A Breeze at the Door

 

Brisa, breeze in Spanish, has swept into our lives with charm, and grace—as if she always belonged.

I wish I could talk with her and hear the story of her life before we met her on the streets near our home in San Pedro Ixtlahuaca, in southern Mexico. Who did she ever belong to, if anyone? Where did she sleep? What paths did she walk before crossing ours? How could she be so good-natured?

When we first noticed her, she bore evidence of a small mishap, favoring her front right paw. Even so, she lifted it to “shake hands” with Amy—a polite gesture that suggested she still believed in people. Aside from that, she seemed healthy—no collar, no signs of a home, no hesitation in her step toward us. From the start she showed nothing but affection and friendliness, without fear. Everyone who has met her thinks she is about three or four years old. Her story is a mystery.

It took a few days—coming so soon after losing our former street adoptee, Avión—but one evening we gathered her up from in front of a gas station and brought her home. It felt less like a decision than a recognition, as though something already understood simply needed to be acted upon.

Now she is home and fully part of our “pack”—Amy, our dog Mali, and me, and now Brisa. She is so well-mannered and loyal that my heart thumps with gladness—like her tail, which begins wagging even when she is resting and knows I am entering the room.

She comes when called, racing back to the house from the yard as if responding to something urgent and joyful. She eats enthusiastically alongside Mali, then checks Mali’s bowl, just in case something important has been left behind. And she gives what can only be described as hugs—sitting up and wrapping her front legs around ours, gazing upward with bright, uncomplicated happiness. It is a gesture that feels both earnest and disarming, and resistance proves futile.

Brisa has already had several veterinary visits. She received injections to ease the pain in her paw, which may have been the result of a severe bruise. We took her to a clinic in town for examinations and to schedule sterilization. During the exam, several clinicians felt along her underside and said she appeared to have a scar, indicating she had likely already been spayed.

When I heard that, my heart sank. A cloud formed over our happiness. My God, I thought, what if she belonged to someone? The possibility had crossed our minds before, but a friend who knew her—and had been feeding her scraps at night—assured us she was a street dog.

The veterinarian explained that it is common here for street animals to be neutered and then returned to their familiar territory. That explanation brought some relief. Brisa received three vaccines, and we decided not to pursue further surgery.

On the drive to the clinic she shook the entire way, her body tight with worry. On the way home she was calm. And when we arrived, she leapt from the car and raced into the house, joy restored and fully operational.

Her past may always remain a mystery. But her present is clear, and her future, at least for now, feels certain. Brisa is here. She belongs. And like a gentle breeze, she has brought something quietly refreshing and life-giving into our days.

Speed Bumps, Bakeries, and Carnival Lights

Amy and I live a quiet, creative life on the outskirts of one of the world’s most vibrant cities—Oaxaca, Mexico. Our village sits far enough from town to feel rural, but close enough to dip in whenever we choose. The drive takes about forty-five minutes, made longer by the countless speed bumps that punctuate every road here. They are unavoidable, and somehow comforting—part of the rhythm of life in southern Mexico.

Yesterday we left home at 4:15 in the afternoon, leaving our two dogs behind, who would later greet us as if we’d been gone for weeks.

Our first stop was the local seamstress. She had altered two pairs of pants and a skirt for us, all for the handsome price of ten dollars. She is a sweet, older woman, very small, who wears an apron and keeps religious icons watching over her tiny shop. Her work is careful and precise, and she always greets us with genuine warmth. We love these small human connections—they anchor us.

From there we walked around the corner to Boulenc, a bakery that has become indispensable to our lives. Good bread is surprisingly hard to find, but this place gets it right every time. Fresh loaves, muffins, croissants, and pastries fill the air with that unmistakable scent that makes restraint impossible. We stop in at least once a week, and yesterday was no exception.

Next door is the restaurant run by the same establishment, and it happens to be one of the hippest spots in the area—bohemian, lively, and always buzzing. Amy and I shared a late-afternoon salad and the slice of cheesecake we’d just purchased next door. Simple, perfect, unhurried.

From there we drove on to our main destination: a five-day carnival set up in one of the city’s landmark parks. Being Saturday, all of Oaxaca seemed to be out. Families, teenagers, couples, street vendors—everyone moving together in that easy, festive way people do here. There were food stalls and trinket booths, thrill rides and Ferris wheels, and music everywhere.

Amy and I split up for a while—she browsed the booths while I wandered with my camera. As night fell, the carnival transformed. Colored lights flared to life, spinning rides became ribbons of motion, and the air thickened with laughter and sound. I love photographing that swirl of energy—the joy, the movement, the faces lit by anticipation.

When Amy and I reunited, we played a few of the games together. Our favorite is always the horse race. A row of toy horses stands at the ready behind a miniature racetrack. You hurl small pinballs into holes on a slanted board—the harder shots are higher up and earn more points, moving your horse forward faster. A racetrack announcer narrates the action nonstop over a microphone, while a soundtrack blares in the background. It’s ridiculous and wonderful fun.

Carnival video — 4 min.

Eventually we made our way home, tired in the best way. Our dogs greeted us with wagging tails and full-body joy, as if we’d returned from a long journey.

Days like this remind us how rich an ordinary life can be—stitched together from small encounters, good food, bright lights, shared laughter, and the comfort of coming home.