{ my little corner of the world }

and i could see for miles, miles, miles

On the plane ride home, I told myself that it was all too appropriate that the name of what became our island was “Providenciales.”

“Occurring at a favorable time; opportune.”

“Involving divine foresight or intervention.”

 

All of the above.

My travels were, in every way, providential.

Without any exaggeration or hyperbole, it was the absolute best week of my entire life. I have never been more at peace with myself, my world, and the path before me — I was, at that time, aware of the borderline epic challenges that were awaiting me in the near future, but, hidden away in my utopia — in my good place that could not be — I found a certain level of acceptance and almost excited readiness at the thought of tackling them as I sat in the brilliant sunshine, amidst family, new sidekicks, and simply friendly strangers, who were always not only eager to converse and share, but who were generous to a degree I had never witnessed before.



Being in conversation with nature is also something that is desperately important to me; I find over and over again that it is almost medicinal. There is a massively restorative (and inexplicable) power in the act of putting yourself out into the middle of the ocean, knowing you are alongside trillions of other organisms that you can’t even see, and simply being, all the while being both reminded and aware of the enormity of the world around you.

I saw colors I had never seen in nature before; I felt and did and performed in ways I never had. There was a freedom in myself there that I didn’t have to ask for.

It was perfect.



And then, just as swiftly as we arrived, we were departing —  bidding adieu to the lovely friends we had made, the heart-stoppingly beautiful sky and sea that sat so nonchalantly like a dream before me every morning, and something of a slower pace, and reluctantly greeting the icy little crystals of frost that formed on the window I sat adjacent to, like tiny silver spiders. Reminders of the imminent chill I would have to muster the strength to face once I came down from my cloud.

Every day that I woke to this sight was a blessing.

 

I felt as if I were on the edge of the world, like a queen, or a mermaid, when I was sitting on the bow of that sailboat. As belligerently cliché as it sounds, it’s the truth. And every, every moment was a moment of exuberant joyousness, whether celebrated loudly and in bright colors with familiar strangers or observed in introspective wonderment and anonymity.

I would do anything to go back.

And I know that I will, someday. But the left-brain that rationalizes knows that when I do return, it will not be the same, and I will not be the same. Will I need the same things? Perhaps. Will I be in the same company? No. And that is completely out of my control. Although time moves at an (ironically) glacial pace in this world away from the world, the time flew by. The days crawled; the week zoomed. And these resorts, these oases, are like revolving doors — people come and go, staff members come and go, families and friends and lovers come and go and come and go. In which case, I will simply have to cage this bird and frame this postcard, and tie down the balloon of hot-air memories so they will not float away from me, only to become lost somewhere else in the great blue.



I remember the excitement that ignited in me the first moment the water below me began to turn turquoise. In my very own aeroplane over the sea, I sang to myself:

“And one day, we will die,
And our ashes will fly
From the aeroplane
Over the sea…

But for now: we are young; let us lay in the sun, and count every beautiful thing we can see.”

Check. 

 

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