Roaming and Rambling

In these past few months I have learned how very much I can live without. An abundance of clothes, favorite types of food, the comforts of life that grow complacency rather than gratitude in the face of blessings. Something fundamentally changed when I fit my life into a suitcase and left a room full of stuff & a life left of center behind me. Everything fit, everything I needed came with me, and I say this knowing that my family and friends could not make this journey with me.  And what I mean is this: at the very center, the beating heart that gives rhythm to this life, at the deepest core of truth in this adventure: I needed me. I needed to stand alone. And not alone for an afternoon in my apartment in Boone while Katie runs to the store, not alone like the mornings that found me after Zach and I broke up, not alone paying bills and grocery shopping without the guidance of my parents. These "alones" are sown in shallow soil, these alones can be softened away with the ...

These days I will do just about anything for a bit of peace and a cup of hot chocolate. The places I am finding peace lately are unlike any of the places I usually search:  on crowded streets while zig zagging people and dogs in a whirlwind morning run,  the routine of tying back my lace curtains one by one as the sun comes up with the creak of the sleepy windows opening for me, the moment I lower myself to one more push up amid Shanti's commands to "dig deeper" so I do, Mama Tica scolding me not to do the dishes while lovingly pulling me in to kiss my cheek, Angel asking me to walk by her side at night - the squeeze of her hand asking for mine in return,  Sofie's strength in her hugs when I come home reduced to tears by a day,  many mid afternoon and late night cups of tea,  John's sweatshirt that hits my knees while Harold sits in my arms - both have traveled so far with me.  (Written a few days ago) I am finding peace right now, here on this tw...

I am more thankful than I have ever been in my life. I have family, friends, three homes for my heart (& counting), a mama here who changes my sheets, does my laundry, feeds me two free meals a day, holds me when I cry and gives me love. And I have a mama back home waiting to do all the same, especially the latter part.  In all of this though, sometimes in this life I have questioned Death, how it lingers and how it leaves its traces for me. My friend Landon Hill passed away on Thanksgiving morning. Within 24 hours, a rapid onset of bacterial meningitis took him from the health, smiling, intelligent guy I was so very lucky to know to a place very far away. And the space he so beautifully filled in this world is now so empty that many around me, many blessed enough to call him "best" friend cannot bear it. I hurt for them - so very truly- a tightness in my chest. I know the burn of tears born of resentment for the injustice of the way of life. I know the way knees feel a...

"I can still hear the soft, southern winds in the live oak trees."  There are exactly 27 days between me and my flight home. 27. Twenty-seven more times that I will wake up in this rosy comforter covered bed, twenty-seven more times that I will walk to the windows, pull back the lace and look for that San Jose sun. Twenty-seven more times that I will hear Mama Tica call up "chicas, ya esta lista la cena!" before we skip down the stairs to the incredible smells of that giving woman's cooking. Twenty-seven more days of the familiar sound of the key in the lock, the safe sound of the gate swinging shut behind us, of the neighbor dog barking as if he's never met us before (always makes me laugh). Twenty-seven more days of Mama Tica's incense filling the house, of quietly observing Sofie brushing her long, dark, thick hair in the morning - carefully, slowly, and watching Angel check her uniform for the seventeenth time before rushing down to a late breakfa...

I remember the way the leather stuck to my legs in the humidity of the night of my arrival. A night inhaling - the deep breath of Sunday before another week was to begin, my final exhale of familiar air before the plunge. And there I was, half there, part here, all the way in between (the second the world holds you above the water).  The sighs of San Jose settled on my skin, the noise of the city: a sensual merengue in my ears, my heart timidly following life's beckoning wave - still unsure - a child peeking from behind the steady legs of my plans. I remember Spanish strange on my lips, rolling the word around on my tongue, the flavor of every syllable. It once tasted of rust and hesitancy, now it is sharp and light: limon y confianza. I remember her face the first time I shut the car door and turned into my future. Humble hands folded in front of her small frame, a smile that took its time - careful to promise me sincerity and the genuine love we would build. She was my Mother Mar...

Apparently, I am not so wonderful at this blogging consistently/frequently thing. I really can't explain it. It's almost as if I'm afraid that if I put all of my experiences to words they will become too tangible and slip through my fingers.  Something like that. The past ten days or so have been full of many things. My first self-planned trip in CR, riding a banana boat across the Pacific, conquering the public transportation system, a thirty minute Spanish presentation, new friends, a human rights field trip around the city, the Lion King 3D in Spanish (life changing), my first weekend staying put in San Jose and falling into an even more intoxicating love with the city that I call home, participating in the national Caminata Contra Cancer de Mama (Walk Against Breast Cancer), finally purchasing a pair of much missed leggings in this country, visiting the enchanting town of Cartago complete with the awe-inspiring Basilica de Los Angeles (Wikipedia it), growing ever mo...

It has been almost ten days since my last entry, and when I try to think of why I have been unable to put my fingers to this keyboard to record the details of my life, I honestly cannot come to any good conclusion. Life has had other plans for me.  Last week marked the ending of my first Spanish immersion class: Intermedio 2. I passed the class with a 96 which both surprised me and lessened my worry for the classes ahead of me. The final exam last Friday was something else, and I can honestly say I fought back tears in the middle of that last class - for good reason.  The last essay question was crafted specifically for us to demonstrate our use of the conditional tense (would haves).  De tener una segunda oportunidad de vivir tu vida, que cosas  cambiarias? (basically, if I had another chance to live my life, what things would I change?) I have always been steadfast in the parts of faith that say things happen for a reason. Usually when I am forced ...

This Sunday September 18th marks that I have exactly three months more here in Costa Rica.  I started graduate school applications, but that's too tangible to talk about. I wish I were a painter so that I could capture the inexplicably wonderful way the wind dances with the lace curtains of my room as morning breathes deeply.  There is so much that I have seen, so much I have felt on this sun kissed skin that I wish to share, but it all circles in my mind - I never have been a very direct storyteller.  Today is Bid Day back home in Boone for my KD sisters, and last night as I wrote my last pref letter, re-read my senior letter that was read this morning in our beloved circle, and looked at photos of my wonderful family (Mary, Molly, Maddie), I was overcome by just how much I miss being with them. I miss standing in such strong unity, I miss the ritual, I miss the songs everyone else thinks are cheesy, I miss smiling across that circle at the people who have helped ...

I wish I had the right words to describe the beauty of the emotional journey of this time. Though I am always able to see that it is beautiful here, sometimes my selfish mind slams the door on these sights and resigns to the burdens of insecurity and uncertainty. But every day, I am knocking softly in a reminder that this too is beautiful.  The night of my last update was spent in an old sleepshirt of my Dad's, clutching his handkerchief that saw the first tears of this trip, always ready to catch the inevitable new ones. And though good sleep has escaped me for the past two nights while early mornings have found me with ease, my cup is full once again.  The earliest of sunrises in that precious 6am hour, a new running route around San Jose, and deep breaths of clarity have brought me back to center.  I had an amazing weekend. Amazing.  I found the unity of the ocean, the unity of mind, body and spirit in surfing. If I could push myself up on that board, stand ...

My heart has betrayed me. I looked away, distracted by the delirious effect of sheer happiness and when I looked again it was gone. The dust was still settling from its escape when I was able to see the place to where its footprints led. Home. The worst part about betrayal is that it is so often unintentional. Across the shore, I could see my heart waving slowly, sad and slow, apologetically promising that this would hurt.  Sitting on that bus on the ride home this evening, it did not take long before my eyes quietly became traitors amid the stale air and the shade of evening. Shut against the world, those eyes of mine stung, open they leaked the secrets of my sadness. Long is the journey from lashes to chin for the first tear.  Homesick.  It has stolen my words and the familiar flowers from my hair.  I lie in these sheets fresh with the clean smell of Mama Tica, and I focus on breathing and the small weight of Harold in my arms. For tonight, I am raw, burned...

I fell this morning while running, and I never want to forget what a humbling experience it was.  I survived my first huge exam, began free taekwondo classes and sparred with a tico man that I accidentally kicked square in the privates (thank goodness he had a cup on), and have pushed myself to conquer new things in every possible moment. As a sidenote, I hate Wal-mart here just as much, if not more so than I do in the states.  8,000 colones (16$) for a small agenda. Forget that noise. Evil empire indeed. We're off to Tamarindo on the northern Pacific shore this weekend.  For now though, my heart has escaped this country and rests where my worry lies. Please pray for a dear man Roy Stewart and my best friend Emily who are both not well, and though I am trying to shield them both from the cold sterility of their hospitals with my distant love, I could use some help. Thank you.

I wore my cowboy boots today. Speaks for itself.  The past few days have seen torrential downpours from both the clouds and my eyes. In the face of this isolating distance, I read and re-read the card that my dad so lovingly slipped into my carry on for me to find on the plane when I left. The familiarity of his handwriting seems to minimize the miles, lighten the loneliness.  But honestly, after skyping my parents last night for the first time in five days, I feel incredible. The former words would not lead you to believe that I am in fact tucked cozily up in my room while an exciting rainstorm takes the stage outside my window, one of my favorite Juanes songs is playing and I am full of the happy knowledge of a new Costa Rican dish from my cooking class this afternoon. But these things are true and surrounding me.  Though sadness may fall from my fingertips when I write, do not be fooled. There is an inescapable contentment here that wipes the worry from my forehead a...

My shoes slip on the sidewalk and every other step of this run is an act of faith. My bookbag faithfully slaps my back, my dress is plastered to my legs, the flower behind my ear falls somewhere when I turn the last corner to home. Water cascades down my face when I lift my hood, find the keys and pacify the lock with fumbling fingers.  I have not stopped laughing the whole way home. Neither a giggle or a belly laugh, but a pure joy somewhere in between that comes with the soft rhythm of waves. By the time I got through the door to Mama Tica asking in scattered spanish for a towel, Angel, Sofie and Mama Tica have joined in the laughter, one hand covering their comforting smiles, the other freeing me from my soaking jacket and shoes. I have never seen such beautiful rain. Running for no reason through the thunder, daring the lightning, spinning under the bravado of the dark sky. Everything just vibrant.  This past weekend was spent on an excursion to Puerto Viejo, an incred...

There is something about the rhythm of Spanish, its soft lilt, with which I have fallen madly in love. There is no turning back, I have overwhelmingly lost my tongue to this language and my heart to these ticos y ticas, this place.  I have been here for five days now. The complete and beautiful nature of my all morning Spanish classes, constant practice, Spanish skypes with my dad and coming home to a tico family creates an immersion that already has my mouth fumbling when asked to speak English. All I can do is put my fingers to my lips with wonder and shake my head in disbelief when I'm unable to remember the word "keys" rather than llaves.  My mornings are founded on an incredible peace as that equatorial sun comes shining through the modest lace of my curtains at 5am. Every time I am surprised at how quickly my feet find the floor, ready for the adventure that arrives in those rays of light. Quick showers with the water pressure of a soft rain, but oh so warm, and...

This first part is an account of what I wrote on the plane that brought me to this most magnificent place. Cat Stevens says we're only dancing on this earth for a short while, but he also says that the goodbye makes the journey harder still. Both are true and present in my mind and heart as I sit on this plane, right over the wing (my favorite place). My thoughts drift lightly among these wisps of clouds, and I'm wondering how strange these words will seem in a few months when I return to them on a homeward flight. I have never loved and never will love anything so much in my life as I love my family. Easily the hardest goodbye of my life as the airport man tells us that we must cut it short, and I'm holding on for dear life. I can still smell them on my clothes. My dad's handkerchief will be a constant in my pocket. In this quiet, this soft lull before the adventure truly begins, I can hear the worry knocking on a back door that I must choose to close as I jump out i...

"Brown Eyed Girl" is making me cry and there is no relief as "Listen to Her Heart" comes after on this Tom Petty Pandora station. In this moment I understand that there is no music safe from the emotional investment of packing. When I close my eyes I realize that these songs are the songs of an open 321 highway, the windows finally rolled down to a sweet afternoon of sunshine and that earth mountain smell, flying around that last curve into Boone, feeling home in the August air. Yeah, these are those songs. The good news is that I've filled one suitcase. It has been a tedious process of delicately holding each article of clothing and considering the memories, the people of my life that are woven carefully into the fabric. The nights that I don't quite clearly remember, but the shirts that still have Katie's arm around my shoulder as we stumble home. The baggy jeans I put on after finishing that half marathon, the most comfortable friends in the world,...

"Don't stay up all night." "Yes ma'am." "Goodnight punkin." "Goodnight mama." Sitting here between piles of clothes, pictures, things, surrounded by all these many columns of my life, I realize that I will miss these small and soft exchanges.  How do I carefully and completely zip myself inside these bags while managing to leave just the slightest gap for sunlight and learning and breathing in the midst of adventure's chaos? I keep telling everyone that I'm nervous, not as excited as everyone else wills me to be. I don't know if that's on the whole truth or not. Perhaps it's just the thought of not making that familiar right turn into my driveway, not taking that big deep breath of home as the dog maintains his faithful post of first greeter, not swinging my feet against old cabinets while talking to my mom and dad in the kitchen, not turning back familiar sheets before climbing into dreams. Perhaps it's that. ...