I hear the rustle of an iguana climbing the woody stalk of a trumpet vine. The breeze is cool. It rises and falls, conjuring a chorus of nods from ficus, bouganvillea, orange and grapefruit trees, pepper plants… In the sun it’s hot, but beneath the palapa I am cool, like the air that spills across my feet when I open the refrigerator door.
There is nothing to do. No event in the calendar. No coming phone call. Consequently, there is no job. No paycheck, no title, no guarantee.
What there is, is me. And my wife. And my coming child, the size, they say, of a fig. (There is also the dog.) On an afternoon like this, so gentle, I sit with these things. My feelings can be, if I let them, free of worry and obligation. I recognize there’s nothing to need. A meal maybe. A bit of shade. And I share it all – the sounds and light, the sensation, the iguana himself in an abstract way — just by being present.