Meditations

“What the fuck are you doing in Mexico?” scathed a thought during meditation.

A beat… two… then, “I AM HEALING,” roared my inner Capitana, much to my surprise and delight. Usually I am cowed by these raging judgments and scornful doubts, and tuck my head in like a turtle resisting attack. But not this time. I faced the wave, and surfed the criticism. 

Yep, I am healing. 

“It takes as long as it takes,” said La Jolla lifeguard Jesse when he helped with the stingray cut last year. “Every body is different.”

Patience was never my strong suit. Sigh. 

It rained yesterday in Mazatlán, and the streets flooded quickly. I went and mucked about in it, singing. Raised in a state of drought, I love water — period. Habibi was fine, no leaks, still bobbing at the dock.

Another meditation. And compassion for my brother arrives. He stayed with the crazy lady, our mother. He drank the same Kool-Aid after I left, as did his daughter. Of course they are confused and rude. So was I. Maybe they are healing too.

“It takes a good five years to figure out what’s going on,” said a Women in Film speaker back in June 2014. She ain’t kiddin’. Times ten.