The mornings are magical. I wake up and hear the birds, the horses, the roosters. My body finally in sync with the rest of the life around me. It's a relationship that has taken time to become rich and rewarding. It's been many days since I've been reluctant to get out of bed when my alarm goes off. And for a reason still unknown to me there is never rain in the morning.
As my feet hit the concrete floor I'm reminded of the chilly air from the night before, the same air that kept me sleeping so soundly. I walk blithely down between the banana plants and drooping ferns heavy with the drops from the night's rain. My first smile of the day blooms for my host mother as I greet her. "Como amaneció?!" How'd you wake up? I ask, smelling the smoke of the wood fire underneath the tortillas. "Bien, gracias a Dios." She responds.
I look out the back door and see the mist burning up, disappearing slowly. Glancing up I see the spiders' webs from the night before, but no spiders. A cup of coffee splashes down in front of me and my ritual begins, blowing the right side of the cup, creating a whirlpool to cool the hot liquid. Yodo, they sometimes call it, iodine, the cure-all. Should you forget your daily dose, you might be overtaken.
"Soñó algo?" She asks me, and I begin to recount the dreams I remember. My dreams have been vivid lately, as my mind has become calm. My environment is no longer a mystery to me despite it's infinity being no less rich. I tell her about the airport where my dream took place, and the TSA guards who gave me a hard time (bless their souls). She laughs at the absurdity of a machine that blows air through your clothes to check for explosives, and I reciprocate.
The chickens are tranquil relative to the madness that happens during the nightly moth boom. They're walking slowly, waking up just like myself. The Royal Rooster, who has feathers all the way down to and covering his feet, but is dirtier than most royalty, keeps us aware of his presence every minute or two.
Mornings are amazing, there's a lack of bugs, and the "morning twilight" as I like to call it, when the light is palpable, like it's rolling over the hills slowly, bathing everything in its warmth. The air is still crisp but can only be described in narrative, for the morning is a process just like anything else. I can only imagine it's particular glory in relation to the cold of the night and the heat of the day. It's a time when one can't help but be in the moment, letting life take its course.
"Sí me da chicha cuando las hormigas salen de la leña, cubierta en hormigas yo," says my host Mother. Nothing gives her more pleasure than to keep my stomach full and hear me laugh; I owe her more than I'll ever be able to pay back. And so I start another day, walk the thirty minutes downhill to town and hear the happy greetings of the third graders remembering they get an hour of English class with me today. Lucky doesn't begin to describe my life, I'm blessed.
