Cycles

 

Space. Everything needs space to grow, and everything needs to grow. For the past week, every day when I unroll my yoga mat, I pluck a slip of paper from my jar of intentions to guide me in my practice. Even when I spill out the whole jar on the ground and scramble them about; even when I choose with my eyes closed: CYCLES. Every time.

Yes.

The ocean said the same to me last week when I sat beside her. "Rooooaaarrr!" she said. Then, "Hussssssshhhhh." Over and over, a cycle of rising and falling. Chaos, then peace. In the middle, almost imperceptible, but there if you pay really close attention: space. In that space, respect for each other, the chaos, the peace; they need each other to exist.

Mike and Jack went away this past weekend to visit Mike's grandparents in upstate NY. At first, I was devastated by Jack's absence. Overwhelmed by all the silence. Then, I fell back into the space. I owned it. Literally. I created my own private healing sanctuary in the spare bedroom where I've been crashing intermittently. I moved my armoire in from the master bedroom, moved all my clothes. I hung up mirrors and adorned the walls with symbols of protection and strength, healing and creativity. I have my own room now. Mike has his own room now.

Space.

Jack's bedroom became my project today as I awaited his return. I threw myself whole-heartedly into being his mom despite our distance. I created a sacred space for my boy. A clean, fresh room full of all his favorite things moved about and reenergized. I adorned his walls with symbols of protection and strength, healing and creativity. A special gift sat on top of his bookshelf: a lantern to shed some light and help him feel safe in the dark.

When they came home and Jack saw his room, he lit up! He could feel the love I poured into his space and he loved it back. He looked at me and said, "Mama! You got your power back!"

Presently, Jack is upstairs sleeping peacefully in the hush after all the chaos. Mike is resting in his own room. I am in the living room (still bingeing on "Orange is the New Black"). We all have space. And the pain, the ache that we are all still living with, just growing pains.

The cycle continues...

Reunion

"Everything changes," Mike reminded me in response to my complaints as we hiked down my old "road to work", the once-rocky path down the mountain to Playitas, now all tarred over with smooth blacktop. No rocks poked through the soles of my sandals, ankles steady, my feet landed flat and firmly on the ground. I pointed out the apartment where I used to live, still with its beautiful view of ocean halfway down the mountain.

We arrived at the head of my old favorite trail to the beach, the one where the monkeys like to play. Now, it's impassable; completely overgrown with jungle. Apparently, things here in Manuel Antonio have found their proper places. No more intermingling. No monkeys or sloths climbing about on roadside trees. No giant morphos butterflies dancing in the air. The animals are all safely contained within the park now, it would seem. Tourists are guided about on their smooth and manicured paths. Better for everyone, I guess. But even while I confess to the benefits of this new order, I feel blessed to have been a part of the wild rawness of life how it was here before.

Perhaps this place is magical enough to reflect exactly what one needs each time they come to it.

When we arrived at the beach and that place where the river flows down into the ocean at high tide, the place I expected would haunt me, I didn't well up. No new wave of sorrow in need of release. No grievance at all. Instead, I found a much matured grove of trees, a mostly healed path, and no trace at all, besides a mild tug on my heart, of the place of mourning it had once been for me. Everything had grown: lush and joined together in unison. A complete picture of peace.

As I took Mike's hand and continued picking our way through the growth, I realized that I have grown back together too.

75% God

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

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

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

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)

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

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)

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

My first fútbol game in Argentina:

They INSISTED that I wear the shirt!

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

Happiness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesdays and Thursdays 7:30pm.

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

Namaste!

Burbujas!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

....Tick. Tick. Tick.

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

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

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

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

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

Movement

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Space

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

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

No one has ever called me Philadelphia.

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

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

What I´ve Learned In Costa Rica

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

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

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

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!)

Halloween in the jungle