The Sound of Belonging
After long delays, we finally arrived in Panama. It wasn’t quite night—just that deep equatorial dusk that falls fast, when one moment the sky is gold and the next it’s ink.
And then, through the noise of the airport, a voice called my name.
“Kim!”
It was Sofía, our niece from Cali, smiling and waving across the customs hall. Three flights, three countries—finally together, laughing at the timing.
Juan was waiting outside, and as soon as we climbed into the van, the city opened before us. Something shifted on that drive to Casco Antiguo, the old quarter. Maybe it was the skyline or the sheer awe of being here, but we all seemed to wake up. The kids pressed their faces to the window, pointing at the bridges and lights shimmering over the bay.
By the time we crossed into the old town, our tiredness had melted into excitement. Casco Antiguo was gorgeous—marvelously painted in pinks and yellows, a living connection between the past and the present.
Juan had made dinner reservations months ago, and with our flights delayed, we had to rush. We threw on fresh clothes and hurried through the narrow streets.
The restaurant was stunning—walls draped in greenery, hammocks hanging from the ceiling, hand-woven straw monkey masks smiling down. A live band played softly. The food was even better: ceviche with fish and shrimp, and Emma’s roasted chicken so tender it nearly fell apart.
When we stepped back into the street, the salty air wrapped around us like a welcome.
The next morning sunlight spilled through our tall windows. We wandered through bright facades and iron balconies, stopping at a small café that felt like a secret garden. In a courtyard beneath an iron window that opened to another, we shared coffee that tasted of chocolate and earth and warm bread wrapped around ham and cheese.
It was the first slow morning where we truly began to talk—to reconnect after the hurry of travel.
Later we wandered through a few souvenir shops. More than trinkets, they held hand-stitched shirts, carved wood, painted crafts—a glimpse of the traditions we’d meet later in the villages. We each picked small gifts for family and friends, a way of holding them close while we were far away.
By the time we packed for the next morning’s flight to Bocas del Toro, the city already felt familiar—alive, warm, and humming with possibility.
It was more than an arrival. It was an awakening.
🌿 Something to Carry
Think of a time you arrived somewhere new—not just in miles, but in heart.
What told you that you belonged? The scent of the air? A voice calling your name?
Every arrival carries a quiet promise:
you are allowed to begin again.
Hold this truth:
I arrive with open hands and hear the whisper of belonging.
🌊This reflection first appeared on my Substack, Delight & Savor: Field Notes for the Soul.
There, each essay is accompanied by Sea Heart Reflections — gentle journaling prompts and a short audio note — available for paid subscribers.
You can read all the stories freely, but if you’d like to linger with the deeper reflections and audio recordings, you can join the paid circle on Substack for $8 a month or $80 a year.
Read and subscribe on Substack →https://substack.com/@delightandsavor
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