I know what’s going to happen when I die.
Or at least I’m pretty sure I know what to expect on my way to the pearly gates of the next phase of existence. Because I lived it on Thursday night.
My friend and I spent a few days in a little pueblo called Tlatlauquitepec (Tla-Tao-key-tay-pec) which is perched at an elevation of nearly 1,900 meters in the Sierra Norte Mountain range in Puebla State (see all the beauty here). It’s a stunning place bursting with nature. In fact, it’s known as the “Garden of the Sierra”. The air is crisp, the plants are vibrant, the fish is fresh, and the mezcal is cheap. There was not one tourist to be found aside from myself (a blonde gringa) and J (gorgeous, tall, Chinese). We were a complete spectacle in a town of less than 9,500 inhabitants who clearly haven’t seen many international visitors. If the locals weren’t outwardly staring at us, they were outwardly trying NOT to stare at us, which was even better. I can only imagine what was going on in their heads. What kind of creatures are these? Aliens? Spies?? Lesbians???
Anyway, I’m writing about death so let’s get back to it.
July is lightning bug season, a time of year taken very seriously here in Mexico. While I do have many a delightful childhood memory of gathering with my neighbors to capture these blinking beauties in glass jars (to what, suffocate them? Weird.), I haven’t thought much of them since my preteen years. So, when Lolita, the chatty, jolly owner of the lovely little hotel where we stayed suggested a firefly excursion, I was instantly sold.
Thursday evening at 6:30pm J & I ascended to the lobby to meet our driver, who was to take us on a 45-minute drive down the mountain to a striking natural lake. Something that will forever amaze me about Mexico is the incredible diversity of its ecosystem, and within 5 minutes we had crossed from farmland to full-on rainforest. We arrived at the lake, and it was huge; the little dock where we parked was lined with small, brightly painted row boats, each with a set of oars and a white rooftop cover. After donning some very unfashionable, rather godawful neon life jackets, we stepped onto our rowboat (lancha) and sat face to face with “Sixty”; tiny, fit, tan, donning a red checkered flannel, dark jeans, a cowboy hat, and NO LIFE JACKET. Sixty proceeded to row our boat without stopping for 90 minutes, a physical feat I found so captivating it was hard for me not to ogle at him with my mouth agape.
Now you’re wondering, did I perhaps have a slight crush on him? Obviously.
The lake was surrounded by mountains, which were topped by an eerie mist. As the moon rose, it cast glimmering light beams onto the lake’s pulsating surface. The only sounds that could be heard were that of birds, insects, and the oar breaking the water’s edge. It was mystical, magical. Neither J nor I knew where we were going, and we didn’t really care. “I think this is what happens when it’s your time to die,” she whispered to me. And I immediately knew she was right. There is no more beautiful way to transition to a new dimension than gliding through this peaceful, glistening body of water as night swiftly takes over.
Sixty rowed us to a lagoon. The trees surrounding us were exploding with various shades of yellow, green, and white. As the fireflies danced above our heads, I remembered Lolita’s description: it’s like sitting underneath a Christmas tree.
Obviously, I cried. Just a little bit. Just enough.
I don’t know for certain what happens after death. Neither do you. It’s up for interpretation. I personally find it quite exciting that after this incredible experiment on Planet Earth, there might be another dimension even more thrilling and fulfilling than this one. I’m also fine if there’s not, because, well, I’ll be dead.
But I know I want to arrive in style. With my closest loves, a bottle of good mezcal, some red lipstick, and probably an edible. When it’s time, we’ll hop on my lancha. Sixty (or more likely, his son) will row us to the lagoon to admire the light show. I’ll take one final swig of Mexico’s highest quality spirit and hop out of the boat to a secluded, tiny island full of plants and flowers and lightning bugs and fresh mountain air. There will be a door, and I’ll open it with trust and curiosity. Whatever’s on the other side, I’ll jump right in. This is how I’ve tried to live my life, so I imagine I’d approach my dimensional transition in the same manner.
If only because at 106 years old, I’ll be too old and stubborn to change my ways.
With love,
Bethany
