a. any road will take you there,

b. you don’t know where you’ll end up, and

c. you won’t know when you’ve arrived.

With this in mind, and also being quite a fan of Chris Guillbeau’s Art of Non-Conformity webpage, I’ve decided to follow his suggestion for a yearly review. Basically, I reflect on what went well in 2011, and what didn’t. Hopefully, this will enlighten the life path a bit, and help keep me on track to getting somewhere that I actually want to go.

What went well in 2011:

We immigrated to Canada in April. As a citizen of that country, this isn’t a huge thing for me, but it certainly is for my life with my partner/soul mate/husband. There are many things that I miss about life in Mexico however, and hopefully the opportunity to return will present itself in the near future. Living there provided us with wonderful moments with his family, and returning here has allowed us the chance to connect a lot with my family and friends.

We started paying off some student debt which feels wonderful.

I started a small business and this has certainly been one of the biggest rollercoaster events of the year. It is a challenge and a joy, and I look forward to growing it even more in 2012. In addition to my editing business, my book sales had a nice kick-off at the beginning of the year, when I sold them at Puerto Vallarta’s Old Town Farmer’s Market.

What didn’t go well in 2011:

My Spanish has significantly diminished since leaving Mexico. Something about not speaking it every day any more…

My trip to Uganda as part of my master’s program at Royal Roads University was a complete gong show. Some apparently knee-jerk reactions from HQ to some minor political scuffles in the capital city quickly ended that adventure. However, going back to Uganda was a delight, since leaving it at the end of 2007. I found myself so quickly sinking back into my Uganda-isms and activities, and I savoured the red dust on my sandaled feet again!

We didn’t do as many outdoor activities as we planned this summer. I think it was the combination of many things, including poor weather, finances, and Luis being quite busy at the new job.

Finally, we’re definitely not eating as well here as we did in Mexico, and I can feel that impact on my health. Although the garden produced some lovely additions to our meals, I miss my daily bowl of fresh tropical fruit! We splurge on occasion for an avocado, but it certainly isn’t the same as picking one off the tree.

All in all, we’ve been happy, we’ve been challenged and we have bright dreams for the future. Thank you 2011 for all that you’ve brought! Not that I want to complain too much, but I honestly am really looking forward to 2012, with the hope that it will bring a bit more success, joy, growth and community!

The Temezcal

The morning is surprisingly cool as we wind our way through the lowlands; past roadside stalls selling jackfruit and avocados and fried coconut haystacks. The highway is narrow and fraught with speed bumps and I inwardly curse the bureaucrat who likely has shares in the automotive suspension and tires business, and authorizes the repair of speed bumps before even thinking about the massive, car-swallowing potholes. Turning off the highway to the dirt track; we arrive late at the rancho, but it doesn’t matter because no one else is on time either.

Only Pancho is there, and in his quiet tranquillity he is busy making preparations; his brown hands move steadily, patiently. He is already stripped to the waist and wears only plain white trousers and a wide red beaded belt. He stacks volcanic rocks in a massive fire pit, surrounds them with thick trunks and sets it ablaze. He lays out a cloth on the ground, arranging drums and maracas, gourds, clay pots filled with tobacco, and offerings of fruit.

The sun has risen further. Small rays of light filter down through the canopy of trees above us, and I take off my sandals and make ridges is the cool earth with my toes, watching the preparations. Then the clattering, rusty station wagon, loaded down with the temezcaleros arrives. I am the only gringa amongst them all, pale skinned and light hair, here to be initiated in the ancient Mesoamerican ritual of the temezcal. Shivering, bare-footed in the mountains, and dressed only in a thin t-shirt and skirt, I watch the spiritual leader begin the cleansing ceremony with salutations and permissions to the four directions—the four elements—the four phases of life; he tosses a fistful of tobacco into the fire that still rages on in its sandy pit. I breathe slowly in the cool air and can’t take my eyes from the fire. This fire, meant to purify, to cleanse, the spirit, the body and the mind. I need this.

Low to the ground, each one of us crawls through the opening of the low, dome shaped structure, that signifies entering the womb of Mother Earth. The volcanic rocks are taken from the fire, and brought into the centre of the circle, each one being greeted as an “abuelita”—grandmother. The Temezcal leader explains, his deep voice filling the small, low space: The Earth, with these ancient stones from its core, are full of the history of the planet, and with such wisdom of their years, these ancestors can help us, today’s pilgrims, to connect with the most frightening enemy: ourselves! The uterus to which we have returned helps connect us with our emotions, and so we can be reborn again, like a child, full of openness.

The door closes and we are left in the darkness. Herbal water is poured over the glowing hot rocks and the steam fills the small room. I can barely make out the other figures, but we breathe and sweat in the intense heat together. The temezcaleros sing and bang on drums. We steam, we sweat. More abuelitas are brought in, to welcoming shouts. They pour more water and incense on the rocks, filling the air with a sweet, delightfully cloying scent. There is more fire, more steam, more sweat. I lean into the heat, into the steam, begging for its cleansing properties to reach to the depths of my injured spirit. I sweat out my anguish.

I can hardly breath for the thick sweltering air, the heat burns and every pore of my body breathes in the fire and water drips off of my eyeballs. I don’t know if it is sweat or tears in my eyes, but it doesn’t matter anymore. The temezcaleros sing the songs that have been sung since before history remembers: agua vita, purificame…vital water, purify me! Fire of love, burn my fear! Wind of the soul, take me to your alter! Mother Earth, I come back home to you!

When I can’t handle the intense heat any longer, I lay with my heart and my face in the cool sand. I can barely breathe. And then, the fourth and final puerta—door—is completed, and we ask permission of the earth to exit into the coolness of a Mexican afternoon. Limp, gritty with sand, faces covered in grime, body exhausted of all of its sweat, and yet joyfully, blessedly tranquil. I throw coconut shells full of cool spring water over my head, rinsing off the sand and sweat. The roads on this journey may be rough, but I am thankful for cleansing by fire, for the chance to be reborn again, a chance to live again.

This is a sweetly done video on the power of words. It highlights the idea that the words we choose actually make a difference. And I do appreciate that although it may appear to be gloomy weather throughout the video, it is actually classified as a “beautiful day” in the UK!