Home in the Hostel

All I want to do is climb, elevate. Here in Kwabahal Boutique Hostel, I ifnd a new home, a new love. I leave behind me everything, and only now have the memory to share. Breath. It's one step at a time from here.

We met in one of the last jiu jitsu classes in the hostel, before opening the new gym in Xela. It's my tendency to fall in love easily, though, people may not believe it. It's mostly childlike, to be honest. I love everything, and I am not afraid to say it in those words, even if it is to a group of strangers that I have only just spent a few moments with; although, it is a very humbling moment when others can ask me, "Do you really mean it?" Yes, I do. With all of my heart, and to serve with whatever I can, with my own two hands, is my purpose. With every step that I make, and every breath that I take, I recognize the compassion and strength in every action, devoted to the deserving of our true innocence, and behold what every moment is; as a precious, miraculous gift. Especially when it is with you. Now, forgive me, if I have humiliated you. It may seem rude, at times, to be so unfiltered. Not many people read this blog, even if just one or two. Five at the most, 20 at times. Since the moment we had met, we danced. Whether it was in the streets, in front of the stage at Xela's biggest festivals, at the ISCARO cultural music festival, in the kitchen of the hostel, our room, or semi-waltzing into the film festival of Silencio del Topo's premiere night. Tonight, and not only tonight, do I remember fondly being in front of the MP Corrupt Guate protest, with you, feeling alone in the crowd, even distant from you, as I always am, with everyone.. and the protestors, all who had commited to walking kilometers to get there, stood out front of the cultural center of Xela Quetzaltenango, as we were there, residents of the park, under the stone pillars they posted in front of with their signs, horns, drums and guitars; but you didn't seem to notice them, as you taught me the steps patiently and with confidence, and as I stumbled with my bag, throwing it around like the hem of a skirt, you never once showed me the embarrassment that I was most definitley feeling as I stumbled over my own feet, and niether you nor I gave up, as if we woud hold hands forever, for when we memorized those steps for life, behind the musicians that stood on the steps, we marked a moment of history. 

We would dance again at the protests of the people along the road to Solola, after you encouraged me to join our friend from the UN on stage with a few opinionated, words of inspiration, of my own. We danced in the kitchen, in your room.. again, forgive me, if no one important ever reads these words, or rather, no one relevant to the story; yet, as I continue on my journey and organize my blog for the purpose that it was meant for, I cannot help but reminisce, not bearing to delete this small, personal chapter, and only wish to be as transparent in who I truly am. I am someone who loves so easily, and can only learn from my mistakes what it means to truly love. It is always the same dance, falling in love, and though I may fall over many times, there is never really a falling out; not for me. But, with you, it was one that I fell into haphazardly, again albeit, but this time it meant so much more, it took so much strength, and it was pure. I felt so clumsily desperate to hold on to it, and in that, I knew it was aready over. before it ever began. 

I have felt this way too many times, & now I feel this lie to be true; I miss love, and that I crave it so deeply and with so much desire that it does not allow me to understand it. How could I everknow love, if it were something that I feared I could not have? How could I ever truly love, if I saw it seperate from what I am.

I have been afraid this whole time. From the earliest that I can remember. From a child who knows the the errors done by their guardian can only bring forgiveness. When my partner was still alive, I remember, one night after school, he had put on the TV sitcome, Arrested Development, because his mom had showed it to him, and he had thought it was funny. So, of course, then, he wanted to show it to me, and also, of course, because Netflix is the best distraction for two teenagers, two lovers, who have not a clue in the world about anything, about what anything means or how any of it should work. Nothing made sense, but being together. I was wearing his Family Guy Stewie pijama pants, and his legs were on my lap as I was curled up in this ball, feeling and embracing the pure insecurity of it, yet, a humble and grateful acceptance overcame me, being with him, and as he slept, with my self, of my beauty, and of my flaws. I knew it was too strong of an urge. I woke him. I was overcome with this dread. I begged him for things never to change. As if it was all going to go away, and that the gods themselves would see to it, so that nothing that I could do as a mere daughter of the heavens, a mere mortal, could change the current flow of our fate. It was a state of utter helplessness, and one that I was all too familiar with surrendering to. It was a love too beautiful, and too human, too innocent in its childlike. Knowing that nothing is permenant, can bring great peace, and and in the impermenance we can find great joy. To embrace the only real certainty we have, is the end of all things. The death, however, is bitterseet. It's sweetness is in the moment, with the bitterness being the future and the past. Let it be then, all in pure, ecstatic love. Uninhibited. Unrefined in someways, uncultured. Let it be, unadultered and unmistakeable love.

Now, if it is all lost, all of it, then I will hold on to the memory, carry it with me into a realm of certainty that I can create, a sort of manifested reality, and let them go at the top of high elevations, where the air is thin, and the atmosphere is light, full of dreams and of adventure, and also, disbelief. It's always the same twirls and dips, the same steps and trips. I will give my life meaning, in all of its avenues, until the very last of its final moments.

And, yet, through it all, all I feel is love. All I can see it love. Love, unadultered, and love unbound by the concepts of the suffering and the condemnation that we settle upon ourselves in an attempt to achieve some rightoeus form of self-indignation.

No matter how long it is meant to last. No matter how many times I must fight the inevitable, avert my eyes from the pain, cast my shadow upon the corner, for it will only take me further away from the same beauty I am trying to hide from my self, in some measily attempt to be humble. To give that meaning I so desperately seek. Proving to my self that I would be alright without him, him...

and in breaking up with him, or accuse him of jokingly calling me fat, an object, to only proving to myself that in the end, I cannot control what is not of my own, as Epictecus would say, I can only control what is mine. I can only accept what is, and surrender. 

His jiu jitsu may be legendary, at least to me. His guitar playing might have made me swoon, and flutter on the inside. His wisdom that he shared with me over the decades of reading, may only be available to me in the moments that I could share with him in childhood..

 I may not be able to best him, nor would I like to for that matter, if I could kid myself into believing that I don't; whether in argument, in match, in wit, or even fully understand his modest sense of humility, - is it real or feigned?-, because I love sharing the stories of my victories, I love showcasing my knowledge, the things that I know and how fast they come to me, honoring those who are responsiblw for the confidence wihtout ever really understanding the greater reality, that it was a gift from God to have ever experienced life at all. But, then, can I admire his confidence from afar, & reflect on the other aspects of life that prevents one from boasting, and leaves one truly strong of heart, and brilliant of mind, and find inspiration to keep being the best that could possibly be achieved?

The adorable hypocrasies that we set out to pursue, one says not too eat sugar, but understands the addictive cravings for it, as it cannot be helped, as my biology teacher would say, so straigthforwardly, almost deadpan in humor, "Because our brain needs glucose."

All of these vain and futile attempts to tell the waiter to please bring the fruit smoothie with no sugar, and do they have any vegan, gluten-free options. The adorable sobriety of being almost thirty, and drinking virgin mixed drinks, still so childlike in the presence of their father, or their mother, like a child never grows in the eyes of their siblings.

Takes me on dates, the gorgeous girl in the eye of you who behold her, and promises me that one day.....well, I won't tell you what is promised after that, but usually, the cuddles and kisses on humid nights, regardless of bad pillows on a thin mattress, in the bug infested front room of the hostel we both found ourselves at, filled with your family's tienda products, a small shop I can only dream of aspiring to, and which will feel like home forever, within my mind. Take me, one day, so that I may never look back. This is the love that will be, my friends. My sisters, this is the love that will always be. Our brothers, they stand by their mothers, and we stand by our fathers, and together, we become a family. Our mothers, dear ladies in their waiting for our own blossoming, have become our best friends, and our source of prayers. The beauty that our fatehrs saw in them is timeless, and can never go away. This is love! This is the love we seek, eternally! And praise, may it be, in all of its glory, forever.

Would you believe he grew up holistically, "Like me!" the ego will cry out. With a master martial artist as a father, whose movements and father-like hands remind me of the lessons my own father taught me and my brother on the mat. No less a champion than the one who taught out only glory, and found nothing but hardship and lessons to be passed down in life.

As we journey towards becoming masters in our own right.. "You never beat dad in a fight.." Me neither. That's why he surprises me every time, why in the moment we met, I let the world spin, and forced our eyes to lock, no matter how pained I was at being hurt once again. His respect for his father reflected a love that could only be from a respect for one's self. 

Could I ever fully recover from grief? Is love only meant to fly away? My angel tells me otherwise. He says, he loved me, the true me, even before I matured into knowing my self, eternally. I mourned, and I overcame my best friend's loss, a genius and musician, gone too soon. 

But, His eyes shine with joy, flickering along with his smile, a flash of intense wit and understanding. Everyone always loves him. I think I will always love him, inexplicably, and so much so, I dare to write about it, knowing the future is not ever promised, and that even though he said not to talk about it yet, I know my flight is in one month, for the next four months in Nepal to pine like the pine trees that line the mountain highways of the orange tree districts, to serve and sacrifice in small ways as a volunteer in a wonderfully hospitible land, with giving people who only have daal bhat to serve, and wandering the rest of the time through the mountains of the Himalaya, trying to find ways to raise money for the vitamins I want to bring to the kids for Christmas.

My yoga teacher gave me a Nepal & Himalayas trekking guide book, which gave me the first steps towards learning a surorising amount of Nepali. What I think is important is that I read it from cover to cover, along with the Kathmandu Folktales story book I purchased in the first two days of being in Kathmandu. I'm learning what it means to live in the moment, writing in an old passage that needed editting, feeling free from anxieties, worry, or distress, and knowing happiness is meant to embrace the joys and pleasures of life, while at the same time renouncing them. 

Could I be still enough to hold my center, or quiet enough to hear my soul speak? How I can control the moment is miniscule to the moment as it is, so why try? 

Why try to plan the steps towards happiness when I could just be happy? No matter what, it is a path we must walk on our own. As Khalil Gibran said, drink from each other's cup, but not of the same one. Share each others loaves of bread, but do not eat from the same loaf.

Will we remember to reflect, when we rest our heads on our final pillows? 

There is a drama happening to enact itself all around us, because we choose to try and identify ourselves with the temporary natures that we experience materially, go we ourselves into the imaginary merits, however, when you meditate for just a moment, it begins to shed itself, like the skin from the head of garlic, using emojies -🧄- to express feelings we can no longer truly write, therefore recognize. Can we be left with a naked piece of garlic, a single clove, gently inserted into the burning canal of my birthing canal, healing at the hands of the world's greatest natural homeopathic healer, and still give the responses to everything as they begin to seem overwhelming.

Yet, as it is already tomorrow, at the same time, embrace the happiness and the sadness as blur together into nothingness, and just accept the moment as it is. Calmly, and almost indifferently. Joyfully, presently, and with gratitude for all beings. Quietly, with no response whatsoever.

It inspired in me to keep going with my journey, as it ebs and flows in the waves of time, letting space hold itself suspended in a well of action, having faith in the nonaction, and not holding on to how I think things should go, or how I should be treated, or what it is I am meant to do, but rather, be who I am, purely and simply, true to my self. Chanting the holy names of God, one by one, on a japa bead that's missing 4 beads, in a land where I know not yet the actual "fair price" for a new mala. I cannot wait to lay my eyes on mount Everest for the first time in my life. Not from the sky, now as I already have, but from its very feet. To be birthed again the deep valleys and revines of the trekking trails so many have already gone to, and knowing I may not be the first, but that I will not be the last, either.

To hike the foot hills and to meet the people I will meet in the All Hands and Hearts program, and again, when I return from my second time in Kathmandu to heal and prepare for the next plan of service, collaborating with All Hands ands Hearts, as EarthThreads International. Not a person, not an entity, just being. 

However, I know I will miss Guatemala a little. As I rewrite this edit, I know that a small part of me does now. I could race back if I had wings, yet, I have commitments here, that must come first. I know I feel called to go everywhere in the world, learn the languages, help those that I can. What would I be without Your name, Your unforgetable name. That w. Write the books. Meet people, exactly as they are, exactly as I am. This journey is only just begun, and I'm singing on my ukulele the whole way, with not a care in the world, but a prayer for the people in it.

Much love,

Camila Alejandra Wilson