On Mancora

In Mancora I am soft about the shoulders, lilted in my speech. Here I tell them all about anchoring the tailbone in a language that is not my own, in words that I use to construct a semblance of what fully occupying the body means to me.  Instructing a bound twist in Spanish becomes a yoga of it's own, and I'm finding potency in my fingerpads- to use the spread of collarbones or the grounding of ankles in a correspondence that floats far above didactic. I've become laconic. I'm the intimate stranger sprinting spans of beach between each cue. Together we move away from the clench behind the jawline through an unspoken release of hips. In just one day, I've generated more cooling in the space below the navel than I've felt in the deep lakes of the past three lifetimes I skip stones across.

There's an eloquence unspoken of my sentiment towards the red sarong; it's become the scarf to keep ropy hair, brushed only by wind's fingers, in tow. The makeshift dress I wrap around the crease of hips and float across a sunken terrace. Should I ever decide to shower again, it will be my towel (but this is unlikely). Tying coins to the corners an
d slinging it across a sand speckled shoulder it becomes my knapsack. It's the yoga strap I weave across the the crook of elbows to spread open the back ridges and rounded pleats of heart. At night when I fling open the window to welcome in the waves, the sarong becomes my bedspread. In a world where everything is so new in it's presence and persistence, it has become my home.

Someone here told me he couldn't remember where he had left his shoes, and how happy that made him. We haven't felt anything but sand and waxed wood beneath our feet for days.

And what of coconuts? I consider any other form of prayer, save for the yearning and fulfillment of this most precious fruit, sacrilege. My most meditative experiences in the past week have been on the present moment awareness felt by savoring the curled flesh of a coconut, raised to my lips on a cold silver spoon that reminds me of tasting someone else. Alone, I laugh out loud because I don't believe I've ever felt such gratitude towards nourishment before; never knew something to be so whole in it's offering.

 I've said it several times, and think it even more, I count coconuts and blessings to be of one and the same. My time here has been the most blessed I can remember, both from this lifetime and the ones that came before it.