Travel the world to come home

 

Travel over the years has been teaching me a long, slow lesson. More than teaching me languages or about culture and food and diversity, it has taught me about myself. At 18 years old, I was desperate to break out of the mold that had been made for me: the good student, the good daughter.

But me. Who was I? I had to leave to find out.

To find out that I was stronger than I thought I was. That I was crazy-independent. That my introverted self could be friendly and charming. That I could be alone with myself and love it. That I didn’t need what the world told me I must have to be happy: a boyfriend, a secure job, my own house. That beneath that surface, polished and designed, there was me. A real me, waiting to get out.

That I could depend on myself and that I was dependable. That I could even make bad choices, and still be a good person. That I loved learning and seeking and exploring and being.

Among other things that I learned, amongst the many places I lived, these moved me the most:

Where I learned freedom and independence: southern Italy.

Where I learned passion and adventure: Brazil.

Where I learned that joy and suffering are born from the same spot in my heart: Uganda.

It all culminates where I live now.

This place is different. This is the place where I finally started learning to love and accept myself. The place where I am becoming more whole. Mexico.

It is easy to get distracted by all the places I don’t yet know. I don’t live in a really exotic place—here that is often flooded by retirees from colder climes. How amazing would it be if I was writing about life in Burkina Faso? Or doing research in Kandahar? Or exploring more of South America? Or living it up in Kuala Lumpur? But no, I live my quiet life in a rural part of Mexico. Here in my town, I constitute the ex-pat community all by myself since my kids were too small to remember Canada, and now hablan of their hopes to one day see snow.

At times I’m nostalgic for my homeland, but here the wind blows softly through the big trees outside of my house, just like they did in my native land, and I still like riding my bike and drinking coffee. But here in Mexico, the two street dogs that wandered in and adopted me lay at my feet, the birds chatter, and my kids spend 12 months of the year playing outside, mostly in bare feet.

Mexico is sweet and soft for us. She is hospitable and loves children and soul searchers. She embraces us. She works hard all week and on Sundays she lets us rest with friends, tacos, beer and sunshine, with laugher in the kitchen while we make salsa and rice. There are bright orange butterflies that smile over my garden and I can watch them while I wash the dishes by hand and hang up laundry in the hot, dry sun. My hens scratch around the yard, with occasional squawks and flaps.

Mexico’s flavours are colourful, enlivened with lime and salt and cilantro. Sweet fruits and textures: the orange papaya, the red and green and orange prickly pears. The yellow bananas.

Yes, Mexico is sweet to me.

She allows me to grow more and more into myself, giving me the time and space to write and create—things that are hard to come by in my homeland.

I couldn’t imagine a better place to be right now. I’m so grateful for these moments, for this space which makes me feel unbelievably wealthy because it lets me be free, and be who I am becoming.

About the author:

Canadian born Lisa López Smith has lived and worked in Italy, Ireland, China, the USA, Brazil, and Uganda, but she currently makes her home with her family in rural Mexico.

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