I wanted to write this column before today but life interrupted me. And here I sit, with only hours until deadline, wondering why I am scrambling when I had two whole weeks to get it done.
My family and I flew to Panama on December 15. We are on Isla Taboga, a tiny island off the coast of Panama City, for an extended vacation; a much-needed breather from the events of the past five months. A time to recover from the effects of my husband’s near- fatal accident that left its marks not only on Dan, but on all of us. A chance to heal after losing our beloved 12-year-old dog. A break from routine, from work, from fatigue, from worry. A time for us to come together as a family of four adults and find our way back. Or as it turns out, find our way to now.
I planned to write on the plane. There would be loads of time and I’d get it done and not have to worry about it after we arrived. But the plane was crowded, the seats were small, it was 5:30 in the morning when we boarded and I was exhausted. Even if I could perform the contortionist move it would take to get to my laptop, I would feel self-conscious with the guy next to me reading over my shoulder. Instead I slept and skimmed the in-flight magazine and slept some more. And I held Dan’s hand across the aisle during moments of turbulence and listened with my eyes closed to my daughters’ laughter. And it is so good.
Once we settled in on Taboga, my plan was to write early each morning before everyone was up. Who was I kidding? Apparently not my family who knew from experience that I am usually the last one out of bed. Instead, each morning, I wake up and stare at the fan spinning over our bed and the wooden ceiling beyond it. I turn my head to look for a while at the morning sunlight filtered through the softly moving gauzy curtains. I listen for a long time to the voices of my husband and daughters talking softly on the patio below. And by the time I am downstairs, coffee and conversation, the view of the water, bird song and the sweet companionship of my family wins out. It’s magic. And right. And it so good.
I’ll write when everyone goes to the beach, I thought one day. But when I told my younger daughter my plan, the expression on her face changed my mind. They are here for two of our five weeks, and if I’ve learned anything in my life – especially recently –
it is that time is precious and “now” does not come back. No do-overs, as they say. With beach towels tucked under our arms, we walked through town to the beach, passing mini-neighborhoods of brightly colored homes, decorated with over-the-top Christmas lights and snowmen and Santas and elaborate nativity scenes. People were in the street beginning their celebrations. “Hola!” “Buenas tardes.” “Feliz Navidad!” Trailing just a little behind our daughters, my husband and I took unforgettable pictures, mostly with our eyes, of our girls walking arm-in-arm on the winding lane towards town, framed by palm trees and bougainvillea, their backs beginning to brown, their distinct and familiar strides causing my heart to swell in my chest. So, so good.
No problem. I’ll write after lunch. But by then, our little community of neighbors was up and sitting near the pool. The temperature was soaring. My brain was blank and I had no energy for anything but a cold beer and a swim in the pool. A couple of friends from the island stopped by to visit and we did what people do in the afternoon in tropical climates. Nada. Siesta. Muy bueno.
The days go by. Things happen. Nothing turns into something. Plans evaporate with the afternoon rain and Now takes over. When you come as close to losing something precious as we did, and you realize that you have been handed a second chance, it changes you right down to the molecular level. You don’t say “no,” as much. At least that’s what happened to me. I look at my family, complete with husband and father, and without dwelling too much on what that accident in August could have meant for us, I focus on the second chance we were handed. A Christmas gift from the universe.
We celebrated Hanukkah with friends in our community, lighting candles and praying. Singing, eating latkes and drinking wine. We noted the solstice and the beginning of longer days and more sunshine. We celebrated Christmas Eve at our casita festooned with twinkling lights and kinship and peace. Our Christmas tree was a pineapple decorated with flowers and tiny ornaments brought from home.
Christmas Day, also my younger daughter’s birthday, was sunny and warm and we exchanged gifts as usual, but with a new understanding of one another and our family. The change of scenery, of climate, the shake-up of our usual holiday celebration, allowed us to see that we take home with us wherever we go.
This morning the girls and Dan left to hike up one of the hills on the island while the sun was still low and the morning breeze still blew. They seemed content to leave me behind to write. I’m on Isla Taboga looking out a window at the water and watching two hummingbirds flitting about. But soon I’ll be back in Ballard and on Queen Anne, resuming my life, but hopefully incorporating the lessons I’ve learned this year and these past few weeks.
The door just opened downstairs. One by one, my sweaty family has come up to say hello and see how I’m doing. I’m doing fine. I’m going to wrap this up so I can go downstairs and be with them. Because they are here now. And so am I. And it is very, very good.
Irene Hopkins lived on Queen Anne for 20 years. She writes essays about family life, middle age, growing children and aging parents and… Isla Taboga.
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