You Chose This

I'm laughing and I can't decide if I continue to brace myself for the bumps and bangs or just let go and let my butt bruise. I'm cradling a baby in my arms and she's fast asleep. I am trying to keep her comfortable as I slide and clench in the back of the pickup truck. The wind is blowing in our faces and dust kicks up around the sides of the truck. Then, she pees on me. 

How is she sleeping through all of this? 

We park on the side of the road and there are two women sitting on the floor of a house with a beautiful view. They have their legs stretched out and I wonder what they are talking about. A dog runs up to us as we climb out of the car. We chat for a minute. With the women. Me with the dog. They still sit on the floor, but let us enter their house to use their bathroom. 

We begin the hike to the river. Somehow, I'm in flip flops. Awhile ago, I stepped 2 inches from one of the most poisonous snakes in the world. And somehow, I'm wearing flip flops. 

There is a lump on the back of my head and I try not to think about it as we walk through the fields. I don't have health insurance. They say its a "torzalo". A batt fly. They lay on your skin and burrow and a little worm is in there. They say its not dangerous. They can squeeze it out or we can suffocate it and it will come out. You get them from being in the fields. I go into the fields a lot. 

I try not to worry. I try not to feel dirty or gross.

You chose this, Jaime. 

We get there and, as always, I am blow away by Mother Nature. I walk away to be my myself for a little bit. My friends set up a little picnic of tortillas and gallo pinto on a rock below the waterfalls. I find a quiet place and I take off my clothes. It feels weird to be naked. It feels free, with my feet in the cold water and all the green and blue and browns around. Still, it feels weird. I feel vulnerable. Like someone can hurt me more readily like this. Like there are eyes looking at me. Judging me. I try not to look at myself. When I look at the water, I see my toes beneath the stream and I am happy and free. And then when I look at myself, I feel a little bit scared and I dig through my bag for my bathing suit. Sometimes, I still don't know who I am.

You chose this, Jaime.

I walk back over to the group and they offer me their food, of course. 

We climb the rocks and we jump off. The baby is watching with her Mom. I bet she doesn't pee on her Mom. 

I stay beneath the water as long as my breath allows me. I love this. I always have. It's so quiet there and, again, I feel free. But this time, I'm not afraid. I am powerful.

I climb to the top of the first waterfall and I find a little space where I can sit in the water without it pushing me over the edge. Hopefully. I sit and I closed my eyes. The water rushes around me. The voices of my friends are sweet hums in the background. They are laughing often, and this brings a small smile to my face. The water sounds powerful, yet you can still hear the birds and the trees blowing.

You chose this, Jaime.

I think I am smiling. My eyes are closed and I can feel the sensation but it is inside of me and not outside of me. 

This is my therapy. And I must always remember that this is what I need. I will always make time for you: water, trees, Earth. I will.

I choose this. 

There is a bump on the back of my head. 

There are poisonous snakes.

And I miss my family. I miss my friends and I miss their babies.

You chose this, Jaime.

There are people starving and now I understand why. I lived with them in El Salvador. I lived with them in the USA. I live with them in Costa Rica. They are children. They are grandpas. They are immigrants. They are lovely people. And they are starving.

I came to Costa Rica to go to the University for Peace so that I could understand why. 

Now, I know. A little bit.

About the system that human-kind has invented. And convinced ourselves that it is reality. That it is the only way. 

And it is not.

I am sitting here in the water with my eyes clothes and the water touching me sweetly.

And I can tell you, for sure, that the system we have created is not the reality. And it is not the only way. And the very system that we have created, in direct conflict with our Mother Earth, will destroy us. It already is.
There are people starving. Everywhere.

I can feel it. I can feel the starvation of the children who knocked on my door in El Salvador and asked me for lunch. I am starving with them.

You are, too. Starving. And you try to fill that void with stuff that the system has told you will make you feel better.

Mother Nature will not tell you anything. She will just be there. Waiting for you.

Waiting for you to feel. 

And when you get there. And sit down in her pool of water. You will know, too, that the system we have created is not working. And for a moment, your starvation will go away.

Because Mother Nature feeds you. 

And you will think, in that instant, that everything is okay.

Before you get back on the pickup truck. And go back into the city. And remember the bump on the back of your head. And that you do not have health insurance. And that you do not have papers to be a citizen. And that you do not have much money to survive in this reality we have created.

And again, you can feel your starvation come back. 

You chose this, Jaime.

The water is wrapping around me and the palms of my hands rest on my naked thighs. God, this world is good. This one here. This real one. The one you can feel. It's so fucking good. This is where I come from. And I must know that. I open my eyes and I take it all in. This vast, abundant goodness of my home. The real one. 

In the back of the pickup truck the baby is in my arms and we are bouncing. I am laughing a lot.

for now.

I don't want her to get hurt. I cradle her. I take the bruises on my bum readily, because I just don't want her to get hurt. She is precious and pure love and she is in my arms. We are natural beings who want to give. Mother Nature leads us to be this way.

And then, we pull into the city. And I pass the baby over to her Mom and there are cars all around the and the bump on the back of my head hurts and I have work to do so that I can pay to stay here and my Grandpa neighbor wants me to go have tamales with him and I think to myself that I don't have time because I have to do work. And this is the reality. No time for my neighbors. I feel myself starving again. 

Just a moment ago, Mother Nature was cradling me with her waters and I was satiated and happy and free.

Just a moment ago, I was cradling a baby in my arms and I was comforted by knowing I could provide for her, for now.

We pull into the city and we separate to head to different sized houses. 

You chose this, Jaime. 

The baby is in her Mother's arms 

and 

she squints at me with curious eyes. 

What is Consciousness?

...and what is Christmas? 

Consciousness: the quality or state of being aware, especially of something within oneself. (merriam-webster) 

Consciousness is a very tricky thing in the modern world. Let's consider our daily lives: We wake up in the morning and we reach for our phone. We have a list of emails telling us who we must respond to today. We have messages asking for favours. We have news feeds showing us what the world looks like outside today. 

Then we shower. We go into our rooms and picket a set of clothes that fits a certain set of standards: the clothes must fit us, they must shelter us, and they must be culturally appropriate. 

Perhaps the TV or Radio are on. Perhaps there are lyrics to songs telling you how to feel about yourself today. Perhaps the news is talking about world disasters. Perhaps there are advertisements showing you what you need to buy today to "stay healthy" or "fit" or "cool".

Then you go downstairs and your husband or mother tells you what they expect of you today.

Outside on the streets you see so many images plastered on billboards and roadsides that you think you are immune to them. You don't even notice. However, they enter your consciousness. They are captured by little neurones in your brain that start to crave the colors, the clothes, the body type, the glamorization of success.

And all this stuff is happening all around you, permeating your brain...your mind...
And you don't even realise it.

But how do you turn it off? 

If you are so used to it playing on all around you every single day, you become numb to it. 

And did you ever stop to think what it is that YOU want?

What if all the distractions were gone?
What if you were alone? 
You didn't have a phone or a family or a society to respond to.

What would you need to live the life that you want? 

This is where your consciousness comes into play. You get in tune with what it is that ticks your soul. And when you connect with it- it propels you forward. Because the Gods and the Sun and Mother Earth have your back. Because they know that when you live from this place, you are not only taking care of yourself, but you are taking care of everyone around you, including our Earth.

And so, in the spirit of, Christmas...

The Christmas that is about 

Celebration
Sharing 
Joy 
Love
and 
Gratitude 

I'm bring Consciousness back. 

What does a Conscious Christmas look like?

A Conscious Christmas is anything that encourages your greatest good to see the greatest good of another. It is sitting there and thinking, what would really make my Mother happy. It is being present for one another.

Some Conscious Christmas Ideas:

• Create!
• Make stuff. Write a letter. Draw. Paint. Collect stuff from the natural world and explain it's meaning to your gift recipient.
• Experience
• Offer a trip. A walk. A picnic. A movie to your partner. Create a time and place where you can just be together and get to know one another. Explain to your recipient why you want to do this. 
• Reduce spending
• consuming products does not often bring lasting happiness. It contributes to a world of waste, anxiety and artificialness 
• Before you buy, ask yourself, is this really necessary? What happens to this product when I have no need for it anymore?
• Listen
• Ask your gift recipient how you can be a better presence in their life. Ask them what it is that they need from you to be a more loving daughter, friend, or spouse. 

I have requested that my family members exchange no purchased gifts this year. Instead, we are just going to have dinner together and spend time with one another. Without and electronics or expectations. 

And because I do so love gift-giving every now and then, we are, instead, going to exchange 1 gift to one another on New Years Day. Something meaningful and thoughtful that will help propel us into a grateful and nourishing 2015.

Conscious Christmas is not just a day- it's a movement. It is setting a new pattern. It is clearing our minds of the advertisements, marketing, news and honestly, the BS. All that stuff that tells us how we are "supposed" to live. It is picking December 25th to get in touch with your own story... 

What do you need to be happy?

When all the clothes and products and gadgets disappear, who will be there for you?

When your health is compromised, who do you want at you bedside?

When you want to dance, who will you call?

We are social beings. We are not consumers. 

We are fulfilled by sharing.

Not by taking.

Let us come back to Consciousness.

Let us come back to Christmas.

No Presents, Just Presence

"Jaime, I don't like this time of year".

She talks to me with pain in her eyes. So much pain that I don't know what to say or where to look except deeply into her eyes.

"They all start playing the music and that music reminds me of my childhood home and it is hard for me to remember that. We didn't have much. A dirt floor and shaky walls. My father drank away most of the household income. That was until the first old man offered him money for me. That was when it all started and I was only 9 years old. I didn't understand. I didn't understand even when I had the first baby."

It was a long day at her house that day. I spent most of it in silence: listening, absorbing, walking in her tattered shoes. Feeling what she felt. What she was still feeling. After all these years.

In my mind, Christmas is different. Christmas is snow and jingle bells. Pine trees and cookies in the oven. Christmas is my grandma's salami pie and my Mom decorating the house. Christmas is my Dad giving us sleigh rides and my sisters pulling socks out of our stockings.

In my mind, Christmas is carling and happy Christmas music.

It is also TV commercials and advertisements. Envy and jealous. Greed and selfishness.

And here I am, listening to her story of child prostitution, and I wonder how I could possibly relate.

I am going back this year, to New York and I know what it is going to look like. I know what it will look like on the streets on the tv screen sand on the train platforms.

I am a bit frightful, not because I do not like New York, just because my reality has changed and the culture shock never gets easier. For example, as I am writing this there is a herd of horses walking past my window and a gecko walking across my wall. Its just...different...

And the beauty of the contrast, the shock, is that I waken up a bit more to what it is that I am. You see, as creatures of habit, we fall into a rhythm and whether it is good for us or not, we keep going because we have become comfortable with it.

Just as babies, we learned to repeat what our parents said until it became a habit.
Then we grew older and learned how to get dressed and kept doing it the same way because it became a pattern.

And now, we see a world that has formed a habit of consuming. We have inflated our bellies and even more so our minds. Our egos are on the verge of exploding, and often they do, right in front of our very eyes. You can see it in our police officers, lonely adolescents and military men and women. You can see it in our children, our school teachers, even our Catholic Fathers. You can see it everywhere- the obesity of our mind: wanting more and more, never being satisfied, still not good enough, still not happy, still self-doubting, still fearful of difference- we must fill this space so we continue to consume:

the false food
the false advertisements
the bullshit

anything that seems like a quick fix to this hole that we are feeling
in our egos.

And I have nothing against gift-giving
I LOVE it actually
It's just that I don't always see the connection between the giving and the receiving.

The product has become the end goal
Instead of the relationship

And so, I see us continuing to consume, just to fill our egos and grow our bellies, instead of to satiate.
Instead of to fulfill.

Because I think that what was missing from my friend's family, from her father's life, was love and meaning in his life.
And I think I see this a lot in the world in New York, as well.

So what is missing is not presents,
just
presence. 

With anything I give or do this Christmas, I want it to be about presence. I want to put in thought and love and care in all the moments or experiences I share with my Mother and with my Father.

I lost a friend recently, right before I planned to tell him how much I appreciated having him in my life. I used to joke around with him a lot, pick on him. And I wanted to make sure he knew that all the joking was just joking and I really loved having him in Ciudad Colon, because he made this town feel like home to me; a nomad who lives geographically separate from many of the people who give me life. And then, in an instant, he was gone.

And I feel again, the importance of presence.

Truly being there with one other. Sitting there and seeing each other's souls with our eyes.
Being there for ourselves, so that we understand our beauty and also our own shadow. So that we know that we all go through voids and you cannot fill that space with alcohol or cupcakes or an iPad or self-loath. Those things will not make the void go away.

Only presence can do this.
Learning to be there for ourselves and be there for one another.

We are social beings.
We need each other.

The reality of the world we have created today is not conducive to our natural lifestyle. We have invented so many distractions that we often lose sight of our connectedness.

For this reason, I hope to set a new tradition with my family:

Of giving presence
instead of presents.

So that we have just another day to celebrate being with one another. Appreciating one another.

And as I prepare for this upcoming conscious Christmas, I find myself living each day a little more consciously. I find myself thinking about the things that might make my sister Christina happy. I have started wondering what it is that really makes my father smile. I have started paying closer attention to the things my mother says, so that I can create something that will really light up her soul.

Because these things matter to me.
And I am sure that as I pack my backpack up again to leave New York and head back to Costa Rica, I won't need space for some items that will eventually break or lose value or get stolen.

Because I'll have all the memories within me.

You see...

This conscious Christmas means a lot to me for a lot of reasons. I spent 1 Christmas in a very underserved community in El Salvador in 2011. And by underserved, I mean to say that the commuting is not as acknoweldged as other communities in the world are. And what I mean by this is that the government does not give much assistance to the people there. There is not much concern for creating equal opportunity or access to natural resources: such as water and food. It is okay in that community to beat women. It is okay to starve children. It is okay to educate some over others.

As much as we do not see it on a daily basis, we are all a part of this problem. The uncontrolled consumerism of the world has created a terrible unequal distribution of wealth. The economic system that we have become slaves to creates unfair competition- mostly in parts of the world where the people have the least amount of opportunity. For example, my farmer friends in El Salvador buy chips and soda for lunch because it is cheaper than the important grains- US industrialized farms can produce these grains at a much cheaper cost. So guess what? The farmers get fucked. If you have grown up on a rural farm with no infrastructure and no access to mainstream education, you spend most of your days learning how to farm- because that is your only option. And then, when the cost of living exceeds your daily pay- you are forced to move. I don't know, if your family was starving, would you stay on the farm in El Salvador or would you go to the place that has been glorified for the land of opportunities?

Anyways, without seeing all of this first hand, without talking to the people and walking in their shoes, we are all going to continue living the same way we live today. Because we are creatures of habit and we are not interested in putting in the effort or discomfort to change.
So those who are born oppressed and marginalised, will continue to get fucked.

If there is any day that we can decide, *choose* to be more present, to the reality of the world, then let it be on Christmas.

A Conscious Christmas is not about becoming depressed about the reality of the world we have created and actively participate in on a daily basis, it is about taking a break for a minute and acknowledging the present moment. It is about saying, "I don't need any more stuff this year. I need to learn how to love my mother a little bit more or forgive my sister."

It's not just about giving up the stuff
It's about creating experiences
Thinking about all the opportunities that arise when you can just be present with one another.
And I think this will have more power than we can even begin to believe.

Trapped Awake, Ready to Die

I'm trapped between two worlds.

I am awake in love and gratitude.
Ready to fight: with love.
Willing to die awake.

I am trapped awake.

This morning, I pull the curtains open and there is a family of birds dancing and signing in a blue sky that begs me lovingly to smile.

My friend is out there working with his shirt off, trimming the medicinal tree in our garden, and with each trim seeps out the smell of heaven. He waves to me. My friend's skin is painted in fierce tattoo that is the sacred markings of a story sewed with pain and commitment that I, too, can feel, in a different stitching.

This morning, I receive a message from the man who adopted my dog and he asks if he can bring her to come visit me today.

There is a joy that makes my heart beat and eyes twinkle and soul feel full and grateful for this world.

And there is also something eating at my stomach. 

There is a story of a man who was strangled to death. He is physically quieted by an arm around his throat.
He is asking for help.
He is saying out loud
I cannot breath.

And they are literally
suffocating him.

Who taught us not to listen?

In school they tell us to pay attention. They tell us to go home and read the newspapers. They tell us to vote. We look up to people of authority because it is what we are taught as children. Respect your parents. Respect your teachers. Respect the police.

Who is telling them to respect US? 

Could it be, that it has been so ingrained in our minds to respect something out there, that we have forgotten to respect what is in here?

There is value in learning to respect our elders.
There is value is knowing how to pick up a newspaper and understand what is going on in the world.
There is value in our educational system.

THERE IS MORE VALUE in understanding YOUR OWN VALUE and your own
INNER INTELLIGENCE.

Everyone delivering you information is subject to bias. Based on what they have been told. Based on experiences in their own lives.

Therefore, you must respect, read, learn - And remember that you are also a wise and worthy being. Wise enough to think on your own, worthy enough of love. And you must always remember to think for yourself- the type of thinking that involves both your heart and your brain.

I am not sure, anymore, how often we are taught this.   encouraged to explore this.

Are our parents, teachers, educators, our uniformed-community-members of "high-standing" and authority....are they helping us?

As children of the world, eternally growing
To awaken. To find our inner knowledge and wisdom and let it come out and grow
And expand

Not just in mathematics and science and technology....That, too, yes, of course...
I want to know..

Are our guiding symbols of love and light and wisdom in the world
Are those parents and educators and uniformed men and women
Are they also showing us the immense capability we have inside of us
To love?

Are they actually creating spaces for us to be more active members of a society that serves our greatest good? As we read the news, it is our right and responsibility as equally intelligent heart-bearing children of the Earth to ask this question.

I do not have anything against people.
And if they treat their positions with the utmost respect, for they, like all of us, are here to serve each other, to serve humanity-
And if they can remember this, no matter what title or last name or paycheck or collar they wear-

If they can remember that their purpose here on this planet
Is to serve LIFE
To serve all living beings
Because we need each other

Then I have nothing against them
As people
inside of a position. In fact, I am grateful for them.

And if you have "become" the Position of authority
Forgetting, in fact, that you are merely just a human
And if you have "become" a position where you have taken on a power stance
that has led you to believe that you are above

Then I will watch you step down. I will strip you of your uniform with my eyes. And see you again as a human.

And if you are one of the ones who want to now, take those down from the power, physically-
I, then, have to ask:

Doesn't that mean that we are admitting that they have some power above us?

Wouldn't it be better if we displayed ourselves in all our power and glory
Wouldn't it be better if we united
Yes, us human beings of all shapes and colors and sizes
What if we joined our forces together?
Not against them, no. Because that would be acknowledging that they do have power above us. That they are separate.
And they don't. They aren't.
They are just abusing a position. Or they are lost or confused. Or trapped, asleep.


There is a family of birds dancing and singing before a beautiful sky today, begging me to smile.
And my heart hurts. And honestly, its a bit fucking angry.

I am trapped between two worlds.

One that everyone thinks is reality. a fake system that we are fighting. and I, naively, often join the fight. forgetting that as I continue to fight I am keeping the system alive.

The other world
are the birds singing and dancing
Actually, we are this world, we are just wrapped up in the story
And most people will call you a hippie if you tell them this is reality
That this is what is real. the fucking birds.

Remembering how to interact with one another. Share with one another. Create with one another.
Let go.
Forgive.
Fly together.

Fucking survival.
Fucking waking up and not knowing if you will get the worm.
And still fucking joining together at the end of the day
To fly together.
Still fucking dancing.

We are

a tribe of lions
a family of birds
a pack of wolves

Supposedly, now, elevated with a conscience...
Where the fuck did we put it?

We need each other.
We don't need the lion tamer.

The tamer is an illusion that keeps us in this cage.

And if we can come together...

Raise our voices, now that they have taught us to educate, read the news, and "vote"
Now, let's really scare them...

Let us become quiet again. Not silent. Just quiet.
Let's scare the shit out of those ones who depend on us to fight.
And let's be quiet.

Let us vote with our actions. Let us let our education carry ourselves forward, not because they are dangling green-paper meat in front of us, but because we want something more. together. not climbing on top of each other...walking together...

Let us show them how much we will stand by each other's side.
So strong, so bonded, that we don't need the lion tamer. We will walk, as a pack, wherever the hell we want to go. And we will say, to our beaten black brother, come with us. And we will say, to our collared white man with a gun, "you have a weapon, and we just have our 2 hands. And if that scares you, to know the power of our own being without a cold weapon, then shoot us. But if you want to know true power too, then put your gun down and walk with us".

I am trapped between 2 worlds.
Because I am still young on this journey. And I don't want to die. And I don't want to live asleep.
And the world is a scary place and I don't want to be afraid. And I don't have the answers, yet I have committed to being part of the solution. I am not willing to believe, anymore, in a system that does not serve me.
And I also do not want to fight it, because it takes my energy and gives me nothing in return.
Loving people, though, animal packs and flocks of birds- they carry me forward. Even thought I am still learning to dance. I find myself moving more freely everyday.

I have over 23 years of reading a story that was sold to me about a reality that I thought I had to accept. And then one day, in the face of starvation, I realized that: it was all just a story. And: i don't have to accept it.

There is another world, where birds are singing and dancing.

I read a "story" once, about a tribe of people, that once, too danced (like the birds). At Wounded Knee. In South Dakota. In the UNITED(?) States....

And you know what?
For those who think that believing in this real world of trees and birds and love
You think that is hippie shit?

Well, dancing scares the living day light out of people who hide behind uniforms and don't know how to take them off...
Those who don't know how to strip themselves down to what makes us vulnerable

So, once we are quiet and united and awake
Let us dance freely beneath the moon
As is our right
And our responsibility to be joy on this Earth

And if they come again, to Wounded Knee, to take what is rightfully ours
They will find too many of us now
To silence

And if they open fire upon us with their cold artillery
Then we will all perish
Us with Them

Us, first, in dignity
Them, next, in true suffering
Together, at last
As one human-kind
Because they will realise

That they have murdered

The farmers
The caretakers
The mothers
The painters
The musicians
The artists
The lovers

The creators of life.

In Memory of Alex

Yesterday, I lost a friend.

"An old friend from New York? A classmate at the University in Costa Rica?"

My friends and family hear my pain and they ask me these questions.

"No." I respond. "He was a taxi driver."

There is a silence at the other end.
I don't know what it means.

I want to express all that he meant to me. I want to explain how when I got into his car it was impossible to leave without a smile on my face. I want to convey the feeling of "i don't give a f*ck" that one felt when you sat beside him. Not in the way that you are careless and ignorant. Not that kind of not giving a f*ck. The kind that you just fully accept who you are and are not afraid to be it.

I want to tell all of the stories and memories I have with him.

I want to say that he reminded me of Grandma. I kinda want to say that sometimes, I could feel her in him.

And then I think that my friends and family would think I am crazy if I said this stuff.
"You just knew him for 1.5 years. He was a taxi driver." That's the voice in my head talking. Those are old stories and its an old voice. And then it starts to tell me to justify. It starts telling me I need to justify why I am so sad after losing a taxi driver that I just knew for 1.5 years. And I almost listen to it.

But I stay quiet, instead. Because I have become familiar with that voice. The voice that talks in my head that is not my truth.

It's not the little voice who speaks to me softly. And knowingly. The little soft voice that speaks to me in vibrating blood cells beneath my skin or goosebumps on my arms or a fluttering in my heart.
I know this little voice better now, too.

The little voice is just humming along. I trust her.
I am learning to become quieter so that I can heart her.

I can hear her now and she is just humming along.

Probably to the sound of Alex's music blasting from his car as he honks his horn incessantly driving up towards my house.

The little voice tells me that it is okay to love. Anyone and anything.
The little voice tells me not to be afraid.

The thing is, I don't express much of it to anyone. Because it cannot be expressed.
It can only be felt.

To Alex. <3 2014="" 30="" nov="" td="">

And I could feel it with Alex. Something connected me with him on a deep level. Something liberated me when I was with him. I would get this feeling every time I sat in the front seat of his car and he would pick on me.

He told me I was in the book he was writing about the UPEACE students. You know, what happens when they are not on campus.

He told me that I was "brava". Because I told him what I thought, right back at him. 

...And maybe because 1 time I had a few too many cervezas and he gave me a ride home...

His voice was raspy and he talked so fast that I could only catch bits and pieces of what he was telling me and I would say, "Como como como?" "Como Alex??" Smiling. 

On Sunday, he said to me, "Heyyy. Where do you think you're going so pretty?"

He asked to take a photo of me.

I refused. I told him I know that he would put it on Facebook. Vacilando. 

I learned a lot from you, Alex. You don't even know.

And I wanted to tell you. 

You told me to "take care" last time I got out of your car. It always ended this way. We would joke around the whole car ride. Pick on each other. I'd tell you that you charge too much. You'd try to convince me to let you drive me all the way to San Jose. I always got out at the bus stop. And you'd say "ok take care now." 

That was the last time you spoke to me on Sunday. I saw you though, almost everyday this week. One time, I was in the car with another guy and you peered into the window checking on me to see who it was. The next day, you were on your corner and I was out running and you yelled something at me as you always did. I looked at you and smiled. My headphones were in and I kept running. 

I liked your energy, Alex. 

When people ask who it was, that passed away in the accident, they say it was you. We explain who you were by saying that you were the taxi driver in the black car.

You were so much more, though, Alex. Thank you for sharing all that you were with me. Thank you for not being afraid. Thank you for being you. Honest and ruthless with your love. 

Thank you for being You.

I know that you came into my life for a reason. 

It still does not all make sense yet.

I have faith, though, that it will. 

And I promise you that I will take with me all that I learned from being in your presence.

And if you're up there with Grams, give her a dance.

And laugh with her.

She'd like that. 

We all would. 

------

Dare to be vulnerable.
Dare to trust.
Dare to feel free.

In memory of Alex.

And in honour of all the people I forget to express my love to, because I am still learning to quiet the voices in my head. 

Feeling grateful for all the people coming together during this time.
Offering love and support in so many ways.
Being there for one another.
Being present.

When Walking, Walk

When Walking, Walk

I pull the door closed, turn the key and walk out onto the dirt road. At the sound of the gate closing, the cow turns his head and look ups me, chewing rather impolitely with a mouth spilling over with grass. I'd probably be offended, if I could not completely relate.

I look down, watching where my feet are going. It's a rocky road and if you don't look, you could twist an ankle. Either that or step in dog, or cow, poo. It's up to you really, if you want to watch where you are going.

It's a very interesting experiment: to walk, while you are walking.

No phone in hand. No earphones in ears. No wingman. Nothing to come between you and the natural world. The everyday world. Nothing to protect you from the catcalls and "buenos dias" of strangers. You actually have to be there, present for it all.

Just you and your feet, You and your eyes and the world before you. Existing.

An ant carries a flower on his back; his ant army waits to receive him on the other end, the vigilantes scrambling in lopsided circles around him, protecting him from insect enemies.

There's the voice of a mother, hidden somewhere behind the walls, calling to her child. You see him sitting outside, his chubby legs and folded skin. He keeps playing with his toy car. The voices of his mother still calling for him. Each in their own world.

Life before you happening in places that you did not even realise. A life and world, present to other people and things that you hardly notice.

You start to see things that you might have missed.
When you become an observer of life, you begin to feel what it is to be alive.

A rock with a paw print pressed into it. The neighbour looking at you from the window.
Kinda creepy. 

And even with your phone turned off and your eyes tuned in, you start to forget that: when walking, Walk.

And you start to think instead. You worry that you will not catch the bus and you start to imagine what your colleagues will say if you get there late. Your heart starts to race. You begin to regret what you ate for breakfast and you feel a little upset with yourself. You start to think about what you need to accomplish this evening when you get home from work...all the dishes you need to clean, and the paperwork you have to turn in.

And in worrying about what happened this morning and projecting what will happened in the future you have become a prisoner to both the past and the future and are blind to the present moment. And you are likely to step in some poo, for that is how the world works. It places the poo there for you to step in because it wants you to wake up.

And before you know it, you were so busy thinking, that you walked past a thousand other people and insects and plants and clouds that were properly creating life in the most authentic way around you, and you missed it all.

And, what if you noticed?

What if you were present for the moment the cloud crossed in front of the sun, allowing you the moment to wipe your brow?

What if you were there to see the voice of the mother, emerge from behind the walls, and pick up her chubby baby and kiss his forehead tenderly?

What if you saw the patience and beauty of the flower, as she opens her petals fearlessly, giving the bees her pollen and receiving their tiny touch? What if you could learn in just one instant, the liberation of vulnerability?

What if you could see the face of the man who walked home again to his family, cramped in a 1 bedroom house, because he wasn't worthy enough of a service he was more than qualified to provide, because he is stereotyped as an immigrant?

What if we all could see this?

What if when walking, we all walked? Practicing being present in the moment that we are in.

What if we could turn off the stories that play in our minds, over and over, time and again,

all
day
long?

What if we could turn them off? And just listen and see things as they are happening right before us?

You know, kind of be with people.
Without deciding who they are or what they are really saying. What if we could just be with them and feel what it is like to be there?

What if we could be grateful for the clouds that give us shade, instead of constantly cursing the world for it's darkness?

My phone rings and instinctually I reach in my bag and answer it.
It is something about work. I have to answer.
That's my story.

And so
with all the phone ringing, and music, work stuff and home stuff, thoughts and stories...well...
life...it sometimes gets in the way

of living. 

It's hard for me.
And I used to be a bit of a perfectionist, so I'd beat myself up a bit.
I meditate. I do yoga. I read sacred texts. Why?!

Why am I still thinking when I am supposed to be walking!?

And so there's a balance we need to be aware of. Being aware is the first step.

Just as waking up is the first thing we must do in the morning, we also must do that in life.
On a daily basis.

Excuse my language but

Wake-the-f*ck-Up.

If you go too long, telling yourself the same story, living the same routine with the same thoughts in your head as you walk the same way,

You just might miss out on all the life that is happening around you.
And when you start to notice it
When you are ready
You just might find that you like living a little bit more.

There is a Ferguson in Costa Rica

We find ourselves again today, broken.
Divided.
Fearing one another.
We are placing people in boxes and categories
Forming pre-conceived notions of who they are and what they do
Because of our self-imposed social rank in society.
We are treating one another different, because of our job titles, our last name, how much money is in our bank account, and

because of the color of our skin. 

I have to remind myself again today
that we are not police officers
we are not unarmed black men
we are not even, spiritual leaders.

We are human beings.

And our actions are inexcusable.

We have begun again to let the stories run our lives. Who they are and the type of things they do.

I am in Costa Rica. And I find myself, too, giving up my power, my rights, my compassion, because I let myself think that someone deserves more than me because of how they are ranked in society.
And I must take responsibility for this thought.

What has happened in Ferguson is happening everywhere. We live in a world where we still have discrimination, racism and widespread injustice. We still see things in terms of hierarchies and power struggles. And, if you can see how the root cause of what happened in Ferguson are the same roots that cause your own internal pain, and the same roots that cause suicides, and rape and even pesticide-induced-illness, you will see how we are all involved and can all be activists.

We find ourselves, our human race, still rooted in the misconception of "separation" and that is what is breeding injustice.

There is a problem with stereotypes for the conditioned mind that accepts everything that is conveyed to them as the whole truth. Stereotypes can and often hold true. However, they seldom tell the whole story.
They seldom acknowledge the fact that deep beneath the stereotype is

just another human being
longing for something different.
A way to climb out of their stereotype
or story
and live a life that makes them feel more free.

just like you
and me.

just like we all want to feel more free.

What happens to you, person reading this, when you don't feel free? Do you lash out at other people? Do you resent those who have made you feel trapped? Do you search for those who make you feel free and shun those who don't?

Maybe you don't want to be classified with the corrupt corporate greedy men.
Maybe you don't want to be brushed off as a tree-hugger.
Maybe you don't want to be feared for the color of your skin

But you just. don't. know. how to climb out of the box

Because we are trained in our schools, in our advertisements, and in our systems of governments and economies to stay inside our box. You are black. You are white. You are an immigrant. You are a high-class man. You are fancy. You are poor. By staying separated in these boxes, the systems keep us divided. They keep us fearing the 'other'. If you are poor, you fear the fancy. This way, we give up some of our power. This way, those who have led us to believe that they are 'above' can keep us under control. Do you get that? There are no boxes!! We invented them, and then quite willingly, climbed inside! Because somehow, it makes us feel safer. Even though if you wake up...

And you see the school shootings. The suicides. The heart disease. The rapes. The murders. The violence. The depression. The sadness. Right inside "the land of the free." the "UNITED" States of America.

You might just see, that our institutions, as they were created, no longer (if ever) serve us as united human beings.

This part, is now up to us, as collective citizens. We must climb out of the boxes that have been created to control us, and realise that we are capable of controlling ourselves.

And this starts with each and everyone of us.
If we want it, that is.
If we want a world that is better for all of us. We must then, learn and commit to being with one another.

I don't know if this will create a perfect human race. I don't know if a perfect human race is possible. I don't know if we can completely eradicate poverty and disease. Disease in both the physical and mental form.

I do know that we are capable of something more than we are living right now.

And so I ask you, And I ask myself:

Are you really listening?
Looking her in the eyes as she speaks
as a human being
and hearing what it is that she really wants?
Feeling who it is that she really is?

It starts with you. You need to be there with yourself.

Can you sit with yourself, alone, and be at peace with who you are?

And if you can't

Because you, too, have betrayed your wife. Forgotten to love your children. Or were frustrated with the man who couldn't speak your language, so you dismissed him as an "immigrant" and not
Another human being.

Then maybe we can start to see how what has happened in Ferguson 

Has not happened in Ferguson. It has happened everywhere.
It is happening everywhere.

It is happening inside of each and everyone of us.

So, as you read the news, to stay informed
As you share opinions with friends
As you get angry and passionate, frustrated and sad

Please, too, come back to yourself. The only person you really have control over.
And hold yourself accountable
Just as we want to hold the police officers accountable
And we will
Together
Find accountability.

We just need to start with ourselves first. Because that is the way we have the most power.
And we need all of you. To make this change.
To show that we don't stand for injustice
Because it affects all of us.

So, please, do, stay informed
Please do, engage in conversations about why this stuff hurts you
Why you are angry

But before you project the anger onto someone else

Naively believing that if you feel the anger towards the officers, you will change something...

Stop.
And please do, ask yourself
Why this makes you angry. Where is the anger coming? 

And if you sit there long enough with your anger
Perhaps you will begin to get sad.
Because you realise that your anger comes

Because you want more love. 

Because you are sad for the boy who has lost his life. You are sad for his family. You are sad for his community.
You are even sad, too, because you can relate. Because you know what it feels like to be betrayed by the people who you were told were here to protect you. To care for you.

So, yes, we have the right to be angry.
Yes, I am angry.
Everyday, actually.

Now, I must take that anger and harness all of its passion and power and channel it through love. I must love a little bit more so that there is less space for injustice. Because I won't stand for it. I won't let them tell me that I must treat them differently because of the color of their skin or their last name or their uniform.

If they are in front of me, I will sit there with them. I will take off the hood through the lens I wear of stereotypes the world has sold me, and I will look into their eyes. And listen. And if they are hurting, I will ask them why? And if they are happy, I will see if I can feel their happiness.

And if they are in front of me, with their fancy collars and stern demeanour, covering up years of anger and unasked questions. I will look past it all. And I will look into their eyes. And I will ask them, "What are you afraid of? What happened to you when you were a child that made you think this way?"

And if they are in front of me, with their white skin, or dark skin, US passport, or unstamped document, I will let it all fall away, and I will look them in the eyes and I will ask them, "What is it that you need to be able to love your family?"

And if I am in front of me, looking at myself with my white skin, I will ask myself, "What do you need to be able to love yourself? So that you stop hurting others?"

How you can hold yourself more accountable
For living a life deeply grounded in the values you want our police officers to show?

Because I am not perfect.
I am, however, capable of waking up.
And I am responsible only for my own life and the way I live it.

It is not our place to judge. It is not our place to blame.
It is our place to be accountable

And we can join hands and stand up for
not against
*for*
The world and the USA and the people that we believe in
Stand up for what we want it to look like,

not the USA that claims something that it does not show.
We will not live outside of integrity
If our country is to boast it's values, then we will show what that looks like,
not in name, not in theory
In action. 

And we can be angry
And we will hold all those accountable, who do not hold themselves accountable
But first, we must show that we hold ourselves accountable
For our own stories

That is the only way we can join hands together. All those who have awakened. And all those who want to wake up, they just have been too broken by fears and worries and stereotypes, to ask for our help. For our companionships.

And especially those, who are not yet ready to wake up, to look injustice in the face and accept that we are the cause of it. We, still, must have that much love, that much grace and power, to keep our hands open and ready to accept them when they come.

Where Do The Old People Go?

I have this obsession with old people.

I totally glorify them.

Maybe it has to do with the fact that my Grandma was super cool. Bad ass. Crazy. Loving. Sweet. Brilliant. Compassionate. Honest. Too honest. Gentle.  Blunt and ruthless. Hysterical. And perfect.

And I want to be like her.

I just love them, old people.

I see them as unlocked treasure chests of jewels...much like the ones buried beneath oceans in pirate movies. I just don't quite understand why more people today aren't searching for them. Old people, that is.

At least in my culture, the tendency is to put them away. Keep them away. We don't have time anymore to take care of them. We don't have patience anymore to help them. We don't have wisdom anymore to learn from them. Why is that? Is it our culture? Is it our economy that doesn't give us the time? Is it our natural human behaviour- have we evolved and developed into this?

I don't have any grandparents anymore. Not ones by blood.
I didn't get the chance to know my father's father or my mother's mother.
I dream about them, though.
And I totally glorify them.

My mother's mother is brilliant and funny and plays tricks with me as we sit on sidewalk stoops in Queens. I'm just a kid and I believe every single thing she tells me and she laughs at my innocence in a kind way.

My father's father is patient. He gives me a pencil and a paper and lets me work at my own pace and style. He just watches. I feel safe and accepted and I remember this feeling. It helps me to create.

I don't have any grandparents, by blood, anymore. So I borrow other people's. Usually, without asking for permission. However, I always return them.

We're talking about old people, people! Don't you get it? They have lived a life much longer than ours. They have made more mistakes. Experienced more adventures, or were too afraid too. They know the lifestyle of our ancestors and the way things were before we invented things that made us forget to ask them. Don't you get it? Everything we need to know, they already do!
And we're losing it.

And they're old! And carefree. They don't have to worry anymore about what people think of them. Kinda like how we started as kids. When did that change? Wouldn't it be nice to live that way again? Care-Free. Not careless. Care-free. Worrying keeps us from being here today, and doesn't change what tomorrow will look like. Don't you want to feel free again? Like when we ran around the playground as kids.

Last week I spent five hours with my neighbours. My Costa Rican grandparents.

Grandma was teaching me how to make tamales. I was fascinated by the wrinkles in her face and I longed to know the stories that formed each one of her perfectly constructed lines. I discovered a few,  as she laughed tying the tamales with 2 of her daughters. I learned through the wrinkles that her family was her joy. I ask myself, what is my joy? Have I connected with it today?

Grandpa was siting on a chair nearby, shirtless. His belly was a sign that he loved sharing food and his eyes lit up when he talked about Christmas. Dec 8 and Dec 24 were always two of his favourite days, and the whole month, in general, makes up some of his happiest days. His mother used to always make him tamales on Dec 8 and 24, and somedays in between, and all the family would get together and share.

He invited me to sit with him and share some coffee.

He tells me how he has been married for over 60 years. "Mi amor," he calls to Grandma. Always, mi amor. He tells me how he loves to dance. And play soccer. He tells me how he got sick and how Grandma, too, got sick and how some things changed. But still, "mi amor".

{The treasure chest is beginning to open and I am in the land of the pirates}

He tells me the history of this community, when it was just 4 houses with unlocked doors.
Now, every house has a fence.

"Orgullo," {pride} has changed everything.

"Not in my house." He tells me. His face becomes stern and ruthless, like that of my Grandmas, and in that instant I love him.

He does not believe in pride. He gets on the bus and he glances over his shoulder, scoping out the woman next to him. He re-enacts this glance for me and I cannot help but smile in sweet admiration and quiet obsession with his uninhibited realness. His total surrender to the moment.

"You can't talk to people anymore," he tells me. "Not if they have a car and you don't. Not if they have a fancy job and you don't."

I get on the bus and I scope out the woman next to me. I see if she's gonna talk. And I ask her where she is going. I learn about her life a little bit. People are interesting, you know? We find something in common. And we laugh a bit. And before she gets off I invite her to come by the house and eat sometime. Better to come around Christmas, that's when the tamales are best.

Grandpa likes to share.
And I like that.

{So much not-sharing these days. Do you notice that?
I remember learning to share in kindergarten; I do. I remember being excited. I was like, "Wow, if I give that kid my play-dough he will smile!" And it worked! And I loved that.

Not so much today. My clothes. My seat on the train. My career advancement. My kid's test scores.
I, too, suffer from a case of the My's.
Everything is competition.
Climbing on top of one another.
Proving how we are better.

To who?

For what?}

Grandpa reminds me of the things I like to remember.

And just as the conversation has gotten historical and a bit heavy. Sentimental and a bit nostalgic. Ruthless and a bit blunt...

He offers me a shot of Rum.

And I accept. Because who wouldn't have a shot of run with a shirtless old-guy at 11am on a Thursday while making tamales?

And If I died in that moment, I could say I died alive.

I want to experience life. I want to be there for these moments. I want to know everyday that I am awake and living.
I have seen too much numbness in my life.
I have lived too many days asleep.

I believe this is what life is really about and everything else that we have created that doesn't allow us to have moments like these is a false reality that we, as humanity, have all begun to follow and accept as the truth.

These moments, sharing stories and food and connecting with people so much older and more wrinkley, wise and carefree, these are moments worth living. At least for me.

Because in that moment I was given my whole life back. I mean, don't know where it went. I just know that sometimes when I'm writing the papers or figuring out how to pay my school debt, I lose it. I lose myself and I lose my life a bit because I forget what it means to be alive.

And in that moment with Grandpa and Grandma making tamales, I remember.

I remember that there is always time for each other. I remember that I want to love my children just like Grandpa and Grandma do. I remember that I want to have a community where we don't need fences to keep others out and keep ourselves in. I remember that I want to make my food with my hands and love the experience of it.

Listening to Grandpa talk open and honestly about his relationship with Grandma, makes me remember that honesty is pure and liberating. Watching him sit there with his belly out and eating with his hand reminds me that being real is beautiful. Not caring what others think is so refreshing.

Sharing a shot at lunch with Grandpa reminds me not to take life so seriously. To be carefree.
Because it helps you to love a little bit more.
Smile a bit more.
Share a bit more.

And we need more of that in this world, don't you think?

Grandma is tying the tamales diligently. Her daughters are picking on each other and laughing. Grandma's granddaughter has my camera and is documenting it all. And they let me be a part of it. And I am so very grateful.

I am making tamales on a Thursday afternoon. I am supposed to be working.
That's what the system requires of me. That's what I have been led to believe.
Sometimes, I like to hit the "pause" button on what I have learned. And think for myself for a minute.

Grandma and Grandpa invited me to make tamales with them today. Do I have time for that? Do I have time for people, for my neighbours? And if the answer is No, then what kind of world do we live in? To not have time for our neighbours. For each other.

The Truth About Why Plants Are Her Babies

"I quit! I'm giving up farming. Sorry. I can't do it anymore." She tells me with a terrifying excitement in her eyes in from of the church at 7am on a Sunday morning.

I stand there in the place we nearly collided, me on my way to soccer practices, her on her way to prayer. She is ranting and I am standing there befuddled, with my cleats in hand.
What is she talking about?
I think to myself as I watch her frazzled and anxious, hobbling, arm-that-holds-the-purse-over-her-shoulder shaking. She glances back at me once more with a look of despair and then hurries to make it to mass.

I slow down.
My rush to make it on-time has left me forgetting to breath and see what appears before me on my walk.

This isn't Rosa* [*This is a true story. The name has been changed]

This isn't her and I know it.
Rosa loves to farm.
Something is wrong.

I let a few days pass.
So the excitement can settle down. So Rosa can relax a bit. So I can get my head on straight.

And then I call her.
Can I come by? I ask her.

She tells me there is no need to come. Her bones are aching and she cannot work on the farm. She is in pain and she cannot bear it anymore.

I tell her that we don't need to work. I just want to bring some bread from the local baker and sit with her and talk. Spend the morning together.
She agrees.

I arrive early.
She jumps up from her seat, trying to hide a little smile.
I can feel a bit of relief as she stands and comes to me.
So many mornings alone.
Now, someone.

She starts the coffee part and rummages to find food, as she almost always does when I enter.
Its only 7am and I know that she has been up since 3am or 4am.

She starts cooking.
I notice her movements are slower than usual. I can feel the pain in her elbows and knees, as if it were my own.

I tell her, "Wow. Look at all your Christmas decorations. It looks so nice."
In my mind, I'm missing the smell of Thanksgiving stuffing.

She turns to me and her eyes meet mine and she smiles.
I can tell she feels happy, proud, grateful. Just for a moment. Then her face changes subtly.

"Yea. It's not an easy time, you know? I like to decorate and all and family comes around. That's nice. It's just that whenever that song comes on, man, do you know that I cannot help but cry? You know that song? The one about the poor boy who lived in between the paper walls?"

"Why do you cry, Rosa?" I ask her. Thinking she is sentimental like me around the holidays. Thinking she misses family who have moved away far. People lost. People worth missing.

She looks back at me and gives me a once-over.
Scanning me like the machines they use at the airport to see if you are safe enough to come over to the other side.

I pass the test.

"Listen Jaime. I am going to be frank."
She starts. Just like this with these words.

"My life has not been easy. And every Christmas this song reminds me of where I came from. I was 9 and it was a Tuesday and I still don't understand."

There's too many details that I don't yet feel comfortable sharing.
And it's too hard to use much of her own words for me still.

But the story is important.

Rosa was sold by her father at the age of 9 into prostitution. Her father needed money and he drank a lot. This isn't justification. This is part of his story. And one day Rosa's father's friend was at her house and he told Rosa, while they were in the kitchen and Rosa was just 9, that "she was going to be his soon".

And Rosa walked outside to tend to the chickens and his voice and his words rang in her mind, but she didn't understand.

And then one day she was taken. To a place she didn't know and forced to live with this old man.
And she ran away and she ran away and her father found her and beat her.

And this happened repeatedly for years and years. Many men. Many escapes. Many beatings.

As her belly began to grow, she thought she was sick.
She didn't know she was pregnant. She didn't understand.
And she was by the pila when she started to give birth, and still she didn't understand.

And her baby was taken from her.
Her first baby was taken from her.

And so were many after her.

Her voice changes and she turns to me again.
She is angry now.
"He ruined my life. And do you know the bastard had the nerve to show up here the day before he died to ask me forgiveness? And I told him, 'You get out of here. You don't ask me for forgiveness. You ask my children for that. You ruined me. You ruined my life.'"

"It was Tuesday and I was 9 years old," she tells me.

She doesn't know how to leave that place.

She is sad again and she keeps cooking.
"I wanted a family. My dream was to take care of a home and a family. Now, I have children all over the place with many different men. They don't even know I am their mother, some of them. My father stole them from me."

She keeps going with the story. It is long and it goes back a lot to when she was 9 and then it skips forward. There are details that are hard for me to hear, but I still there sideways in my chair listening and watching her pace around the kitchen. I am mostly silent. I try not to look like I am in the pain that I am in. I want to be strong for her. I want to be patient and loving and understanding. I want to be whatever she needs me to be in that moment.

So I just sit and watch. Occasionally nodding in a way that she knows it is okay to tell me. That I can listen and not judge.

When she is ready, she slows down.

I say something, understanding that she needs a relief.
She wanted to get it all out and now she did and now she needs a break.

So I say something, nothing of importance, just to clear the space.

And she sits down with me with two place and I smile genuinely.
I'm hungry.

We eat slowly and not talking much except about little things like the weather today and how much local chickens cost.

I understand more now why her joints hurt.
I understand more now why she told me that, "the animals and the plants are her babies."
I understand more now why it is Christmas time and she says she wants to quit farming.

She doesn't want to quit farming.
She wants to move on from her past.

After we finished eating and Rosa was washing the dishes, she said to me, "Do you know I only really get hungry when someone is here with me? It's so nice to share this meal with someone."

Why am I sharing this story?

I asked myself this, as the story churned inside of me for days.

We live in a world of disconnect.
No, let me correct. We have created a world of disconnect.
We are very much connected. To our roots, our histories: ranging from our own Grandparents to our distance indigenous relatives. We are even connected to the Earth. We all love to feel things with our hand and experience exhilaration and freedom- these are part of the natural order of the natural world.
We have just forgotten and have become distracted from the world we have created.
An artificial one that is build out of inanimate objects and cold materials.

We are also very much connected to each other.
We are compelled to help those in need. The smile of someone else is contagious. And we all know that life is better when shared.

We are just so damn distracted.

I love Farmer's Markets because I get to interact with people in a way that makes me feel real. Not all farmers create or live organically. And not all of them treat me the way I want to be treated. This is not reflective of farmers or markets...this is reflective of the human race and the world we have created. The difference between the farmers markets and the not-so-super-markets is that you have the opportunity to remember your connection...to your food and to your food producers and to each other. You also have choice. You have part of your freedoms and rights back. You don't have those in society. Corporate greed and false advertising tells you what you need and tricks you into buying something that is really something else. At the farmers market, you can ask questions. You can determine if you believe the producer or not. You can learn again, about trust. About real people.

Honestly, I wonder if this frightens some of us. We have gotten so used to force-feeding: literally and figuratively. Information is shoved down our throats from the media, marketers, education system, bosses, friends, parents...we haven't stopped to think for ourselves in a long awhile.

It's hard. I know. I'm not blaming you. Or them.
This is the world we have created!
We have access to everything and anything we want and because of this we have become confused over what exactly it is that we need and want.

And so, to come back to Rosa, I share her story because it is real.

She loves to farm. Her plants and her animals are her babies.

And when we finished breakfast that day and walked out to the garden, I noticed how the pigment in her face changed. I noticed how she walked with more ease as we neared the oregano and basil plants.

And she saw it too. Because when we came back inside she said, "You know, I don't feel the pain when I'm out there in the garden?"

Would you buy from her?
Would you buy her veggies?

Not because you pity her or feel bad for her. No. That is not the reason I am sharing this story.

I buy my stuff from Rosa because she is a real person. Who cares about what she does.
She loves to farm. She loves to take care of things.
She needs to make money, too, but she would do it anyway even if she didn't need money.

And I like to have the choice to support this if I want to.
I like to choose to support people.
People who care about what they do.

Wouldn't it be awesome if we had more of that? People caring about what they do?

With all of their heart.
Wouldn't you like to support them in their passion?

Maybe it's just me. I don't know sometimes.

If I am crazy or not. I don't know!

But, I've stopped caring about the answer to that question.
And I've stopped caring about what others may think about me and how I choose to live.

And I've started living by what feels right to me in my heart.

Please don't feel bad about Rosa's story.
Don't support her out of pity or grief.
She doesn't need that.
That won't help her.

She has had a hard life, like most of us.

What she needs, what we all need, is trust and faith in real people. Real people doing the real things that make their heart sing. This is what we need to invest our time and money and souls into.
This is the real world.
Connecting.

To and with the realness that is the joy and passion and meaning in our hearts.

Don't Call Me A Tourist

Please don't call me a tourist.
I understand why you do. It's a term everyone uses. Everyday.
I understand that my accent is a bit different than yours. I understand that my Passport is stamped differently. I understand that you were born here and I was born there.
Just, please don't call me a tourist.
I understand that I do activities that a tourist would do.
I still get excited over a plate of gallo pinto and I am still mesmerised by the blue-ness of your water.
I understand that much of how I behave is classified as tourism.
I pay different prices for park entrances and I gaze at monkeys and sloths and canopies with the eye-twinkle of an amateur.

I just think that maybe we have got it all wrong.
And the more you call me a tourist,
The more I become one.

When was it that we stopped being nomads?
And became tourists?

When was it that we stopped being care-takers of the land?
And became conquerers?

When was it that we stopped being us?
And became you and I?

Please don't call me a tourist
Because I didn't come here to tour this world.
I was born here from it.

I didn't come here to see and take.
I was birthed to experience.

If I call myself a tourist, I separate.
Me from you. My land from your land.
When I call myself a tourist, I feel that I am not home.
I feel that I am searching. That I do not belong.

I forget that my home is this Earth.
The mountains and the rivers, the air and the sunlight
The smiles
The food
The embraces
This is all my own. My home.

It is all mine. All ours.
Belonging. Yet, not permanent.

It is not ours to keep. None of it.
Just to experience. Just to embrace the essence. Embody it and carry it with you, passing it on to all those people and places you encounter along the way.

We are nomads.

And we have forgotten our very nature.

We have built communities... that have turned into civilisations...that have turned into societies....

Societies
Separating us.
Settling us.

And we have forgotten that the soles of our feet love to sink into the soil.
That our hands love to know the textures of the trees.
And our skin longs to be wrapped in the waters
And kissed by the winds.

We have forgotten that as we walk
We arrive with each step
To a new place that our bodies long to know
Where our souls already belong
We just need some time to become familiar and comfortable.

And there are things there that will help us to understand
Connect again
To this new place
An old home

And we must remember.
With patience and an open-mind.
Choosing love over fear.
Opening our ears and our hearts
To listening and accepting
What this new place has to share with us. Living beings that come in unique shapes and colors and sizes. Cultured by the environment they grew from.

We must remember, as we arrive
not as tourists
As nomads
not as conquerers
As caretakers

Of the same Earth. Of the same land.
That gives us the necessities to live. Oxygen. Heat. Wind.
And also pleasure. enjoyment. Love.

We must remember, as we arrive from a place that shaped us a bit differently
That we still walk with the same feet upon the same Earth
And we must ask ourselves

What makes us human together?
All temporary inhabitants of this planet
All sharing the space together

We have all taken
Our whole lives
Take from the Earth its fruits
We have harvested it
We have drawn lines
That have determined what is mine. What is yours. Where you can go. Where I can go.
We have gone so far as to called some of Earth's babies
Illegal.

Because we have forgotten
That at one point we all walked this place together.
Nowhere was mine
Except in my mind.

And now we are remembering
The wisdom that we all carry inside of us is waking up
As we begin to move again
From the settlements
That are beginning to suffocate us

We are picking up and going. Longing to share. Learn. Discover. Awaken.

Just
Please don't think like a tourist

Be humble, as you arrive, as a nomad slowly and patiently gets to know the land and its people
Its landscapes and life forms

Be respectful of the new place you go.
Yes.
Understand that you know nothing when you get there
Yes.
Be careful. And open-minded.
Stay curious. Ask questions.
Because you have forgotten.
Because you were settled and shaped and separated
So that you could "develop"

And now
You are ready to remember

You are already home.
You are a nomad.
You are me.
Learning to adapt.
Ready to understand.
Willing to accept.
Longing to love.

Don't be afraid.
The people and places look different.
Be open to love.
And you will see how much is the same.

Don't come to take.
It is already yours.
Come to experience. And it will forever be with you.

The path of tourists: "out-of-towners, travelling or visiting a place for pleasure"

This is how we have come to interact with our Earth
Our Mother
As out-of-towners

And it is time that we remember that we are home.
Everyday. Everywhere.
No one is illegal. No one is a tourist.
These are inventions of our human society.

We all belong
Here

And everyday
Every where
With all living beings of all forms with whom we interact,
It is our right
And our responsibility
To love, respect, listen, receive, give, and care
With our deepest desires for good
And highest intentions for integrity
Just as our Mother Earth has always provided

And instilled within us
This right and responsibility to love
As nomads, living with the Earth, caring for her and her inhabitants
As she so willingly does for us.

Don't you think it is time we remembered?