Panama - April 2023
My Love.
Four years have passed, but it seems like another lifetime ago. I had all but given up hope that I’d ever feel your arms around me again. The gates of the world slammed shut. I had no choice but to let you go.
I tried so hard to move on. To forget. I allowed the 9 to 5 drudgery to consume me. Photographs and souvenirs and memories faded. Family, wilderness, crafting my little cabin. These kept me going. But the void of your absence. The pain in my heart.
My sweet girl. Hey. It’s okay now. Just lay your head on my shoulder and let me hold you. Just lie here a while and rest. Just be with me.
It’s like starting all over again. My footsteps are softer, gaze gentler, smile more natural. Gone is the bravado that I had conquered you; the certainty that I knew almost all of your secrets. The essence of my calm is post-traumatic. I must go easy now. Gratitude permeates my every atom.
The other life I spend too much time inhabiting has all but vanished from my consciousness. I sway back and forth in the hammock. The hot breeze sighs through the valley, rustling palm fronds. Tropical percussion. My eyelids droop. What is it that I do back there? Where am I from? What day is it? I am unable to conjure thoughts of anywhere but here. All I know is now.
Panama is a paradise hiding in plain sight. So often overlooked in favor of its trendier neighbors, it is a lush, wild place filled with flamboyant creatures. Fertile soil for the rebirth of my heart. Of course, you would beckon me here. You always know exactly what I need.
You have always been my sanctuary.
So much for the pre-dawn hike through the jungle that I had envisioned. Sunrise over the sleeping crater. The power is out. Not even the moon to guide me. I gather my things, then set them down. Don’t be foolish. It’s not the darkness, but the vague and sometimes difficult path.
At first light, I venture to the trail. Markers are nonexistent. If it weren’t for the app on my phone, I would lose myself. I ascend. Waterfalls trickle into stagnant pools. These winds herald the beginning of the rainy season.
The summit appears. A lone man is seated on the bench. He leans back and tosses his head, besotted with his fabulousness. He’s wearing either a Speedo or bikini underwear under a short day-glo orange wrap. It’s probably wise not to contemplate this further. The same wind that knocked out the power billows across the crater. I steady myself and continue towards the summit, to the trail on the other side.
Mr. Fabulous stands up and turns to me. “Take my photo, please.” It is a command, not a request. He catches my raised eyebrows at his hiking attire and shrugs. “It’s too hot to hike in jeans.” He hands me his phone. “Take many.” He poses on the edge of the ridge. I hit the button several times. “Now from this angle.” He put his hands on his hips and gazes into the distance. I roll my eyes and oblige for the sake of tourist etiquette and hand the phone back to him. “Thank you.” He heads back down the trail.
I come to rest on the bench, anchoring myself against the wind. An odd combination of energy and languor infuses my cells. Damn, I feel good. I once read that when you find yourself in a place of regeneration, a power spot, you feel an overwhelming urge to lie down and sleep. I wait for a gust of wind to pass before I rise from the bench.
The power is back when I arrive at the cottage. The first stabs of a migraine vanish after two cups of coffee. I curl into the hammock and close my eyes.
Tell me a story of this mystical place, so it may intertwine with mine, like all of the others you have whispered to me.
Long ago, during the time of the Spanish invaders, a tribe of warriors inhabited the crater of the great volcano. The Chief’s daughter, Airflower, was a rebellious girl. She fell in love with a Spanish soldier. Yuravi, a warrior from her tribe, threw himself from the top of a mountain when he learned his love for her was unrequited. Ridden with guilt that she may have betrayed her tribe, Airflower abandoned her true love, lost herself in the rainforest, laid down and died. Her sad silhouette now graces the valley for eternity.
Love is always a mystery and a miracle. The devastation once it is lost. Do you ever really recover?
I may be able to exist without you, but I cannot live.
Another early morning hike along another section of the rim. The wind is relentless. Just below the summit, I teeter on the edge of the trail. The pounding of my heart drowns out the wind’s howl. The fall over the edge probably won’t kill me, but it would hurt and the climb back up would suck. A rush of vertigo, then panic. I duck behind the windless side of the peak and drop into a squat. There is nothing to hold onto. I’m all alone up here. I breathe through the fear, then head back down the mountain.
How sad that I journey alone, they say. The road is so dangerous for a solo female! Their concern is tinged with resentment. My safety and happiness are irrelevant. They really just want me to be like them. To be afraid of the world. Of the universe inside of me. To desperately search for someone to fill the emptiness. I’m not interested in being someone’s “someone”.
A vast virtual marketplace now exists, where one can browse for humans for hours upon hours. With a flick of the wrist, one is either dismissed or kept as an option. Because never have there been so many. One must not limit oneself. The abundance of choice has somehow caused a scarcity mentality to flourish. Vague parameters, so as not to reduce possibilities. No true thought is given to desired qualities. It is customary for males to introduce themselves with a photo of genitalia, which may or may not be theirs. All communication is through a screen. Platitudes and two-dimensional drawings that are said to symbolize emotion. Because emotion has become two-dimensional. Background checks must be run before venturing beyond the screen. Dating behavior has become so toxic and nuanced as to merit its own vocabulary: catfishing, ghosting, breadcrumbing, benching, lovebombing. Dick pic.
I am supposed to believe this wasteland is preferable to my solitude. That my standards are too high. No standards are too high when it comes to the heart. I’ve paid my dues; spent way too much energy and time at the mercy of worn out patterns. The eternal quest to save my father by attempting to rescue hollow men beyond salvation. Then, later on, basing my worth on how much I contribute to another’s happiness. I had nineteen solid years of love. Love that is deep enough to understand when it no longer serves either to remain in union. Love that will always persist, although in a different version.
Finally, I know what I want: You. In human form. The very thought scares the hell out of me. Yet I will accept nothing less.
How to explain the comfort of navigating a strange land alone? The empowerment it brings.
I am the sole gringa on the bus, the metro, in the swarming mercado de mariscos. Bright, inquisitive looks and shy greetings. I wish I had learned more Spanish before this trip. Yet, so much can be said without words. Never do I feel more at home than when I am immersed in you.
You will never tell me I’m too strange. As my youth seeps away with the passage of time, you find me more beautiful than ever. My depth fascinates rather than intimidates you. You will never string me along, make promises you know you can’t keep, or take me for granted.
Now: up a river, through the rainforest, in a dugout canoe. So tame in comparison to the other one you transported me to, all those years ago. You wish to teach me something new. What do you have in store for me?
Deep within the jungle: a village. I am not the only visitor today. A small group congregates in the main house. I observe them more than the tribe. Their wonder and expansion. And I understand: each individual who honors his or her curiosity has their own version of you.
Some of the younger villagers gather around me. I live by a river, too, I wish to tell them. In the wilderness. With my family. They peer at the photos on my phone. My river flanked by snow-draped pines, my cabin, the naked branches of my woods superimposed against impenetrable gloom. Everything cloaked in white under the sky’s gray shroud. Their eyes widen and they shudder. Then I show them a photo of my rabbit in her little cardboard house. The sparkle returns to their eyes. Maybe my life has color after all. Even so, their smiles tell me they will never envy the pale visitors. Even with our sturdy houses, shiny cars and fancy gadgets. They have the jungle and their community. So much more than enough.
And so our time together draws to a close. This time. Inside me: effervescence instead of despair. Perhaps I am beginning to understand the most intricate and difficult lesson of all: how to discern codependency from unconditional love. I carry you inside of me, always. With true love, there is never separation.