Visual overload. Every color of flower. More types of cactus than one can imagine. Palms, ferns, bushes, blossoms. And painted pottery in sun-kissed primary colors. My camera is running wild, and I’m satiated with beauty in every direction.

These are the Botanical Gardens of Vallarta. Established a mere 15 years ago, many decades would sound more accurate. Evident is an order, a design, yet the arrangements also flow with spontaneity. Tranquility, inspiration, refreshing—they’re all here for the soul to drink in, to languish in.

Taken together, these gardens, yesterday’s sea coast expedition, and Boca de Tomatlan village, where we’re staying, are a feast for the eyes. Waiting for this morning’s bus, I noticed an unadorned, modest village structure. Looking more closely, the otherwise plain house turned into a “piece of art.” I was compelled to compose a photograph. It was then that I began to see in greater detail. The red compact parked in front contrasted with the serene blue awning. Turquoise house trim and orange tree blossoms accented the scene. For that’s what it became now—a scene!

It seems that once you begin observing, there are “works of art” in every direction. So, while Connie is the real art student on this expedition, I’m having a lot of fun opening up the ducts of creativity. I’m seeing with new eyes, what is beautiful and fascinating. Isn’t this what the apostle meant when he said “God, who gives us richly all things to enjoy” (1Timothy 6:17)?

Which raises a disturbing question. What am I missing? What am I failing to see? What has the Artist of all that is worth seeing, wanting to point out to me today? I want to open my eyes. “Open the eyes of my heart, Lord.”

In the cool of the morning, watching the village wake up, I can remember the taste of yesterday’s enchilada, chile verde, cactus salsa. You’re thinking it’s indigestion. No, not that. Pure pleasure. Now it’s memory. How is it that we can relive experiences?

One of my primary motives for starting this blog is to record these rare, treasured days in a faraway place. Gulls dive for breakfast. Other birds greet the semi-tropical morning. I’m writing, photographing, endeavoring to savor the dream.

This is day number two of Connie’s art workshop at Casa de los Artistas. We watched a master paint an entire scene before our eyes, explaining his technique as he went. My fabulous artist wife then painted for hours, applying what we’d seen and heard. The broad open air studio overlooks this inlet, where a modest, lazy river feeds the sea. Here, a miniature beach provides Sunday re-creation for hard-working Mexican families. Through the afternoon I watched boys jumping waves, smaller children holding the hands of their moms and dads, and grandparents sitting around portable tables, picnicking with their extended tribe.

Each day is a gift. We know that. But the days slip through our fingers. How can I more live in the moment? How can I take in all that my eyes and ears and hands and heart touch?

Taste and see that the Lord is good, states the psalmist. Yes, if I exercise the God-granted capacity to remember, I can taste yesterday’s enchilada. And, using every available means, I can carve moments into relivable memories. For these are days I want to remember richly.

Until I stopped and looked more slowly, I didn’t notice the movement of the palms. It’s not light yet, but the street lights of the village cast an enchanting light on the water. Stopping altogether, even for a minute or two—three?—is rare in our experience. What happens when I become still?

It took getting still to perceive the swaying of these majestic trees, their bare trunks as high as a five story apartment. Under the clear, star-strewn night, the broad palm leaves act as sails, catching the offshore breeze.

The village, Boca de Tomatlan, is sleeping. But the waves are not. They are singing, rejoicing, laughing. This cove is a magical place. It hardly seems real. Are we really here? Have we weighed anchor, let go, disconnected from the intensity of our beloved nation? At least for these days, an exquisite gift, we’ve been granted the time and place to reflect, reawaken, rediscover, recreate.

He who established the tides, who defined the coastlines, who said “Let there be light,” He is here. His handprint is on the pre-dawn. He invented sound, composing the music of many waters. Being still, being with Him, with no other purpose is to be recreated, remade. I breathe deeply. To be fully alive, is that not our calling? His invitation? He says “Be still and know, that I am God.” Is that how to be more joined with Him, by being still? To listen? To watch? To take notice of the barely perceptible movement of the palms?

What else do you want to show me, O Mighty Conductor of Symphonies, O Master Artist who makes the sunset sky come alive as a vast canvas whose easel sits upon the horizon?

Elie Wiesel’s book, “Open Heart,” is a brilliant, lyrical piece of writing. Reflecting deeply (does he ever do anything else?) following open heart surgery, the world’s most celebrated survivor opens his own heart. His piercing, fresh use of language inspires, provokes, and dismays me. How can I begin to approach this man’s creativity, honesty, and gut level relevance?

I’m still in the air. We’ve another four hours and forty-five minutes to go, according to the fancy schmanzy computerized screen that stares at me, locked as I am, in 34E, next to my beloved.

Wiesel touches, no, dives into the search for life’s meaning. Compelling are his familiarity with the death of the death camps, and his rigorous determination to wrest value and righteous living within a world so stained with evil. The man who wrote “The Trial of God” is a dedicated, practicing Jew. Appalled at the hatreds and brutality of this world, he refuses to lose hope, and labors endlessly to speak out for victims, to vie for redemption.

Aged 82 when he wrote “Open Heart,” this author of 50 or so books questions whether he has done enough. Has he written enough, or too much? Was he persistent enough in battling against the inhumanity of man? Has he provided a sufficient example for others to follow? Did he honor his parents and their parents?

These questions chase me too.

We’re at the gate. Gearing up for a 15 hour flight (!). It’s such a phenomenal event/gift/celebration. 50 years. No small chunk of time. A getaway to remember, to savor, and to report on. Hence…this blog. Never done this before. But it should be a fun way to share the experience. Hope you’ll join me over these next 17 days or so…and beyond.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton