Y con la mañana, viene el sol.
"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 breakfast. Twenty-seven more times of brushing my teeth, kissing three beautiful women goodnight, pulling back the sheet and settling into bed and the orange glow of the streetlights while car alarms and cats and the noise of life lull me to sleep. I don't know what the number 27 means.
Sometimes I think so many things all at once that I'm sure my own existence is that of impossibility. I think of men's shaking hands when they ask a woman for the rest of her life with a ring. I think of wool against cheeks, the starch of my father's uniform and the shine of his boots. I think of hospital waiting rooms and who may be in them right now. I think of the way tragedy has a talent of painstakingly finding us all, but I thank it for keeping its visits memorable but brief. I think of chapped lips, the ends of shoelaces, baseball hats and how much I like to knead the dough when I bake with my Dad. I think that sometimes everyone would be a little more found if they occasionally lost themselves in a large sweater and the words of another. There are so very many people in the world, but Mother Nature kissed my fingertips with their own individual prints, and we really do just leave parts of ourselves everywhere. I wonder if there is a best day of our lives and why kind eyes always make me want to cry.
When does friendship begin? Is there a specific moment? A designated place to deposit one's inhibitions and reservations? Is there a mile marker, a line in the stand, past which you cease to worry and simply embrace the gift of a kindred connecting of souls? The truth at the end of the day is that the world spins of its own accord. People walk around constantly apologizing for living, for making mistakes, for forgetting to wash the fruit before its served, for wearing a shirt two days in a row, for calling each other the wrong names before we first meet, for not making as much money as other people think we should. And I just want to tell everyone to listen to some Don Williams, take a breath, drink some water and rest.
The past week or so has been the most incredible mixture of emotions. I am finished with my Spanish immersion class in the morning, which means that my days are finally no longer from 8-5pm every day. It will be a much needed respite and offer me a last month in which I am able to have mornings free to explore this city that is my home. I'll never stop being surprised by the way that a city, a true city with nothing but sidewalks, public parks, never-ending noise, light pollution and a constant stream of people has truly become a home in my heart. There is magic in the thought that when I return, I will be able to walk the same streets of my neighborhood, they will remain unchanged and I will still be able to find my way back to our house.
Sometimes it's just so surreal. At night when I walk home from Greta's, I come up over this one hill that gives me the view of an orange blanket of lights across the valley and the dark indigo outline of the mountains in the distance, protecting this city and all of its people preparing for bed. And when I look at the sky in these moments, I can just barely remember that it covers us all equally. That somewhere the loves of my life, my family and friends, are breathing and dancing, drinking and laughing and sleeping under the same black-blue sprinkled with stars.
For months I have created a life here. Thousands of miles away, in the middle of Central America, under the tropical sun, washed clean by wise and persistent rain, and amid a culture of love and family. I don't know how to go on without this way of life.
It is slow here, patient and calm and forgiving. People have enough and with this, they are happy. There is no need to have more, no yearning, no unending desire to obtain more, be more. There is enough, and what looks like little can be spread so very far when you're sharing between hearts. Family is first, and second and third. Pride makes its strut down the street but is left easily on the corner in exchange for the greeting of hugs and kisses with strangers.
"I want to go home, but I am home."
I miss my family. And I daydream about my homecoming, though I do not wish it to come any faster than it will. I know it waits for me and that is enough. Sometimes my heart just paints pictures of tomorrow. I think of the moment when I will step off the plane and breathe American air for the first time in months. Will the ground feel different when I walk across the Columbia airport - how will overwhelming English sound to these ears? I think of how I hope the wet rain of Costa Rica will soften my breath and the air around me. I think of my curls still nestled tightly in its humidity. I hope that tico sand will fall lightly from the cuffs of my jeans, that my brown skin will still be glowing and flushed with the love that will color my goodbyes. I think of the inevitable heat behind my eyes when I see my family waiting from a distance. I will take gulps of air, feel my heart pounding on the door of happiness, a loud and overwhelming rhythm falling into perfect sync with my footsteps. A run to open arms- the homeward stretch. I think of dropping my bag, and the collapse it will be when I fall into my mama's arms with relief. Laughter, so much laughter - novels written without a single word.
Twenty-seven days and I will fill them with an eternity of love.
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 breakfast. Twenty-seven more times of brushing my teeth, kissing three beautiful women goodnight, pulling back the sheet and settling into bed and the orange glow of the streetlights while car alarms and cats and the noise of life lull me to sleep. I don't know what the number 27 means.
Sometimes I think so many things all at once that I'm sure my own existence is that of impossibility. I think of men's shaking hands when they ask a woman for the rest of her life with a ring. I think of wool against cheeks, the starch of my father's uniform and the shine of his boots. I think of hospital waiting rooms and who may be in them right now. I think of the way tragedy has a talent of painstakingly finding us all, but I thank it for keeping its visits memorable but brief. I think of chapped lips, the ends of shoelaces, baseball hats and how much I like to knead the dough when I bake with my Dad. I think that sometimes everyone would be a little more found if they occasionally lost themselves in a large sweater and the words of another. There are so very many people in the world, but Mother Nature kissed my fingertips with their own individual prints, and we really do just leave parts of ourselves everywhere. I wonder if there is a best day of our lives and why kind eyes always make me want to cry.
When does friendship begin? Is there a specific moment? A designated place to deposit one's inhibitions and reservations? Is there a mile marker, a line in the stand, past which you cease to worry and simply embrace the gift of a kindred connecting of souls? The truth at the end of the day is that the world spins of its own accord. People walk around constantly apologizing for living, for making mistakes, for forgetting to wash the fruit before its served, for wearing a shirt two days in a row, for calling each other the wrong names before we first meet, for not making as much money as other people think we should. And I just want to tell everyone to listen to some Don Williams, take a breath, drink some water and rest.
The past week or so has been the most incredible mixture of emotions. I am finished with my Spanish immersion class in the morning, which means that my days are finally no longer from 8-5pm every day. It will be a much needed respite and offer me a last month in which I am able to have mornings free to explore this city that is my home. I'll never stop being surprised by the way that a city, a true city with nothing but sidewalks, public parks, never-ending noise, light pollution and a constant stream of people has truly become a home in my heart. There is magic in the thought that when I return, I will be able to walk the same streets of my neighborhood, they will remain unchanged and I will still be able to find my way back to our house.
Sometimes it's just so surreal. At night when I walk home from Greta's, I come up over this one hill that gives me the view of an orange blanket of lights across the valley and the dark indigo outline of the mountains in the distance, protecting this city and all of its people preparing for bed. And when I look at the sky in these moments, I can just barely remember that it covers us all equally. That somewhere the loves of my life, my family and friends, are breathing and dancing, drinking and laughing and sleeping under the same black-blue sprinkled with stars.
For months I have created a life here. Thousands of miles away, in the middle of Central America, under the tropical sun, washed clean by wise and persistent rain, and amid a culture of love and family. I don't know how to go on without this way of life.
It is slow here, patient and calm and forgiving. People have enough and with this, they are happy. There is no need to have more, no yearning, no unending desire to obtain more, be more. There is enough, and what looks like little can be spread so very far when you're sharing between hearts. Family is first, and second and third. Pride makes its strut down the street but is left easily on the corner in exchange for the greeting of hugs and kisses with strangers.
"I want to go home, but I am home."
I miss my family. And I daydream about my homecoming, though I do not wish it to come any faster than it will. I know it waits for me and that is enough. Sometimes my heart just paints pictures of tomorrow. I think of the moment when I will step off the plane and breathe American air for the first time in months. Will the ground feel different when I walk across the Columbia airport - how will overwhelming English sound to these ears? I think of how I hope the wet rain of Costa Rica will soften my breath and the air around me. I think of my curls still nestled tightly in its humidity. I hope that tico sand will fall lightly from the cuffs of my jeans, that my brown skin will still be glowing and flushed with the love that will color my goodbyes. I think of the inevitable heat behind my eyes when I see my family waiting from a distance. I will take gulps of air, feel my heart pounding on the door of happiness, a loud and overwhelming rhythm falling into perfect sync with my footsteps. A run to open arms- the homeward stretch. I think of dropping my bag, and the collapse it will be when I fall into my mama's arms with relief. Laughter, so much laughter - novels written without a single word.
Twenty-seven days and I will fill them with an eternity of love.
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