gifts from the gods​

Amanda Wilde arrived at a little remote caye off the coast of Belize to unwind and heal for two or three weeks.
 

That was several weeks ago.
 

She meditates at sunrise, watches clouds dance down the reef, and works on her painting skills daily.

Life is beautifully simple. Most days.
 

Chicago's a rumbling background noise in her mind, the problems there are one thousand six hundred eighty as-the-crow-flies miles away — and a century or more from this little beach.
 

In the back of her mind, she knows she should book a return ticket and deal with the life she left behind. But the one-room thatched cabin has cast a magic spell on her — and she's made peace with cold bucket showers and basic plumbing, and is learning when to drop the shutters — it’s all a minor trade-off for the tranquility she’s found.
 

She's learning to trust island wisdom.

The locals believe whatever washes ashore is a gift from the gods — put it to good use, or the gods will cut off all future gifts.
 

Sometimes what washes ashore is miraculously what you need, what you've wished for.
 

And at other times — well, it proves the gods have a wicked sense of humor.
 

Be careful what you wish for. The gods are listening.