engaging in a short and surprisingly fluent Spanish conversation with these two women, I eagerly continued on to my next destination: The magical ruins of Kaxan Xuul.
As I turned down the tiny dirt road leading out into the jungle, I silently laughed at myself as I remembered how confused and unsure I had been during my first visit to this unmarked crossroads back in mid November. Today, both my confidence and my language skills have blossomed in so many ways. Nothing would stop me now.
“Where are you going?” A man called out to me from his field, showing a sense of concern in his voice.
After getting over my initial surprise, I simply called back with a confident and loving reply. “I’m going to Kaxan Xuul,” I told him.
The farmer’s curiosity seemed to be satisfied as he smiled and waved me forward down the road that wound through his fields. Soon I was climbing the final fifty feet up a slight gentle slope. Around the final bend I reached my destination at last.
A lone bicycle stood propped up against a nearby tree, but I saw no signs of human activity whatsoever. With nary a thought, I rode right past the beautiful open field containing the Temazcal structure and continued up a narrow wooded trail right to the base of the earth-covered pyramid of Kaxan Xuul. This is the same sacred place where the Mayan Priest and Shaman Aj Men Bartolomé conducted our incredible fire ceremony—the same loving place in which our tightly knit group later said our heartfelt and tearful goodbyes—the same peaceful place where I last laid eyes on my baby tree.
As I approached the buried pyramid, I noticed that a small rope, perhaps four feet above the ground, was tied across the path as an obvious deterrent to visitors.
“Do I dare venture forward?” I asked myself. “Will it be OK to return to the top of this mysterious and magical hill in the jungle?”
After glancing around, I ducked under the rope and scampered to the top of the hill. The unused branches from our incredible fire ceremony were still neatly stacked nearby. The large circle of rocks at the very top contained fresh offerings: a few candles and some dried flowers—but there were no signs whatsoever of a baby Ceiba tree.
For fifteen minutes, I scoured the surroundings of this small sacred unexcavated pyramid. Methodically, I used a makeshift circular search pattern to scan all of the hillsides and surrounding clearings.
Carmen had indicated her intention to have Bartolomé plant the sacred tree somewhere near the base of the pyramid—but I came up empty in my search. There were no signs of my tree, dead or alive. Logic told me that if the tree had indeed been planted, it would be clearly marked in a manner that would keep it sacred and safe from accidental harm.
As I prepared to head back toward the Temazcal structure, intending to search the surrounding fields, I heard the sound of a machete chopping in the jungle perhaps one hundred feet away.
At first I was startled, wondering if the groundskeeper would be suspicious of my presence. It would have been so easy for me to slip by undetected and to simply ride away—yet a strong confident feeling guided me to walk over and approach him directly.
“Hola. My name is Brenda.” I began. “I was here in November at the Fiesta de Chicaban. At the end of the festival, I gifted a baby Ceiba tree to my friend Carmen who was going to make sure it got planted via a sacred Mayan ceremony—right here in Kaxan Xuul.”
“Is there a chance that you might know of the whereabouts of this tree?” I eagerly asked him in Spanish.
At first, the gardener seemed to be slightly confused by my request for information. He indicated for me to follow him as he led me right back to the very top of the earth-covered pyramid.
As we reached the fire circle, I spoke up again.
“It was right here where I gave the tree to Carmen … it was right here where Carmen left it.” I eagerly explained as I pointed to circle.
“Oh … yes … the little tree with a small brown sack of earth on its roots.” He replied with a newly found grin on his face. “It is safe over by the hut.”
With a scamper to his step, the groundskeeper eagerly led me back down the edge of the pyramid and indicated for me to follow him back through the open field of the Temazcal, right up to the small structure that sits near the entrance to the sacred site. Without pausing, he joyfully walked up to a three-tiered metal rack. On the top shelf were four potted plants. Three of them were flowering, but one was not. It was in a larger base—a makeshift pot created from thick, black, shiny plastic.
As the gardener carefully lifted this pot and placed it on the ground in front of me, I joyfully recognized the object of my search. There, carefully transplanted in about two gallons of rich dark moist soil, was my precious baby tree. Standing about one foot in height, the tree proudly displayed a bundle of very healthy looking leaves at its very top.
At last I had located my tree. A sense of powerful peace resonated through my soul as I recognized that the tree is indeed being loved and cared for. This little Ceiba will be planted at exactly the right place, at precisely the right time.
I may be there, and I may not—but I know that I will be back to see it sometime soon. If it takes a month or even a year, I have no doubts that I will one day see this sacred little Ceiba planted near the buried ruins of Kaxan Xuul.
At my request, the groundskeeper gave me his blessing to stay longer while he resumed his duties in the nearby field. After a quick nostalgic tour through the Temazcal structure, I stood briefly with my tree, gently caressing its trunk and leaves, sending it blessings of loving energy. A mere ten minutes later, I said my goodbyes, hopped onto my bicycle, and rode away into the beautiful late morning sun.
Joy and peace were my companions on that ride.
Swimming At Last
Twenty minutes and six kilometers later, I found myself enthusiastically coasting into the parking lot adjacent to the ruins of Ek Balam. But the ruins were not my initial destination. No, my first stop would be an infamous clearing in the jungle near the Cenote Xcanché. I would return to the scene where my favorite little jungle tick hungrily bit into my tasty flesh—the same place where my Zapotec friend Delfino, a man with such loving intentions, roasted a large crisp circle into my ankle—the same place that launched me into an incredible internal exploration of self discovery.
I briefly paused after completing a relaxing 1.5 kilometer ride down a remote dirt path to the rim of the Cenote Xcanché. It felt so strange to remember that the last time I was on this beautiful path, I was crying alligator tears of love as my friend Osiris rode with me in a bicycle taxi, helping to transport me and my seriously burned foot back to the edge of civilization. In another flashback, I momentarily reminisced about a life-and-death battle between a snake and a large frog in that very same spot. While these memories remain clear and vivid, they also seem as if they took place many years ago.
Minutes later, I stood in a jungle clearing just a hundred yards away. The ground was covered with new leaves, but I easily found the site of the scene that played before my memories like a slow motion movie.
Yes, that is where I was sitting right before the tick bit me … and yes, this here is the rock where I sat bawling my eyes out while Defino held a stick of glowing hot charcoal above the tick’s beautiful velvety black back—the same rock on which I sat when the Olmec Shaman José Manuel uttered those powerful words: “Brenda, there is a big difference between pain and suffering.”
As I meditated in these sacred surroundings I felt no painful or traumatic emotion. I experienced no feelings of victimization or regret. My heart was filled with gratitude, overflowing with love and peace. There is still no doubt in my mind that everything happened in this jungle exactly as it needed to happen. My personal growth here in Valladolid has been powerful, and I owe it all to the events that took place right here, in this small clearing during that amazing third week of November.
But soon I was off to finish another unfinished desire.
As I had patiently waited most of the afternoon in that jungle clearing almost eleven weeks ago, I had been determined to go swimming in the Cenote Xcanché—an opportunity that never actually materialized. All hopes of swimming were cut short by an innocent little jungle tick.
Today, I would fulfill that desire.
After a quick change in a nearby changing room, I eagerly skipped down the trail before descending a steep staircase that led down to the depths of the sacred Cenote below. Just as I arrived at the bottom, three other visitors were leaving the water, preparing for their climb up the stairs.
The timing was perfect. For the next thirty minutes I had the incredible blue water pool all to myself. After swimming out to the middle of the cool refreshing waters, I perched myself atop a large thick rope that stretched from one side of the Cenote to the other. In the middle, the rope conveniently sank about two feet below the surface—perfect to support me, allowing me to rest while keeping my head out of the water.
In complete silence, I sat there nearly motionless, listening, watching, feeling, and absorbing. The surroundings were so quiet that I could actually hear the occasional leaf splash into the water as it fell from the heights of the trees far above. As the birds in distant trees slowly resumed their cheerful chirping, I watched several small six-inch catfish swim near my feet. In a sense of heightened present-moment meditation, I inhaled my surroundings, feeling as if I never wanted to leave the incredible peace.
But after thirty minutes I knew in my heart that the time to leave was now. After swimming to the far side to briefly touch the incredible bundles of tangled hanging roots stretching from the distant surface above, I swam back to my entry point, wrapping myself in a towel.
Just as I reached the upper part of the stairs, a young family began to descend to the depths below. The universe had timed my silent visit with perfection—giving me all the alone time I needed, but no more.
A Tour of Peace
As I handed over my money to enter the archeological ruins of Ek Balam, I briefly queried about a possible guided tour. When I heard the price, over three hundred pesos (about $25 US), I immediately said thanks, but no thanks.
Engaging in a tour of the ruins was not my purpose. I was longing to simply sit with the energy of the ruins. It was my intention that after finding a quiet shady spot, I would simply enjoy the present moment—the views, the sounds, and the ambient energy.
As I neared the outer wall (one of three) of the ruins, I noticed a medium sized Ceiba tree growing by the side of the trail. The trunk, being perhaps two feet in diameter, was covered in thick, hard, sharp thorns—similar to very large rose bush thorns. Such thorns are a trademark of these amazing trees. As the trees grow even larger, they lose their thorns, but this particular three was still thick with the prickly little pokers. I am told that these amazing sacred trees can live as long as one thousand years—and they grow very large.
As I stopped to more closely examine the texture of the tree, I placed my hands on the trunk while maintaining a meditative stance—simply enjoying the present moment experience of sharing energy with nature.
Seeing what I was doing, a handsome Mayan man approached me a few minutes later as he walked down the same path.
“I love these Ceiba trees.” I told him as we began to engage in spiritual conversation.
After a few minutes of conversation, the man asked if I would like a tour of the ruins. Rather than telling him “No”, I instead asked him “How much?”
“My tours are 350 pesos for a tour in Spanish,” he began, “and 450 pesos for a tour in English.”
Even though I had already turned down an earlier tour, my feelings firmly guided me to reconsider. I queried him about how much he knew about the ruins. He told me that he lives in a small village just ten kilometers away, and that he has spent considerable time with the archeologists over the past fifteen years.
“I can tell you whatever you want to know.” He assured me.
I amazed myself when I said “Yes”, asking him for a tour in Spanish. Up to this point, our entire conversation had taken place in Spanish, and I was able to easily communicate with him in clear and understanding terms. Something told me that the experience would be well worth my time and money, and I was not about to resist those internal feelings.
The tour was delightful and inspiring, and yes, I was able to understand almost everything my guide said. Everywhere that he took me, we enjoyed our shared appreciation for the incredible energy that we both felt. Indeed, he and I recognized a sacred bond to these ruins. Words were not needed to communicate that fact.
As the tour progressed, I learned that my new friend’s name is Aurelio, and that he has a wife and three beautiful children—ages 16, 13, and 6—two boys and one girl. He told me how he helped the archeologists to explore the jungle in the entire twelve-square-kilometer area that makes up the ancient community of Ek Balam. Based on the number of dwellings that were discovered, the archeologists estimate that over twenty thousand Mayans once resided in this immediate area.
As our tour came to a close, Aurelio and I exchanged hugs instead of handshakes. I was truly blessed by a short encounter with a local Mayan man who deeply loves the spiritual nature of his heritage.
Soon I was doing what I originally set out to do—finding places to meditate among the ruins. After first spending some time leaning against another huge towering Ceiba tree, I climbed a smaller ruin that sits opposite the distant and towering Acropolis ruins, directly across the complex. Sitting in the shaded doorway at the top of these ruins, I sat in complete silence and isolation for over thirty minutes.
As I departed this energizing spot to explore another, I noticed that the area where I had been was soon crawling with a group of about ten tourists. Again, the universe had blessed me with thirty minutes of perfect isolation, while guiding me to move on exactly when it was time to move forward.
After enjoying two more spots, I ended up at the base of the towering Acropolis on the exact bench where I had sat while the Mayan Shaman Bartolomé spoke to us for over two hours. I was in the exact spot where I had witnessed a colorful, but ugly, venomous spider crawling on Bartolomé’s pant leg on the day right before my tick bite.
Could it be that the spider had been there for my entertainment—to get me thinking about poisonous spiders—to prepare me for my own internal lessons into fear and trust?
While sitting on the bench, I watched a nearby caretaker carving something in a chair by his hut about fifty yards away. Soon, the Mayan man began to take a stroll in my direction. As he stood about twenty five feet away, I called out to him.
“What are you making?” I asked him.
“I’m carving a Kukulkan,” he replied.
As I looked in his hand, he carried an intricate, almost-completed carving, of a snake-like body with its mouth and teeth showing. The ten-inch carving reminded me of many that I have seen in gift shops. My prior thought was that such carvings were mass produced. Today I learned otherwise.
In a delightful twenty minute conversation, I learned that these carvings take Edilberto about two days to create, and that he sells the finished product to earn extra money for his family. But his primary job is as a caretaker and guardian of the ruins of Ek Balam.
My new friend Edilberto is one of three men who live at the ruins, mostly full time. On rotating shifts, each man is able to return to be with his family only one day each week. Edilberto goes home every Thursday. While on duty, these three men take turns in their shift duties on a twenty-four hour basis—making sure that someone is always awake to watch and protect the ruins—making sure that no one comes to vandalize or steal the valuable artifacts contained within.
When I asked him about his family, I learned that Edilberto has four grown sons, the oldest being thirty and the youngest being twenty two. Edilberto himself is almost fifty three, just two years younger than me. What I also found quite interesting is that Edilberto and Aurelio live in the same small Mayan pueblo. When I asked Edilberto if he knew Aruelio, he revealed a huge loving smile as he replied “Yes, of course.”
As I said my gracious goodbyes to Edilberto, I nearly had to pinch myself. All throughout the day, events seemed to continuously line up perfectly.
I was repeatedly guided into conversations with local people—and every one of those conversations was meaningful and totally in Spanish. My success in communication amazed me—and that communication was not all with words—it was also accomplished with abundant loving energy—energy of spiritual recognition.
Even the cool dry weather was ideal. When the sun was out I always had shade to keep me cool. When I was out in the open, I always seemed to have slight cloud cover to shield the hot burning sun.
My confidence was flowing and radiating from within. It seemed as if I could do no wrong—as if everywhere I ventured and everything I touched turned magically to gold—perhaps not in a physical way, but in a very real emotional way.
The Journey Home
As I resumed my long journey home, the hot afternoon sun was shaded by jungle trees on the west side of the rode—a blessing that was totally unplanned but greatly appreciated. Only thirty minutes passed before I was only a mile north of Temozón.
To my amazement, as I passed by one small dirt trail that disappeared into the jungle, I witnessed three men dressed in full length white protective clothing and full bee-keeper’s veils. Each of the men carried two large wooden boxes from a beehive (called supers) strapped to his back. There were no trucks around, and the nearest building along the highway was at least a half mile away. As I looked back, I noticed that these men were now walking along the side of the road, headed toward the town.
“Could it be that they manually carry these heavy boxes filled with honeycomb all the way back to the village?” I pondered to myself.
As I rode away, my mind flashed back to my bicycle dream of April, 2009—the dream where the bees were climbing from the honeycomb-saturated string up onto my fingers. I could not help but draw the connection between the two events as I pondered whether or not the universe was giving me yet another little synchronous nudge in my own journey. Regardless of the message, I loved the visual imagery of the experience.
By the time I reached Temozón, my physical energy was seriously waning. My daypack was beginning to dig into my shoulders as a result of the excessive weight. In a protective stance, I had packed a few too many extra things just in case—things like an umbrella, a poncho, bicycle tools, a pump, and an extra inner tube, and even an extra change of clothes.
But while the final hour of my journey was indeed physically arduous and even somewhat painful in the shoulders and knees, I never lost the feeling of spiritual energy and aliveness. As I finally locked up my trusty bicycle in front of the hostel, I was practically limping as I struggled to regain my land feet—yet I was almost floating in the clouds from the exhilarating energy of having successfully completed an amazing journey—a journey that took me over forty miles to an magical reunion with the past, and a peaceful encounter with the present moment.
Prognosis: A Big Hug
Wednesday morning, I visited with Dr. Gomez for the final time as his burn patient. Prior to the visit, I felt a very nostalgic desire to maintain contact, hoping to at least come away with an email address with which I could contact Dr. Gomez at a later time. But before entering his office, my feelings guided me to say nothing, to not even ask. I completely honored those feelings.
After one final treatment and pronouncing me good-to-go, Dr. Gomez and I had a delightful conversation about our time spent together—a discussion in which both of us expressed that we would definitely miss our visits and conversations.
“Brenda, do you ever think you will return to Valladolid?” he asked.
“I definitely see myself returning, at least for a short visit.” I responded.
“I have an apartment that would be ideal for you if you stay for longer periods.” He resumed. “It has a small bedroom, cable television, internet, bathroom, and microwave—and it is a lot cheaper than what you are paying at the hostel. It is only 2500 pesos (about $200 US) per month.”
“Let me give you my contact information,” he continued, “so you will have a way to reach me if you come back and want to rent the apartment.”
Soon I had a card in my purse with both his email address and cell phone number. I probably won’t use it much for now, but it warms my heart to know that I have the contact info—and I didn’t even have to ask for it.
As Dr. Gomez walked me to his office door, what would have normally been a handshake and a simple thank was also topped off with a brief but warm loving hug. As I walked away, I felt a slight twinge of sadness at the thought of saying another goodbye to someone whom I have grown to deeply love and appreciate.
But I know the time has come to move on very soon. Valladolid has been an amazing internal journey. It is with deep emotion that I rapidly near the end of my unexpectedly long stay here, but I know that I have many more amazing journeys still to come. I cannot wait to see where these journeys might take me.
Saying goodbye after each transition in my journey is difficult, yet I realize that they are not really goodbyes at all. Wherever I travel, I am taking a piece of each friendship with me. I will never forget the beautiful memories that fill my heart with such powerful love.
Early next week I will make a new transition. After briefly returning to visit friends in Cozumel, I will soon launch into another adventure, destination unknown. I have yet to choose the next bicycle that I will take down from my ceiling—but I know it will be an amazing ride.
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved