Brenda's Bicycles

I am filled with deep gratitude as I reflect on the events of the last few weeks—events that were culminated in a beautiful way on Thursday evening. Lately, I have spent considerable time connecting with friends and family, and the level of unconditional love and support that I have received has been overwhelming and deeply inspiring. To all of you—and you know who you are—thank you so much for sharing in the excitement and passion of my upcoming adventures.

On Thursday evening, a few friends had arranged to have a small send-off dinner for me. Through a series of ‘seeming-coincidences’, the gathering doubled in size and there were seven of us—and the evening became very magical indeed. After dinner, we decided to ‘circle up’ over at the new Journey facility, which is in the final stages of being ready for new experiential healing workshops. We ended up staying there for over two hours of deep spiritual communication. My eyes were frequently flowing with tears of gratitude, as my dear friends poured out their love and support for me. The magical experience could have continued all night, but alas, I needed to set off for the airport. I know it sounds trite, but this was indeed a night that I will always remember.

Michelle dropped me off at Salt Lake City International Airport at about 11:15 pm. I haven’t flown on a “red-eye” flight for decades, but for some reason, this time it just felt right. The check-in process went smoothly, and shortly after 1:00 am my plane was zooming down the tarmac and whisking me off into the great unknown.

The flight to Atlanta was exhausting. Before attempting to get some rest, I chatted with the young man in the seat next to me. He was on his way from Portland Oregon to Richmond Virginia to meet up with his wife, the “Maid of Honor” who was helping her best friend prepare for a Saturday wedding. Before I knew it, I was startled by the jerking sensation as the front tires of the airplane gently screeched down on the tarmac in Atlanta.

With a six hour layover in Atlanta, I tried to make the best possible use of my time—getting some much needed sleep. I spent three hours in and out of an “almost-sleep” state on an awkwardly-shaped uncomfortable airport bench. Feeling semi-rested, I finally gave up my ‘quest for rest’ and decided to rejoin the world of the living. I snagged a whopper at the “Concourse-A” Burger King, and was scouting around for a place to devour it when a nice gentleman looked my way and said “There’s room for you to sit here if you like.”

I sat my soft drink down and began eating while the two of us chatted. While our conversation began casually, it soon became a meaningful dialogue about getting out of our heads and into our hearts, and listening to our own internal voices rather than the voices of the world. Jamie, my new friend, had recently followed his heart to accept a new job, and was embarking on a journey to Finland to meet up with new business associates. It was not long before I had shared a summary of my life story and Jamie was reading my blog on his I-Phone. I see that he already posted a comment on my first blog entry. Thanks Jamie, I really enjoyed meeting you too.

The final leg to Cozumel was a relaxed two and a half hour flight across the southern states and the Gulf of Mexico. I was filled with eager anticipation as the Eastern Coast of the Yucatan Peninsula came into view far below. Soon, at 2:13 pm local time, my plane was racing down the Cozumel runway, with the powerful brakes grinding us to a rapid halt. I smiled as the plane swerved to the right, and then performed a large U-turn smack-dab in the middle of the same runway on which we had just landed. That was the first sign that we were at a very small airport. The second came as I lugged my heavy backpack and carry-on suitcase down a steep staircase directly onto the hot tarmac below.

Customs was a breeze, and I was soon walking out into the open-air frenzy of taxi and limo drivers calling out in a thick accent things like: “What hotel are you going to?” I calmly smiled and announced that a gentleman named “Arturo” was picking me up. Immediately a kind middle-aged Mexican man smiled and said “I am Arturo.” As we drove toward my new apartment, Arturo and I attempted to communicate. He spoke in his awkward English, knowing just enough to barely get by. I did the same in my awkward Spanish. It soon became very obvious that when it comes to the Spanish language, I have a great deal to learn. Yes, I know basic survival Spanish, but my vocabulary is probably that of a three-year old.

“That is one of the markets.” Arturo told me as we drove by a run-down older building that looked nothing like I might have envisioned. Before I could get my bearings, we soon turned down another small street and stopped in front of a small two-story home. I easily recognized my new apartment from the photos that I had seen earlier. My two-bedroom duplex was on the upper floor, with a steep ceramic-tile staircase leading up the right side of the off-white concrete building, culminating at my own private entrance. Just like in the pictures, there was a small metal spiral staircase that led from there up onto the roof.

Arturo insisted on carrying my heavy bags up the steep flight of stairs. The largest two were 50 pounds and 49 pounds respectively, stuffed with everything I imagined that I might need for an extended stay—clothing, toiletries, computer and phone equipment, snorkeling equipment, and a few books. My heavy carry-on suitcase was stuffed with more precious belongings, the main thing being all of my journals from the last 12 years—journals that I need to help remind me of details as I work on my book. My backpack, also serving as my purse, was overstuffed with my critical belongings such as my two laptops that will serve me in my writing and in my communication with the outside world.

I love my apartment. It is fully furnished, with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a sunken den, kitchen, dining room, laundry room (with washer/dryer) and two small balconies. The floors throughout are all ceramic tile, and the furnishings are all quite new. In fact, the owner tells me that she just built the upstairs apartment one year ago, so it is almost brand new.

The only thing that will take some getting used to is the humidity. Because of the high cost of electricity, she opted to not install air conditioning—which would have cost $300-$500 per month to operate. So I get to depend on large ceiling fans in every room, open windows, and a slight morning and evening breeze. Yesterday and today have been especially muggy, but Arturo assured me that it is not always this humid. Even so, I know I will love it here.

After getting a quick tour of my duplex/apartment, Arturo departed and I was left with the daunting task of deciding “What now?” I opted to spend the next four hours unpacking and getting my internet and wireless router functioning. By the time I actually ventured outside, it was early evening, the sun was low in the sky, and I was tired, hungry, and quite disoriented. I had no maps, there are no tall landmarks around, and the sun was low enough that I could not tell exactly where it was, and I had no idea where I was. I knew that the waterfront was only five blocks away, but I didn’t exactly know which way. I knew that there were two markets only two or three blocks away, but again, I might as well have flipped a coin to figure out “which way” they were. So I just started walking.

It immediately became quite obvious that I was not in a tourist area—I was in a very authentic Mexican neighborhood. The streets were narrow and crowded with small buildings and shops. Overhead power lines tangled everywhere, and construction sites and noises were common. The locals were all speaking Spanish, and I have to admit I didn’t understand hardly any of it. I did not hear one word of English spoken anywhere around me.

Being on a scouting mission, and being oh-so-tired as I was, I opted to just walk and observe, without attempting any interaction. I walked about two blocks in one direction and realized that the streets were not well marked, and that I could easily get lost and never find my way back to the apartment. So I turned around, walked back, and began to be very observant—carefully trying to memorize the area and figure out which way was which. I walked two blocks in another direction and realized that the run-down building across the street looked like a market. “I’ll just go in and buy some basic groceries, take them home, have a simple dinner, and crash.” I told myself.

It was not long before I handed my 500 peso bill to the cashier, received my 238 pesos in change, and I trudged my four plastic bags of precious food back to my apartment. I had opted for an easy familiar dinner—a plate of spaghetti topped with my favorite Prego sauce—minus the meat.

After filling my stomach, I was happy and content, but I have to admit I was starting to ask myself “Are you sure you really know what you are doing? Are you sure you want to be here? Can you really do this and make this experience work?”

As I breathed deeply and pondered, the answers to my three questions were easy: “No, I have no idea what I am doing here, but I have absolutely no doubt that this is exactly where I am supposed to be at this point in my mortal existence. Yes, I absolutely want to be here, I am excited to be here, I am enthralled with anticipation to find out what this adventure will bring. Yes, I can do this, because I don’t really have to do anything other than be in the moment each day and let the experience flow through me.

© Brenda Larsen, 2009