Andrea MacPherson

December is a tricky time of year.  Full of holiday cheer, family and friends, but also cold weather and, here on the west coast, rain.  For the last ten days, though, I’ve managed to avoid the rain and was, instead, immersed in another kind of whiteness in another kind of place.

We travelled to the west coast of Mexico for some much needed relaxation.  It was warm and sunny, all things a tropical holiday should be.  I was hoping, somewhat secretly, that a new environment would melt away some of the writer’s block I had been experiencing lately.  Usually, travel inspires me, and I was hoping this time would be the same. 

While there, we took a few trips, one to the remote fishing village of Yelapa and another into Puerto Vallarta on Our Lady of Guadalupe’s feast day.  What we experienced there was far beyond what we had expected.

The Cathedral of Our Lady of Guadalupe sits in the centre of town, and we can hear the bells from the moment we step on the malecon.  The cathedral is a faded orange, with the bell tower spire high in the long, blue sky.  But it’s all the white that we notice as we get closer; the streets are full – bursting – with people dressed in white, carrying armfuls of flowers and candles, singing and praying.  In every direction, the streets swell, pulsing with the devout.  Children sleep on shoulders, women place handkerchiefs over their heads to keep the sun at bay, men slink into small shallows of shade bordering the street.  And everywhere there is white – dresses, bands of lace, open-collared shirts, the frill of a bonnet.  White candles shimmer.  The heat of the day is made crystal.  I could feel the words starting to form: the pinpricks of a poem.

We moved slowly down the side streets, away from the worshippers and their long day of waiting.  But we listened to the bells, and held the vision of the brick cathedral, the blue sky, and the streets tumbling over with white.