Everything is a Symbol of Love

Henry is an vietnam vet whose wife helped him figure out he could claim a psychological disability pension. He travels. She doesn’t. Because she’s afraid of the places he goes. Like Mexico. They let each other have boyfriends or girlfriends. As long as they don’t move in, he says. I met him at Chabela’s place.

Chabela is a Quebequois woman whose has been living in Mexico for 15 years. She just got back from working at a Buddhist monestary in Arizona with her 14 year old, 11 year old, and 8 year old. She owns the place where I’m staying. She is kind, and she works hard. Her husband, a Mexican man she shared her life with, died a year ago from lung cancer. When she speaks about him her sadness and pain still show. But Mexico, and this place, are still her home. 

It is the island that is not really an island. Henry says years ago it was a special place. The beaches where nude beaches, and, you could sleep on them. it was a fishing village with lots of fish. It still seems like a special place to me, even if Che’s net only pulls in 500lbs of fish a day instead of 2000lbs. His oars are still made from pieces of wood nailed into poles. Henry still buys his weed by the pound.

But he’s looking for a new place. Time to move on. Henry doesn’t like to stay anywhere too long. Things change. Things always change. He knows hundreds of songs on the guitar, not to perform for you, though if you’ll listen he’ll play, but to be his medicine, to be his company, to be the promise of companionship as he grows old.

Chabela’s oldest, Vincent, walked me to the dentist this evening. The dentist starts here at 4:30 in the afternoon. I could take a boat to the city, like I was planning, and probably have a much nicer clinic. But something about Jesus and his one room dentist office feels right. He’s good people. He remembered Vincent from when he had been there as a younger boy, when his father was still alive. When he sat me in the chair he started right away talking about the hygenics of the tools he was using. He told me I need less work than I thought, and his prices are less than I expected.

I’m here. I can relax. It’s working out good. I can stick around and help fix up the place for cheaper rent. The gathering I also came to Mexico for is more than two weeks away. The Huichol paintings on the yellow walls of my room are enough to convince me to stay.

Some things change. Some things stay the same.

Healing. Letting go. Remembering what it means to love. Loving myself. Loving life. Loving everything. I used to have a patch on my backpack. It was there for years. I finally took it off before this trip because it was so old and worn. It\s not on my bag anymore, but I keep it in my heart. It said,

‘Everything is a symbol of love.’