La Playa Hermosa
©1994 by Lynn D. Troldahl Hershberger

I lie awake in bed - daydreaming

(if these visions in the dark can be called dreams).

Who could sleep with those exquisite memories

running through their mind?

Mexico -- the white sand, the turquoise surf,

the wind in my hair, the sunshine

warming my pale northern skin.

The holy Maya city of Tulum --

visitors from far reaches of the world --

many languages -- same sense of awe.

The man from Detroit -- shouting "I'm not going back!"

Me -- feeling total bliss, religious ecstasy;

reluctant to talk (as if it could break a spell).

Unexpected delights --

the cave we discovered while swimming,

the lizard in the patch of prickly pear,

the ruins of millennia ago.

A friend once lived near Tulum.

We speak of hurricanes -- he points out

that the temples still stand through thousands of storms.

My soul yearns to return to the turquoise beach.

I dream of taking my cold Michiganian self,

and transplanting it to this holy, tropical land.

What voice better to heed, than my soul?

Yet the voices of practicality storm my mind:

Doubts of fearful people --

my mother, ex-husband, friends --

who live stable but dreamless lives.

I allow their voices to overwhelm me,

like the hurricanes that pelt the Yucatan --

land of my dreams.

My friend says the Mayas had it figured out.

Hurricanes or not, their city still stands.

My dreams are holy temples of inner faith,

tested by hurricanes of fear and doubt.

If I should honor my dreams,

will my temples be strong,

like the carved stone temples of Tulum?

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