If You Think My Life Is As Pretty As These Sunsets

Dec. 19, 2013

It is easy to feel energies. I just woke up. I am barely awake. I'm lying in bed at sunrise and I feel more alone than ever. The day has not even started.

I slide the lock to the left, open the door to my apartment and step warily onto my balcony. It is easy to feel the emptiness that surrounds. I cross the corridor that overlooks the unused pool and walk down a few stairs. I look to my left. The doors are closed and the curtains are pulled tight. 

The trees sway lightly with the breeze.

Just enough to show that they are alive. Not enough to create sound.

It is quiet.

My heart beats slow.

But loud. 

I look around. The sky is painted with early morning colors. The yard is a green wave of fresh rolling hills. The windmills are spinning atop mountains in the distance. 

I smile sincerely and warmly.

But it fades quickly.

The guayaba tree is bare. 

There is no reason to cross the green hills to walk to school.

And no music is playing from any of my apartment-mates' rooms. 

I turn around and walk back up the stairs.

I make a pot of coffee that I bought from Don Pupo, a local farmer in the area. As it brews, I smell his finca. I open the fridge and reach for some things to make a smoothie, but the combinations don't make sense to me. 

Oh well.

Did I say that? 

I know those 2 words. My Mom says them.

I close the refrigerator door, grab my towel and walk into my bathroom.

I leave my clothes in a lump on the floor. They pile limp and carelessly.

I pull the shower curtain across and the metal rings screech as they slide across the rod. 

Is that sound my only companion? 

It rips at my heart. 

Dec. 23, 2013

The numbers say something to me, but I can't make sense of them.

19…22…23….

The calendar says it is Christmas time.

I close my eyes and I try to feel the crisp weather on my skin. I breathe in deep and try to smell apple crisp in the oven. I begin to hum and try to recreate Winter Wonderland. 

But there are no sleigh bills ringing. 

The air is warm and humid and the ground below me is laid with sand and not snow. 

The sound of the sea is beautiful, but it is a lull that drowns my heart and it is not the sound of my sisters' voices that dances in my soul. 

There is nothing easy about traveling. My life is in a backpack and I have to choose what it holds. 

There are things I left behind that I long for, that I wish I packed… yet I know there is never enough room for the things I need most. 

I wake up and the bed is not my own. I've come to know these sheets, but I know deep down it is just a lie to make it more comfortable. She knows, too, as she cradles me. She knows this is just temporary. That I will not stay for long and soon she will host another body from another foreign land and they, too, will lie together. 

I fumble with the lock to a unfamiliar door and I step outside. 

The first instant is overwhelming. The smell of the salty sea, the sound of waves crashing, the colors that reach far beyond a rainbow. 

I smile sincerely in deep gratitude. 

What have I done for Mother Earth to love me so much? Every day she opens up a gift that is much too beautiful for mankind to capture, and she hands it to us. It is deep greens and vibrant reds. It is the smell of lilies. It is the sound of birds singing and the touch of fresh snow. It is sunsets and sunrises. Do I give this gift back? Or do I just keep taking? 

I reach back inside and grab a sheet off my bed. Still in my night clothes, I come outside and climb into the hammock, wrapping the sheet around me and I wait for the colors to come across the horizon. 

There is nothing easy about traveling.

There is nothing easy about the choices I have made.

There is nothing easy about being me. 

Cradled in my hammock. Alone. Silent. I look out at the horizon and wonder many things. My past flashes before me. My future is a mystery. My present is painted with dark smudges that I don't remember holding the brush to and I often try to erase them, but they don't go anywhere and I often tell myself to just accept them, but I don't want to. And it hurts. 

But if I just lift my head up in my hammock, I can see the colors as they start to creep out from beneath the clouds. 

'Cause I can hold onto those dark smudges (and sometimes I do) and they can start to grow and take over the whole picture and before I know it I can't see any colors at all. 

Or, I can keep seeing and I keep painting. Because sometimes the colors are there before me and sometimes it is I that creates them, but either way, they are there. And I know that is true. And I know the colors and I co-exist and co-create together. Sometimes, you just don't see them and sometimes you forget and sometimes, maybe, you just let the dark smudges take over. 

There is nothing easy about traveling. 

I can't lie about the beauty that I have come to see by taking my feet to faraway places. I can't lie about the blessings that the world has given to me. I can't lie about the wealth I have accumulated through the meals, and smiles and conversations and stories that I have shared with people across the planet. 

But, it is not easy. 

Sometimes, I paint a picture that it is…easy…

That it's all beautiful…

Through my photos.

My messages.

My one-sided-story posts. 

Because maybe that's what I need to do. For me. 

Because I don't need to tell you that you can't have up without down. Good without bad. Right without wrong. 

But it serves me no good to focus on the dark smudges.

Because the truth is, when you travel, you can feel really, really freaking alone...

And it's exhausting. And my clothes are old and stained and I usually wear them multiple times without washing them, so maybe they kinda smell. And I don't have the freedom to always choose the best food and sometimes I really just want organic almond milk and raw honey and blueberries and I have to eat greasy rice and beans. And my legs are covered in mosquito bites and you can tell me not to scratch them but I will because it feels so freaking good and I know that I will get an infection, but I will do it anyways and the hospitals suck in faraway places but I have to go there anyways and its my own fault. 

And those are just the small things. 

And the big ones are much more painful. 

The big ones are the dark smudges on my painting and I think only my good friends and family knows what they look like and how impossible they are to erase. 

But that's my painting.

And, I'd rather tell you about the colors. 

Because maybe you'll start to paint with me.

And I know that when we can see the colors of the world we can create more. And that is what I have learned to do for me and my own wellbeing. And you don't have to do it and you don't have to like it, but for me it works.

And if you think my painting is perfect that I am sorry for misleading you. 

We are all human beings and each one of us has a story that most of the world probably does not know about. 

I ask for help every morning to treat everyone with kindness. No matter how they treat me. Because I don't know their story. And they don't know mine. 

But, I can look for the colors (that exist in everyone and everywhere). And that makes it easier. And I feel less alone. And, I can smile. And, sometimes, I make them smile too.

If you think my life is as easy as these sunsets, it's not. But I choose to paint the colors I see because it makes life a bit easier. 

Inside A Prison Cell

I’m not sure I want to see it, but I stand there engulfed.

I know I am in a chicken farm, but I feel I am witnessing a holocaust as I stare down the long corridor.

I am the only free person in this room.

Yet, I am trapped.

And it is shameful. 

And it hurts. 

In a space of about 8 square inches, sometimes up to 4 chicken are crammed. Squeezed together. For their entire lifespan. The will never walk on the grass that is their home. 

These barracks are their jail cells. 

Shackles for crimes they never committed. 

6,000 of them.

This is a small-scale farm. They are antibiotic free. Their owner is trying the best she can, in her own eyes.

I met her. And she is sweet. And she works hard. And I sympathize with her. 

I cannot begin to imagine the magnitude of what goes on in the US Industrial Farms...

Individually, each chicken is unique and evokes a sweetness. If you stand close, they look up at you. 

There are so many questions. There is such confusion. There are feelings.

I am not sure if it is my mind or theirs that is speaking.

Small-Scale Chicken Farm
Santa Ana, Costa Rica, Dec. 10 2013

They walk but a few steps.

They scream in each other’s ears.

They peck at each other’s feathers.

I’ve seen it in the documentaries. I’ve read about it in the books.

This is the first time I am living it.

I peer down the long corridor and I fear if I stay too much longer they will need to call for help.

The smell burns.

Or maybe it’s the sight.

I think maybe the sound of their monotonous calls is even worse than the way they look at me.

I want it to stop.

But I stand there and the movie plays backwards in my head.

This is our reality. We created this. You and I. And every time we buy an egg or grab a bag of packaged chicken without reading the label we are giving them the power to do this.

Sometimes, though, you cannot even trust the label anymore.

Sometimes, it takes work to learn.

Sometimes, there is no easy or no ‘good’ solution.

Because our system has allowed this to be the only way.

...Maybe not.

There are free-range chickens.

Can’t they all be this way? I’m not so sure anymore... 

Land tenure.

Soil fertility.

Markets.

Access.

Urbanization.

Competition.

Corporate Control.

How did we get here?

We are so

Modernized.

Industrialized.

Developed.

Advanced.

We are human beings. We think we are so powerful. We assume control over every path we walk.

I can’t help but feel we’ve made a mistake.

I can’t help but wonder how this is a sign of and advanced, developed human race.

 6,000 chickens in 1 room
Santa Ana, Costa Rica, 2013

Yet, we are powerful.

So why don’t we use it for something good?

Because there are farmers, like this man from Costa Rica, who works really, really freaking hard to produce good food. He recycles all his plastics. He buys only what he needs. He has an organic compost of his home waste. He uses worms. He sells locally.

Don Geraldo and Nina Liliam, Sarapique, Costa Rica

He uses only organic fertilizers. He builds his own tools. He talks to his plants. 

And he smiles, a lot. 

And, yes, his prices are a bit higher.

And I am happy about it. Because it means his food has nutrients.

It means, I don’t have to worry about a factory.

A factory that has become synonymous with both our animal and plant "food".

The solutions are still hard to envision.

But I will continue to dream.

Because I do not believe in settling for a world where our basic necessity of life challenges our entire ecosystem and livelihoods.

We are powerful, compassionate, strong human beings.

Let us start acting that way.

In a way that makes us proud.

Kids Yoga, El Rodeo, Costa Rica

Run Free

The curtains blow flagrantly across my room and the bright rising sun pulls down my bed sheets with both the force of its visual energy and warmth of its fiery soul. There are mornings where it is easier to get out of bed than others. 

This breeze is my best friend.

There’s an open mason jar of warm water on my counter. I lift it and peer inside, checking for gecko ordure. Looks safe. I used to like fresh, crisp, ice cold agua. Now I welcome the gentle stream of warm vitality that moistens my dry morning throat.

Seven gulps.

Exhalation.

Sigh.

Cleansed. Awakened. Alive.  

I get glimpses of the garden, the turquoise pool water, the humming-bird-bush, with every flutter of the curtains as the breeze tantalizes my five senses.

My pink sneakers lay begging like a dog besides my door frame.

Sparkly clean.

Mud and thatch washed away from recent hikes.

4-months-virgin to a heart-pounding run.

I look at them and I feel.

Bitter the cold of autumn in New York. Sweet the sensations of Fall on my skin.

My mouth waters.

Pounding the music in my ears. Asking my feet to be light on the pavement.

I bound down the sidewalks.

The headlights of cars are my friends.

The cracks in the pavement are stories.

The breeze in my face is love. Encouragement. Tantalization.

The curtain blows up again and reaches for me.

The map on my wall says I’m in Costa Rica.

The colors in my front yard tell me it doesn’t matter what you call it.

I come to the curtains. I put on a good song. The music awakens me a bit more and I feel my desires come alive.

I pull on the sweet memories of my past and I tie the laces of miles of freedom together and I stand tall.

I hit play and I walk out.

For a mile or two I run to the music of 2006. My iPod stays trapped in time. It easily transports me. I can be here or there in an instant. Time is an elusion. Maps create lines which insinuate destinations. Boundaries. Separations. Limitations.

A few minutes in my sneakers and I realize it’s all a lie.

I can be anywhere I want to be. 

I can be anyone I want to be.

“If one of us aint free then we all to blame.”

Keep running.

I am in Gainesville, Florida. Passing the alligator infested ponds. The O’Dome. The Swamp. The Orange-and-Blue. I am young and easily swayed to choose a path that has been laid before me. I don't stop to wonder if it is the one I want to choose. 

I am running uphill in Rye, New York. The purple “Team in Training” shirts surround me. There are survivors, fighters. There are friends who let go. My sister is somewhere. Her hair falls long when she removes her swim cap that reads “Leukemia & Lymphoma”. A cap that just looks like the turban she wore at five when there was no hair to create warmth. Protection. Immunity. Life force. Freedom. 

She knows what it means to live. I wonder if she knows how often I still run with her. Because of her.

I am in Vietnam and we are crossing a bridge. Training for a race of which we’ll never make it to. Lost passports. What border? What boundaries?

I am in El Salvador. It hurts. The dust in my eyes. The piropos. The stray dogs, begging for a piece of flesh. A peace. Acknowledgement. Nourishment of any form. It's not just the dogs that I run from. Run with. Running. 

My music shuts off. I look down over my left shoulder. Battery low.

I look up. Jue Pucha. Que belleza. 

I hear. I feel. I smile. I breathe. I taste.

What a world before me. It is so f*cking beautiful. Do you see it?

I am in Costa Rica.

Maybe.

If I want to be. 

I see a beak. I recognize those colors. He flies into another tree and I follow him with my eyes. He invites me. His movements mimic my morning curtains. Side to side. Asking you to come, but leaving the choice up to you. Giving you a taste of what is out there. Inviting, but not begging.

“Follow me,” he says. But don’t hold on too long.

I love his beak in all it’s colors. I watch it. Side-to-side.

Suddenly, the beak multiples. One-by-one. Each leading me to the next.

A tree of tucans. Sitting on branches. Singing about life. Or maybe sorrows.

Songs of love. Or maybe sadness.

“What a joy it is to be alive. To get another chance.”

One by one they take off. I count them. 8.

8 tucans.

I am mesmerized. 

The world, the breeze, the colors, the sounds of the world are a violin that I don’t know how to play anymore.

But it sounds just as sweet.

Everyday is a new song.

I let go of the birds and I smile and my eyes well up and I laugh at myself.

I turn around and begin the journey home.

The leaves of trees rustle. I feel snakes by the roadside, crawling with venom. Peaceful by nature, poisonous when provoked.

I see the windmills turning silently atop the mountains that I call my neighbors.

Empty houses sit behind gated walls and I wonder what lies on the table inside.

Sometimes I kick a rock, avoid a dip in the road.

I hear my breath and the clapping sound of the soles of my feet dancing on the soul of the Earth.

I smile again. Not just in my mind. But deep in my heart and childlishly on my face.

The run home is faster than the run away.

“None but ourselves can free our minds.”

"Laying in Fall"
New York. 2012.