Soft Air, Soft Light, Soft Love

You're going to get tired of pictures that look like this.
Oh, too damn bad.
I'm not.

Merry Christmas, y'all.

This might just be the best Christmas of my entire life.

I am so glad to be here. And yes, I cried and sobbed when we flew in. I was sitting there thinking that I didn't even feel a bit like crying. Ah-lah, the magic might be gone. And then it came over me like a fit of being taken-hold of and shaken until the sobs forced themselves out of me.

And thus- I knew I was home again. Or at least, this other home. This home of my woman-soul because I think that is what it is.

We are about to go downstairs and eat our Christmas breakfast. Papaya will be involved. The water is indescribable. The crackles sing their melodious note. The water boils in the tiny bay below me. We walked to town last night and my feet reclaimed this place. We passed the jungle and the huge estate on the water of where El Presidente of Mexico has a home. The walls were huge and covered in vines and giant trumpet flowers bloomed in the darkness.

"Thank-you for coming back," said the man who has been welcoming us to Plaza Leza for twenty-four years. We gave the musicians ten dollars for which they played us three songs. Same faces as forever. Beat-up old guitars, notes coming forth, voices.

The water below me just gets bluer and bluer. And greener and greener. As if it covered emeralds and saphires. I just discovered that spell check here is in Spanish so I am on my own with that. If I make mistakes, forgive me.

Merry Christmas.
Oh, so merry Christmas.