The bottle rocket launcher is none other than my husband. We are living in a rented house in the mountains above the Sea of Cortez in a fishing village turned kite boarding haven, called LaVentana, which means The Window.
Right now, outside our bedroom window, Bossy and her herd have stopped to feast on whatever vegetation they can find. Life can't be easy for a cow in the desert. And yet, they survive.
My husband brought me to this beautiful place to live before and after our wedding. We were born in Little Rock just three days apart in the same Catholic hospital in 1962. We dated during our final months of our senior year in high school in 1981. I fell in love with him on a warm spring night, staring up at the stars, kissing, and sharing our hopes for the future.
One evening I told him of my long-held dream to become a writer. It was a romantic aspiration and one that I had little idea of how to accomplish, except to attend a liberal arts college and major in English Literature. And although he had less idea of what it meant to become a writer than I did at that time, he encouraged me to pursue my dreams because that's how he was then — and still is today.
I'm not sure why we parted ways after graduation. It was as though our paths were meant to intersect for that moment in time before life hurtled us off in differing directions. Somewhere along the line the desire for security got in the way of my dream. I decided to get a "real job" and set aside my romantic ideals. It would take 40 years for our paths to cross again ... which leads me back to Bossy and the bottle rockets and life in Mexico. At night —when we're not shooing free range bovine from our yard—my husband and I stare up at the stars and experience the same wonder we felt when we were 18.
I fell in love with Mexico in 1995 when I quit my job at Turner Broadcasting to focus on my writing.
I was single, living in Atlanta and flying to New York and Los Angeles for work on a regular basis. But, while I was successful in my career, I felt unfulfilled. I didn't set out to become a marketing maven for a burgeoning television entity. Advertising and marketing were ways I applied my creative talent. But the more successful I became, the further away from the actual creating I got. By the time I arrived at Turner I was directing copywriters — not writing. I spent five years there climbing the corporate ladder, but never quite feeling aligned with my career. I began to entertain thoughts of a leisurely exit from my corporate gig. I even went so far as to par down my living expenses, pay off debt, and sock away as much money as possible in anticipation of a major lifestyle change. I told myself that in a few years I'd make my move. By then, I'd be ready.
A few months later, I boarded a flight to New York to attend some business meetings. As the plane rolled back from the gate, the gentle rocking motion lulled me to sleep. When I awoke, the cabin was dark and we were at cruising altitude. In that moment of first consciousness, I was given clarity that I have rarely had in my life. A single thought pierced all others: "You need to quit your job NOW." I knew right then that the only way I could get my dream back on track was to quit Turner and focus on my writing. I returned from that trip and resigned to become a freelance writer. (Yes, I YOLO'ed 26 years before YOLO was YOLO.)
My bravado didn't last. A few weeks after I resigned, I was filled with self-doubt. What had I done!? Was I crazy?! I didn't know how to freelance. How would I survive?
That night I had the most vivid dream I've ever experienced. A sapling was growing out of the crook of my elbow. I watched in terror as it sprouted bright green leaves. I reached down to grab it, thinking I could rid myself of the alien invader with one painful tug. But before I could touch the tendrils I heard a voice sternly say, "Stop! You can't yank it out! It's your creativity!"
I woke with a start, filled with awe and resolve. Maybe I was crazy for leaving my job but I knew I couldn't pursue my writing if I didn't take a leap of faith. I decided to set aside my worry and follow my instincts. Later that month, when I heard about an artists' community in central Mexico called San Miguel de Allende, I decided to travel there as a way to transition from one life to the next. And that's just what I did.
Now as I once again transition from one life to another, it seems fitting to find myself writing in Mexico. It is a simpler place, a warmer place, a place where life moves at its own easy rhythm. I'm still not sure what it is I'm supposed to write about or why I've been given this incredible opportunity.
My son is in college and no longer requires his Mommy to cheer along his every accomplishment or encourage him past disappointments. My professional life consists of piecing together a living from scraps of freelance assignments that fall from the tables of large agencies. The world is filled with young writers who blog and vlog their every thought. Has the world passed me by —or just the opposite? Have I finally arrived?
In many ways, as I approach age 60, I feel like I did when I was a senior in high school, when the world was fresh and new and filled with possibility. And like that idealistic 18 year old, I still entertain romantic aspirations of where my writing might lead me. Perhaps it's enough that my writing has led me to this beautiful place with the man I love.
I may never achieve the fame and fortune I dreamed of long ago. I might not even help inspire someone else by sharing my stories as I hoped to do when I started this blog in 2010. Is it enough to be content to graze on life's experience without ever knowing what —if any —purpose it serves? If cows can survive roaming the arid hills of Mexico, surely I can find my way.
