Gratitude

Vacation days start as slow days that move at a pace where it seems an eternity remains before I have to return to reality.  All too quickly, time accelerates, and the precipice that seemed so far away is now the edge upon which I stand.  While living my days on the splendid beaches of Mexico, I remind myself that I need to take time to be grateful before I mope my way back to my seat on the return flight home.  I never use to take the time for gratitude, but for the past four years, it has become a treasured tradition – one that is equally as valuable as Mexico itself.

I pack for vacation in the same way most people do; I bring the typical items:  swimsuits (you can’t be photographed in the same one all week), too many clothes (that never get worn), books, cosmetics, sunscreen, and much more.  All of this is smashed into an already bulging suitcase.  I have repeated this process for my Mexican vacations for the past 13 years.  Usually, I wind up removing several pounds of magazines, books, and journals in order to avoid additional airline charges.  This results in stretched arms lugging my now too heavy carry-on bag around the airport questioning my decision to bring so much, but knowing that all of it might, just might, be needed.

My sister also packs as I do – too much and with the intention that next year she’ll bring less.  Cindi is the older sister I always wanted but didn’t know I had.  The story of our meeting is one that I love to share, but in its entirety is best left for another time.  Cindi calls daily, sometimes several times.  Her gifts are always perfect, and she laughs at the same things only I have ever found funny.  On the night we met, three and a half years ago, I knew that I had met my soul sister and our fates were entwined – forever and always.  And in that forever, Mexico would become a shared sanctuary.

“Cindi?” I asked, looking up from my tummy position on one of Grand Casino’s not so grand beds.

“Yes?”

“Want to go to Mexico in June?”

“Sure!”

That was that!  No questions were asked about hows or whys or details.  We had known each other all of two hours, and we were already planning a vacation together.

Packing for that first, eagerly anticipated trip wasn’t unusual, with the exception of one tiny item…one item that didn’t affect the weight of my silver suitcase.  I chose to bring a shell – FROM Minnesota to Mexico.  A shell.

It wasn’t just any shell.  It was and is the shell with which my sister and I use to burn white sage.

I learned that the local Ojibwe tribe believes that the smoke from white sage carries prayers upwards to those who can hear such things.  We had used this same shell to say a shared prayer at the gravesite of our father.  I wasn’t sure why I had brought the shell to Mexico, but it was a quick and decisive decision.  Sealed in a Ziploc baggie, in the inside padded pocket of my suitcase, was a palm-sized white shell with a bundle of new, dried sage ready – just in case.

Our vacation days were spent sunning our Minnesota white bodies, eating guacamole and chips, and pretending to read while sitting mesmerized by the greatest lady of all…the sea.  We would greet her daily and try to collect the treasures of sea glass and shells that were being offered.  This routine was broke only to sample new exotic foods or to watch the salsa dance lessons by the pool.

On our last night, we lingered on our wooden loungers for longer than in previous days.  Other family members had gone inside to pack, to eat, to finalize and wrap up their time in Mexico.

“Let’s just stay out here,” I said.

“I agree.  I don’t want to go…ever,” Cindi said as the salty breeze blew across her closed eyes. 

Neither of us moved – such stillness and calm broken only by the in and out of shallow breathing.  Time released the moon and let her rise just to the right of us.  She was placed just above an outcrop of rocks where the sea splashed her white foam over the jagged horizon line.  Our feet were covered with a thin layer of fine sand, and the towels upon which we sat were still slightly damp.

“I’m so happy Dad finally brought us together,” I said.  Turning my head to look at my sister, I reached out to grab her tanned hand.

“Me too,” she said, squeezing my hand in return.

Expelling air in a struggled sigh, I sat up and forward with my legs splayed on either side of my chair.  Reaching for my blue woven beach bag, I felt for the baggie that I had placed in there earlier that day.

“I brought this just in case we want to pray or meditate or…” I hesitated not knowing what else to include.

In one swift movement, Cindi sat up and was facing me.  She gracefully and gently placed the bag in her hands.

“Is this?”

“It is,” was all I could say.

“Let’s go closer to the sea,” she said.

Without waiting for a response, we rose, collected our belongings and started the short distance to the first row of chairs closest to the ever-growing high-tide waves.  Placing the empty baggie in my beach bag, Cindi set our shell on a small brown table.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Yes.”

The first two clicks of the lighter resulted in no flame, as the steady breeze made it difficult to stay lit.

We cupped our hands, creating a shelter, and the third time gave us the results we were seeking.

White sage smolders.  White sage smokes.  There is little flame, just sparks that red glow.

Following the thin smoke trail upward and toward the moon, we both smiled at the star that was now visible and meant for just this moment.

“Dad.  Thank you for the gift of each other.  We know you wanted this meeting to happen sooner, but that wasn’t our path.  We are happy and want to thank you for your guidance, protection, and love.”

“Thank you, Dad,” Cindi managed through her now stinging eyes.

Both our eyes glowed brighter than the moonbeam reflections off the sea.  Each of us remained quiet in our own meditations for several minutes while we alternately cared for the sweet-smelling smoke curling around our gratitude and carrying it upwards towards our star.

Taking one last look at the turquoise waves through tall palm trees, I now realize that the melancholy I have always felt upon leaving has been laced with a thankfulness that I will carry throughout the next year.  We will return and our gratitude ceremony is destined to become an annual ritual.  I am thankful for the sea, the sand, Dad, my sister, and all that is Mexico and all that is family.  Soon, we will share with our children what is means to send gratitude upwards in a puff of smoke.