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...
