OK, I’ll admit it, I left the cold tundra for the warm tropical breezes of Mexico last week, like so many other “snowbirds” from Wisconsin, Minnesota and other parts north.
I played hooky from work at the paper and flew, with an old friend, from Minneapolis to the Yucatan. We participated in “ecotourism” which meant sleeping in a tent covered by a palapa (the palm roof that keeps things cool), no electricity and communal bathrooms and showers.
We were back to summer camp, but as adults this time. We spent time swinging in a hammock while reading and occasionally looking out toward Cozumel Island where the cruise ships steamed away. Other daily activities consisted of lots of “corpse pose” yoga (flat on the back, hands at the side).
Also there were no organized activities, no cheerful camp counselor to make us get up and do something and no “Kumbaya” in the dining room.
My companion for the trip admitted she felt about nine years old, the age she took a snake to school for show and tell. The boy she was trying to impress promptly fainted at the sight.
The days filled themselves easily and after sleeping for up to 12 hours a night for three days plus naps I was finally rested enough to walk on the beach and loll around by the pool at the resort next door. Electricity and amenities were plentiful there and we were invited to share.
I understand this exhaustion is typical of grief. This break came at a perfect time for me, a few weeks following Dad’s death, although the trip had been planned for some time. I left my older brother and his wife here at the house looking after estate matters, and escaped the cold and reminders of sorrow.
Grief never quite left, but even that was good – time to think and remember uninterrupted. Feelings come in waves, I used to tell my therapy clients, and it is best to allow them to crest and fall, rather than attempt to stop them.
Waves relentlessly crashed on the Yucatan beach, steady and never ending. Close by were ancient Mayan ruins, reminders of time and change.
I returned home on Dad’s birthday. He would have been 85.
In the end, I remembered Dad’s words after my mother died. He loved her dearly and missed her terribly, I know. But he said, “I can be sad the rest of my life, or I can be happy. I choose to be happy.”
Me, too.
March 8, 2003