"Paradise is exactly like where you are right now... only much, much better. - Laurie Anderson, artist
Look at it - the turquoise jewel water, the effervescent sands, the saffron sun - paradise no? And who hasn't. Whether at home or at work changing your Windows screen saver; daydreaming about your next vacation while slogging through the rut of another ordinary.
I know I did, routinely, while wasting the better half of the work day rewriting inter-office e-mails so that they were less a reflection of my bitter, dying soul. Needless to say, my professional persona was beginning to crack and it would take more than a week's vacation to repair the facade.
In a fit of caffeine-induced impulsivity, I quit my job, sold all my worldly goods and went in search of my Shangri-la by the sea. Already, dear reader, you can probably see where this is headed.
After a few stints in the mountains in Spanish school, hiking a volcano, back-breaking farm work, and eyes-glazing over the tenth colonial town with its baroque churches dedicated to yet another angelic, congenial saint, it was time to head for the beach.
But not just any beach, it had to be the beach. Where my mind could finally relax and stop making to-do list, obsessing over where to go next, or the looming apocalypse of finding a job in this economy.
After grilling the hostel staff and half the Mexican people of Oaxaca (Wahaca) Jack Bauer style, forcing them to spend hours gazing at my laptop screen saver, screaming "Where is this?"
The consensus was El Mazunte. A quick perusal of Rough Guide Mexico, assured me this wasn't another overrun tourist trap. After learning that Anita Roddick, founder of the The Body Shop, has a co-operative in this sleepy, little village, I packed my bags and was out on the next thing smoking.
After a dreary, butt numbing nine hour bus ride, 30 minutes of which mandated a ride in the back of a pick-up truck crammed between a crate of cackling chickens and three bubble-gum popping, giggling school girls, I'd arrived. But to what? Looking around the place, it was everything I'd been told, except, something was off. Like being offered candy but the wrong kind.
And as troublesome as it is to continue, knowing instead of being compassionate and understanding, you dear reader, are probably tittering profusely trying to bite back that told you so. Not just because your an insensitive sea donkey, ruthlessly waiting to rub my nose in my own naivete, but mostly because your bored and it sounds like fun.
But when the British couple packing up beside my floating-hammock bed, ask if I was a light sleeper - it should have resounded in my lumpy, exhausted, sullen brain like the hand of God striking the earth. Light sleeper doesn't begin to cover it.
On a road trip with a dear friend, after three hours trying to ignore their snoring, the only solution I could come up with was to smother them in their sleep. Reaching for the fattest pillow I could find, the only thing that stop me was my sister's hand on my shoulder and the Nyquil she shoved in my face.
After finding that the only way they could sleep was to down two bottles of wine with their fish tacos the night before; Jean and her boyfriend were leaving for fear of becoming alcoholics, they told me.
But I reasoned that I was so mind-numbingly exhausted, that sleep like peace in the Middle East was inevitable. But I underestimated the awesome force of the ocean, cresting its majestic waves 40 feet from my bed.
Throw in the mosquitoes and humidity, two days later I understood why Cortez had to burn the ships to keep his crew from fleeing the Americas. Lying in the darkness of my bed, drenched in sweat and insect repellent, gingerly patting my passport and credit card, feeling disheveled and defeated, wondered if maybe it was time to go home. But home to what?
When the dream of paradise you harbored in your heart and on your desktop fails you where do you go from there? My dream may seem atomic and naive, but then aren't most dreams. Which is why most of us keep ours hidden, safe from scrutiny and contempt. Why risk failure, or being called delusional, or a loser if you don't succeed. In a moment of self-doubt, struggling with my emotions, it hits me - maybe the dream is besides the point.
When your moods and perspectives shift as rapidly as the tides, how do you trust that any of your decisions make sense? The answer - you don't. What I've learned is that if you desire the ends more than the means, you may be dooming yourself to failure.
But if you can retrain your mind to find joy in the process, in enduring, improving and learning everyday - then you'll find paradise in almost anything, even in the most mundane of your travails. Or in my case, in "places that are made sweeter because you worked so hard to get there. To places at the very edge of your dreams".
And it doesn't hurt to find a room with a fan and some walls....
Or after a long walk along the beach a church steps from the ocean...
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