We were sitting out last night talking on the veranda or as we jokingly call it,
The talk is about everything it seems but mostly daily life and the things we do here. Merida has this graceful slowness in our neighborhood. There is a rhythm of life sometimes I think here even in in the elegant unplanned slowness. The city here seems to slow down at night. At least in our neighborhood. People walk by and conversations wander to my open window. The lilting and sometimes singular beauty of the Spanish language astounds me often. It sounds musical and mysterious at times so it seems that allure heightens my feeling of casual tonality that life brings. When I left all the counters behind and decided it was like my mom said,
Life is a matter of living making each moment count.
We all need to find that zone I think so I wake up each morning with those somewhat quiet birds singing to my day. I remember the evening talking, eating popcorn, sharing the beers I bought. It seems like these notes are placed on the paper but in completely random sequences.
Do this. Don’t do that. Do little sometimes but always take the morning coffee with a cookie and banana. Feel how graceful moments really are when you make them count. Or not. Sometimes in opposition to my mom since I did that a lot as a kid, we need to make moments not count. Maybe by letting them go to their headwind we actually are making them count. It sounds rather Zen that to not count is a form of counting. To not decide is deciding.
I also have felt the swing of these years slowly bring me to new points on my own compass. Like that wanderer who seeks the true north but finds the magnetic. Off a bit and it is okay. A message from Vietnam comes to WhatsApp. My wonderful Lily wishing me a good morning with smily faces and love. Wanting me to come back to her, to safely travel those miles and find those other shores. It makes me remember other times.
All of that beauty where I once lived. When the lake also gave up secrets but kept others. We then sat around and talked and dreamt, saw just how random each current was but yet planned by some master stroke.
And it all becomes my daily rhythm. Life with no bearings becomes this slow passage where each day gives all to me yet I ask for none of it. Someone asked me once what retirement was like forever going. Truth is I don’t forever go. I just go as I please where I please. And often, so often, it means finding a place to stop.
That is how Merida has become in just a short while to me. A playground of things I enjoy. History and culture, food and beer. People and things out there meant to be found or lost. Much like wandering in Hanoi where a street never walked yielded pleasures and sometimes a pain knowing perhaps I would never find that particular street again. When I left Vietnam, I had that same sensation but then I also created a next rhythm of life and that created something for me. Trains and cities. Those rails sparked those days. Now Merida does the same for me here.
Think on it dear readers. We all want and search and need meaning. What if there is none. What if our vaunted beliefs are just that. In the end it would be like AFT told me once,
it was the journey, hopping the rail car, the going. Where we ended was a small concern.
So it is AFT. So it is.