Welcome to San Cristóbal

Sitting on my couch in San Cristóbal, floor and cushions beneath me shaping a wall of sonic beauty pulsing me and the room, pressing us against the window like a kiss.

Here.

In Mexico.

I have never been anywhere that feels like this.

As I’ve mentioned, my primary sense of the world is felt. Not touch. Felt. I am always, always aware of the ground beneath me. Sometimes it’s wonderful. Sometimes it doesn’t work.

But here. Chiapas. San Cristóbal. It isn’t like anywhere. It swirls. It moves. Shifts.

My only reference point is a place I once found in words - the grandmother woolfe room. Here too, things here shift, move. Streets disconnect at night, hook up somewhere else if the moon isn’t watching. Every morning, the grain in the floorboards is a different direction than how it was the night before.

Here, you can be sure of your feet. You can be sure of the sky and the stars. But you cannot be sure of life, and you cannot be sure of the ground beneath you. There’s far, far too much dance.

Move or don’t move; you won’t stay still.