Writing this in a hut made out of bamboo with the most exquisite construction. All materials found, or sourced locally. A hut at perfect ease in it’s environment. A seemingly perfect extension of the plants and life overlapping and becoming one with it’s completely open structure. the sounds of the animals blending with the sounds of the sea and wind passing through the hut and me. Everything moving, being born like the new flowers that frame the path to the sea, dying like the fly being eaten by the huge spider beside the path. The dead bug being eaten by the hundreds of tiny insects on the deck of our cabin which in turn give them life.
Nature never hurries and yet everything is accomplished.
The same feeling of having a front row seat into the nature of the cycles of time and life and death, which I felt in Montezuma remains and reinforces itself. What part do I play in this? As the observer? The destroyer? The creator? As inconsequential as a single ant? As a drop of water in a river flowing to the sea? A grain of sand on the beach? I feel at the same time immensely small and yet part of it all. Both timeless and fleeting. All things have their place in nature. Being at this lodge in the jungle reminds me how far outside the natural order of things modern life has moved. It’s an interesting place to be at the top of the food chain. I am reminded of a tattoo I saw on a dude in California. “Now that you can do anything you want, what will you do?”.
Sitting within a table, framed by glass and wood, on a sawdust floor, is the ferocious matt black chainsaw which was used to chop down much of the wood used to construct the huts and furniture around me. The irony that such a destructive machine was used to create such a place of beauty seems a fitting metaphor for the power for good and bad we all hold in our hands.