How our Days Begin

Each morning a mini bus stops just beyond our house and sounds a cheerful "meep, meep" to invite the neighbor girl on board. She comes running out of her house, long black hair streaming behind her, face aglow with anticipation of a good day. 

Shortly after, the neighbors behind our house start their morning ritual: mom hugs and kisses daughter 5 times while dad wipes the windshield clean; daughter gets in the car and drives away. 

Soon after, a lady and her young daughter arrive on a motor scooter with a big basket of bread strapped onto the back. She parks outside our house and gently sings out "está" to announce that she is there. I buy 6 little biscuits of sweet bread for our breakfast for $.25. I could buy bread for lunch too, but her bread is a little more crunchy, so we prefer to walk the quarter mile to Virgínia's bread stand for softer loaves.

For my first 3 mornings here, I was awake well before the "meep, meep" or any other hint of human activity. I took my yoga mat (the most frivolous thing I packed in our one shared piece of luggage - I can hear Husband disagreeing and reminding me of the puzzle he didn't want me to bring) to the rooftop and tried to maintain focus on my breathing. The volcano's call for attention is always stronger. "Look at me," it puffs every 7 to 15 minutes, "see what I can do!" So I peek out through my closed eyes to marvel at the majesty of both the active and extinct volcanoes, the way the sunlight touches their peeks first and travels down to the rest of the world, and the One that created beauty.
Inhale (lots of Love in), Exhale (lots of Love out).