Last summer, my husband I flew on a second honeymoon to the Riviera Maya, Mexico.  We actually landed 24 hours apart.  My husband was deplaned when WestJet, in its inimitable wisdom, decided that the vomiting he was doing before takeoff due to some medication that had turned his stomach posed a sufficient risk to passengers and crew that he needed to get off the plane.  Not thinking clearly because I was in a state of shock, I stayed on the plane, believing stupidly that if I refused to go with him, they would bring him back, not sending a woman alone to the Cancun airport, or understanding that a wife would get off the plane with her husband if he was truly sick.  Alas, this was not the case, and I was wheels up, alone.

I arrived at our beautiful resort drooping from hypoglycemia, at nearly 3pm local time, with nothing more than a smoothie and a double vodka and Coke in my system.  The man at the counter handed me a margarita and directed the sad Canadian señorita to the restaurant, which would be closing in ten minutes, for a badly needed meal.  We could finish checking in after I had eaten, he said.

I loaded my plate with a burger and gorgeous local salads, sipping white wine and watching huge palm fronds swaying in the afternoon breeze, wondering what the hell had happened to my day.  I got to my room shortly thereafter, arriving into a cool, immaculate space with beige ceramic tiles, brightly colored and still smelling of bleach.  I showered and took a shuttle to the hacienda, an open-air shopping area on the resort grounds filled with lavishly colored merchandise, linen blouses and dresses, bright ceramics, jewelry made of shells from the sea.  I ate dinner on a patio, texting my husband and watching local wildlife steal scraps from empty plates, lingering awhile, letting the warm wind relax my tense shoulders.  The next morning I watched the sun rise slowly over our balcony, wrapped in a pashmina, listening to birds awakening and calling out to the new day.   I spent the morning at the beach and freshened up for lunch, waiting in the lobby with a book for my husband, who arrived shortly after 2pm.  It was 24 unexpected hours of Eat, Pray, Love.

For the next week, we meandered leisurely through our days.  We picked shells and coral off the beach, let countless handfuls of sand stream through our fingers.  We had the very primal privilege of watching a  storm approach, rage and then recede over the Caribbean Sea.  It was a very ‘Lieutenant Dan’ moment, and as the storm passed over us to thunder over other beaches, I felt I had somehow made my peace with God.  We dozed in the afternoons by a huge pool, chatting with other travellers, listening to snippets of life from other worlds.  We dressed for dinner.

Of course, we were on vacation.  Nothing like that can last forever, and nobody can live like that everyday.  But there is such peace and healing to be found in being fully present in the moment, in watching a school of fish dance around your feet, in gazing for long minutes into your spouse’s eyes when you haven’t done that in a long, long time.  When we came home, we lived differently, taking bits of our vacation habits with us.  We appreciated each other more, and our Canadian prosperity more, and found ourselves more grateful for small things we had always taken for granted.

We can’t afford to take a trip like that every summer, but I eagerly anticipate the next one and hope it comes soon.  I look forward to the little bits of mental and spiritual health that wait for us, far away and glittering, on unknown sands.