Pause for Reflection

Michael and I's journey officially ended last Friday. We waited on our familiar street corner, where for the last two weeks we stood in our green volunteer shirts to head to work in Guatemala City. Now the street, still strangely familiar under our feet, was empty. Antigua was quiet. Gone were the chicken buses, packed full of Guatemalans, the ayudante leaning out the open door, selling space that didn't exist. Gone were the street vendors, young girls in colorful woven dresses, petit, young hands, but old eyes, years of life hidden in the depths of their murky, dark irises. We stood alone, quiet in our own nostalgic thoughts, waiting for the airport shuttle. We left each other much the same way, walking down separate tarmacs, Michael back to the U.S., myself to Costa Rica for ten days of traveling. Climbing into my airplane seat, I felt a little uncomfortable jumping across three countries to my destination. So many thousands of miles we were on the road, moving through landscapes that changed as we did. I have just now been able to sit and write this last chapter. As if writing it down would close the book, leather tassles wrapping themselves around the cover, sealing the stories as memories, something to uncover years later in a shoebox in an attic, a timecapsule, a forgotten past.

This past week I have been formulating these thoughts into words, cruising through tropical roads on a scooter, acutely aware of myself, my feelings, the sun on my arms as I turned the throttle with a light flick of my wrists, the countryside passing by me unframed by windows, unburdened by air conditioning and music. My mind would linger on little moments. Conversing naturally in Spanish with David, alone in the warehouse, 90's music blaring, counting 50 toothbrushes at a time for hours, laughing at insignificant things, working through our own thoughts alone, but somewhat together.

The stunning beauty of a beach brings me back to my scooter. A rocky peninsula, with searing cliffs, brimming with trees, a deep full green that contrasts with the emerald water of the cove. Moving back into the vegetation, the speed a of my vehicle transforms the greenery into a colorful tunnel. A portal back into my memories. I see Soyver's eyes... Alive with creativity. Affectionate. Excitement. He was not even one of my students from the film class I briefly taught, where the kids, interested, but detached, cared more about impressing one another than learning the lesson. Soyver came behind me and touched my shoulder as I prepared for the lesson with my camera, fascinated in my every movement, sitting with me as I edited some footage. Sitting with me later as I checked an email, a mundane task that somehow he found mesmerizing. Finally gathering the courage to make a request, he quietly asks if we can make a movie. Smiling, I nod, and we recruit his cousin Roberto and walk to the garden. Lost in a childlike reverie, pulsing with imagination, I directed them through a wild plotline, all of us eagerly moving through the story, fluidly. I was affirmed in my passion for filmmaking. Children are our best critics. What is alive inside all of us, they sense and hold onto with zealous fervor. We rushed over to the shade and replayed our movie, giggling at the little images of ourselves that unfolded on my tiny viewfinder.

There. A pelican sweeps into view. I slow my bike to watch as it magestically soars towards the water with purpose, to some hidden destination just beneath the blue expanse of the sea. It's slender neck and beak poised like a dancer in all of her grace.

The night before leaving Guatemala, Michael and I shaved our travel beards, tufts of hair falling to the floor. Somehow, facial hair had become part of our identity on this journey. They connected us together and to those we saw as companions. I remember the moment I gazed into the mirror with such clarity. I remember the face looking back at me. A stranger. I want to ask this vision before me what is behind those eyes that eludes me? What have they seen? What does this man have to say? Who has he become? His expression creased into a grin, joining the reflection to my own. The bathroom light flickered off, enveloping the room into the warmth of darkness.