un alma apretada
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 in that balance and ride into that peace every day of my life, I would. Henry, our surf instructor, told me plainly that I was the ugly duckling of our group, one board away from hopeless. One ride without the noise of my mind, however, led instead by the simple direction of touch and feeling and I was the swan with "natural style and form" learning to change direction on the waves in three rides.
Our hotel was a private paradise - the cliche of Hotel Tropicana at the beach in Tamarindo. The life of the tropics is unbelievable - beautiful and sweet nectar eating birds as pets on fingers, squirrels of seven colors and much audacity, dogs whose joyful toys are those of green coconuts - intensifying the game of fetch.
I witnessed my first real-life fight, complete with blood and broken hands, six feet in front of me on the beach. Violence has never seemed to be such a tangible and frightening thing. Deciphering some of the worst language I have ever heard, I was able to tell among the insane obscenities that this other man had slept with the girlfriend of my surf instructor Henry. Angry as a description of Henry's reaction is perhaps the most egregious understatement I could make.
The most remarkable thing, though, & a true testament to the pura vida nature of this culture is that when it was all said and done, they shook hands and walked away.
There is so much to write, and yet rather than convey the imagery of my current life, my hands wish to be elbow deep in the kitchen sink with the abrasive yellow soap that Mama Tica favors while helping her do the dishes. Such a bright, bright color of amarillo, fulfillment on my hands and reminiscent of so much.
Saturday evening we rented and road bicycles on the beach and the spinning of our wheels led us to the most beautiful sunset I have ever felt straight down to my soul. Clouds smeared with the pastels of Monet, the layers of Van Gogh, the flawlessness of God. And all the meanwhile, small wisps of clouds with the hearts of birds flew through it all.
That night's supper was a humble and comfortable mixture of unashamed, wine-encouraged laughter, rosy cheeks from plate to plate, arms open in exclamation, and this romantic's favorite: stories of love in its truest form. Our friend Matt had me enthralled with the story of his meeting of, his years with, and his proposal to his fiancee. When he finished with a shy and humble smile, obviously lost inside his mind with the image of her face, the tears were hot and strong in my eyes falling down these sun stained cheeks to where my chin rested upon my fist in enraptured listening.
Saturday ended only when the light of Sunday began. After being told three times not to stand on a table (giving love toasts and dancing) and swaying to every single song with every single person in the club until 4am, my feet led my fuzzy mind home. One step then the next, arm in arm with friends whose novelty has faded to permanence and comfort back to our home, sweet hotel.
Sunday came early.
The air of the bus ride home was dry and tight with the reality of the coming week, the knowledge of how long we've been here, and the realization of how much time remains. We rolled the longing for home between us, an unwilling game of acceptance and disbelief. All lost in music: shells left behind when our love took flight.
But do not be fooled, for there is so much goodness here. Maria (who owns Soda Mary, our favorite lunch place) walked a half a mile just to show us personally where to find the best ice cream. I have the pleasure of seeing the same plump smile of the visor wearing/morning walking/purposeful neighbor every morning. I received a 94 on my first exam. Tomorrow is two of my best girl friends' birthdays here. Thursday is El Dia de Independencia (Independence Day) for Costa Rica - a grand fiesta for all. Yes, goodness abounds.
When I woke this morning, stepped out onto now familiar sidewalks, and began to run into the sun, I found my heart waiting - a prodigal shadow on the horizon. We fell into step together, and in the absence of apology, it simply settled back where it belongs with a tug, true and deep - not a promise to never leave, but to always return.
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 in that balance and ride into that peace every day of my life, I would. Henry, our surf instructor, told me plainly that I was the ugly duckling of our group, one board away from hopeless. One ride without the noise of my mind, however, led instead by the simple direction of touch and feeling and I was the swan with "natural style and form" learning to change direction on the waves in three rides.
Our hotel was a private paradise - the cliche of Hotel Tropicana at the beach in Tamarindo. The life of the tropics is unbelievable - beautiful and sweet nectar eating birds as pets on fingers, squirrels of seven colors and much audacity, dogs whose joyful toys are those of green coconuts - intensifying the game of fetch.
I witnessed my first real-life fight, complete with blood and broken hands, six feet in front of me on the beach. Violence has never seemed to be such a tangible and frightening thing. Deciphering some of the worst language I have ever heard, I was able to tell among the insane obscenities that this other man had slept with the girlfriend of my surf instructor Henry. Angry as a description of Henry's reaction is perhaps the most egregious understatement I could make.
The most remarkable thing, though, & a true testament to the pura vida nature of this culture is that when it was all said and done, they shook hands and walked away.
There is so much to write, and yet rather than convey the imagery of my current life, my hands wish to be elbow deep in the kitchen sink with the abrasive yellow soap that Mama Tica favors while helping her do the dishes. Such a bright, bright color of amarillo, fulfillment on my hands and reminiscent of so much.
Saturday evening we rented and road bicycles on the beach and the spinning of our wheels led us to the most beautiful sunset I have ever felt straight down to my soul. Clouds smeared with the pastels of Monet, the layers of Van Gogh, the flawlessness of God. And all the meanwhile, small wisps of clouds with the hearts of birds flew through it all.
That night's supper was a humble and comfortable mixture of unashamed, wine-encouraged laughter, rosy cheeks from plate to plate, arms open in exclamation, and this romantic's favorite: stories of love in its truest form. Our friend Matt had me enthralled with the story of his meeting of, his years with, and his proposal to his fiancee. When he finished with a shy and humble smile, obviously lost inside his mind with the image of her face, the tears were hot and strong in my eyes falling down these sun stained cheeks to where my chin rested upon my fist in enraptured listening.
Saturday ended only when the light of Sunday began. After being told three times not to stand on a table (giving love toasts and dancing) and swaying to every single song with every single person in the club until 4am, my feet led my fuzzy mind home. One step then the next, arm in arm with friends whose novelty has faded to permanence and comfort back to our home, sweet hotel.
Sunday came early.
The air of the bus ride home was dry and tight with the reality of the coming week, the knowledge of how long we've been here, and the realization of how much time remains. We rolled the longing for home between us, an unwilling game of acceptance and disbelief. All lost in music: shells left behind when our love took flight.
But do not be fooled, for there is so much goodness here. Maria (who owns Soda Mary, our favorite lunch place) walked a half a mile just to show us personally where to find the best ice cream. I have the pleasure of seeing the same plump smile of the visor wearing/morning walking/purposeful neighbor every morning. I received a 94 on my first exam. Tomorrow is two of my best girl friends' birthdays here. Thursday is El Dia de Independencia (Independence Day) for Costa Rica - a grand fiesta for all. Yes, goodness abounds.
When I woke this morning, stepped out onto now familiar sidewalks, and began to run into the sun, I found my heart waiting - a prodigal shadow on the horizon. We fell into step together, and in the absence of apology, it simply settled back where it belongs with a tug, true and deep - not a promise to never leave, but to always return.
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