It Began Like a Story…
I sit at my dining table, looking through the large window in front of me. Beyond it, distant mountaintops rise quietly, and a volcano rests beneath soft white clouds, as if it, too, were still waking.
It is the rainy season. The pavement glistens, and the grass remains damp from the night’s rain. The world feels slower here, washed clean, unhurried.
In the backyard, two tiny squirrels emerge from the branches of a tall tree, busy with their morning search for food. Their presence brings a quiet joy, one we don’t fully notice until the seasons change and they are gone.
Some mornings arrive wrapped in sunlight, lifting the spirit with ease. Others come with heavy rain and gray skies, inviting stillness instead. I have learned to welcome both.
Each day begins gently. I reach for the small pouch of aromatic coffee beans, a simple ritual that centers me. The scent alone is enough to draw me fully into the moment.
There is no rush to leave for an office job, no urgency pulling me away. Instead, there is space to think, to breathe, to begin again with intention. In this quiet rhythm, I gather my thoughts and consider what the day will hold.
And somehow, in these slow mornings, I find myself returning—not just to the present, but to where my story truly began.
I was born in Guatemala, among high mountains, during a time marked by civil war. Life was simple in ways that are hard to imagine now. Transportation was limited, and communication was not instant—it was intentional, used only when necessary.
Books became our gateway to the world. Reading opened doors to imagination, to possibility, to dreams beyond what we could see. As children, we created our own joy—playing games with my siblings, filling our days with laughter shaped by simplicity.
Schoolwork came from printed textbooks, and learning required presence, patience, and focus.
And then, life carried me far from that place.
On Different Chapters…
My Bahamaland Piece of Heaven
A lifetime seems to have passed since I was a young woman, eager, curious, and full of anticipation, ready to discover worlds beyond what I had known.
I left with energy and excitement, somehow certain that joy was waiting for me on the other side of that decision.
And it was.
That is how I began a new life along the beautiful seashores of The Bahamas.
Those were the days of wine and roses, of candlelit dinners at Graycliff Restaurant, overlooking lush tropical gardens, and of long walks along white sandy beaches. Evenings were filled with soft ocean breezes, especially in the gentle winter months.
There were nights of dressing up for Christmas concerts at Government House and afternoons spent wandering down Bay Street, where shopping and dining became small celebrations of everyday life.
Adventures are called often. Flights on Bahamas Air carried us to our “out islands,” where the vibrant spirit of Junkanoo, regattas, and music festivals brought people together in joyful expression.
We gathered in local inns and restaurants, sharing laughter, stories, and traditional dishes. Friends and strangers blended easily—travelers from the north, Canadian “snowbirds” escaping the cold, and islanders whose warmth made everyone feel at home, even if only for a moment.
In the mid-seventies, the islands of the Bahamas carried a distinct charm—an English influence gently woven into the emergence of a new cultural identity.
It was a nation in the process of becoming—discovering its voice, shaping its pride, and stepping into its independence.
And there I was…
Arriving from the mountains with new eyes and a young woman’s perspective, witnessing not only my own transformation—but also the transformation of a place that would soon become home.
Moments turned into weeks.
Weeks softened into months.
Months unfolded into years.
Like the rhythm of the ocean—waves coming and going, seabirds gathering and dispersing—the unfamiliar slowly became familiar.
And without realizing it, my heart began to belong there.
Yet something unexpected happens when we live between worlds.
The heart does not divide—it expands.
It no longer belongs to just one place.
It carries many.
And so, life, in its quiet wisdom, brought me back again—for a while—after more than four decades.
Back to the land where my life first took root…
where my parents buried my umbilical cord in the earth.
There is something sacred about returning to the place that once held you, long before you understood what it meant to belong.
Now, as I sit here—between mountains, rain, and memory—I see how every chapter has shaped me.
Like the tiny squirrels I watch each morning, moving with purpose, gathering what they need, we too continue forward—often without realizing we are coming full circle.
Each morning invites us to begin again.
Each night asks us to rest, to restore, to release.
I still return to those memories—not to live in the past, but to understand the present. To hold them gently as reminders of the life I have lived and the woman I have become.
Because time changes everything.
Days feel shorter. Nights feel longer. The world moves faster than it once did.
But within all that change, something remains steady.
A quiet knowing.
That every place we have been, every season we have lived, and every chapter we have walked through…
has led us here.
And here—
This is where we begin again.
A Gentle Closing
And perhaps this is what life continues to teach me, in its own quiet way.
That not everything we love is meant to stay.
That not every chapter is meant to last.
And that there is a quiet strength in allowing life to move… without holding too tightly to what once was.
I have learned that letting go is not a single moment, but a practice.
It happens in the small spaces,
in the mornings when we choose peace,
in the memories we hold with gratitude instead of longing,
in the acceptance of who we are becoming.
We do not lose the places we have loved.
We carry them within us,
in the way we see the world,
in the way we remember,
in the way we begin again.
And if you find yourself here, somewhere between what was and what is…perhaps this is your beginning too. 🤍