Belize I

I sat in the front, paddling the canoe through the delicate riffles on the Macal River. My boyfriend sat behind me--the rudder--steering us softly along. Vibrant birds chirp in the jungle canopy as we steer into a beach along a quiet eddy, filled with the carefree grace of buttery-yellow water lilies. We leave the canoe there.

And then onward we went, the next morning, like the little pilgrims of ruins, foliage, and grace that we were.

I stood in that cobbled street in early dawn, suddenly struck that everything I needed I already had with me, and I carried that entire sphere of charms in my backpack. I marveled there, at the edge of heat--insects singing the day alive--at this poignant buoyancy that gripped me with such a vast, liminal tenderness. A sudden deep peace held me, so lightly.

*

Here, the terrain sloped softly to the gentlest of rivers. There, the soft morning sun cast its pinkish morning glow against the softest of pale colors, peeling gently off the building.

Where would we spend our next night? I didn’t know, except that it would be encased in greenery, imagining yet more birds, singing their cheery unfinished tunes. A light mist was rising on the river as I watched, then turned and followed him down the cobbled hill, a few steps closer to whatever the day and its brilliance unfolded before us.

He turned and looked back at me, and I smiled. Yes.