Several weeks ago, fortune found us hours away from Carnival in Barranquilla – site of the second largest Carnival in the world. Only Rio tops it.
After being in Colombia for 30-days, I can still recall the scene of my room the night before I left:
Prioritization piles, meticulously stacked and organized, next to my backpack. One, non-negotiables: headlamp, knife, travel adapter. Another, required clothing: hiking pants, several pairs of Darn Tough socks, rain jacket. Another, if I have space: an extra pair of yoga pants, denim shorts, denim jacket.
In the zona de cosmetica, where things like sunscreen, toothpaste, and insect repellent lived, so too, did my make-up bag. As wearing make-up had been a part of my daily routine for fifteen years, it was just as implicit as my passport.
Early this morning I sat on a platform made from dark-stained wood, overlooking a valley of Colombian heartland. My feet, kept warm by wool socks, dangled over the edge without fear of the distance below.
On February 20, 2017, I celebrated thirty-months of sobriety and my commitment to the daily, life-long process of active recovery from addiction.
On December 22 of last year, my father picked me up from Ft. Lauderdale airport, the beginning of a visit home for the holidays. It had been nearly a year since we had seen one another, just enough time for me to forget how bright his eyes became when he saw me, how supportive he was when I spiraled enthusiastically down the corkscrew of my newest idea, and how erratic and stubborn of a highway driver he had become.