Sunday Scaries

    Salt tears splash into steaming pozole.  A bleary, sheepish glance at the cocinera earns me both curiosity and concern.  "Todo bien?" she asks.  Her warmth melts me more.  I choke, and nod towards the hot sauce with a self-deprecating grimace.  The mercado is bustling with families enjoying their Sunday supper while I sit alone at the bar, sobbing into my soup.  

    It's these moments that we travelers conveniently keep hush.  For me, they tend to surface on Sundays, especially in countries that honor the day of rest with family gatherings in lieu of errands and bulk buying.  Plus PMS, and it's my first day alone after traipsing through Jalisco with Hilary.  

    I awoke this morning knowing that it would be a tough one.  Mazamitla is a mountain town geared towards families, offering luxury cabins rather than backpacker dorms.  Alone, I opted for a spartan Airbnb.  Ignoring the hormonal fluctuation and homesickness, I geared myself up for a hike, motivated by a Facetime chat with my sister who'd talked me off the existential edge.  The "what-am-I-doing-with my life, shouldn't-I-have-a-401K?" dialogue whose grumble grew to roar since my travel partner departed.  

    But before I could even lace my boots, I was on the phone again.  This time, an ugly airing of grievances with a friend.  Sparing most of the details, she said that I hold back.  That I never delve into what's really going on beneath my glossy, chipper exterior.  Painting the picture that everything in my life is just grand.  She's right.  I'd rather keep my darkness private, wrestle my demons in the endless morning pages of these spiral bound notebooks, and countless bootsteps in the silent temple of nature.  

    The inner Critic, Victim, and Judge plague me through the pines.  Even the waterfall fails to drown their drone.  I'm so desperate for distraction that I direct a lost couple, though I, the white tourist, am of little expertise.  So eager to converse with someone outside myself.  Someone who isn't either talking me off the ledge or making me yearn to leap over it.  

    Alone, in Mexico, crying into soup on a Sunday.  An image not taken, let alone posted on social media, though I attempt to paint it here.  

   

With leftover Dia de los Muertos decor, I remember Skeleton Woman folklore.  The wild woman archetype.  La Que Sabe - She Who Knows.  Who is always with those who cry alone.  Feeling her comforting presence spurs but more sobs, though I manage to pay before running away.  

    Still, there's hardly a spring in my step during my sunset stroll.  An uncommon Boxer crosses my path.  The day's first genuine smile cracks my tear-crusted face.  I know it will all be OK: after a good cry, a good night of sleep, and an oversized glass of red, ready for Monday morning's forward energy.  

    Today is the balancing Yin. The low after so many high days with friends.  The inconvenient darkness connecting Instagrams of poolside margs and street eats.  The shadows that make the picture authentic and complete.