I Fell in Love at the Farmer's Market

There are few things in life that are more special than going to the Saturday local farmer's market. There are things that are of equal loveliness, yes: telling your mother you love her, smiling at a stranger, swimming in the ocean, sipping a cup of warm coffee in the winter with a book in your hand... yes. please do more of this.

But don't underestimate the power of the Farmer's Market.

It's not just about the plethora of colors that paint the counter space, the fair prices or the beautiful bundles of nutritious yumminess...it's about the whole experience from when you step outside your door with your re-useable* grocery bag (*if you could have only seen the sea turtle that choked on the plastic bag we saw last week) to when you walk home like a child on Easter with a basket full of wrapped candies.

So, there I was, walking down my street this morning wearing a pair of yellow shorts that have served me loyally for far too many years and sunglasses that covered beads of sweat that were forming on my cheekbones. I was going to walk all the way to town, but I decided that the hour it would take me to get there could better be spent on writing my academic paper that is due tomorrow (ugh). I really didn't have a choice, anyways, I swear, since the next car coming down the road pulled over for me.

I hopped in, grateful for my 10 solid minutes of Vitamin D; also grateful for the roof of shade.

"You going to Ciudad Colon?" I asked the driver in spanish.

"Si," me dijo.

"Will you take me?"

"Yo te llevo al cielo. Donde quieres ir?" He said to me in harmless flirtation. Loosely translated, he told me he'd take me wherever I want to go- he'd take me to heaven. 

I smiled. "Ciudad Colon is fine."

I spent the next 12 minutes learning about his life. He worked in construction and this job had brought him to live in places like the Bahamas, Cuba and various parts of the USA. He laughed, as he told me a few inappropriate stories. He smiled most of the time. He spoke in poetic rhythms and the time passed without ticking. But then his faced changed a little and he told me, for the past 10 years he has not left his country. Now, he saved a bit each year and visits parts of Costa Rica. He tells me this with a different look in his eyes. And it's not the same "those were the days, kinda shameful, a bit mischievous" smile that he wore before. When he talks about his travels in his own country he has a twinkle that spreads from his pupils to the places his lips are curled up in admiration. He is proud, yet humble. Certain, yet endearing.

His experiences abroad were both beautiful and painful, but it was clear that they served him well. He loved sharing beers with folk in one place, but he couldn't make friends with anyone in another. "Buenos dias," I told them on the elevator, and I smiled. (He is telling me this story)." But they didn't say anything back. Nothing. No one wanted to be my friend." "What it all boils down to, is love". He told me in a rather serious voice. If you don't live with a place of love in here, and he touches his chest, then you've got nothing. "I like it here, in my country. I don't need as much stuff, but I can always find love and happiness..."

I believe in energies. And the second I stepped foot inside the farmer's market, the aura of love embraced me. It was like I traveled on a wavelength from the car ride to the town center...

You could feel it from the people- the patrons and the producers. You could feel it from the pineapples, the pejibayes and the papayas.   You could taste it in the coconut water that quenched every cell of your body and see it in the tomatoes that pressed against each other in different shapes, colors and sizes.

"How can I serve you, pretty lady? Aqui, the women run things," says a guy standing before some baskets of greens.

The lady from the indigenous community reaches across her table and hands me a bag of chia seeds, saying "God bless you," as I walk away.

"Can I peel you a pejibaye? Ah, I love them, they taste so good," says a man who doesn't seem to care if I buy his product or not...but I do- A whole bag full. And together we smile as we shared that tasty little fruit.

I arrive back home, at my little apartment that overlooks a dry, crispy lawn that is patiently waiting for the start of a rainy winter. I dump my jewels and gems onto the counter and I cannot wait to food combine.

I make a beautiful purple smoothie. I boil a beet. I toss a fresh green salad topped with pink radishes and yellow mango. I take a sip. It runs through me. I smile.

Life is good.

*Mind yourself, though, if you do take my advice. If you, too, wanna sip on some sweetness, and are heading out to the market......

It doesn't always work this way....

If you're rushing out the door, if you're crammed for time, if you have a "farmer's market agenda" and are feeling anxious, grumpy, or stressed- put down the organic kale and step. away.

You must go with love. Go with patience, excitement, gratitude and open-mindedness; and I promise you the people and the produce will give you all that and more in return.

The world's a scary place. I'm not gonna lie. It's F*d up- I'm not gonna sugar coat it. Our food system is so backwards that we've drained the soil of the nutrients that we need for our health and the future health of our planet. We exploit the field workers and hide stuff from the consumers. We have taken rights away from our citizens in the name of royalties for our corporations.

I know it all too well and nearly every article I read for my Master's degree gives me heartburn.
Not kidding.

But, I believe in love.

I don't believe in businesses and corporations, in NGOs or governments, in schools or textbooks.

I believe in people.

I believe in the feeling I get when someone smiles at me. I believe in the sensations I experience when a child takes my hand. I believe in the beating of my heart at a warm embrace.

I believe in realness.

When the farmer tells me "no, mi amor, it is not organic." I respect that.

I like having a choice. I like when things don't come in packages or plastic bags. I like variety. I like shapes. I like sizes. I like color.

I like a bit of dirt.

That's real.

I like a bit of wilderness.

That's me.

I like interaction. I like walking. I like talking. I like sharing. I like the free parsley when I buy a bunch of romaine. I like when farmers call me "preciosa" and tell me "for you, its only 200 colones", even though I know he gave the same price to everyone.

These are people.

This is love.

And while my heart aches to solve the bigger issues: to bring justice to our people, to redistribute land and rights, to give back what we have taken away, to reveal what has been hidden...

...My mind tires from trying to figure out how to get there.

So, the Farmer's Market is my freedom. Because without trying, without premeditated inputs, my heart organically opens and my lips effortlessly part and the soul that loves to dance within me finds dance partners here easily. And if there is something I could dedicate my life to, then this would be it. Because I believe in what is organic and if I can help create more space for our human souls to dance together, then that is enough.

Never underestimate the power of a few committed people to change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has. - Margaret Meade. 

We are human beings: We are natural lovers, turned on by connection.

We don't need more corporations: boxes that tell us we must fit inside: We must separate ourselves. We must conform.

We need more farmer's markets: spaces that allow us to dance around freely. Space that allows for interaction. Space that encourages us to breathe at our own rhythm.

We need more lovers.

Life is Vulnerable

When I see people in the distance, I think it's her.

Just for a split second.

And then I have to take a moment. My mind gets all blurry and for a moment or two I can't quite figure out if I am in El Salvador or Costa Rica.

But then the sounds around me return and the people start moving again and I know I am in Costa Rica.

And it's not her. It's just another young 15 year old, or maybe someone a bit older.

It's like last week I couldn't feel. Or, maybe I didn't let myself. I tried to say the words out loud to a few people, but it didn't make sense to me.

And I kept burying and burying the emotions. Anyways, we're not supposed to show them in public places. Crying, being vulnerable, is for when you are home and alone and somewhere where they can't see you.

As I walked silently: up the stairs to my hostel, down the forested trails, inside the beautiful house of mosaic artwork, my mind was racing. I kept trying to figure it out. The why. The how.

And then I'd see the others and I'd come back to Costa Rica. To the trip. To the talks. To the figuring out of life. All while it is simultaneously being lost.

Sometimes, I wondered if I could've done something. Sometimes, I wished I would've said more.

Sometimes, I understand.

I don't know if that is wrong.

People are talking around me and I hear bits and pieces of their conversation, but I am not listening. My eyes are glued to my feet and suddenly it's happening again and I'm not sure if I am here or there.

I remember vividly the first time you brought me to your house. I didn't know I was going. I was wearing a long skirt and the same pair of slippery, broken sandals I had been wearing for a long time. Your little sister was there and so was my little curly-haired-love who often came with me everywhere. She was carrying a little bottle of juice. I don't know why I remember that.

I didn't know you lived so far away...well, in my eyes- it was a long walk. I couldn't believe you did that everyday to got to school.

We hiked up the mountainside. I was embarrassed, as I frequently lost my footing. You guys walked with ease- even the little ones in their plastic shoes.

I wished I was dressed differently and I was sweaty when I reached the top.

I remember your house. How it looked inside and the view from the back. I remember the fresco your Mom made me. I asked to see your sketch pad. You were a brilliant artist. You showed me your drawings. I loved them, especially the one of a little girl you drew.

We walked to the waterfalls together.

You were one of the first people I met from the place I now call my second home. You always came to our group meetings and even on the long walks to swim in the river.

In big groups, you didn't say much. Like me.

You loved to draw. Just like I do.

I remember how you were a great student. I remember when I taught classes to your school, you were always well-behaved. I liked when you smiled.

I'm still here, though, walking and looking at my feet.

It's weird. There's moments I look up and my surrounds overwhelm me with their natural beauty and fragrances and song. I forget about it all for a moment and I'm back here. You know, where I am right now. Smiling and looking around and appreciating this undeserving gift that the world has laid before me.

And then I glance at my feet and the outside drowns away and I'm vacuumed back up into this place where I can't help but try to crawl inside your mind and understand. And I'm digging and digging and I know I'm not supposed to be here, but I'm not really sure I'm supposed to be out there either.

And in my feet I see your feet. And in my eyes I am your eyes, looking down.

And I hear the quietness of your last footsteps. I see them.

And I don't know if they are landing lightly in peace. In freedom.

And I don't know if they are stepping deliberately. In pain. In sadness.

And I don't know if it's all a mistake.

And it's not my place to do this. I know that.

I just want you to know that I hear you.

I always did.

I could have shown it better. 

I saw you. I always did.

I want to be vulnerable now. And cry. I don't know who I am crying for. For me. Or for you. Or for everyone. For so many people. Even people who didn't even know you. Even people I don't even know well myself.

Now I am crying for different reasons and different people and different situations. It's like all the bandaids that have been covering hurt are falling off. How long have some of those been there?

There is something in these tears, though. Something is washing away. I can feel it leaving me.

And something else is staying behind. And in this moment of vulnerability I feel open and welcoming instead of weak and afraid. I can't explain it. But as I cry, I know this is what I need.

Life is so very vulnerable.

I'm not sure we every really understand that.

Until we become vulnerable, too.

________________________
Que tenga paz. Nunca la olvido.