Argentina vs. Brasil

My first fútbol game in Argentina:

They INSISTED that I wear the shirt!

When they lost, they suggested that next time I wear a Brasilian jersey.

Happiness.

Buenos Aires - Good Airs is the literal translation and it doesn't take long to figure out why. Even for the gigantic city with all its concrete, metal and glass, the fast pace, and the crowded streets, there's a lilting energy and a warmth even on the chilliest winter day.

"You wanna see someplace new?" Fede asked yesterday morning. "Of course," I answered, thinking how at this point no matter which direction I walk when I leave the house I'm bound to see something new. I should have taken that translation literally too.

As I pressed the button for Belgrano on the ticket machine at the train station, I heard a sound I couldn't quite locate, a happy hum, steady and strong, though changing like a melody. I couldn't tell where it was coming from, but it seemed to be from a heavyset man, neatly dressed in not-so-pristine clothes. I wasn't sure until he stopped to help a woman who dropped something, said "De nada," when she thanked him, and promptly picked up the tune where he'd left off. I saw his face as we crossed the turnstile onto the platform, plump and radiating the same happiness I could feel in his voice. Fede walked past him and seemed intending to continue further on. I followed him, but reluctantly, and finally had to speak up. "I wanna go near that guy!" I said. "I like listening to him."
Fede's face was slightly disbelieving. "That guy?" he stuck his chin in the singing man's direction.
"Yeah, that guy! I like it," I told him.
"He's been around doing that for as long as I can remember," he said seeming just a little bit embarrassed by it, the way one would be in the presence of the neighborhood weird guy.
"But think how happy you'd have to be to sound like that, to sing like that," I said.
Fede said he's been doing the same for at least the past five years.

I listened and watched the jolly man pace back and forth along the platform, singing songs in both English and Spanish with his face all aglow as if there was nothing he'd rather be doing. Inspiring, I thought, that this man wakes up in the morning feeling so happy that he gets dressed and leaves his house just to spread that good feeling around. He didn't once put out his hand for money, though I'm sure people must be touched enough to offer now and then, but simply stepped onto the train car when the doors slid open, still singing, and disappeared inside. Imagine that.

We stepped onto the train ourselves and were greeted by a different kind of music. "Ah, there goes my favorite guy!" Fede exclaimed, "Listen!" Sitting sideways in an aisle seat a few rows away was a white-haired man with wire-rimmed glasses playing an accordian-like instrument with fervor. Fede explained that it was a bandonéon, an instrument typically found in tango, and that the song the man was playing is famous here. Almost every person on the car was smiling. Again, I was taken by the simplicity. Here was a man, dressed neatly, properly even, in button-down shirt and pressed slacks, who found something that he's good at, something that gives him joy, and though it may not be the most lucrative choice, opts to go out every day and do his work. He shares the joy, simple as that. But when the music stopped and the man began to talk, he told us all a story about a dream he had once. I tried to listen closely, but the noise of the train passing tracks made it hard to decipher the Castellano. Fede filled me in. Never a churchgoing man and not at all religious, he had the strangest dream once. In the dream was a man, wearing hardly any clothes, and standing like this (he held his arms out from his shoulders like a T). And even though he wasn't religious, he believed in what the man had said. The man told him he should go out and spread a message to everyone he sees. The man in the dream told him to pass it on that love will save the world. He thanked us all very much, put away his instrument with care, and came around with a woolen cap to collect whatever we could spare. I confess, as I dropped a peso in as he walked by, I felt the love.

We passed the afternoon in Recoleta, wandering through the artesan feria, playing tourist at the giant metal flower (donated to the city by Argentine architect Edouardo Catalano), and enjoying tasty beer with lunch at a local brewery. New scenery, new tastes, new place for sure, but nothing compared to the new perspective with which I returned home to La Lucila.

As we walked back through the city to the bus that would take us home, we crossed an intersection crowded full of people standing and watching. Fede grabbed my hand, walking faster, and said, “Come this way.” I followed like a lamb, ready to see whatever he wanted to show me at this point. “Do you know why we’re crossing?” he asked as we stepped up onto the curb. “Not really,” I replied. “Because of him,” he gestured toward a clown on the other side of the street. Awww, how cute, I thought, assuming he was avoiding the clown because he knows I’ve got a fear of them. But then, he climbed up onto a wall amid the crowd and said, “Come,” and offered his hand. This clown wasn’t a scary clown with big hair and big shoes and creepy grin. He was a cute clown in mime clothes and a beret. We watched as he improvised his act using whoever or whatever came near. He mimicked a grumpy woman walking from behind, another who walked as if on a catwalk. Then, acted as if he were pulling a man coming toward him on a rope. He stopped traffic and sat on cars pretending to think and just made light of whatever passed him by. This guy made a job out of just plain old having fun. Imagine that. Every person who meets you walks away with a smile.

What is it that prevents us all from finding freedom in life, the kind of freedom that gets you out there seeing from new angles, the kind that gets you spreading love and living from a place of deep down joy? The answer I’ve landed on after lots of contemplation is fear. Perhaps of something silly, unexplainable or rooted in some memory, like a clown, or crowds, or heights. Perhaps it’s fear of being different, a sideways look from a stranger. Could be a fear of trying something new. Maybe it’s a fear of falling.

Whatever the case, my suggestion is this:
Dare to do what makes you happy.

Hatha Yoga classes in La Lucila, All Levels, open to the public beginning tomorrow.

Tuesdays and Thursdays 7:30pm.

Visit: www.pacificyogaba.blogspot.com for more details.

Namaste!

Burbujas!

Last December, l went to a 5-year-old's birthday party on the beach. lt was everything you'd expect from a kid's party: chocolate cake, presents and party favors, plus the added bonus of almond & palm trees to climb and play under with the ocean just a short sprint away through the sand. lt was the kind of fiesta even the adults could enjoy. Every child was sent away with little bags of fun: spinning tops, candies, mini action figures, and ice cream cone-shaped bottles of bubbles suspended on strings long enough to hang around your neck. Before l left, as always one of the last to leave the beach, Katherine (the birthday boy's mom), giggling, game me my very own bottle of bubbles, which l didn't need to pretend at all was supercool. l put the string right over my head, unwound the cap and gave the wand a long blow in gratitude. Blue-tinted bubbles spewed out into the breeze and we all laughed out loud. Seeing how much l enjoyed them, Katherine offered me the last left-over bottle of red bubbles as well. Thinking maybe Karen would want them, l thanked her, said happy birthday to little Garrett, and headed home walking up the mountain, the bottle of blue bubbles bouncing against my chest as l hiked. With no shame whatsoever l confess to blowing them more than a few times along the way.

When l got home, Karen was sitting on the back balcony. She had her back to me and was staring out at our meager glimpse of ocean. l couldn't see her face, but from her posture could tell that she was feeling sad. l went around the side of her and sat down in one of the chairs. "Hey," l said cautiously. She looked like she'd been crying.
"Everything ok?" l asked.
"Not really," she replied and began telling me about what had her so down. As she was explaining, she noticed the blue plastic ice cream cone dangling around my neck (it wasn't exactly fashionable or small). She stopped mid-sentence, scrunched her eyebrows together and said, "What's that around your neck?"
"Bubbles," l told her, looking down and remembering they were there.
"Bubbles?" she asked, sounding a little bit like a sourpuss grown up. l blew bubbles at her. She just stared at me kind of like l was a little bit stupid. But when l fished in my handbag and said, "l brought some for you toooo-ooo," and revealed the red cone, her entire face lit up in a slightly reluctant smile. The latest drama temporarily forgotten, we sat on the back porch blowing streams of bubbles out across the backyard not saying a word. l have no idea what happened to Kar's bubbles after we moved apart and l moved in with Fede. (l hope she still blows them and smiles once in awhile.) Mine fell into the hands of 4-year-old Adira, our new downstairs neighbor's little girl.

She'd wander up to our place now and then and find whatever she could to play with. l saw the familiar brightening of face the first time she noticed the bubbles on the kitchen counter. "Burbujas!!!" she shrieked and started jumping up and down excitedly until l handed them down to her. She hopped around the house blowing and giggling as they fell down all around her until her father came up to collect her and bring her home. She cried so much when he told her she had to go that l let her keep the bubbles. Of course l knew they were in better hands, but still felt a small pang as l watched her go with them.

Months later in Nicaragua, walking down a street on the way back to our hotel in Masaya, l stopped in my tracks beside a sidewalk vendor. He had bottles of bubbles in all shapes and sizes dangling from strings amid suspended bags of chips and snacks. Fede followed my gaze and bright face and said, "Ohhh oookaaay," and asked the vendor to please take one down. l blew them down all three remaining blocks back to the hotel. Fede walked ahead, shaking his head slightly, but laughing.

Back in Manuel Antonio, l initiated a new house rule, applicable to everyone within its walls, as l put the new bubbles on the kitchen counter: lf you see them, you have to blow them. Since then, at least of few sprays of colorful fun have brightened up our every day. Josie's lightened up the mood with them during concentrated work sessions with Fede. Erin has blown her share while visiting for breakfast or lunch. My mom and dad showered us with some while they were in town. Even my friend Meg from home took her share of turns. Jessica's 7-year-old son Julian filled the apartment with bubbles, blowing through the wand with the bottle around his neck during a recent visit. Anyone who's eyes have fallen on them, no matter their age, status, or origin, has happily unwound the wand, shimmered bubbles all about and finished smiling.

This morning, l woke up and put on my glasses. The first thing l saw was that bottle of bubbles sitting on the bedside table. Before l even sat up, l blew a few clusters up into the air. As they rained down softly and popped landing on my skin, l wondered in my early morning haze, "What is it about bubbles that always makes you feel so happy?" Maybe it's that they very simply remind us of so much we already know. Floating spheres of different sizes, colors, and duration, all made of the same substance, drifting surrounded, impelled by, and filled with the same invisible stuff. They are beautifully contained space. And when they diminish, they're still exactly what they were, minus the shiny outer shell; you just can't see them anymore. They're like the giant planets and stars, microscopic molecules, or even us. maybe it's because they show us the truth of existence in a playful second. They remind us to enjoy the fleeting trip that we all have, the little things. They remove the weight and make us feel the lightness we are, all in a colorful instant.

l got out of bed and lit a candle on the balcony, got a cushion from the couch and sat down. l closed my eyes and breathed the fresh morning. At first, there were lots of thoughts, sensations, weight to wrestle with, and achy awarenesses. But the longer l just sat there breathing, l found the sameness between what was outside my bubble and within. l found the peace in that, the truth in the space, and then lifted up and floated off into my day.

....Tick. Tick. Tick.

l feel as though l've lost my sense of purpose. What am l doing here? Not just in Costa Rica, but in life. l can't remember the point. l'm not clear about my reasons, and even if l remembered, l'm pretty sure they aren't the same anymore.

l used to read so much. l used to rely on my yoga practice to remind myself to breathe. Nowadays, both outlets leave me wanting, like toys l've outgrown but still appreciate the diversion of...now and then. Were they merely means of escaping a life even more purposeless? lndeed, l've put down many a toy in this lifetime.

So, l'm left with my writing. lt's always been what defined me. At the end of the long day, the phase, the romance, it's always what was left. l remember telling my brother once, when asked what l'd do about retirement if l was running off to some third world country with no definite plan in mind, that when l didn't have the energy to live anymore, l would write it all down. That sort of retirement plan makes a lot more sense to me. But if l hadn't done my share of living l wouldn't have very much to say. Given the fact that l've felt near dead lately, l'd say it's time to start. Living. Writing. These are my purpose. Now l remember.

For weeks l've woken up dull. Hours of nothing much to do stretched out before me. The weather didn't matter. Love had lost it's luster. My yoga practice felt like a chore, gateway to another boring day. This is not why l started to travel, leaving behind my family and friends. lt doesn't mean l don't want to live here. Doesn't mean l'm not in love with him. Doesn't mean that yoga doesn't work. But none of these, as important as they are to me, is the thing that makes me tick. lmagine a clock that's stopped ticking. Not dead, but maybe in need of a new battery.

Acupuncture treatments, a new Energel pen. These are what got me flowing again after weeks of suspended time. All those endless hours that stretch between eyes open and eyes closed now look like hundreds of blank pages to fill with all l've got to tell...

Movement

2009 thus far has been full of loss and complication, love and sweet moments. At least I can say there's been a balance for the equal doses of good and bad, but the swinging back and forth between smiles and tears has me feeling scrambled and confused.

Fede arrived on the first of the year and so began our magic carpet ride. I feel like my feet haven't touched the ground in weeks for all my holiday travels and New Year love. It's a wonderful feeling to be swept away romantically, but poses a bit of a challenge for a yogi who teaches connection the earth. Head in the clouds, hearts in my eyes, I've misplaced my cell phone, twice; would forget my own head if not for my neck; and am missing Mestizo who wandered off 3 days ago and hasn't been back (yet).

Trying to keep myself together, I've spent what feels like the whole week rushing around trying to put all the pieces back where I think they belong. The irony is that transition, inevitable and free flowing, has a way of stirring up the tendency to cling and resist the change. A few days ago, feeling physically exhausted from all the trying to control everything, Fede suggested gently that I should just go lay down. I listened, reluctantly but knowing he was right. I woke an hour later to find all the problems of the day resolved. I merely needed to get out of the way.

In the midst of flux, instead of swirling around, lost in the movement, the wisest thing to do is just sit down. Pause, without judging or criticizing, and drop into the stillness always at the center. Only then can the illusions start to fall away.

Nothing I tried to accomplish worked out yesterday. I tried to activate a phone I'd forgotten at home, tried to print some documents, but one internet cafe had no ink toner and the other was closed for lunch hour, tried to collect medicine at the pharmacy but couldn't find the prescription. Finally, we decided to just go to the beach. I unravelled on the way down the mountain, purified in the salty softness of the sea, then sprawled out like a starfish and fell asleep in the sand. I woke to Fede sitting beside me, wet from his swim. He looked down at me and smiled when I woke from my nap, kissed me lightly on the forehead, and went back to reading his book about yoga (how freakin' cute?!). Restored, we made our climb back up the mountain just as the sun started making it's descent.

Almost back to civilization, we spotted some white-faced monkeys in the trees and stopped to take a few pictures. One monkey ventured out of the forest and was climbing around on the electrical wires above the road. He sat close to the wooden pole holding it all up and looked almost human as he fiddled with the light bulb fixed to the top. His actions and movements were so accurate, the whole show seemed a parody of something he'd once seen. He was so curious and playful we couldn't resist taking some photos even while thinking his game wasn't the best idea. I noted the contradiction: a monkey in the middle of the jungle playing with electrical wires. The contrast between natural and artificial was striking. And then BLAM! Life exploded. Sparks and embers flew. The monkey hung, dangling upside down from the wire, stiff and swinging in the deafening silence that hung in the air around us. My stomach sunk and I was left with the sensation that I'd just witness a harsh lesson, a divine message.

We spend so much of our time dwelling in the artificial. My whole day, whole week, was spent trying to manage technology. Computers, cell phones, printers and pharmaceuticals. Even here on this mountain in the rainforest where the ocean rocks us to sleep each night, it's easy to forget what's important, why we're here. To live. To love. That's all. In an instant, in a flash, it could all be over. And then what?

In the whirl of confusion, don't race to understand. Don't rush to 'fix' it all. When you feel the need to run, SIT and pay really close attention. Fede would add, and eat some ice cream (quite possibly the deciding factor in falling for him completely!). Which brings me to the most profound lesson borne out of these last few weeks: Loss, even the loss of those we love, is a blessing in disguise. In the empty spaces left behind is the most fertile soil, that if tended properly, can yield wisdom, prosperity, and a greater love than even the one you're healing from.

Live, love and trust that everything is exactly as it should be. And if the universe has you swinging and you can't resist the urge to swing along, find yourself a hammock and someone special to snuggle up with. Feel the truth that for every rise, there's a fall and vice versa, and just enjoy the ride.

Space

When I first met my sister-in-law Linda, she'd just moved herself across the country from California to be with my brother. Having grown up in Arizona and warmer climates her entire life, she had a little trouble adapting to springtime in Pennsylvania. While we all reveled in the 65 degree sunshine after a long, cold winter, barbecuing in the backyard in short sleeves and sandals, poor Lin shivered, all bundled up in her sweaters and scarves. It wasn't long before instead of Lin or Linda, we started affectionately referring to her as Arizona, and always with a chuckle and a headshake.

I admit that flip flops were a bad choice for a 2am arrival in New York City in 19 degree weather. In my defense, they were comfy and easy to carry. Still, snow is enough of an adjustment in itself after flying in from a balmy beach, let alone slush squishing between bare toes! Shortly after reuniting with my family, a cozy and calm Linda caught me layered up, teeth chattering, shoulders up around my ears. She giggled and said, Costa Rica!, shaking her head.

No one has ever called me Philadelphia.

We all start out someplace and follow life through all it's peaks and valleys to where we eventually end up. We adapt many times along the way. I've found error in relating too strongly to any one point. Our true strength, our genuine content, is in all the space between where we come from and where we go.

It gets harder every time I go home and leave again. I puzzled over that briefly, but reflecting on the ache left following my week home for Christmas, I see each time I go back how that space has expanded. But for all the growth in the space between, it's just a bigger opening for love.