It's been a while since I've written anything in my journal. I've had good intentions, but all for naught. I keep committing to doing more writing while actually doing less. I'm getting over my malaise, but I'm not entirely out of the doldrums yet.
I guess I have the excuse of having been busy, but that doesn't explain how I seem to have time for the beach and for walks and jungle explorations. More than short on time, I guess I've been short on inspiration as the day to day routine of life here grows less exotic, less blog-worthy, and San Pancho becomes more and more like home to me.
11 months into my sojourn here, I'm at what should be a good summing up point. But, try as I might, I can't seem to pull all the pieces together into a cohesive story with a beginning, middle, and end. I still feel like I'm on the first leg of this journey, still getting my bearings and adjusting, preparing for a voyage into something new.
I've only experienced one spring, summer, fall, and winter. Three weeks ago, I experienced my first winter gale. Every day I see a something new, something I've never seen before, or meet someone for the first time who feels like they could be a friend for life.
This week I experienced the first example of the winter weather so many have described to me as "perfect." I remember days like that in Hawaii. They often come at the end of the spring rainy season, before the tilt of the earth puts the sun directly overhead and the cool spring warms to summer. Never since my childhood have I experienced that particular sunny-cool embrace of climate, that angle of sun, that glittery, shimmering green light filtering through the leaves, falling like shards of stained glass on the grass. Never until this season in Mexico.
Even as I revel in the winter weather, I'm anticipating the low season when the snowbirds fly north to escape the heat, and much of the pueblo goes dormant. Businesses close, tourists disappear, and everything slows down. In the summertime the beaches are empty on weekdays. One can sit on the sand by the water for hours without seeing another person. Then, around sunset, people start to descend on the shore. On a busy day, a couple dozen or so might gather to watch the sun drop below the horizon, sharing a moment with their neighbors before the close of the day.
Late summer is the monsoon season. I wish to again experience the excitement of watching rain clouds gather on a hot day, and the relief when finally lightning bolts and claps of thunder turn anxious, sweaty speculation into happy anticipation of rain falling in torrents, filling the streets with water and cooling everything off. I want to run out into the rain and down to the beach to watch the lightning over the ocean and feel the cool breeze coming off the water on my wet skin.
Fall will come again, time for the San Pancho Days festival, Dia de los Muertos, and the worst weather of the year. I look forward to this, too. The hot, humidity soaked late fall climate is part of the cycle of life here. Living through the fall heat sweetens the high season, seasoning it with gratitude for the beautiful, cool, clear days; days like Monday of this week, when for a moment the perfect climate bathed everything, even the worst of the features of life here, in a rose colored light.
I'm finding my way back into my journal now. When the sink and appliances finally arrive at the community center, our little food project will get started. We'll be collecting and testing new recipes and learning about the eco-system, the economy, and food producers here in Nayarit and Jalisco as we try to build a food program for the pueblo. There will be a lot to reflect on and record, lots to write about.
I guess that's why I stopped writing these last weeks. I'm at the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. It was time to take stock and start over again.
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