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 along. Vibrant birds chirped in the jungle canopy as we steered into a beach along a quiet eddy, filled with the carefree grace of buttery-yellow water lilies. We left 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 the cobbled street that 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 in this found moment, at the edge of heat--insects singing the day alive--and at this poignant buoyancy that now gripped me with such a vast, liminal tenderness. An open peace held me.

*

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

Where would we spend our next night? I didn’t know, but it would be encased in greenery, imagining yet more birds, singing radiant, fluid 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 in its brilliance would unfold before us.

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