May-Oh, What a Month- by Laurie

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For those who know me well — or for anyone who has ever reached out about visiting — you’ve probably heard me say, “Don’t come in May.” As I sit here writing this, I realize that statement is still mostly true… but I also find myself wondering how much of my experience of May has been shaped by the stories and expectations I’ve attached to it over the years.

This is now my third May in Belize, and some things about this season are undeniably intense. By this time of year, many of the creeks have slowed to a trickle or dried up completely. Ours still moves, but only at a snail’s pace. The sea becomes so warm it feels like bath water back in Canada, and in many places the shoreline is covered in sargassum. Daytime temperatures can climb close to 40°C, and with the humidex it can feel well into the 50s. Thankfully, the nights still cool down enough to make sleeping manageable.

Living off-grid means there’s no air conditioning waiting to rescue us from the heat. By 9 a.m., the intensity of the day has usually fully arrived. For Corey — and Willy — early mornings are simply part of life and often the best part of the day. For me, sleep seems to come and go in waves, and lately the wave says sleep from 4 a.m. until 9 a.m. Instead of fighting it, I’m trying to learn how to ride the wave, to trust my body more deeply, and to stop forcing myself into rhythms that don’t feel natural in this season. Past experiences have taught me that trying to force control usually creates more tension, resistance, and harder lessons.

The animals adapt too. Each night, a group of frogs and toads gathers around our fish pond like it’s hosting a nightly pool party. Others have apparently decided that Willy’s water bowl belongs to them just as much as it belongs to him. The birds visit the bird bath constantly, and our hummingbird feeders need refilling almost daily. Even the chickens drink far more water this time of year.

The fish pond slowly lowers as well — partly because I use some of the water for the plants, and partly because the rains haven’t yet arrived to replenish it. The plants themselves begin to show signs of stress. Some of our younger trees need additional watering despite our efforts to protect them with mulch. We’re constantly experimenting with natural ways to support them. Some receive layers of leaves and grass clippings, while this year we discovered a local source of free rice hulls. Armed with feed bags, a shovel, and the Jeep, we hauled back this free resource spread around the passionfruit vines.

These small efforts make a noticeable difference by helping the soil retain moisture and reducing how much watering is needed — something especially important when your water supply comes from a combination of spring water and rainwater collection. There have been times when the spring could barely keep up with our needs, and moments like that create a much deeper awareness of water itself.

You quickly begin changing your habits. Laundry, dishes, showers, even flushing the toilet — everything becomes more intentional. And honestly, I’m grateful for those reminders. Scarcity has a way of bringing awareness to things we normally take for granted. Sometimes that awareness is exactly what I need to reconnect with gratitude.

Yet alongside the dryness comes incredible abundance. The changing season brings an explosion of flowers — mango, avocado, moringa, wax apple, flamboyant trees, Mayflowers, shampoo ginger, torch ginger, bougainvillea, and countless others. Fruit begins appearing everywhere too: raspberries, mulberries, soursop, passionfruit, pineapple, papaya, just to name a few. After months of heat and waiting, the flavors somehow feel even sweeter.

And then… there are the scorpions, who are also in search of water and therefore moving around much more this time of year.

Imagine lying in bed during a new moon, where the darkness is so complete you can’t even see your hand in front of your face. It’s around 1:30 in the morning when suddenly — WHAP — something stings you directly on the neck.

And wow, does it hurt.

Finding a flashlight meant reaching across the exact area where I knew “something” still was, so instead I awkwardly climbed out the bottom of the bed, trying not to trip over anything as I made my way toward the lights. This, of course, also meant waking Corey — but there really was no other option.

Together we discovered a tiny scorpion hiding inside my pillowcase.

Definitely not where they belong.

To be fair, this was only my second scorpion sting in two and a half years here. The first one happened almost exactly two years ago, on May 17, 2024 — my father-in-law’s birthday.

After eventually returning to bed, I remembered that only a couple of hours earlier I had been standing outside under the stars thinking about the month of May, missing my dad, who passed away on May 21, 2011, and wondering what he would think about this journey and the life we are building here.

And strangely enough, I do feel the scorpion carried a message.

Perhaps it was reminding me to release old patterns of thought. Perhaps it was asking me to recognize that I am stronger and more adaptable than I sometimes believe. Or maybe it was simply inviting me to stop resisting May so much.

Because as I sit here writing this now, I wonder how much my own thoughts, expectations, and words have shaped my experience of this season.

And more importantly…

What might change if I stopped focusing on the hardship and instead allowed myself to fully see the abundance surrounding me?