"Everything changes," Mike reminded me in response to my complaints as we hiked down my old "road to work", the once-rocky path down the mountain to Playitas, now all tarred over with smooth blacktop. No rocks poked through the soles of my sandals, ankles steady, my feet landed flat and firmly on the ground. I pointed out the apartment where I used to live, still with its beautiful view of ocean halfway down the mountain.We arrived at the head of my old favorite trail to the beach, the one where the monkeys like to play. Now, it's impassable; completely overgrown with jungle. Apparently, things here in Manuel Antonio have found their proper places. No more intermingling. No monkeys or sloths climbing about on roadside trees. No giant morphos butterflies dancing in the air. The animals are all safely contained within the park now, it would seem. Tourists are guided about on their smooth and manicured paths. Better for everyone, I guess. But even while I confess to the benefits of this new order, I feel blessed to have been a part of the wild rawness of life how it was here before.
Perhaps this place is magical enough to reflect exactly what one needs each time they come to it.
When we arrived at the beach and that place where the river flows down into the ocean at high tide, the place I expected would haunt me, I didn't well up. No new wave of sorrow in need of release. No grievance at all. Instead, I found a much matured grove of trees, a mostly healed path, and no trace at all, besides a mild tug on my heart, of the place of mourning it had once been for me. Everything had grown: lush and joined together in unison. A complete picture of peace.
As I took Mike's hand and continued picking our way through the growth, I realized that I have grown back together too.
