Traveling Light

75% God

2011-09-14T06:31:00.000-07:00

Most people are mirrors, reflecting the mood and emotions of the times; few are windows, bringing light to bear on the dark corners where troubles fester. —Sydney J. Harris

I sat by the river with my coffee this morning. Felt my insides drawn out and superimposed upon the chops and ripples, waves, whorls and eddies, inconsistencies on the surface, reflective and responsive to even the subtlest of influence or intention, taking impressions from invisible forces like directions from a conductor. Galaxies of momentary stars glinting off the sun, pulsing brightly alongside one another, flashed for a flickering second and then were gone like shifting harmonies of light. Flowing.

A fish splashed up leaving a wake of bubbles and I imagined all the life within the depths of water. Not just this particular puddle, but all the liquid of the Earth. Aware of, affected by, every pull and stir on the surface, helpless but to absorb the effects. I wondered if they knew how much they were moving all the time. I felt water as the elemental layer between us and the universe below us and wondered what the skin of the sky must look like from above.

Water might just be the closest I’ve ever been to God, I thought to myself, absorbing the sermon being played out before and all around me. I feel we were probably once down there too, immersed in all that peace, but impudently managed to wriggle ourselves out, dry up and have spent centuries building ourselves up and away from it, trying to contain it, trying to control it, using it to suit our needs. We baptize our children in it. We bathe ourselves in it. We drink it to purify our systems, sooth ourselves with the sound of it. We use it to clean up the messes we make. Then we dump what we don’t want into it.

I watched debris float by on the current, pieces of trees mostly, voyaging downstream from where they’d lived to wherever they’d wash up or whatever they’d become. I know a guy in Costa Rica who collects driftwood from the beach near his house and shapes it into furniture. In the end, the death of one thing supports the life of another. If only we’d all paid attention to that simple truth before we disturbed the natural order: we don’t have to kill things to make use of them; every thing has its purpose, and death happens.

As I made my way home on my bike, I noticed the new Race Street Pier and decided this unexpected end-of-summer morning should be the last of it being a place I’ve wanted to go but had never been to yet. I started up the ramp and a large black man in a Security uniform yelled, “You gotta WALK your bike up there!” I stopped, looked at him and said, “Excuse me?” having heard him plain as day. “I SAID you gotta WALK that bike!” he bellowed sharply. “Oh, I didn’t know,” I told him, paused to dismount my bike and said, “and GOOD MORNING,” with a sweet smile disguising a terrier snarl.

I walked my bike to the end of the pier and took a look around.
I was watching a large bird with a long, pointy beak surf the current when the man in the uniform came walking up beside me and asked, “Did you think I was mean?”

A little bit, I told him. “You could have said good morning first.”

He apologized and extended his hand, which I shook firmly and gratefully. We stared out at the water. “You off from work today?” he asked after a pause.

“No,” I shook my head. Seeing his confusion I added, “I work a little differently than most people.”

“ What do you do?”, he asked.

I teach yoga, I told him.

“Oh, like the exercise,” he nodded in recognition.

“More or less,” I said.

He stared at me.

I explained that yoga’s more a way of life than exercise. The exercise is what we yogis call practicing, which really is studying ourselves to clear away the stuff that isn’t good.

“A lot of people don’t study themselves at all,” he said thoughtfully after a moment. “Why do you think that is?”

“Probably they’re afraid to look,” I told him.

“So, you, as a teacher, you think you a hundred percent clear?” he asked.

“Nah,” I shook my head, “I don’t think that. But I try. I think there are probably very few people who can completely clear themselves to a point that they’re one hundred percent connected to Divinity all the time.”

He thought for awhile and said, “A pastor once told me that for all the trying people do to get themselves right with God, there’s always something they hold onto keeps them from it.”

“Well, no matter how clear we get, we always have to rub up against everyone else and their stuff. Whatever extent they’re connected to God, they’re connected to us in ways that affect us and so we react and have to keep on revising.”

“You a pretty intelligent young lady,” he said with a steady, eyebrow-knitted stare and grew quiet.

“Ever notice the way water affects humans when they close to it?” he asked after a silence.

I nodded and smiled. “I think we hear its message of cause and effect. Every little intention shows up in the water.” I said, jutting my chin toward all the movements happening at once.

“I think it’s cause we made up of 75 percent water and we feel that when we get close to it,” he said gesturing to himself and his own wateriness. After a pause: “God sure knew what he was doing.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I said.

Routes

2011-08-30T20:15:00.001-07:00

Retrograde - adj. Moving backward; having a backward motion or direction; retiring or retreating.

I took advantage of some unexpected free time this past week and biked up to Pennypack Park and the patch of wooded trails that used to be like my backyard growing up. It was the first time I'd been there in about 4 years.

It's a strange thing, going back to visit former places of significance in one's life. They're all at once familiar and completely different, and somehow are comforting for both their familiarity and foreignness.

I used to ride my bike there as a child. Used to fish there as a teenager with my boyfriend Fred. Would drive there in my convertible to take hikes with my dog Cain as a young woman. Now, grown, older, even for my old-school mode of transport, those trails seem to have shrunk in girth and depth. I came down the same old path, but found certain places grown over as if swallowed whole, or closed up like old wounds. A small waterfall I remember from always is no longer heaving itself over the rocks in the creek. I followed a small footpath that was once an open field with a firepit I used to warm my hands in front of in the center and found an impassable wall of weeds. The firepit, a glimpse of rock obscured by all the overgrowth.

Still, even for all the changes, for better or worse is hard to say, as I climbed down onto a sandy bank, a miniature beach on the creek, I had the eerie sensation of climbing around in my own root system. I am a part of that place, a native organism so to speak, and have changed as much or more than the trails and old landmarks.

I practiced yoga on that little beach, soaking up the sunshine peeking through the splayed fingertips of the trees, gazed intently down the creek that in many ways taught me how to flow. There was the hint of a waterfall, a new one I'd never seen before, rushing over exposed rock, seeming to insist upon onward movement. Forth, it seemed to say without pause.

I took the path along the other side of the water to go back. The path through the wood narrowed to less than a footpath in places, forcing me to clear the way bike-first on foot. At one point I had to take it up a notch and pick my way across the stream rock by rock with the bike up on my shoulder. I hadn't known until taking the first step across that I'd actually be able to do it, but onward seemed the theme of the day and so onward I pushed.

When I finally exited the tangled woods of my youth, I understood that some things grow in different ratio to other things, and that some things can grow over completely and disappear if there's no use for them anymore. Other things prevail and strengthen. A good way to really see the size and scope of oneself is to retreat for a spell to old versions of home: places, people and things, and take stock of what still fits and what doesn't anymore, and how clear is the path in and out.

Roots - Part 3

2010-07-27T18:02:00.000-07:00

Movement. It’s a fact of life. The whole of existence is alive with it. Everything we know, dancing particles forever shifting, growing, turning, dipping down low and rising back up. Some movement is so subtle we barely notice, like digestion or breath. Some movement is grand and mysterious, like the rising and setting of sun and moon, but happens so rhythmically that we take it for granted. There’s the undeniable kind of movement that grows us from small infants into clumsy toddlers and eventually into articulate adults. Then, there’s the kind of movement that requires giant machines and huge amounts of energy to happen, traveling from one continent to another or moving from one home to another, for instance.

A few weeks back, I made the long journey from Buenos Aires, Argentina to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to meet the family’s new addition, a niece due to be born at the end of July. Geographically, it was quite a trek, but the shifts I’m experiencing go way beyond miles and kilometers. I left behind sweaters and scarves and the turning of autumn into winter to arrive in 90 degree (Fahrenheit) temperatures and Summer Solstice sunshine. I find myself still thinking in Spanish even when responding to my own family (who wouldn’t have a clue what I was saying if I said what I was thinking). I walk into familiar places and, in the foreignness I feel, note the changes in me I hadn’t noticed in that other kind of foreign I’ve come to know so well.

Last night, I stood on the rooftop of my brother’s house and looked out across Philadelphia. The moon, almost full, smiled to me from that old familiar face she reveals in this piece of sky. In every direction I turned, there was something to bring me home: the skyline lighting up the darkening sky to the south; the sun’s remnants brightening the horizon, with the lavender sheaf he trails in this section of the world softening the outline of factories and churches to the west; a bird’s eye view of the neighborhoods all before and below me to the north; and to the east, the roofs of Fishtown, so much sky and the river I couldn’t see but know perfectly well is there.

A twinkling in the distance caught my eye, but not a star. I watched to find other lights, some red, some white and flashing, some in a line, some moving individually and far from one another. I watched the movement in the sky until I understood the patterns of airport towers, landing strips and that swervy feeling you get when the pilot says to “fasten seatbelts, sit back and relax, we’ll be landing in just about 20 minutes”.

In an instant, I felt that small feeling I’ve chased climbing volcanoes and jumping from waterfalls in Costa Rica, the true distance between here and my home in Argentina, and the value of all the things I’ve learned in the places I’ve visited in between. I understood another dimension of what it is to travel between countries and cultures. From my up above and looking down, outside looking in perspective, I could see the big picture. The whole world is no bigger than a marble, and I am microscopic.

I’ve spent so much time in my travels thus far pondering the true definitions of things like ‘home’ and ‘roots’ and wondering about where in the world to “plant myself”, as if roots were something one would have a say in.

Roots are the first thing to sprout from any seed, they’re there before anything else. Family, town, country, language, all the things that were there waiting to receive us before we ever came to be, these are undeniably what began our growth into who and what we are. You can choose where to plant your own seeds and to where or how far to stretch your growing branches, but your roots are pretty much set long before it ever occurs to you to explore them. They’re the people and places that once defined you and, like ‘em or not, will tell you the truth about how much you’ve really grown.

Full Circle

2010-06-08T16:17:00.000-07:00

Happy Ocean Day. An email from the Nature Conservancy asks “What is your connection to the ocean?”

My mother asked me an equally hard question recently as I planned my trip back home: Do you realize, Nicole, that you’ll have come full circle? “Yeah, Ma, I can see that,” I said. “So what then?” she asked. One day at a time, I told her. I haven’t gotten there yet. Of course, those tough questions have a way of hanging around and this one has been lingering for weeks.

When I left home nearly three years ago I had two suitcases of belongings, a dog named Cain who I loved and cared for better than myself at times, and a head full of unanswered questions. There were those questions of my own that I’d carried around all my life up til then, the questions asked of others who didn’t or couldn’t understand, and the multitude of others yet to come. I landed in Costa Rica with a heapful of faith that one step at a time would present itself, and like this I tread with great care into my new life.

Warm, early dawn tropical air greeted me as I stepped from the airport terminal. Kindness from a taxi driver who understood my fatigue carried me from San Jose to Manuel Antonio snuggled in the backseat like two spoons with my confused dog. Four hours later, sunshine and groggy eyes looked across mountains and sea, “Where to?” the driver asked. “I don’t know,” I managed to respond. “Pura vida,” he replied and continued on.

Sol y Mar Backpackers Hostel received us with a smile, an open door, a clean bed, a hot shower. Days passed much like this as we adapted to our new home.

In small town Costa Rica, atop a rainforested mountain that dwindles down into endless blue sea, a yoga instructor in love with nature and her dog, once accustomed to the humid heat, blend as easily as the foliage, as smoothly as seafoam into sand. At least at first. Tourists in a town that thrives on tourism are catered to like kings and queens. There comes a moment, however, when a gringa who hangs around too long shifts from tourist to local, but not really. It’s in that strange limbo that the real challenge begins.

For two years, I learned to surf in Costa Rica, both literally and figuratively, and every wave was a wild ride. I awoke each day with the birds and insects the size of birds singing their wake up call outside my windows. I hiked barefoot through jungle mud because even the strongest Havaianas just don’t hold up. I met new friends daily from all around the world, some who stayed days, others for months, a few are still there journeying on. Overall, I learned the hard lesson in how to not to hold on too tight to anything. I lost Cain one day to an unexpected crocodile on the beach and learned the hardest definition of all of pura vida. Every day, a new lesson stripped me raw. Every night, I offered what I learned to yogis new and well-practiced from all across the globe. I found myself, some days, for a myriad of reasons, without a penny or colón, and learned how far my feet can carry me to wherever I need to go. I learned to crack coconuts for milk and for meat. I savored mango season, sometimes out of necessity and sometimes for the pure tasty pleasure of biting in and dribbling sweetness down the front of my bikini on the long hike that eventually became a leisurely stroll down the mountain path to the beach. This, the juiciest version and true essence of pura vida.

Lost love makes the space for new. I met Fede while walking the very same beach where I lost Cain one week after burying his washed up remains after a few rainy days. I’ve spent the past year and eight months learning the joy and pain of having a partner on my journey through all its heights and valleys.

As a traveler in a foreign land, law requires a departure every 90 days. I learned the value of what I’d considered poverty in even my poorest moments while traveling in Nicaragua. I've climbed volcanoes and watched red lava spew fiery rivers inches from my feet, I've lain in Savasana upon a quaking terrace during a tremor in Guatemala. I have climbed through deep passages in the Earth and come back to the surface with new awe. I followed hope to Argentina, which some days felt like another planet altogether, learned a new take on Spanish, and wine, cheese and pastries. I learned what it’s like to forget who you are and have to start over from scratch like a newborn. I slept on white sand beaches in Uruguay when rest was what I needed more than anything else.

And so now, after all this long time traveling, I’m packing up those same tired old suitcases, now worn through, with what’s left of what I’ve got and I realized in the process that the less I carry with me, the more I’ve got to share.

I’m going home. I don’t know for how long. I don’t know my next step. But I’ve got a heapful of faith that the next step will show up in its time.

I remember during my training to become a yoga teacher, my mentors explained to us exactly why we chant Om at the beginning and end of every class. That one small syllable is pregnant with the entire cycle of life. Every person, place and thing, every movement, every breath has a beginning, a continuance, a completion and that resonance that follows that can be felt to the very core. Some beginnings and endings are not so obvious, some like birth and death are undeniable. The resonance, however, is unmistakable. Every experience, every person leaves their trace, their hum, their footprint, behind in some tangible way. And sometimes only in that absence, do we know their true significance.

The ocean encompasses the whole globe. How can one say where it begins and where it ends? It makes a great big circle, and I don’t think it asks itself why. Every day the sun and moon turn themselves full circle ‘round the Earth, and I don’t see a single thing wrong in that.

I have come full circle. And now, I wait for the resonance to feel exactly what it all means.

Raices - Roots (part 2)

2010-04-21T11:01:00.000-07:00

A good friend who asks all the hard questions asked me recently: Where do you see yourself in a year? Five years? Ten years?

I made a huge collage at the beginning of the year, images and words torn from various places, and pasted them all together into what I hope to be the story of this year to come. It's hanging on the bedroom wall. Some key words: multi-continental, explorer, yogi, hogar, una escritora mas reconocido en las Americas. There are images from all around Argentina and Costa Rica. Buenos Aires and a vision of home are in the center. There are lots of pictures of strong women climbing mountains, enjoying views, walking beaches with surfboard under arm. They're all by themselves. Don't get me wrong, there's a guy too. He's taking fotos, looking out from balconies, surfing nice waves, but from a breathable distance. At the moment, the guy in my story doesn't comprehend that space.

In 5 years? From seed to sprout to tree. Me, like now, but stronger, more stable. The life I'm generating, more fluid for all the practice and experience between now and then. I will still be traveling, enjoying, learning, sharing...with some spicy or sweet additions to that recipe as needed.

Ten years? I can't even go there.

But before the sprout, there must be roots, and I guess this is where I get confused. I met a new friend here recently. He's 70 years-old and still teaches 2 yoga classes per day. He doesn't seem a minute over 50. The other day we were talking and he told me, you need to put down roots somewhere. If it's not where you're from, then where you want to be. But if you don't put down roots, you can't enjoy the gifts and benefits of where you are and you certainly can't grow. But what if I really don't know where I want to plant myself???

One thing I know for sure about rooting a plant, to continue with the metaphor, is that if you move it from here to there and there and here again, the rooting doesn't take and it can't develop. The important thing is to nourish it where it is and allow it to branch up and out from there.

In June, I'm going to Costa Rica to lead a week-long yoga retreat. July, time in Philadelphia with my family and our new addition (it's a girl!) and friends. I've recently been considering an opportunity to go back to Costa Rica earlier than planned, staying for the month of May and into June. La Fortuna. Nature. Space. Yoga. All good, nourishing things. Everyone says it's an amazing opportunity and I'd be a fool to pass up (even Fede). I agreed completely until I got to thinking about roots.

What I know for sure is this: No matter what we plan for ourselves, life tends to unfold in mysterious ways. Babies are conceived unexpectedly. Death happens regardless of age or even well-being. Volcanoes erupt and people can't get home. The ground shakes and houses fall down. Hail the size of baseballs fall from the sky and crash through the windows of brand new cars (This happened here last week!). The deeper down you dig you find there's really nothing to hold onto. The best we can do is to live and love from good intentions, one day at a time, keep reaching out and up and enjoy everything...even the really difficult stuff. Right now, this is what I'm doing.

The Buddha said, "There is a place that cannot be found by going anywhere." I would like to put my roots down there.

Reflection

2010-03-22T12:35:00.000-07:00

When I lived in Philadelphia, I spent a lot of time in Rittenhouse Square Park perched on a bench in the sun or lying in the grass, reading, people-walking-dog or people-watching-people watching, daydreaming of being someplace more exotic than downtown Philly. During my yoga teacher training, I began a process of self-transformation that took my self-study to new depths that eventually untethered me from mere daydreaming on park benches and led me off exploring. I went off in search of that someplace more exotic. I moved to Costa Rica.

For two years, I continued inward and outward explorations without the guidance of my teachers, guided instead by the undeniable truths whispered or roared by Mother Nature. I hiked barefoot through the jungle up to the ankles in muddy earth. I swam and surfed (and was oftentimes pummeled) by the sea. I gave up umbrellas and walked drenched in tropical rain. I ate mangoes freshly fallen from trees, learned to crack open coconuts to partake of all the sweet and juicy goodness inside the hard shell. I climbed rocks, cliffs, mountains and trees. If there was water below, I jumped.

One day, I met an Argentine on the beach and I jumped headfirst into him too.

I've been in Argentina for almost 8 months now. For the better part of it, I've missed the raw adventure of Costa Rica while trying to find the same sense of pleasure in this urban jungle. Buenos Aires is a huge city, 13 times the size of Philadelphia, and 13 times more exotic. There are palm trees instead of oaks, bright green parrots in addition to pigeons. The Argentine accent is as distinct as Philadelphian to English, though overlaying the Spanish I'm still learning. My new adventure consisted of tuning my ears to understand ll's that sound like j's instead of y's, converting systems of measurement, wearing winter clothes in August (or at all!) and celebrating Christmas in the heat of South American summer. I often find myself pummeled by these unknown waters I've plunged into and can't seem to get a breath of air.

Today, I came to Palermo to meet with a Spanish tutor, thinking that perfecting my communication skills might help me navigate with more confidence. After a ten minute consultation, I went wandering in the city. Just as I was beginning to ask myself why I was wasting time pounding pavement, I saw a tall iron gate surrounding a cluster of trees that could only be a city park. I beelined for the glimpse of nature. I strolled slowly through the Botanical Garden, scratching the heads of homeless cats and staring up the trunks of tall trees, until I found a bench in the sun. I sat and opened my book to read. In a moment, I looked up, digesting a passage I'd just read and found before me a familiar scene: a cement pond with a statue in the center, a woman, half-clothed, with long streaming hair and a downcast gaze considering her own reflection in the water. The woman's hair is a bit more wild and she is wearing less clothing, but she resembles so much the statue in the center of the nearly identical pond in Rittenhouse Square. There are koi swimming in the water below and lily pads bearing lotus flowers. Still, the traffic whizzing by on all sides of this tiny oasis, this could easily be Philadelphia. It's just a bit more exotic.

Perhaps our travels permit us to venture off only so far before we come face to face with our own reflection. Maybe now and then we need to take a peek back to see how far we've come or stop to gauge if we're heading in the right direction. Or maybe geography is irrelevant when it comes to our life's work. Finding oneself back at square one after an arduous journey requires some looking into.

Es un Quilombo (It's a Mess)

2010-01-31T09:43:00.000-08:00

Miramar, Argentina – For a long time now I haven’t posted here. Mostly it’s because I was waiting to have some masterpiece to offer and, as of yet, nothing masterful has come to me. I realized recently, however, in my embarrassed silence when friends have asked if I’ve been writing, or in my sinking stomach when I saw this long-untouched site bookmarked as a favorite on my Mom’s computer, that the most important thing is to write, to pay attention and share what I see and how I see it. To use words to narrow all this distance.

I met a nice woman once who read some of my work. She told me she really liked what she read, but that she was more interested in seeing the rough draft. She wanted to see the scribbled out parts, the uncensored path I took to get to that too-perfect package I finally revealed to the public. So here it is, for Lauren and for anyone still interested enough to read this (Mom), here is the mess.

This place is like any other summer vacation spot one can find around the world. Warm weather, beaches, sunny skies, open sea with alternating tides and waves and all the recreational activities one can do with these things. Everything summertime you can imagine is here (except, of course, Philly water ice and soft pretzels). There are locals, super-obvious in their disdain for the tourists they’ve been waiting all year to take advantage of. There are the tourists, from all over Argentina, who I’m only just now beginning to be able to tell apart, but whom Fede can spot in a second. Then there’s me, half-awkward, half-exotic for being from someplace else altogether. Somehow this gives me a bit of an edge: I’m not the typical porteño from Buenos Aires and not just some other countryfolk from inside the country, less pretentious but still annoying to the people who live here year round. Truth is, no one knows quite what to make of me. One of my yoga students back in BsAs who is from Scotland called me courageous for coming to teach classes in Miramar. I didn’t understand completely until I showed up. The yoga students from Tucuman who took my first class ‘in Castellano’ said they enjoyed the class, but after some of my attempted explanations of postures (como un gato con muuuucho miedo!) truthfully probably think I’m a little bit off. The people in the supermarkets, when they hear my strange accent, look at me a sort of funny and speak extra slow (I’m still not sure if it’s because they think I am). The only person I’ve met so far who speaks English is an eccentric old man who says he used to write books for a living but now just writes for his friends. Quite an inspiration he was. He thought it was interesting that I’m trying to live here, but was more interested in my foreign dog.

Fede is having an easier time, even being an Argentine tourist. He’s taking photos for a surf school on the beach, a job he wrangled up within two days of our arrival. My classes are moving along slowly, but my Castellano is improving quickly for the sudden immersion. I’ve been practicing yoga regularly and reading both Spanish and English in large quantities with all the space and time. It’s turning out to be a mini-retreat of sorts, perhaps exactly what we need does come at just the right time. I’m finding myself writing lots more.

Just two weeks in, I sense a definite pulse that emanates uniquely from this place. I’m beginning to feel the vibe. The other afternoon, the hottest day of the summer so far, while reading in the shade of a tree by the small lake in Parque Mar, some smooth reggae reached out to me from across the water and had me tapping my toes and craving an ice cold beer. The beaches are mobbed with children playing and people vending all the things you want, and even some things you don’t, while hanging out at the beach. This afternoon, in THE empanada place on the peatonal, one of the cooks was drumming out the beat to a cumbia song blaring overhead on the metal cooktop with his metal spatulas. While I wouldn’t dare to call more attention to myself, I wanted to dance while I waited.

Miramar is very Latino for sure, but also distinctively Argentine. I’m awoken at 4am some nights by electronic music blaring from cars outside waiting to pick the neighbor UP to go out. My Spanish is good enough now that I confidently call out the window to tell the driver to turn it down in correct Castellano (though no self-respecting Argentine would ever think to do this, not even Fede’s 85-year-old abuelo). Fede laughs at this and says I’m getting old. Last night, another neighbor across the way kept us up as he told stories way too loud to whoever sat with him listening and laughing equally loud. Wide awake at 3am after too long trying to sleep, we went out walking in search of ice cream and actually found it. We were far from being the only people in the street. Many were just getting out.

There was barely a soul on the beaches today, those same ones usually packed like sardines. The weather is grey and windy, cool, the waves excitedly churning and applauding the coming of the full moon. You can feel the change about town as many of the January vacationers start the trek home and February rolls in. Fede came home from his morning run laughing about those few staring out at the too active sea, obviously either saying goodbye til next year or hallelujah after so long. We sidestepped the beach ourselves, opting to pass the day in the forest instead. As we drove back home and saw how the coast had taken herself back, at least for a day or two, I felt as grateful for the break from the quilombo as those newcomers who just arrived.

Argentina vs. Brasil

2009-09-10T16:33:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-09-07T17:30:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-07-26T23:49:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-30T07:50:00.000-07:00

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

2009-01-22T13:45:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-22T13:33:00.000-08:00

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.

What I´ve Learned In Costa Rica

2008-12-03T08:33:00.000-08:00

Mestizo - (adj.) of mixed race.

Fede, my soon to be housemate from Argentina, describes it as a blending of cultures.

Enter our cat: the blonde-haired blue-eyed Tico.

He's been testing my limits for sure. He's got as much energy as Cain ever had in a little body not much bigger than my foot. He's wilder than any pet I've ever known. Everything is play. I'm constantly trying to save the lives of all the pretty moths and beetles that tragically happen into his range (and rarely last more than one round.), saving Karen's shoes. Reminding that there's an oversized tupperware container in the bathroom he should go in instead of my shower. Juanca suggested that all Tico cats pee outside. There's no mama cat to show 'em how it's done. So I started taking the little guy into the bathroom with me whenever I had to go. I'd plop him in his box, do my thing, say 'good boy' when he'd do anything a cat should do in a litter box, even if it was just throw litter around. Finally he got it. Sometimes.

I went back to leaving the front door open a few days ago. I need the breeze and he's not a prisoner. He knows where the door is, where the food is, by now knows where the love is if he wants it. (And honestly, sometimes he gets on my nerves.)

Today, I picked up shit for what felt like it had to be the final time or else. There was no electricity and no water to wash my hands with. Needless to say, the start of a frustrating day. I decided to go to Quepos instead of the beach, which seemed the most logical solution to lack of light and water. (duh.) My gut said if the growing cat had more room to move around, like in a life-sized litter box, he might be more prone to stretch out and do his thing there than in my shower stall.

I'd also spent my morning writing (gotta love battery power) and was hoping for electricity to use the internet.

As I was leaving, Mestizo ran into the little space alongside the house and the neighbors´ wall, where those crazy, bright red, tropical flowers that look like they're sticking their tongues out at you grow wild. I called him over and over again. Said to come in Spanish and English and, after awhile, an admitted assortment of curses. He sort of looked like he thought about it a few times, even ventured toward me once or twice, but openly decided he preferred to stay where he was. It took a little while, worrying about losing him, but I figured I'd probably rather be hanging out with the flowers on a beautiful day than trapped inside a tile house too, if I was him. I told him one more chance. Mentioned he might get wet if it started to rain. He didn't come. Fair enough. I went on with my day.

There was internet in Quepos, but I´d forgotten half the technology I needed to post the blog. The camera was in the lockbox back at home. It was safe and sound, but I had to do without it anyway. I went to the vet's office and bought Mestizo a bright green litter box. I don't know if cats can see color or not, but you can't miss this thing!

As I climbed the final step to the landing he stepped out of this little lair, shook off an obvious nap hangover and looked at me like, hey what's up. I opened up the door and showed him what I brought for him. He hopped into all his newfound space like it was the coolest thing ever. (I swear he even shook a deadfinger at me.)

We haven't had a single problem since.

The morals of this story:

Stop trying to control everything.
Love, no matter what.
Give everyone their proper space. The right ones aren't going anywhere.
Don't hoard things so much that you keep them from being used to their fullest purpose.
Fuck technology. Choose life, go to the beach.

Did I mention love? The little guy's snuggled up beside me like perfection.

Holiday Presence

2008-12-02T15:32:00.000-08:00

Introducing Mestizo

I'm going to miss this place, is what I think as I sit at the kitchen counter bar in front of the open front door deciding what to write about in my latest blog over my morning coffee, and spy Victor walking by in the road below just in time to whistle: woo wooooo!

Buenos dias! his smile is ever-ready. Mestizo's out playing on the front balcony.

Este is su gato?
Siii!!!
Que bonito gatito, he says, snapping the deadfinger (Tico for waaay coool!!!).
Y vas a la playa?
Si, mas tarde. (It's only 7am!)
Nos vemos entonces!
Hasta luego, I say as he turns to go.

This phase has just about reached it's 3 month max. I can't believe it's December already. November went by in a blur of preparation. Yoga flyering, apartment hunting, travel planning. All missions accomplished. And now December, the month for celebrating the fruits reaped from last year's seeds.

Yesterday, December 1st, I celebrated this giant hunk of fruit on my plate called life in Costa Rica by hiking down to Playitas and finding a private little nook in a cove of rocks. I took off my bikini top, sprawled out like a starfish in the sand and got drunk on sunshine. I celebrated my freedom with a swim in the blue sea. I celebrated my strength with a sweaty hike back up the mountain a few hours later. I celebrated my success by bending and extending on my yoga mat for an hour before class. I twisted and wrung myself, out with the old and in with the new, absorbing deeply.

The best definition I've ever heard for yoga is that it is a state in which nothing is missing. If I may, I'd like to revise. For me, yoga is the state in which nothing is missed.

Whether you have ever made it to a yoga mat or not, under my instruction or another's is not important either, my wish for you is that you conjur that state inside yourself and celebrate your way through the end of this year with joy.

Gratitude

2008-12-02T14:09:00.000-08:00

Good friends, a pool, a mountain, and a mouthful of sangria! Happy Thanksgiving!

Despues de pavo numero uno!

Even for all the distance I've come, all the acceptance of differences I've needed to muster this past year, there are some things that just don't change. Traditions, or at least the inner resonance of them, have a way of sticking with you like mashed potatoes to your ribs. As I approach my second Thanksgiving away from home, I find myself counting my blessings. Merely listing them off wouldn't nearly do them all justice.

Today, I was talking with a Tico friend who told me he gave his children their Christmas presents already. His kids are 3 and 1 1/2 (Each got a toy truck).
"No Santa Claus?", I asked, certain he 'exists' here for all the plastic replications already adorning the houses in Quepos.
"No,"he replied, "I don't think we should lie to our kids."
"That's very cool of you," I told him, "but what do you do on Christmas then, if you've already given them their Christmas gifts?"
"Celebrate," he said so matter of factly I couldn't help but feel the stupid American.

How do you celebrate Christmas? he asked me. Como es Christ-mas (pronounced with a long i) por la profesora de yoga?

"Well... For one thing, it's not 'Christ' that I celebrate," I told him, "and it's not Buddha or Santa Claus either. I celebrate a higher power for sure, but don't subscribe to any religion or worship any name. To me, it's celebrating the beginning of the end of another year of life. The time for reflecting on all that's happened, what is important, what I've learned, what needs to shift in the coming year ahead."

"But do you give presents?" he asked.
"My family is big into gift giving. My mom always goes overboard with so many presents that they don't fit under the tree, but instead go under and all around it." (His eyes got big and wide.) "Usually, it embarrasses me, because the gifts I have for them aren't the kind you can buy. During my end of the year reflecting, I consider the impression left by each person in my life that year. I find some way to represent that feeling and I try to give them that. Sometimes it's a framed picture I've taken, or a tiny tree decorated by hand and ready to be planted in the garden or yard, a handmade birdhouse with a little bird perched by the front door ready to take off." (He laughed, nodding his head). "Sometimes people get my meaning, sometimes they don't. Maybe they do at some point later, who knows. I think, at least, those who know me get that I'm giving them my time and energy, love and creative inspiration, even if they don't totally get my point. That's enough. Still, it's not the easiest thing to give a mere intention in exchange for big, shiny presents that cost someone hundreds of dollars."

This year is going to be different for me for sure. My first Christmas away from home. Everyone I know is going somewhere. I have no idea how it's going to be and am trying to be open to whatever it may be, but it seems I'm going to have LOTS of time and space for end of the year reflecting. Probably best because I have so much to digest this year. It's funny, in all the space available to create my own traditions, in the gap I've found between my own culture and this new one I'm immersed in, I find myself wanting to slip into old familiars that I moved away to distance myself from! Thinking, I should go to the beach and buy Linda some earrings, and my mom a pareo, my dad a new pipe, and what in the world to get Eric, and I'd better do it really fast so there's enough time to send them home so that they'll get them in time for the holiday...all this so they'll know I'm missing them and thinking of them and celebrating them...as if buying them presents to mark a date on the calendar would help them to know any better. All the way down here in Costa Rica, still feeling the American way.

Thanksgiving, the real commencement of the winding down of 2008, where we consider our lists of things we're grateful for and spend the next 6 weeks celebrating them, enjoying them, and setting good intentions for how we might better nurture them in the new year ahead. My Thanksgiving was 3 days long this year. On Thursday, a pool party and turkey dinner at Blue Banyan Farm with Karen, Cata, Katie and Reilly, and an assortment of other new friends. A Friday evening dinner party with Juanca and his ever-eclectic group of amigos. Saturday, a TEFL celebration at Jenny's place (Boy, this turkey sure does taste like chicken!) with the whole crew. After 3 days of turkey, I have to say it's been a very full year (corn-y pun intended, har har).

For every thing I've had to let go of, there has come twofold for me to embrace in its place and I am full to the brim with gratitude.

"Take just one step in the direction of the Divine, and it takes 10 steps in toward you."
~Manorama

P.S. One more thing to be grateful for: Brand new news that I'm going home for Christmas!

Consumption

2008-11-20T08:09:00.000-08:00

There's some dinner in the fridge for you, Karen called from her bedroom when I walked in after class tonight. "Really? What?" I asked.
"Rrrrooooster soup!" she said from her bedroom as I walked past onto the porch.
Juanca had told us in the morning that we'd finally get some sleep tonight. He'd paid the neighborhood kids to catch the bird. He said he felt bad, but Dahlia was cooking it up at least. I said, "Oh, no, pobrecito!", feeling sort of bad for the poor guy. Karen said, "Yeehaw!" and smiled the first real smile I'd seen from her all day. He brought us each a feather as proof or souvenir or something, both of which Karen immediately put in her hair. He told us it was all our fault. Karen shamelessly accepted full responsibility.

Karen sat with me while I ate my soup, making jokes the whole time. Thankfully she wasn't wearing the feathers. It was bad enough there was a very obvious and entire leg hanging out in my bowl. I ate it all, out of respect for both the bird and Dahlia. I don't care what anybody says, rooster does not taste like chicken, but the soup was pretty good.

Two big city gals living the simple life in Costa Rica. We've certainly had our share of culture clashes (and Kodak moments to prove it! Karen donned her rooster headgear, grabbed her bamboo walking stick, the biggest knife we own, and her fiercest hunting face for a photo op). Here was but another.

I'm about to have a new roommate come January. Kar and I have been on the apartment hunt for weeks now, and are weighing out our next step possibilities. This place is so transient that nothing lasts longer than 3 months here. We knew moving in here that this apartment was temporary. Our experience is shifting, yet again. My upcoming adaptation is named Federico. He's from Argentina. We met each other on the beach a only few weeks ago. He was looking for his lost flippers. I was looking for seashells. Both of us in search of abandoned vehicles, we found each other and clicked in that cosmic sort of way that makes people do fun and carefree things.

And so, new year, new life. As always, a new adventure.

I’m extremely excited and looking forward for sure, but as I sit here digesting the last male who disturbed my sleep, I can't help but wonder how having a live-in boyfriend will be.

Of course I'm joking. (burrrrp!)

2008-11-13T13:57:00.000-08:00

Halloween in the jungle

Wake Up Call

2008-11-13T09:49:00.000-08:00

One of our neighbors got a new rooster while I was away. His job is to wake eeeeeverybody up at 5am sharp. He takes his job very seriously. He was prompt as a drill sergeant for my first week back. After 3 days or so, my bitching was equally consistent. Normally a pacifist, but tired of losing sleep, I was seriously considering ways to shut this bird up. Once Karen came home from the states last week I had someone to commiserate with. "As long as we eat it I think it's ok," was her response to my morning rants about what I was going to do to that rooster if I saw it in the street. I was mostly kidding.

A few days ago, the rooster got confused. For three days or so, he started screaming his wake up call just after 3:00 in the morning. Juanca joined in the ranting, telling Karen he intended to find out who owns him. While we wondered, we spent our nights tossing and turning about in our beds, pacing around, getting drinks of water, going pee, all stirring about annoyed from 3something in the morning until whenever the bird would finally stop. The broken sleep surely didn't help us navigate all the craziness that happened this past week with any semblance of grace. Two dead bodies on the beach, broken relationships, withdrawn verbal contracts, canceled classes, job resignations, sadness and uncertainty, confusing new friendships, unexpected roommates, and lots of tears, these are the things that had risen up in our world. All in one week.

Karen was talking out a hard day as we sat in the kitchen eating pasta together Tuesday night after yoga class. The rooster let out one of his best belts ever. Ar Ar Ar ARRR!!!! She stopped talking, her sad face made into a half smile (still sad eyes), I stopped chewing and we both started laughing. "There is seriously something wrong with him!" she said, "It's 11o'clock at night!" "Dinner!" I joked, and thought that at least we were getting it out of the way. Nope. He still woke us up in the middle of the night. And again at 5am. Juanca went out knocking on doors during the 3am wake up. Apparently no one is owning up to the rooster. But everyone is feeling murderous. The whole neighborhood is in on a plot to cook this bird for dinner. Karen says, "We're havin' rooster for Thanksgiving!"

It's 5:50am. I've been awake for a little longer than it took me to write this. The rooster was screaming, so I walked out onto the balcony (my bedroom door that lets into the hallway has a broken lock) to make the rounds for a drink of water and a pee. Even without my contact lenses in I could see the giant full moon lighting up the sky a navy blue twinkling with stars. I drank, peed, and put my contacts in. The moon straight ahead was so full it seemed to be vibrating in the clear sky. To my left, a pink sun was slowly coming up beneath a horizon of tin roofs and tropical trees. The stars were sparse for the full moonlight and rising morning, but were perfect little points of light. Of course the rooster was crowing, but for the first time I was grateful to him. I leaned my forearms on the railing and just looked all around and up, and down. I listened to all the other sounds of wakefulness. A high, radiant, and very round moon. That damn rooster. Some other roosters probably confused by the rogue. A dog howling (just one). A person moaning eerily down in the little valley. Some cats fighting in very high pitched voices. Assorted insects. Glasses and tin cups clanking beneath some of those tin roofs. All sounding as singled out at the sprinkled stars for the heavy before-dawn silence.

I watched the moon go down behind the trees. Everything quieted down to a dull hum.

The sun rose enough to reveal the ocean and the mountains. The birds started waking up. Singing. Twittering. Flying by in determined flocks, or in happy-looking pairs, or yellow-breasted individuality. All except that rooster. He went to sleep or is off doing whatever roosters do when they finally shut up. Cars have started sighing by on the main road off in the distance.

I've seen swells of ocean rise up in response to that bright force of the full moon. Last night Melanie told me a story about being 11 years old in Limon and hearing a crack of thunder, then seeing a wave of street, just before being shaken by an earthquake, 7.8 on the richter scale. This morning, I witnessed a little wave of life. There are forces greater than us, unfathomable in power and strength. It doesn't matter what we need to call them or what images we paint to explain them to ourselves. Unless it's in celebration of them that's just a waste of energy.

If everyone stopped trying to control everything what would happen?

That dead man on the beach with the brown hair and the handsome face, he had the same hollow eyes that Cain had when I found him on that same beach. Death, the absence of life, leaves a body looking so helpless. Like when it comes, the force is so strong, the choice is obvious. Light reabsorbs with a brighter light, like those stars in that moon and sunlit sky. The rest is unnecessary. Leave it on the beach. I wondered, looking down at him, if he struggled in his last moments, or if he simply realized the strength of the force that had hold of him and surrendered. Was he enjoying himself up until it came? I felt sad for the people who were missing him. Who would feel that need to come collect the shell he'd left behind.

Relationships and contracts, classes and jobs, man-made structure, life itself, these things are all subject to change. Being sad when they do makes them boomerang. Adapt, learn, and keep paying attention.

It's all a part of the trip.

Three Days´ Grace

2008-11-06T14:35:00.000-08:00

Last night, over a glass of red wine, I did my best to explain the word 'become' to Steven. The Spanish translation hacerse just doesn't do the word justice. A caterpillar will become a butterfly, I told him. A child becomes an adult. "The tourists will be come," he offered. No. Close, but no. To become is to develop into something, I tried again. To grow? he asked. Closer, I said, but still not quite. Deeper. It's like evolving, I explained. If you practice something, you'll become better. Tadpoles become frogs. He nodded his head slowly to show he understood, but I wasn't completely sure he caught my drift.

After two long days of traveling, I'm back in Costa Rica. I met a German girl, an artist, named Sarah Kai when I was traveling in Brazil a few years back. She told me during my days of acclimation that she believes it takes the soul three full days to catch up with the body after traveling long distances. I never forgot that ring of truth, and so I'm midway through day three and still waiting patiently. Ah, but the warm balmy air, the curl back in my hair, the sun on my skin, the ocean, the beach, the purr of espanol...it does feel good to be home. Still, my ten days of reconnecting, tracing back my roots, have left me with so much to process. It's like trying to digest Thanksgiving Dinner.

I remember taking off from Costa Rica, looking down at the diminishing mountains, valley, and ocean, thinking how much I would miss that raw beauty. As we approached the east coast of North America from above, I saw the Monopoly board of settlement below and thought, too much everything. I felt my chest clench up as I gathered my carry-on baggage.

My first taste of the US after a long year away was an unexpected excursion (I will not say lost, Dad) through most of the state of New Jersey, most definitely not the most picturesque state. But for the...detour...I was blessed with 4 hours (sorry, Dad, I had to) of low-down on what's new with my Dad (interspersed with some interesting curses...in English) while finding our way back to Pennsylvania alongside the Delaware Water Gap. The gold, the burning orange, the glorious reds of autumn whizzed by on either side of us from mountains, yes, mountains that climbed up to the same blue sky I'd flown in on. South America, North America, Earth is Earth, unceasingly beautiful in all its diversities. Transitioning from one type of beauty to another is less difficult than I'd expected. Ah, but temperature is something entirely different. It was so freakin' cold!!!

Ten days of activity, undivided attention, visiting, reminiscing, catching up on long-overdue errands...after my three days grace period, with only one small meltdown on the morning of day 3 (Dad, the brand new Grandpa tried everything but checking to see if I'd pooped my pants to do his best to help. Want something to eat, pal? Something to drink? Are you warm enough? Good ol' Dad.) it flew by in a blur. Too fast. My Mom, eager to help however she could as well, had planned a birthday party, complete with all my favorite everything I've missed from friends to family to soft pretzels and sushi, in hopes of lessening the burden of running around to fit everyone and everything in. It was so much fun, almost an overload of fun, but even for the masses contained in one place I didn't get to spend nearly enough time individually. It was a blessing, though, to find myself in the same space with everything I was absent from for so long. Love doesn't require conversation. Good thing, too, because by night's end, conversation had dwindled to drunk-talk and awful singing by the hangers on. All piled in the outdoor jacuzzi (did I mention it was freezing?). All of us wearing my Dad's boxer shorts (good ol' Dad).

Too much squeezed into one week should not turn into too much squeezed into one blog. So, in the interest of keeping it readable in one sitting, I will distill it down to some favorite moments (in chronological order):

Everything my Mom. Seriously guys. Time and space has yielded whole new appreciation.

Hugs from Julie (I thought I would pop!) and Linda (gentle and warm, my sister)...I'm all about balance : )

ASHLYN! Especially those snazzy get-ups, compliments of Pop. Gotta be major cute to pull them off!

The drunken sing-a-long in the hot tub is worthy of two mentions for sure (Every little thing is gonna be alright...).

A surprisingly serendipitous virtual birthday reconnect with long lost friend Katita.

3am pizza in Angeliki's bed. (Nicole! What are you doing? Pizza. Go to sleep.)

Dance-offs to everything from Sinead O'Connor (seriously hysterical) to the Golden Oldies with Brett, Zack, and the Captain.

Chili night at Julie and Shafat's place. Good conversation, red wine and L. Brown's laughter all in one place!
Best of all: the compliments to the chef, ahem (I am not bragging...that NEVER happens!).

Laughing 'til my sides hurt while watching the Phillies work toward winning the World Series while tossing random pop flies to Zack across the living room (Philllaaaaays! Yeah! WOOOOO!).

Visiting with Dan and Paulie (zzzz..whoa! I dunno what happened there)...had some Hallmark moments there, didn't we guys?

My favorite bartender Zack (different than dance partner Zack) at the Good Dog Bar ever-ready with a fresh Yard's Pale Ale. That one was worthy of two visits.

My favorite Greek's mushrooms and pasta! (hmm...there's a lot of food referenced here, and it ain't rice and beans!)

Meagen. After a year in withdrawal...every second with Meg! (Tea and Talk didn't happen, but we sure did drink a lot o' beer!)

Ms. Pacman at McGlinchy's!!!

Never-ending supply of fun hats.

The 2:30am ketchup mishap while eating my first in forever cheesesteak at Pat's with new pal Andy.

Actually making it to Jill's (amazing) Saturday morning 9am yoga class at Wake Up.

Vegan BLTs at Mugshots.

Exhibiting my neurosis while Juleen cut and colored my hair (a task she swore against yeeeears ago. By the way, Jules, I LOVE IT!)

Playing Go Fish en espanol with Brett (Pesca!).

Eating Angeliki's hand-me-down MacDonald's breakfast in lieu of the cherry coughdrop I was offered (but they're nutritious AND delicious. Whatever dude).

Lazy Sundays with the family. Eat, nap, eat, TV, nap, eat, sleep.

Watching my big little brother curl up, in his pj's, on the living room floor with his teeny tiny little girl.

Knowing my niece enough to miss her.

Singing an Ain't That America duet while cruising up I95 in Brett's big ol' hunk o' Buick (Ain't THAT America?)

Dad giving me the Phillies cap right off his head at the airport so I could represent : )

I wouldn't allow myself to think too much on my flight back to Costa Rica. Three days, I always say. No guilt, no worry, no stress at all. Three days, at least, and everything will settle in. Still, the thoughts that did creep in went something like: what in the world am I doing anyway? why do I have to go so far to do it? am I insane? what exactly am I trying to accomplish? I miss this or I'm going to miss that....

A month or so ago I came across a doodle I'd made at the bottom of a page of my notebook. I remember drawing the beginnings of it while sitting, bored-stiff, in an SAP training for my last 'real' job. The left margin of the page was shaded in completely black. One square inch of plain, black nothing. Just inside the left margin, Cain and I are drawn as stick figures in thick, deep-pressed lines and ovals. I have a tight ponytail. Cain is on a leash pulled taut. We're walking and smiling. I'm holding a balloon. The sun is shining down on us as we walk happily to my waiting convertible, top down. A little further on is a fire hydrant waiting for Cain's attention. Could I have been trying to draw my way out of that boardroom, out of that dingy box, to something more free?

Later, at some point while living down here, though I can't remember exactly when, I'd added another scene to that drawing, connected to the first by a wave of ocean, drawn in soft, wispy lines. On the shore is a stick figure of a girl in that same easy hand, lying face to the sky, arms behind her head, on a blanket near a bonfire. Her hair is long and wavy, free. She has a big smile. Behind her is a happy, playful dog, leashless, shredding a coconut underneath a palm tree. The moon above them is big and full. The sky is full of stars and gauzy clouds. And even though it's a nighttime sky, it isn't shaded black.

When I found that sketch, I cut it out and stuck it to the side of a cabinet in our apartment. I colored the bonfire bright orange and red and yellow with some pastels, but left the rest as it was.

On the morning of my third day back in Costa Rica, Steven came over and was hanging around. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to the drawing. I smiled reflectively and took it down to show him. I explained each frame, from the black box I'd drawn in the conference room in the states to the beach scene intended to be Playitas, and remarked as an afterthought that I'd only just noticed how each scene seemed to be drawn by a different hand. He nodded slowly, obviously considering. "It's becoming," he said, still nodding. "Wow, Steven," I said, beginning to nod myself, "Thank you. That's exactly right."

Shifting

2008-10-17T20:34:00.000-07:00

I traveled to San Jose a day earlier than I'd planned. The rain was so heavy on Tuesday night and Wednesday that the rivers were flooding in Parrita. Karen´s spanish tutor came and suggested if I was leaving I should go then and not wait, just in case the bus to San Jose couldn´t pass later. So I went straight to Quepos and bought a ticket on the 2:30 directo and returned home to pack.

Karen sang Feliz Cumpleanos a mi just before I left. I made a birthday wish as I blew out my candle. Then, headed up the hill with my suitcase to catch the bus.

It was the longest bus ride ever. A guy I know from town, one I usually say hi to and keep walking, was excited to find me and my suitcase at the bus stop. I was less than excited as he sat down next to me on the bus. Small town. I was sort of looking forward to some quiet, reflective traveling as I made my journey from new home to old home for the first time in 10 months, but instead was squished between the window and a typical tico: no respect for personal space. I avoided his intentional arm presses and too intense stares the entire ride. I curled up in the corner like a shrimp, fidgeting every time he moved to make his arm touch mine again. He looked at me at one point and said, ¨You must be really difficult to sleep with! You move around alot!¨ Ay yay yay. Ticos. When I made it obvious I didn´t feel like talking, he pulled out his book. But then proceeded to laugh out loud and interrupt my own reading to tell me what he´d just read. He asked why I didn´t want to talk. Being polite, I told him I was tired. He challenged, ¨Why, what did you do today?¨ I wanted to say that I´d had breakfast, rushed to Quepos, packed to travel and lugged a suitcase up a mountain in the rain and put up with listening to him for two and a half hours, but instead I just looked out the window. The mountains were still amazing despite the distraction. Mounds of green earth, layer upon layer, some bigger, some smaller, but all so big and vast they reached right up to the clouds as if offering their trees to the sky. Ah, Costa Rica!

And now, the city.... It´s pouring. It´s grey. It´s cold. Everyone is in pants wet up to the knees and walking fast. There are so many umbrellas to duck and dodge! It´s like an obstacle course. Ah, but again, those mountains in the distance...they make it all ok. They contain the city in such a way that it can quite take hold. All the structure here just seems false in comparison.

Yesterday, I said that there was nothing at all comfortable about Juanca's apartment. And then I came in from a day of navigating San Jose in the pouring rain in a pair of Havaianas, the only shoes I brought since Mario gave away my only pair of real shoes. My long pants, necessary for the chill were wet more than halfway up. I made some chamomile tea, smoked a little joint and dug my comfiest sweatpants and pair of long socks (chamo print, of course!) out of my suitcase. I found a good radio station, audible from the open kitchen window, and the chair overlooking the river from the balcony. Comfort.

The river is unusually high, flowing fast enough to have white water. For the most part, though, it's the color of tea with milk for all the mud being stirred by the flow. The clouds are moving in the opposite direction, spechterlike in their drift across the peaks of the distant mountains. Which one is the volcano, I'm wondering. Juanca said one of them is Irazu.

A cab driver asked me earlier today which I prefer: mountains or beaches. I said I like either, just not the city. He said he likes the mountains better, prefers the cold to heat, but agrees about the city. "When it's raining in either of the other places, the mountains or the beach, it's good," he said, "but in the city, when it's raining, it's awful." I agreed, feeling the chill in my feet and all the way up to my knees under my wet pants. I prefer barefeet. It's that simple. So warm is better for me. But people I love and miss are in a city where it's most likely colder than here even. Especially coming from the beach. I was worried it'd be a rough transition back, but it seems I'm getting eased back into it gradually. There won't be palm trees, but there's a brown river or two in Philadelphia.

A lavender sky backdrop for the upraised hands of the pipa trees, slender fingers reaching skyward, deepens so subtly, bleeding into indigo, as if night is being airbrushed in. Good night, Costa Rica.

Fusion

2008-10-13T10:47:00.000-07:00

This is MY taxi

It´s coffee to go, I swear!

Karen maxin´urban style
(in Juanca´s hat!)
The view from Juanca´s place

Doorway Buddha

fusion: (n.) A merging of diverse, distinct, or separate elements into a unified whole.

Home. I´ve been using the word frequently as of late. I just got home from San Jose to apply for a new passport so that I can go home to celebrate my birthday. As we rattled across the bridge into Quepos, sun just setting and leaving the sky molten gold across shades of blue, the tide was high and as I looked out across the endless stretch of ocean, I sighed and thought, home!, grateful for the end of the long bus ride, hectic day, long weekend. I felt an emptiness even for the glad relief because home used to be Cain wagging his tail and jumping up to kiss my face.

What is home anyway?

As we stepped off the bus into San Jose on Sunday, Karen joked about us being fish out of water, she in her clamdiggers and tank, me in a long flowing skirt and tube top, both in flip flops and sunglasses. Ah, but it´s just the clothes, I thought, as I looked around at all the jeans and shoes surrounding us. We slipped back into our urban selves to pound the pavement with everyone else despite our almost barefeet.

Karen had never been to San Jose before, so before heading to Juanca´s home away from home where we´d be staying overnight, we wandered awhile attuning to the bustle. We´d agreed even before leaving Manuel Antonio that we would go to the movies while in the city. I haven´t seen a theater in a year! So we stopped at a newsstand to check out the listings and asked the vendor for the closest cinema. He suggested the one in San Pedro was best and I felt a pang of nostalgia. Home.

My experience here began almost exactly a year ago, staying with a host family in Barrio Roosevelt near the heart of little San Pedro. My Spanish was nil and my travel experience slight. Then, then I was a fish out of water.

At the end of every yoga class, as we all rise back up from the hard work and much-deserved rest, I always ask the students, eyes closed and focused inward, to pause and make note of what has changed since they stepped onto their mat. My own practice has become my life, the earth my mat, and I felt myself on the brink of a similar reevaluation...

As the taxi headed to the Mall of San Pedro, I chuckled and told Karen we couldn´t go home that night without a visit to the old neighborhood hangout, Fuzion. Pulling up, I told the story of being stuck on the wrong side of the eight lane highway in front of the mall. It was my birthday and I was late to meet my new friends. I had to scurry across all eight lanes, four in each direction with a median I had to climb in the middle, in a pair of strappy gold heels, saying ´gracias!´ to those nice enough to let me pass and ´no gracias!´ to the out-the-window propositions from would-be novios. That was the last time these feet have seen high heels!

We saw a movie called ¨Mirrors¨ (terrible), interestingly enough, and then headed to Fuzion for a bite to eat and a beer.

As we sat at a table, the exact table where new friend (and soon to be roommate) Mike and I had sat planning our first Costa Rican roadtrip, in fact, the same table where we celebrated Tom and Kyle´s promotion to sergeants, the same table where we all pulled together our newfound, though very basic, Spanish to call our Mamas Ticas to say we wouldn´t be home for dinner (No voy a regrasar por la cena esta noche.), life threw up a mirror of its own.

My how I have grown.

Gone is the girl who struggled with words, in both English and Espanol. Gone the girl who matched her high heels to her outfit (ah, but kept flip flops for later in her matching handbag). Gone the confusion of way back then. Gone the fears. Gone the girl who was always seeking, searching answers. Gone.

I have become.

So, what has changed? I asked myself.

I am a woman now. Grown strong. Fluent. Certain. Most of all, I am aware. Completely at home in myself.

I sat at that same old table and shared a burrito with another new friend, and over a Pilsen shared stories of places we´ve been and people we´ve known, all of which, for better or worse, have surely contributed to the making of the two women sitting there sharing.

As we left the embassy on Monday, half-successful and slightly frustrated, I realized that regardless of any definiton of home, I am neither here nor there. I encompass both and everything in between. Urban enough to navigate a foreign city with ease. Beachy enough to embrace both sand and surf with grace (usually!). Capable of communicating across two continents and then some. My home is as vast as the sky.

As we left Juanca´s apartment for the last time that weekend, I bowed to his doorway Buddha and said, ¨Namaste y gracias por compartir.¨ Karen laughed and said, ¨Look at you blending Sanskrit and Spanish!¨ I looked over my shoulder as I unlocked the gate and said, ¨Yup. I am fusion. It´s the way, verdad?¨

Signs

2008-10-13T10:38:00.000-07:00

The road to Playitas

Where the river meets the sea

Ariel and Juanca lend a hand

Signs

2008-10-08T18:45:00.000-07:00

**Apologies for the delays in posting. I´ve been busy and so am a week behind....

Juan Carlos and I hiked down to Playitas Sunday morning and hung the signs I painted to warn of the crocodile in the river, hoping that people will be more aware with their dogs and children. We found Ariel on the beach, just coming up from surfing and willing to help. We climbed a few trees to get them all hung and still made it back for Karen and I to catch the 9:30 bus to San Jose.

As we waited for our lunch, first stop in the city, we found a local newspaper, La Nacion, sitting on the counter beside us. Karen, ever hungry for Spanish reading, picked it up to read the cover. There was a front page headline and a four page spread on the increase in crocodile attacks in our region in the past 3 weeks. Each article mentioned the lack of municipal support in raising awareness. The excuse is lack of funds to post signage. My signs cost me nothing. Some wood scraps from under Luis' surf school, some paint we had lying around, brushes borrowed from Katrina, my own time and energy to paint and climb a few trees, and help from a couple of friends. It cost nothing at all to save a few lives.

Does this make us community activists?

Roots

2008-10-02T13:46:00.000-07:00

On Monday, as my new landlord Juanca and I sat on a bench outside the O.I.J. (Pronounced O E Jota, Quepos´version of a sheriff´s office) waiting our turn to talk to a detective about my stolen bag, he asked me if I plan to stay in Costa Rica despite all the recent bad luck. ¨Of course I do,¨ I told him, ¨Plus, having buried Caindog at the beach, I sort of feel like I´ve got roots here.¨ He said, ¨Well, yes, but not for that,¨ and started telling me about his life. He told about living in Switzerland when he was younger, among all the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, fair-skinned people, being Latino with dark skin, hair, and eyes. He tried hard to fit in, he said, but felt that his roots were obviously elsewhere, in a place with other dark people like him. Then he told of his move back to Costa Rica, expecting reconnection with his heritage, but finding instead that these people who looked like him treated him like a foreigner as soon as he spoke and revealed the accent he´d acquired speaking another language for so long. ¨I realized,¨ he said, ¨that I was trying to find belonging through other people when the truth is that I was a part of everyplace I´d been all along. I didn´t need to look to another place. My roots are everywhere.¨ I listened in silence, having felt my way through a similar sequence of changes, not really sure if I agreed with him.

Wednesday morning, over a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and tea, I commented to Karen that I was looking forward to the intercambio I had planned for the day. I worried aloud that we´d been spending too much time with Americans lately, sort of stunting our experience here. An intercambio (Spanglish for interchange) is when two people get together and spend time swapping language lessons in the context of some planned activity. They´re pretty common here. I was going on my first with Jenifer, a Tica who works at a tienda near the beach.

Jeni came to meet me at home around 8am so we could travel together to her home in Damas, a little town just about 20 minutes outside of Quepos. The plan was to have some lunch and coffee at her house and then go kayaking.

The bus dropped us off across the street from a tiny roadside market which marked the entrance to a quaint little Tico town. As we crossed the road, I took in the organized lanes of short, squat tin-roofed homes, all painted in vivid colors, separated by gravel paths and interspersed with palms and tropical foliage. The whole town was framed by distant mountains, lush and green for the rainy season now upon us. ¨¿Muy fea, verdad?¨Jeni asked. I looked at her, thinking she was joking, but then saw her crinkled nose. ¨No way! Just the opposite,¨ I said, and told her about all the buildings and concrete and echoed noise that is Philadelphia. A different kind of beautiful for sure, I said, but I prefer this. She smiled and seemed to relax a bit.

We went into the market to gather some things to prepare for lunch, and I was taken again by the differences between this place and my home. A friendly smile from the man behind the counter of this corner store and familiar conversation as if he and Jeni had known each other every day of their lives, which I´m sure is exactly the case. So very different from the bored or angry scowls from the cashiers back in Fishtown whose only conversation was to tell you how much money you owed. Then, a loaf of bread, a can of sweet corn, a ripe tomato, a bundle of fresh cilantro, a can of tuna, and some mayonnaise, all for 2.500 colones (that´s less than $5!). Even in Quepos, for all the passing tourists, prices are not so much cheaper than the states unless you know where and when to go. Here I was, not just passing through, but feet on the ground in true Costa Rica.

Groceries in arms, we turned down a gravel road outside the store and walked a little ways until we reached a tiny blue concrete house with a porch comprised of bamboo posts and a propped tin roof. The front door was wide open, typical for Costa Rica, and Jeni called in, ¨¡Hola Lily!¨ She turned to me and asked if I´d like to meet her friend. I smiled, nodded, and mentally turned my Spanish up a notch.

Lily stepped out her kitchen door, an oversized and smiling Tica with bright eyes. She was wearing an apron and holding a spoon in one hand. ¨¡Hola!¨she said and kissed Jeni, and even before Jeni finished introductions, she was pressing her plump cheek against mine for a kiss. She squeezed me so hard a laugh escaped as she said, ¨Mucho gusto, Nicole,¨the Tico equivalent for ¨pleasure to meet you¨. Igualmente, I told her as we were invited inside.

A tablecloth of doily lace decorated with cartoon cows, obviously meant for entertaining guests for it´s bright whiteness, was unfurled on the dining room table to encourage us to sit. I immediately took in all the plastic flowers adorning the room, hanging in strands from the ceiling, in vases on tables, in windows, and over the TV (these are also typical decor). As I made my way toward a chair, I noticed and greeted the 14-year-old girl slung sideways, head and legs propped across bulky chair arms, in the living room (delineated only by the back of the sofa in front of the dining room table). Lily introduced her as her daughter Katie. I smiled. She just looked at me, but in a way that let me see what she saw: a blonde-haired gringa with skin darker than hers, blue eyes, and a disaster of an accent, standing in her house smiling stupidly. She got up from her chair, only because her mother insisted, and sat down beside where I´d found my seat. I turned my Spanish up one more notch even as Lily boasted that Katie knows some English, then left the room with Jeni to go get the coffee.

¨Do you speak English?¨ I asked Katie. She stared down at a bowl of soggy corn flakes. ¨Do you understand English?¨ I tried again. I waited a second, feeling out her silence. Mean kid or shy kid? I couldn´t tell. ¨¿Se habla in Espanol?¨ I asked, trying to be funny. She looked up this time, but her eyes weren´t laughing. Como se dice, Yikes? Thank God for Lily, Jeni and the coffee!

As Jeni sat down and sipped her coffee, she told Lily that I´m a yoga teacher. ¨¡Que linda trabaja!¨ Lily exclaimed, rosy cheeked, and Jeni went on to tell her all I´d taught her in my limited Spanish about the benifits of practicing yoga. Katie just stared at me. I told them all about my classes and answered some of their questions, but was secretly grateful when Jeni changed the subject to talk about her boyfriend´s birthday gift. I listened, silently, absorbing the Spanish even for the rapid fire between the two friends. Then, Jeni started telling Lily about seeing one of the neighborhood girls going discreetly into the house of one of the neighborhood boys. ¨Gossip!¨I said, grinning. ¨¿Que?¨ Jeni asked as they both looked to me. ¨Gossip,¨ I repeated. Blank stares made it clear I´d have to explain further. I cranked the Spanish up, yet again, and began describing. ¨When you see a neighbor doing something, or you know a secret about somebody, and you tell another friend about what you know, that´s gossip.¨ ¨¡Chisme!¨ Jeni exclaimed, and then blushed as everyone, including Katie, burst into laughter. ¨Chisme,¨I repeated. ¨Gossit,¨ they all said. The laughter eventually died down with an ¨Ayyyy, Niiiiicollle!¨from Lily. We spent the next few minutes practicing the ¨p¨sound in gossip. Our first word of the day.

Ice broken, our Spanglish lesson continued, informal and entertaining and peppered with giggles (and more Ayyy Niiiicoles). Before Jeni and I gathered ourselves up to go, Katie got her camera and insisted we all pose for pictures together. She kissed me on the cheek and hugged hard just like her mom as we made to leave. She even asked when I´d be coming back again. Apparently, the laughter (whether with or at me I´m still not really sure) blended away our differences.

Jeni´s house was just across the gravel road. A bright green concrete structure with a silver tin roof and a hedge of tropical foliage that edged in a large yard. Three barking dogs, small, smaller, and smallest, were tied alongside their own little houses. The inside of her house was equally green. There was a black and white cat on a kitchen chair and two colored finches in a cage above the couch. The floor was polished concrete, and a baby was staggering around holding on to whatever she could. Jeni picked up her neice and smothered her with kisses saying sweet things in Spanish that I couldn´t understand. She introduced me to her sister who was doing dishes in the kitchen, then invited me to sit down. I sat on the sofa and started watching the telenovela playing on the fuzzy TV while Jeni fluttered nervously around the house. When she finally sat down, she said, ¨My house is very poor,¨ and looked embarrassed. I shook my head no, feeling her anxiety, and said, ¨No, no es pobre. Es sencilla.¨ (No, it´s not poor. It´s simple.) Everything in here is clean and bright,¨ I told her. ¨There isn´t a lot, but what is here seems cared for.¨ Still, she looked ashamed. To ease her anxiety, I suggested that we go make lunch. We shared rice and beans, plus the groceries from the market mixed together in a salad, typical Costa Rican fare, while discussing in both our languages the sorts of food typical where I come from.

After lunch, we changed into bathing suits and headed down the gravel road, palm oil farms on either side of us, to find our kayaks. I had no idea what to expect as far as where we were going to PUT our kayaks, and still didn´t know what to expect even when I saw the mangroves. Soggy banks of dark mud lined a slow flowing chocolate milk colored river. Rio Estero. Mangrove trees descended in jumbled root clusters into the depths of murky water. I walked down to where a small boat was pulled up on shore and noticed the entire surface of a giant mound of dark, wet riverbank shifting and moving. Giant ants, was my first thought, and then I hunkered down closer. Crabs! A colony of hundreds of tiny crabs, the largest no bigger than a bumble bee, the smallest the size of a large ant. Each had one giant white claw rotating in rhythmic circles while snapping open and closed, open and closed, and a normal sized claw, the same dark brown color as the rest of its body, that retrieved whatever the larger claw had captured and either ate or discarded it, dead. Each crab moved independently, giving space to the others around it, but the whole population of the mound seemed to be dancing, robo arms extended, grasping, and rotating overhead as if trying to lasso whatever it could get. It creeped me out a little, their scavenging nature, but as I looked down river at the tangling trees and floating logs, I sort of wished I had a giant-sized robo arm of my own to protect me from whatever might be lurking downstream.

Neither Jeni nor I had ever kayaked before. Even more of a reason why we should have had our own kayaks. But for some reason, we were give one to share. Jeni´s friend Alan, who knows the river very well, came along and paddled behind or alongside us to keep us from getting lost (Mom and Dad, who I´m sure are worrying about now.). We had agreed that I should be in the back since I´m stronger and could probably steer better, but once in the kayak, Jeni couldn´t seem to get the gist of paddling in unison or pausing in her paddling so that I could direct the kayak. It only took me about 5 minutes to figure out that if I used my paddle as a brake by paddling in reverse, I could turn the kayak to navigate the bends in the river, but only if Jeni stopped paddling. Alan pointed out monkeys and lizards that I couldn´t have been bothered to look at (I can see them in my back yard), preferring instead to watch for what might be in the water!

Paddling is hard work, especially when trying to sync up with someone else. In the midst of the exertion, the frustration, and the complete aversion I felt to being tossed into the swampy water, my Spanish failed me completely. The result was two women, one dark and one light, speaking in two different languages, sharing one single vessel, paddling around in confusion and getting tangled up in thick roots.

We turned around and headed back to where we started after about an hour of mismatched paddling, and arrived somewhat dry and only slightly exhausted. I was thinking how I couldn´t wait to get out of that contraption when Jeni stood up and hopped ashore without even looking behind her. I was still sitting, paddle in hands, on the back. I screamed and flailed my arms a few times (apparently quite comically I found out later) before going face first into the muck. It was deeper than it looked I found out as I gurgled under. Next time, I want my own kayak.

I got home, soggy and cold, just as it started to rain in Manuel Antonio. It didn´t matter. I was already wet, and the rain was surely cleaner than what I was covered in. I recapped the day with Karen and then took a hot shower in preparation for the second half of my day.

It was raining hard when we left to go to TEFL. Karen, planning to use the wireless connection there, had her computer in a backpack strapped to her belly and covered with her zipped up raincoat. It wasn´t until we were climbing the hill to the main road that I caught a good hard look at her and burst out laughing. She looked 9 months pregnant and was even waddling to distribute the weight. She looked back at me, smirking, and said, ¨What?! I´m just trying to have the true Tico experience, ¨making me laugh even harder. We´d only gone a few more steps when we saw a man on a motorcycle getting drenched in the pouring rain. ¨That sucks,¨ Karen commented. I agreed. We watched as he cruised by us and then heard him stop suddenly a few feet behind us. We turned to see him looking back at a completely flat rear tire. ¨THAT sucks even more,¨ she said, and I cracked up. Partly because she was right and the way she said it made me laugh, but partly, too, for the ease and understanding between two women from the same country who speak the same language and don´t have to pause to explain what ¨even more¨ means.

Later, after yoga, hanging out in the kitchen waiting for tea water to boil, we had the front door wide open, Tico style. Karen cracked some funny jokes about the tin snowcapped christmas trees mounted on the wall outside our front door. ¨¿En serio?¨ she laughed, ¨¿Neve?¨ I giggled. I´d thought they were odd too, but then stopped noticing them. We´d turned them into the onion hanger when we´d brought our first big bunch home from the feria. They´re onion hangers is all.

Christmas trees in Costa Rica. And snow. Onion hangers. Brown skin. White skin. English. Spanish. Here and there. The stillness between forward and back. Neutral. Turning energy between extremes into something useful. Finding beauty in the starkness of contrast. And laughter, for sure. These, I think, are the keys to navigating culture, to navigating life. To synching up to paddle the same kayak, so to speak. The lesson I´m feeling following these past days is this: Honor your original roots for sure. No shame. Trace ´em back to see how you became who you are. Be proud of every step of the journey to here. Even the dark mucky places. Swim in them, even, willingly or otherwise. Better to know them, I think.

Then, be daring enough to put down new ones wherever you are. Juanca is right. Your roots are wherever you are. Who says you can´t be so big? Whoever it is, I bet they´re pretty small. Put down your seeds anyway, and wait. Give them something to climb.

I´m sure I´ll have more to say on this following my visit back home...

Rest in Peace

2008-09-29T11:10:00.000-07:00

This morning, I was standing over the spot where I´d buried Cain , eyes and heart both leaking, when a man and two very large dogs came walking up. In Spanish he asked, ¨What are you doing there?¨with a gentleness I didn´t quite understand from a stranger. One dog, the white one, laid down like a sphynx on the mound of earth that is now Cain. The other, black and furry, stuck his head up my dress so that I couldn´t help but giggle even as I responded in Spanish, ¨My dog is buried here. Has been for three days now.¨He apologized and asked what happened. A crocodile, I told him, and though his eyes got wider, it was only a flicker. This is normal for the people who live here. ¨Something bigger will eat that crocodile now,¨ he offered kindly, ¨It´s the way.¨ I told him I understand and looked back at the ground. ¨This is your place to meditate now,¨ he said, surprising me so that I looked up quickly. ¨Your dog is here,¨ he said looking me straight in the eyes, ¨but his spirit is everywhere.¨ I smiled and didn´t need to say again that I understand. He told me he was going with his dogs to visit a waterfall. A small one, but beautiful, and very close. And as he turned to go, parting palm fronds to pick his way into the jungle, dogs in tow, I knew I had to go along.

¨Amigo!¨ I called after him. He peeked back through the green. ¨Can I come?¨He hesitated only a moment before saying, ¨Of course. But this place is a secret. You can´t tell anyone about it...¨ I nodded. Off he went between the leaves. As I passed into the jungle, he turned back and said, ¨It´s better if we don´t talk while we walk here. Make it your meditation.¨ ¨I have a little fear,¨ I said, looking around at the land ahead and beneath my feet that must be under the river when the tide is high, which it is half the time. I couldn´t help but hesitate, thinking of the crocodile that ate my dog less than a week before. ¨Don´t,¨was all he said as he walked on.

We walked across sodden earth, parting leaves and fronds and branches as we carefully chose our steps. We balanced our way across downed trees where we could to cross the river. In other places, we walked ankle deep, sinking into sandy bottom. At one point, some dark mud sucked off my Havaianas. I stood there sinking in barefeet, cursing. He turned back and looked at me as if to say, ¨I thought we agreed not to talk.¨ Then, walked back, helped unearth my flops, and said, ¨Tranquila chica. It´s better without your shoes.¨ He handed them back for me to decided and walked on.

He was right. Armorless is better. I let the ground absorb through the skin in the soles of my feet and continued on.

A few more turns following the river brought us to a clearning. Water poured down a concrete wall, maybe 3 feet high, and flowed between our ankles toward the ocean in the direction from which we´d come. I confess to a mild disappointment, remembered he´d said it was small, and decided to be grateful for the journey there. I thought briefly, searching for some meaning to the encounter, that perhaps this was the path that Cain had taken before washing up to say goodbye. Then, realized my friend had disappeared again. I climbed a rock, crossed the stone wall, and stood stunned and ever more grateful. Friend and both dogs stood immersed waist-deep in river with a waterfall rushing down moss-kissed rocks behind them.

Jose and his two dogs, Candy and Ladona (he´s Italian), bathed in moving water as I watched from the sandy riverbank. ¨Massage,¨ he said over one shoulder as he began climbing rocks. I felt the quiver of fear in my low belly as I thought of dipping into the water, but then realized I´d been led there to find peace. I slipped off my sundress and stepped ankle deep, waist deep, chest deep, and waded across to the falling water. Rock by rock I climbed my way up, past my new friend sprawled on his back, and found a place of my own where I could do the same. I lay back on the rippled rocks, stiff at first, until the water showed me how. Truth after truth washed over and through me as I lay there, breathing, opening. These rocks will hold me up, as will the much larger one beneath it, like always. I can trust it. I can let it. (Soften. Melt.) This water can wash me clean and remind me what I´m made of (Flowing strength. Like it. I AM.) The sun above can light you up, warm you up, into even the darkest recesses, but only if you´re open to it. (Absorb!) This air contains everything I love, everything that lives, everything that ever has. (BREATHE!) Tears flowed into the water coarsing over me. The same. And as I allowed myself to melt and mix, I realized I was steeped in God. I was the most alive I have ever been. The only way we lose anything is if we cling to how it once was.

Plunk! Plunk! Plunk! called me out of my trance. I looked below to see Jose face down in the river, feet kicking. His bald head popped up, dripping, smiling, as he motioned for me to descend. ¨Try,¨ he said, and pointed to the falls. I climbed cautiously down the rocks, tentatively lowered into the pool, planted my feet, held on with both hands, and put my head into the cascade. It ran like fingers through my hair and deeper still, washing out every sound but the roar of life. I stayed until I needed air and came up smiling too. He stepped back to give me space, pointed, and said, ¨Again. But this time....let go.¨ I remembered his kicking feet, felt mine sunken up to mid-calf, and lowered my head again. This time, I lifted my legs into the flow as the water, source of life, rushed onto my crown and down to my toes. My feet didn´t plunk. They fluttered. I floated gracefully, feet like remembered tailfins. Breath, held out, I was suspended in that place where there is only truth. Where shadows disperse in the light within. When I came up for air, that light shone forth on the entire scene. The world was brighter.

Jose said it was time to go, but we had to make another stop first. Another waterfall, he said. The ritual is not complete until you´ve bathed in both. And so we hiked, barefoot, pure, and fearless. We turned a corner and found nearly identical beauty and paused long enough to bathe ourselves in it. Silently. Me, my new friend, and his two dogs, one black and one white. We hiked back along the river, this time in the direction it flows, in silence, to the place where we´d met. A mound of earth in a circle of trees, marked only by some lovingly placed coconuts and a tug in my heart. It was different somehow.

Before I´d started pushing dirt back into the hole, I´d dropped a coconut in beside Cain. He loved to shred them down to the seed inside and then play catch with ´the ball´. Maybe someday a tree will spring forth. A cycle within a cycle, complete. I realized as I stood there, embracing myself in all this new space I contain, that more than just a tree will grow from this.

As I stepped through the trees onto the beach, I found a woman and her little girl lying where Cain had washed up a few days before. The same place where I´d sat and prayed for something good to come of this. The little girl, in a yellow ruffled swimsuit, had stuck a branch in the sand exactly where Cain had been, its limbs stretching skyward like a tree. She was decorating it with whatever she could find, shells and seaweed, little seeds. She was covered in sand. Bathed in sun. Breathing the same blue sky as me. And playing joyfully with symbols of life in a place that could be heavy with death for me. But isn´t.