I’m still looking forward to to participating in International Free Hugs Day this Saturday, July 3.  Hopefully some others will join me, but if not, I’m still going to go make an ass of myself and do it.  Here are the details for the Playa del Carmen contingent:

What:  International Free Hugs Day (“C’mon, people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together and try to love one another…blah blah blah”)
Where:  Meet at Carboncitos Restaurant, Calle 4 between avenidas 5 and 10
When:  3 pm, this Saturday, July 3
How:  Dress comfortably and bring your “Free Hugs/Abrazos Gratis” signs, or the materials to quickly make them as we enjoy 2×1 Margaritas to loosen us up enough to hug perfect strangers and spread good feelings, love, and affection
Why:  Today is a bad day to ask why, as I’ve had a rotten day.  Today I’d be more likely to participate in “Free Black Eye Day.”  Let’s hope I’m feeling more my loving self by Saturday.

All jokes aside, I’m looking forward to this reminder of what is really important in life:  Human connections and love.  See you then!

I love you.

Today I went in search of a song to make some sense of the grief and sorrow I have been feeling the last few days on behalf of a good friend, and this song appeared; like Jack’s magic beans it grew a beanstalk that I was able to climb up high to get the bigger picture.

“Do you Realize” by The Flaming Lips

This song reminded me that “life goes fast,” and that rather than wait until it’s almost over to tell people how I feel, I should let them know all along, in the midst of life and for no other reason and with no other agenda apart from letting them know they are loved.

And so I am here to tell you that I love you.

If you have wiped a child’s runny nose, mooed when driving past cows, sung a song in public to your best friend even though you have the world’s worst singing voice, or given up a seat on a bus to a pregnant woman, I love you.

If you have ever made a fool of yourself dancing at a wedding reception, used the word “emancipated” in place of of “emaciated,” or written an entire record of songs to win back the love of your life, I love you.

If you have accidentally farted in church or in class, slipped on ice and fallen down, realized at the end of the day that your shirt is on inside out, or gotten caught picking your nose, I love you.

If you have cried in movies, patiently listened to an elderly person’s story though you’ve already heard it many times, stood up to a bully, or admitted you were wrong when you were wrong, I love you.

If you have looked into the cancer-ravaged, age-spotted face of your grandmother and told her she was beautiful, and really did find her beautiful, I love you.

If you have worn a hideous sweater your mom gave you because you don’t have the heart to tell her how much you hate it, I love you.

If you have complimented a stranger for no reason, I love you.

If you have ever loved a dog so much you knew when it was time to let her go, even if you weren’t yet ready, I love you.

Do you realize what I am telling you?  I love you.

I said I love you.

Whenever I am feeling unmoored, I naturally return to the books and memories that have resonated in me throughout my life, searching for new insights or drawing familiar comfort from things that have already proved valuable.

As I was endlessly raking and cleaning the land last week, I could not stop thinking of The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupery, one of my favorite books (and for the record, only the Katherine Woods English-language translation from the original French passes muster with me. Don’t even talk to me about the new one). This illustration, in particular, would not leave my mind:

This illustration is from a part of the book in which the Little Prince is describing the danger in not carefully tending to his planet to rid it of the dangerous Baobab seed before it has a chance to grow into a big tree with huge, damaging roots. While the Baobab is young, it is easy to tend to and remove, but the longer one allows the Baobab to grow, the more dangerous it becomes. Here is what could happen if one is lazy and allows the Baobabs to grow unchecked:

This lesson is a new one for me.  My Baobabs have always been ignored or unnoticed, growing larger and larger until they have finally split my planet apart.  How many of my love relationships have been doomed by the quiet roots of the Baobab growing? By the jealousy, the resentment, the little slights I don’t mention until it’s too late, until my love has died?

As I raked, pulled weeds, and carted away dead palm fronds , I found myself strangely comforted by the work. My care for the land was tangible, and at the end of the day I stood and looked at what I had done and thought: “Nope, no Baobabs here.”

Now that I fully understand the risks, I mean to skirt the danger of the Baobab forever.  Don’t forget to mind your Baobabs, too, friends.

Although historically I have been easily seduced by love’s sinister cousin, infatuation, my real soul mate is bittersweet love, in whatever form it may take.

The tears that appear unbidden in my eyes when I think too hard about my dad, or the things my mom sacrificed to raise me, or the thought of my dear grandparents someday not living? That is love.

How when someone badmouths my loyal and trusted friends, or otherwise tries to hurt them, I turn into a junkyard dog, all fierce hackles and bared teeth? Love, unquestionably.

And then there is that passionate, brutal love, the kind that is like a “sickness and its cure together,” the love that smashes things and puts them right again only to spectacularly shatter them once more, leaving behind a barren landscape so scarred that it can take years to sustain new life. Even if we bury it, like toxic waste near a water supply, the loss of this kind of love can taint every aspect of our future lives.

So why do we give someone so much power over us? What is it in our genetic makeup that causes us to need love, to keep stepping in it again and again?

And why do we scrutinize it in such minute detail, and watch stupid movies that make us think that somehow the love we have doesn’t measure up?

Is it because the most valuable love is also the hardest to recognize for what it’s worth? Shouldn’t there be higher value placed on the kind of love that knows how much milk to put in your coffee every morning for years and years? Or on the love that will sit by your bedside when you are feverish and delirious, holding a cool cloth on your forehead? Comfortable, slow-burning, compassionate love? Those things are vital, right?

How do we ever know for sure the choices we have made (or not made) are right? I don’t know. I don’t know.

What I do know is that I am in love with love; I heart it, am absolutely smitten. Heartache, be damned, I’m not afraid of you. I’ve slayed dragons way bigger than you.

At bedtime, I’d read books to you to help you fall asleep. Your favorite was Dr. Seuss’ Fox in Socks because the way I would read the tongue twister about the beetle battle, out-of-breath and dramatic, always cracked you up. You loved lining up your Matchbox cars in one long row, and I hung an old first-aid cabinet on the wall of your bedroom at kid-height so that you could store all of your treasures. When any of my jewelry went missing, I always knew I could find it tucked away there.

You were a funny kid; even at 2 years old you were one of the funniest people I’d ever met. Once, when I was making lunch for you I asked, “Do you want cheese on your sandwich?” “What kind of cheese?” you suspiciously asked. “American,” I said. You made a face, put up your little hand and sang, to the tune of American Woman, “American Chee-eese! Stay away from me-ee!”

One morning, you woke up very early, before anyone else was awake, and dumped five pounds of flour and a liter of cooking oil on the coffee table, then drove your little cars all through it. Hours later, when you’d gone back to your mom’s house, my annoyance melted when I found your tiny oily footprint on a piece of paper that I’d somehow overlooked during the cleanup.

Your heroes were Jackie Chan, Bruce Lee, and your dad. You looked like the best features of your mom and dad combined. You had a pink blanket and a teddy bear that you sniffed when you were sleepy.

Your father and I were together for four and a half years. The last year was agony for both of us as we tried and failed to get through the things that were breaking us apart. The thought of leaving two of the people I loved best in the world was painful beyond imagination, but finally it felt inevitable.

Eight years later, I still think of you daily. You’re growing up, almost 13 years old, and I’ve missed so much of your life. My chest feels tight realizing that you can’t possibly remember the bedtime stories, or the time I dressed you like a pirate for Halloween, or when we made bunny rabbit flowerpots at Easter.

I want to say that I’m sorry, D. There was nothing wrong with you; you were perfect. When I left, it was not you I let go, but the dream I had of being not a mother, but something like a mother. I held that dream on my finger like an eyelash and blew it back into the world; making a wish I knew could never come true.